The Passionate One

by Connie Brockway

  “You did seduce her.”

  Ash waved his hand. “No. Though she might well think she’s been seduced. You know how these sheltered little virgins are. You fumble ’neath their skirts a minute and they think they’ve been done.”

  “Indeed. Well, if Thomas Donne is overcome with patriotic fervor and decides to offer for the wench, I’m sure he’ll appreciate your restraint.” Carr’s gaze lay carefully on Ash’s face.

  Donne’s hand moving over Rhiannon’s silken flesh. Her mouth opening beneath his. Her long, smooth thighs wrapped tight—

  “That would be bloody convenient, wouldn’t it?” Somehow Ash managed to smile disinterestedly.

  “How long is it you’re planning on staying at Wanton’s Blush, Merrick?”

  A vise tightened about Ash’s throat. Carr couldn’t send him away. He shrugged. “Don’t know. Why? You can’t spare the room?”

  “The room yes but you’ve been winning more than losing and at my guests expense.”

  Ash snorted. “Didn’t mean to encroach on your feeding grounds.”

  “But you have,” Carr said. “I’m afraid I don’t see any real advantage in having you here after all.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to go,” Ash said sullenly.

  “If you’d like to remain here you’d best make yourself not only useful but lucrative,” Carr said. “To me.”

  For a second, Ash held his father’s gaze, clear gem-like blue eyes meeting cool, unfathomable dark ones. The orders were clear.

  “Oh, I think I might be able to amuse you—and enrich you.” With that Ash let his head fall back against the chair and his eyes drift shut.

  “Make sure you do,” Carr said.

  Ash did not respond, playing the sulky mute. Five minutes passed before he heard Carr’s footsteps retreating across the room. The door opened and shut.

  He opened his eyes and pushed himself wearily to his feet. His head felt thick, his tongue dry, and his belly rebelled against too many days with too much wine and too little food. The sticky sheen of sleeplessness coated his skin, and he stank. He was burning himself out.

  He should walk away. But he wouldn’t. God help him, he couldn’t leave her here. And the great jest of it was that staying would earn him nothing. Not even her smile. To her he was less than human. A rutting, sotted animal. Carr would never allow him to stay at Wanton’s Blush if he weren’t thus. As long as Ash appeared bestial and seemingly drunk, he was tolerated. Carr would never feel safe otherwise.

  He longed to tell Rhiannon this but he dared not. She was too ingenuous, too candid. She didn’t yet understand the layers upon layers of deception that were part of life at Wanton’s Blush. Besides, she would never believe him. Carr was handsome, charming, and attentive.

  Ash … Ash was the monster.

  It was the price he paid to stay here with her. And as long as he did not have to witness her abhorrence, it was a price he was willing to pay. With that comfortless thought, Ash staggered to the door leading to the foyer and wrenched it open, blinking like some subterranean creature into the brilliant sunlight. He stretched out his hand, groping for the support of the wall.

  It was then he saw her. The sunlight affixed itself to her smooth skin, shimmered in her hair, molded a warm shadow beneath the fullness of her lip, and picked out with exquisite detail the contents of her expression. Disgust. Pity. Revulsion.

  It was too much.

  “You,” he rasped out. “Get out of here. Now!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Up with you, you great stanking hound!”

  Ash rolled over on the mattress, groped for some missile to hurl, and finding none, snarled, “Get out, Gunna! Your tender ministrations are not needed!”

  The door slammed shut. Ash winced at the reverberating echo in his head. Good. He only wanted to be left alone. He’d stood just about all he was willing to stand—

  A surprisingly strong hand grabbed a hank of his hair and jerked his head back. “Damme, witch! Are you seeking to tear my head off?” he gasped.

  “I dunna want it,” Gunna spat in disgust. “Many more days on yore present course and yer head will be so far pickled it’ll be useful only as garnish. Ha!” She cackled.

  “You’re a witch, Gunna.”

  “Aye, and you’re a knave. What are ye thinkin’, Mr. Ash? Destroyin’ yerself like this isn’t going to win the lassie’s good opinion.”

  Ash went still. Gunna had always had uncanny insight into his mind and motives.

  “I don’t want her good opinion.”

  He heard Gunna click her tongue. “Her heart then, lad. And dunna bother to contest that, ’cause I’ll not believe a word of any denial.”

  “You’re getting cursed mawkish in your old age, Gunna.” His ire had spent itself, leaving only overwhelming weariness. He smiled slightly. “Though you always did insist on finding the good in a thing. Surprising since you’ve spent so many years in his employ.”

  “He’s not all bad,” Gunna said and then added with the flat practicality that Ash had so needed during his early years, “though I’ll allow he’s mostly bad.”

  He laughed weakly. Gunna regarded him with something like fondness. “You’ll do, Mr. Ash, if you’ll just give yerself a fair chance. You’re strong and hard, hot-forged and bright shining like that dirk ye carry. A passionate man. But there’s no shame in that.”

  Her words eviscerated his laughter. “God! Look at me; think back on what you know me to have done. I am not ‘bright shining’!”

  “Aye, ye are, Ash,” Gunna said softly, and touched her hand to the back of his head.

  In reply he moaned.

  “You probably think Raine a saint, too.”

  “Too?” Gunna echoed. “I dunna recall naming you ‘saint,’ Ash Merrick. Far from it. And no I dunna think Mr. Raine a saint. He’s just reckless is all, as willing to let his emotions sweep him away as you are to keep yours hidden.”

  “Raine is a devil.” He craned his head around and peered up at Gunna. She stood primly at the foot of his bed, her hands folded neatly at her waist, the ravaged side of her face composed. “If one pledges one’s life to protecting a devil,” he queried interestedly, “what does that make one? A demon?”

  Gunna ignored him. “It’s Miss Fia I fret most about. She’s so vulnerable.”

  Ash rolled fully over. “Don’t waste your time worrying about Fia. She’s as self-possessed a little mannequin as ever I’ve seen. In a contest pitting my little sister against the world, I’d wager on Fia and give the world a ten-point lead. Carr dotes on her.”

  “Aye,” Gunna murmured. “She’s yet to see him for what he is. When she does, I fear what it will do to her.”

  “Give her a newfound appreciation of sin, I suspect.”

  Gunna’s lopsided mouth creased in lines of disapproval. Though it was hard to gauge expression on that ruined mien, he’d long ago learned to read it in her eyes. He’d hurt her. She cared for Fia, honestly and deeply. Sometimes, however, a kind heart saw only what it expected to see.

  “You might ask Rhiannon Russell about perception and reality,” he muttered, flinging his arm over his eyes.

  “Might I?” Gunna padded closer to the bed. “What did you do to her, Mr. Ash, that has you in such pain?”

  Why bother to deny it? Gunna would only ignore any protestations to the contrary.

  “Oh, destroyed a few of her illusions,” he said. “You know, seduced her then trumped up some fantasy about her groom trying to kill her. Abducted her on the eve of her wedding. Dragged her here.” He shrugged. “That sort of thing.”

  “Mr. Ash.”

  “Quite the bright-shining blade, aren’t I, Gunna?” he asked calmly. He was not surprised when he heard her shuffling step carry her from the room.

  “Come, lass. There’s naught for it but to obey. Carr’s made an edict and you’d best not cross him,” Gunna said.

  “I don’t want to meet his guests,” Rhiannon said, shaking her he
ad.

  It was late afternoon and Rhiannon had spent the day wandering through the seaward-facing bedchambers on the third floor. Most of them were unoccupied, draped in cobwebs and sheets.

  Gunna had found her there, in the oldest part of the castle, a turreted tower that had been untouched during Carr’s renovations. The walls were bare and the floor uncovered, but the cushioned window seat was soft and dry and the sunlight warmed Rhiannon’s skin.

  “Ye canna to hide up here forever, lassie,” Gunna said gently.

  “I’m not hiding,” Rhiannon protested, knowing full well that she was. She could not see Ash again. Not as she’d last seen him. “Why should I hide?” she added weakly.

  “There’s been some idle gossip about the servants’ hall.”

  “Really? And what do these gossips say?”

  “You don’t want to know it.” Gunna took her hand and tried to pull her up. “Idle blather. I should know better than to open me mouth and spout such.”

  Rhiannon remained seated. Outside the sun sparkled on the sea. “I should like to know.”

  The sunken, drooping eye exposed by the draping of her veil regarded her cautiously. Rhiannon had the distinct impression the old Scotswoman was deferring judgment.

  “They says in the servants’ hall,” the old woman finally began, “that Mr. Ash did ruin you and that’s why ye’ll have naught to do with him and that’s why ye keep here by yerself. For fear of him.”

  Rhiannon drew back from Gunna’s hold. They all knew. They all knew so much and so little.

  “Others, however,” Gunna continued carefully, “says yore breaking yer heart over him. I don’t mean to be forward, miss, but I know how it can be. My sainted sister loved a man who broke her heart. He took from her everything a woman can offer and then he cast her aside. Is that what Ash Merrick has done to you?”

  Rhiannon stared at her. Gunna’s sister and she shared similar histories, but the man who’d used Rhiannon had not abandoned her. He’d done worse; he’d stolen her—and her heart.

  With a start Rhiannon realized how much she wanted to confide in Gunna. She missed Edith so very much. Even though she’d never fretted Edith with her problems, her beloved foster mother had comforted Rhiannon just with her presence. Rhiannon glanced at Gunna. It had been long years since she’d confided in anyone. Ash alone had been the closest to breaching the high walls she’d built to keep others out and herself safe from her past.

  “Did he, dearie?” Gunna repeated softly.

  Perhaps it was time.

  “If by ‘ruin’ you mean physically force me,” Rhiannon said slowly, “no. He disguised his true nature, though, and I would not see past his beauty to his treachery. I betrayed myself.”

  Gunna’s deeply lined forehead furrowed. “You could not … forgive him, of course.”

  “He doesn’t ask for my forgiveness,” she replied. “He’d do the same again. He told me so.”

  “Would you?” Gunna asked. “Would you be deceived a second time?”

  Rhiannon stared at her hands, fingers lacing and unlacing, unable to answer. Would she? She’d like to have said “no, of course not,” but her tenacious core of honesty did not allow equivocation.

  The truth was she was deceived every time she looked at him. She still felt the pull of his attraction, the overwhelming lure of his masculinity.

  “Do you love him?” A query so hushed it might have been Rhiannon’s own heart asking the question.

  “I don’t know him. He fascinated me. But he was not what I thought.” Was she telling Gunna or reminding herself? Gunna tugged on her hand and she stood up.

  Leaning on Rhiannon’s arm, Gunna began tottering toward the steep tower steps. “How’s that?”

  “He’s cruel. And ruthless. He obtains what he wants and he wanted me. For one night.”

  Gunna began a cautious decent, leading Rhiannon. Her eyes stayed fixed on the stairs but after a moment she said, “I been here many years, lassie, and I dunna claim to know Ash Merrick well. He was more man than boy when I came to take care of Lady Fia, but while I might allow that he’s ruthless, it’s in my mind that that’s what he’s had to be. If he’s ever wanted something, I have never seen him admit to it. He’d never give Lord Carr that sort of advantage. Carr already has too many ways to bend Mr. Ash to his will.”

  “Why?” she asked, trying hard to understand this man who’d so much power over her.

  Gunna paused at the landing. “Carr’s guests talk. They say that Ash Merrick is the best gambler in Scotland, England, or anywhere in between. And you must ken that Mr. Ash knows how to use that blade he carries. People are afraid of Mr. Ash.

  “Now, lassie, wouldna such a man be useful to whisper a threat into an enemy’s ear? Or issue a challenge? Or do any bit of a deed in London that Carr cannot because he’s been made to live here?”

  Despite the heat in the narrow spiraling stairwell, Rhiannon shivered. “I knew Ash was ruthless. I did not name him evil.”

  “Evil?” Gunna’s lopsided mouth twined. “Mr. Ash isn’t evil. Think on him as a fine Spanish blade and having about as much choice in where its owner plunges it.”

  “Carr.”

  “Aye,” Gunna agreed. “And Carr would not like to lose that particular weapon.”

  Yes. She could see Ash as a weapon. Yesterday, storms blowing in from the ocean had kept her indoors. She’d been coming down the stairs to the main level searching for some way to occupy her time when a door had swung open.

  Ash had reeled through it. He wore neither waistcoat nor jacket. His shirt was open halfway down his chest. A soiled stock fell like a noose about his neck.

  He’d lifted his head, squinting against the weak light. His black hair fell across his soot-fringed eyes. He stumbled forward and only saved himself from falling by bracing his hand against the wall.

  Then he’d seen her. His eyes had narrowed as though he had trouble focusing them and she realized he was drunk, debilitatingly drunk. “You,” he’d said hoarsely. “Get out of here. Now!”

  She’d needed no further encouragement. She’d fled like a hind from the hounds but she hadn’t been able to flee the image of him. Yet she found herself deliberately thinking back over those few moments, just so she could evoke them.

  “Best hurry, lass,” Gunna said.

  They’d come to the landing on the floor where her rooms were located. Impulsively, Gunna smoothed her hand down Rhiannon’s cheek. Rhiannon flushed, deeply moved. “You’re too good a listener, Gunna,” she said.

  “And you’re too good a mute,” Gunna murmured. “Now, Carr wants you and that’s nothing to take lightly. Especially as his valet says he’s been in a vexatious mood these past few days.”

  Rhiannon smiled ruefully. “I doubt Carr has even noted my absence.”

  “I would not count on that,” Gunna said, opening the door to the stairwell and leading Rhiannon out into the wide, sunlit corridor. “Carr must fair dote on a beauty like you. What is it he plans for you, do you think, lassie?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhiannon replied honestly. “I haven’t spoken with him since my arrival.”

  “Ha!” Gunna straightened, her one exposed brow lifting in surprise. “Carr’s not bothered with you at all?”

  “Not a word.”

  “There’s a wonder,” Gunna murmured. “Why is Carr wanting you to be present today of all days?” She worried the slack portion of her lip with her teeth as she shuffled quickly toward Rhiannon’s room. “Why would he want you to see Ash Merrick in such a state? Or maybe it’s Mr. Ash he’s wanting to do the seeing—”

  “What are you talking about?” Rhiannon asked, scurrying to keep up with her.

  The single eye gleamed with inspiration. “Carr might be using you to regain the use of his … Spanish blade. He knows Mr. Ash is taken with ye.”

  Rhiannon’s curiosity faded. The old woman was a romantic after all, building fairy tales. Rhiannon would not make that same mistake. “Ash doesn’t love
me.”

  Gunna spared her a brusque glance. “Fa! He wouldna lay with you lest he had feelings for ye, lassie.”

  An image of Ash’s face stark with longing filled Rhiannon’s mind’s eye. Beltaine night. What she remembered may not have existed at all. She shook her head, willing it away. “He takes whatever appeals to him.”

  Gunna pulled her along. “He doesn’t bed any of the ladies here. Last night Mrs. Quinton give me the key to her chambers to slip in Mr. Ash’s hand, and he slipped it right back,” she said impatiently. “There’s somethin’ in ye calls to him and I’m thinkin’ he may not like it any more than ye.”

  Rhiannon would not let it happen again. And yet … God help her. “Why are you so sure he wasn’t simply dallying with me?”

  Gunna looked at her in patent disgust. “That’s easy enough,” she said. “Ash Merrick hates his father. He would never use a woman for mere sport if for no other reason than that his father would.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The crowd gathering in the great hall for the midday entertainment vibrated with excitement. Titters of excited laughter rose from behind the agitated flutter of fans. The novelty of rising early these past few days still fascinated this jaded group. Besides, when the spectacle ended, nothing prevented them from returning to their beds, which they often did.

  Thomas Donne stood near the bottom of the marble staircase and glanced up to where a flash of bronze satin on the landing high above had caught his eye.

  So the Scottish fledgling had escaped her gilt cage, he thought. Perhaps when Carr’s guests moved to the stable yard, she would descend, but not until then. She was as leery of human contact as a kestrel. Donne could not fault her. She was out of place in this cesspool.

  After a second’s hesitation, Donne stationed himself at the foot of the stairs and waited, vexed by his unlikely concern.

  Rhiannon Russell touched his heart, and Thomas Donne thought he’d long since mastered every bit of that organ. But her wild, fragile beauty and that loose, easy stride of hers recalled other girls with auburn hair and free-moving grace. Even all those English manners some matron had imposed on her could not mask her direct gaze or canny nature.