The Passionate One

by Connie Brockway

  His gaze devoured the sight of all the ivory skin he uncovered, remarked the dark stain left by his dirty hands as they traveled up the long lines of her lovely milk white thighs. She’d been clean.

  He laughed softly and laughed again when he saw her face go still with apprehension.

  Cleanliness. He’d never been clean. He’d no experience with anything unpolluted. Until her. She was fresh and sweet and innocent. In spite of her nightmares. In spite of being stained by the blood of battle. In spite of him.

  The scent of her filled his nostrils. The cool polished feel of her hair slipped in silky waves over his forearm. Why should he not have her when she’d wrung from him the one thing he’d always had—the knowledge of who he was.

  He dipped, bending at the knees. She could not resist. Her body was imprisoned between his and the wall. He rocked forward against the hidden delta he’d exposed. Erotic pleasure surged through his limbs, pooling in his groin. He couldn’t stop, would not stop, he would take her, use her, pitch and flux and drown in the sin of ravishing her. He wanted to overpower her, force her to pliancy, punish her for making him—

  Through the thundering of his heartbeat he felt a faint vibration, a shiver no stronger than the pulse racing in her throat. She was sobbing.

  Not the sweet sob of abandonment he’d heard on that warm, cursed Beltaine Eve. Not the sound of newly discovered passion, of pure desire. It was not a pleasured sob like the one she’d offered to the night sky when she’d so artlessly, so ravishingly given herself to him. It was a pitiful gasp for a breath he would not allow.

  Dear God, let me rape her, he prayed. Let me be done with her. With a thick sound, he wrenched his mouth from hers.

  Rhiannon breathed.

  She opened her eyes and found Ash’s thick-lashed eyes inches away, fierce and alien. Had she once thought them cold? Impossible. Molten lead and green wood smoke, heat and ash, nothing cold here. Nothing recognizable.

  His hand about her throat tightened fractionally as if he read in her pleading expression something he would not endure. Anchored only by her hands braced on his shoulders, her hips jammed to the wall by his, she stared at him. For a long second their gazes locked. Fury roiled just beyond expression in Ash’s battered face. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Let me go,” she commanded him.

  The edges of his nails dug deeper into her throat.

  “Why should I?” he sneered.

  She wanted to whimper, to claw at the hand on her throat. It would be futile. She’d seen Ash’s expression on the faces of the soldiers who’d bayoneted her cousins. The redcoats had been ordered to commit acts that none of them would have willingly done in the normal course of their lives. But because it was war, because Cumberland said to, they’d obeyed, burned crofts, shot men like wild dogs, bayoneted boys.

  They couldn’t stop. Their brutalized minds wouldn’t let them. They wouldn’t stop for even an instant and consider that the Highlanders were people. And nothing must remind them elsewise. When her youngest cousin had shed a tear, a soldier shot him, furious that the boy had reminded the redcoat that he was murdering a child.

  She saw in Ash’s embattled countenance that same frantic need to kill an overburdened conscience with one heinous, unforgivable act. To finally take that last step over the line and free-fall into an abyss of moral blackness, a place where choices and options no longer tortured him.

  And yet, in spite of all she knew of him, she did not think he had been brought to that place. She locked her hand about his strong supple wrist, praying she was right.

  “Because,” she said very clearly, very firmly, “you are hurting me. You are frightening me.”

  He stared at her a second as if he could not comprehend her words. Slowly the fingers around her throat loosened. He released the skirts he held crumpled at her hip. He did not say a word, only stepped back, a single step, just enough for her to move away.

  Swallowing, keeping her gaze fixed on his, she slipped sideways, skirting the room’s edge. He watched her stonily, mutely, his hands loose at his sides, his eyes bleak and exhausted and terrifying. Fumbling behind her she found the door latch and twisted it, pushing the door open. Only then did she dare turn her back and leave.

  Fia found Gunna lugging a heavy-looking pail down a corridor. The old woman puffed as she staggered under the weight. With a quick glance around, Fia hastened forward. The startled old woman dropped the bucket the few inches she held it above the floor and snatched her veil before her face. Seeing it was Fia, she relaxed.

  “What are you doing?” Fia hissed. “If Carr sees you downstairs, you know he’ll dismiss you.”

  “Ach! He’d naught do so,” Gunna snickered. “He couldna replace me and well he knows it. Dinna worry, darlin’, I’m just heading in there.” She jerked her head toward a half-ajar door. “I must bandage up the lad is all.”

  Fia glanced at the door. “Ash is in there?”

  “Aye, most likely unconscious. But, hold lassie. If he ain’t, I’d no be entering that particular lion’s den just now. He’s like in as black a mood as Lucifer in sunlight.”

  “Why?”

  Gunna shrugged as Fia latched her fingers around the bucket’s handle and lifted it. “I dunno. Perhaps he’s in no mood to have his lover become his stepmother.”

  Fia stopped. The water in the bucket sloshed, soaking the bottom of her skirts. She barely noticed. “His lover?”

  “Aye,” Gunna said, tching gently and bending down to dab at Fia’s jonquil-colored skirts.

  Fia watched her in surprise. Gunna seldom gossiped and did not encourage it in Fia.

  She shouldn’t ask Gunna more. But Carr had taught her the import of knowing about everything that affected one’s life.

  “What?” Gunna said, reading Fia’s wide eyes. “Did you think that all Mr. Ash’s drinking and carousing was for the hilarity of it? I had it from the lassie herself that Mr. Ash and she were lovers. Only once, ’tis true, but I’m thinkin’ Mr. Ash would like to make it twice. Mayhaps even more.” She winked at Fia.

  “But,” Gunna went on, “Carr must have other ideas. Why else would he send Mr. Ash to bring the lassie here if not to marry her himself? No matter what the lassie herself believes.” Gunna chortled and picked up the bucket. “It’s no wonder Mr. Ash is in so foul a temper, is it?”

  “But Carr didn’t bring her here to marry her,” Fia murmured, following Gunna’s bent form down the hall. “He can’t.”

  Rhiannon and Ash were lovers? Yet Carr had commanded Ash to bring her here and Ash had done so. Why? And if Carr had wanted Rhiannon here badly enough to send Ash for her, why was he now pacing the floor and muttering about finding someone to take Rhiannon Russell away?

  “Why can’t he marry Miss Rhiannon?” Gunna asked casually, stopping outside the door.

  “Because,” Fia answered distractedly, still trying to sort through what she’d learned, “the Prime Minister gave an edict to Carr years ago, after the death of Lady Beatrice. He said that if one more of Carr’s wives died, no matter what the cause, Carr would answer to the king and he would answer with his life. Upon hearing this, Carr swore he would never marry again—no matter what the inducement.”

  The old woman frowned and pushed the door to the darkened room open farther. A hiss of pain from the darkness just inside greeted them.

  Gunna turned to Fia. “Best you be gone now, dear. Afore yore father comes seeking you and finds you here, with him.”

  Before she could reply Gunna slipped into the room leaving Fia to hasten back the way she’d come, her thoughts in a whirl.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  His arms were strong and sheltering, his body a rock-hard instrument of pleasure. Rhiannon moaned softly and Ash lifted her with big, warm hands on either hip, sliding deep within—

  A sudden wild clattering brought Rhiannon upright in her bed. She looked wildly about but there was no lover, phantom or otherwise, beside her. With a little moan of distres
s, she sank forward, bracing her forehead against her upraised knees and rocking back and forth.

  Two days now since Ash had so nearly raped her and yet it was not her escape from so heinous an act that occupied her thoughts. No. She remembered instead the blue-black welts marring his beautiful body, and his pain-filled eyes. Even when she managed to push him from her waking thoughts, he found other ways to come to her, at night, in her dreams, as the lover with whom she’d shared such passion on Beltaine night.

  A light tapping on her door brought her head up. The sun had just crested the sea, unraveling strands of rosy light across her bedroom carpet. It was early, far too early for even the servants to be about. Another soft rap preceded a sound of wild scrabbling.

  “Miss Russell?” A young male voice queried desperately. It was vaguely familiar. “Please, Miss Russell! Answer soon! I can’t keep her still!”

  Rhiannon swung her legs off the bed and slipped to the floor. Donning a dressing gown, she crossed the room and opened the door.

  A huge yellow monster erupted from the floor, launching itself directly at Rhiannon, dragging the thick linked chains that leashed it clean out of its handler’s hands. The creature hit Rhiannon square in the chest, knocking her flat to her back.

  Like a lion over its prey, the huge animal stood over her, curled lips exposing huge ivory canines.

  “Stella!” Rhiannon cried.

  The grinning gazehound dropped its enormous head and swiped Rhiannon’s entire face with a tongue the size of a small hand cloth.

  “Oh, Stella!” Rhiannon wrapped her arms around the hound’s thick neck and hugged.

  In the doorway the young man shuffled uncomfortably, drawing Rhiannon’s attention. She recognized him as Andrew Payne from The Ploughman in Fair Badden.

  “However did she get here? Did Mrs. Fraiser send her?” Rhiannon asked.

  “Nah, Miss Russell,” the young man said. “It was Mr. Merrick. Some weeks back Mr. Watt hurtles up to the front of the inn driving a wagon hitched to a windbroke horse, as furious as ever I’ve seen a man. He’s shouting about how Mr. Merrick has taken off with you and swearing he’ll find Merrick and kill him and get you back. He’s in such a lather that me father calls some fellows from the public room to see that Watt doesn’t hurts himself. Off they hauls him, leaving me to the wagon.”

  The sound of rattling dishes drew Rhiannon’s attention. Still on the floor with her arms linked around Stella’s neck, she motioned the boy inside. “Come, Andy. Now tell me the rest.”

  Andrew entered, snatching his hat from his head, twisting the woven wool between his hands. “Well, I sees Stella here.” He nodded at the beast. She wagged her tail in delighted recognition of her name. “She’s covered in blood and breathing weak and her hind leg is crooked.”

  Rhiannon ran her hands over the dog and sure enough, found a thickened lump on her hind leg.

  “I always liked her, useless though she be,” the boy admitted gruffly, “so I takes her back to Mrs. Fraiser with the rest of the story.”

  “How did Mrs. Fraiser take it?” Rhiannon asked softly.

  The boy shuffled uncomfortably, his gaze skittering away. “She shed some tears, miss, but she sees Stella and she sets right out to patching her up and setting her leg. A few days later, Mr. Merrick’s letter arrives and that gave her some comfort.”

  “What letter?” Rhiannon asked.

  “A letter and a purse. The letter says how he would not take you without good cause and asks Mrs. Fraiser to fix up Stella.”

  “What did she do? Was she sad?” Rhiannon asked anxiously.

  “Ach,” Andy said. “She’s a touch melancholy but greatly eased. She says as any man that takes time out of an abduction to write a letter askin’ that a no-good bitch be patched and brought across the entire country just to keep a lady company must have a powerful care for the lady.

  “And then, well, you know Mrs. Fraiser. She says what’s done is done and that ye’ll do fine. You’re a survivor.”

  “What do you mean, brought across the country?”

  “The money,” Andy explained patiently. “Mr. Merrick sent it so someone could bring Stella to McClairen’s Isle. I volunteered and glad I am of it. Never seen nuthin’ like this place.”

  He grinned widely, staring around the sumptuous bedchamber and letting out a long, low whistle. Rhiannon stared at him unseeing. Ash had caused Stella to be tended and brought here? Ash, the blackhearted deceiver, her would-be rapist? But also, the man who’d brought her an old tartan so she might have something of her family’s history. Dear Lord.

  “I got in an hour ago,” Andy said, his gaze still wandering around the room. “Mr. Merrick saw me straight off, right there in the kitchen while he made sure me and Stella had something in our bellies.”

  Stella promptly flopped down and rolled to her back, her great dinner plate-sized paws waggling in the air in an attempt to elicit a belly scratch.

  “He doesn’t look so good, Mr. Merrick don’t. And his eyes look a great bit of empty. And— Oh I am thick-headed!”

  With a tch of self-disgust, Andy fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. “He sent this to you, miss.” He grinned at Stella. “And don’t you worry, you great sweet-eyed tart, I gots something for you, too.”

  Once more Andy shoved a hand in his pocket, this time pulling out a beefs knucklebone. He tossed it to Stella and her jaws closed on it in midair. “Got that from one of the scullery maids,” he explained. “Nice girl. Accommodating, if you know what I mean.”

  A considering expression stole over Andy’s young face. He slapped his thighs suddenly. “Well then, I … I, ah, I best be off. I … I left something in the scullery. I’ll stop back afore I leave for Fair Badden to see if you’ve anything you’d like me to take to Mrs. Fraiser.”

  He plunked his abused cap back on his head and, with a cheeky nod, opened the door. He looked up and down the deserted hall. “Not much for morning activities round here, are they?”

  He disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  With trembling hands, Rhiannon unfolded the paper. The words were few, the handwriting angular and harsh, without any softening or embellishments—much like Ash himself. She blinked away the sudden moisture in her eyes and read:

  Forgive me and accept this dog by way of my apology.

  Please. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please.

  Merrick

  But he’d sent for Stella long before the scene in that dimly lit room, before they’d even reached Wanton’s Blush. He’d done what he could to see that Stella’s wounds were treated and then he’d arranged to have her brought here, so that Rhiannon might not be alone. Because Ash understood what it was to be alone, without allies or confidants.

  Or love.

  But he’d tasted that emotion in Fair Badden. She was sure of it. He simply hadn’t experience enough to recognize it.

  He may not be the charming bon vivant who’d first captivated her in Fair Badden. But neither was he an unfeeling monster who’d seduced her only to discard her. He was a hard man in desperate need of tenderness, roughly used by fate and father, seeking a moment’s respite from constant strife.

  The realization burned through her heart like a dry field afire, illuminating the darkest corners, the cautious frightened places she’d tended and hidden in for over ten years. The safe places.

  But Ash Merrick was not safe, and loving Ash Merrick would never be safe— She stopped, her hand stilled in Stella’s thick, smooth coat.

  Loving Ash Merrick.

  She rose smoothly, strongly, sure of herself and her destination. At last.

  Ash slouched forward over the writing desk in the corner of his room, staring at a column of numbers he’d written from memory. If he remembered correctly the numbers from Carr’s ledger went back seven or eight years. They had no notations associated with them, only dates.

  But what, if anything, had they to do with Rhiannon Russell? He sighed h
eavily, rubbing his palms over his beard-roughened cheeks. By now that lad would have delivered that useless hound to her. They’d be rolling about her bedroom floor in an ecstatic reunion. The thought brought a smile to his harsh countenance and he kept the image there, in his mind’s eye, for a minute, savoring the pure sweetness of it before straightening and raking his hair back from his forehead.

  He’d more important things to consider. He’d overheard Fia telling Gunna that King George, not content merely to exile Carr to the Highlands for his habit of losing wives, had gone one further, promising to extract retribution if yet another of England’s daughters succumbed while in his care.

  That must have been what Tunbridge’s letter had alluded to—Carr’s obsession with his “place” in society. Tunbridge must have been sent to pave the way toward some sort of reconciliation between the king and Carr.

  And there was more. Last night Ash had managed to corner Carr’s man of business in a bout of intense drinking, a small triumph in itself since Carr had hired for that post a man of nearly pathological discretion.

  Ash had spent hours weaving lurid and grossly exaggerated tales about his days in Paris. Under the influence of drink and bonhomie, the wizened little man had finally begun to nod sympathetically. Bit by bit he’d disclosed his secrets. After relating the expense of running the castle, the little fellow had placed his finger alongside his nose and let one rheumy eye close in a careful wink.

  “Carr has income near enough to make it all work,” he’d whispered. “Information is always worth gold to some. Plus there’s the gaming. Certain gentlemen, and I’m sure you can figure out at least one of them, since Lord Carr says you speared his hand, pay His Lordship for the privilege of being invited to his tables. Then there’s bonds and banknotes and that property overseas …”

  Then, as if suddenly aware of just how much he’d divulged, the little man had clapped a hand over his mouth, risen unsteadily to his feet, and fled.