Frustration swept through Malcolm. They had arrived in Nottingham the previous night, and Malcolm had insisted they wait until morning to visit. From across the drawing room in Nicola's father's home, he gazed at the younger man and wondered what would penetrate his stubborn head. He remembered a long-ago day when he'd been so young and idealistic. What could he do to prove Ramsey wrong in his approach?
"You would turn down the chance to own your own ship?" Mr. Moore exclaimed. "Bloody hell, Ramsey, use your noggin. You could import whatever you want for the stockingers' looms."
"It's not enough, Uncle, and you know it."
"You can't save the whole world," Mr. Moore retorted.
"The Earl can," Ramsey murmured.
"What do you mean?" Malcolm pretended at nonchalance. He knew. Parliament. With a sense of doom crowding his chest, Malcolm stared at the younger man. Why doom? He'd always sworn he would never go back to Parliament, so why was anything different now? Because of Nicola. He wouldn't do anything to disappoint her, and he knew she would be vastly upset if he didn't support her cousin.
"You told me once that getting involved in politics is the best way to curb the tide of injustice. Make a law that prohibits the making of inferior cloth. Fine the hosiers for selling inferior cloth to the public. And make it so that stockingers get paid decent wages for their hours of work."
"That's true. And that's why you must stay at Oxford and become a solicitor. Then you can run for the House of Commons."
Ramsey scowled. "But the schooling will take too long. You can attend Parliament at any time."
Malcolm didn't like being pressured. "I could get Gaspar to lock you in the stables until the rebellion is over."
"I'll get out, I vow. There will be another rebellion, and you can't lock me up forever." Ramsey's expression held youthful appeal.
Pacing the floor, Malcolm finally pinned Ramsey with his glare. "All right, I'll approach the Duke of York about introducing a new bill to vote on."
"Thank you," Ramsey said.
"I'm not promising anything."
"I know." However, Ramsey's grin told of his confidence.
He didn't begin to understand the sacrifice Malcolm was making by even agreeing to look into the situation.
But Nicola did. She stared at him with shocked wonder.
His new vulnerability hit him, and coals of fury stirred to life in Malcolm. Fear enveloped him at the thought that his wife had so much power over him—enough to make him break his vows, lose all sight of his goals, and change his whole way of life. He stared at Ramsey. "Stay at Windmere. And you had better start writing your bloody letters to each of the members of Parliament about your concerns and ask them if they will take a stance."
Ramsey made a face. "All right," he agreed with reluctance.
Taking a menacing step forward, Malcolm pinned him with a glare. "And if I catch you near a loom with an axe, I'll cleave you with it like an apple."
In a sign of surrender, Ramsey raised both hands. "No need to get violent."
"You're lecturing me? You who are known to brawl in the streets?" Incredulous, he stared at Ramsey, who shrugged sheepishly.
"I've got to get away before I do someone bodily harm," Malcolm muttered. The compassion in Nicola's green eyes was enough to make him a raving idiot. Leave. That was the only thought that whipped through his mind as he strode out of the drawing room. He just hoped she had the sense to keep away from him. All he knew was that he had to leave—to get away from her and all the confusing thoughts she produced in him. He marched to the foyer, then out the door, his destination the coach.
She ran after him. "Malcolm, wait."
"You can visit with your family. I'll send the carriage for you later." He stared at her, hoping she wouldn't see how beetle-headed she made him—hoping she couldn't detect his unbalance.
"This is about your brother, isn't it?"
Reckless anger swept through him, the feeling debilitating. "Go away." He got into the carriage, not trusting himself.
His foolish wife bolted after him.
The glare he shot her should have crystallized that pretty mouth of hers, like Lot's wife, but those luscious lips moved. "You need to talk about it."
Darkness swamped him, controlling his fingers, spreading through his arms. "You think you know me too well, my dear. But you don't know me at all." He leaned forward. "I could choke you to death." As if another being had taken control of his movements, he watched his hand reach for her throat.
She stared at him, her eyes soft and dewy. "You could not hurt me, just as you could never hurt your brother."
He was aware of the pulse under his fingers—her life's blood flowing in that delicious body of hers. "Don't even pretend to know my limits," he growled, and then he kissed her.
Keeping his grip firm around her throat, the blackness moved his other hand down to the fastenings of her bodice. The buttons popped free, one by one. Her corset was low, so it was easy to unlace two eyelets to allow him access to her nipples. With the darkness guiding him, he bit at those sumptuous fruits, then laved with his tongue, first one, and then the other. By then her breaths came in gasps. He needed to feel her, to experience her.
After loosening the fastenings to his own trousers, he hiked up her skirts. "Open for me," he said in a rough voice he didn't recognize.
She did, and at the same time she threw her arms around him drawing his face to hers. As the length of her legs wrapped around him, he plunged into her.
Darkness still enveloped him, but somehow it wasn't quite as black. A prism of colors filled the periphery of his mind's eye. It was her warm brightness, he realized as he thrust deeper. She hugged him, wrapping her legs around him in encouragement. It was as if she couldn't get enough of him. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, because he certainly couldn't get enough of her. But the evil, the uncontrollable side of him had taken over and she would be smothered, blighted by the night.
"The only way you could kill is to give a petite mort," she murmured, thrusting her hips upward. "And the only one you'll experience it is with me."
She would be his death, he realized. A shudder ripped through him. Pushing deep inside, the devil in him squeezed her tight. He soared upward, releasing his essence inside her as he took his fill of her and defied his vows of abstinence from joy.
The slowing of the horses' hooves brought him to his senses. He sprawled across Nicola, buried within her, his hand still wrapped around her neck. Fear held him immobile. She lay so still. Had he hurt her? Had his black side taken over and hurt her as it had hurt his brother?
Through his panic, he felt her pulse. "Did I …"
Her slim brows knitted together. "What's wrong?"
He stared at her, dumbstruck. Why couldn't she see the devil within him? "What's wrong? Aside from the fact that I ravished you on a short carriage ride where anyone happening by on the street could see, I was too rough."
The woman had the nerve to laugh. "You were not," she said in a sweet tone, buttoning her bodice. "I'm perfectly fine."
"Nicola, I'm a dangerous man."
"You are not. Why, you're all bark and no bite. You are nothing but a fraud—a generous, warm, loving fraud who doesn't know his own worth."
The carriage slowed more, and then pulled to a stop in the courtyard to Windmere. "Bloody hell, you wouldn't know a viper if it struck you. But then, I shouldn't be surprised, since you believe in pixies."
The hurt that tightened her lips was enough to make him want to take her again—to make love to her all night long. In desperation, he fled, heading for his mount and some dank, dark hole of a tavern.
The contempt in Malcolm's expression had been enough to make Nicola want to shrivel like an autumn leaf and blow away. She watched him take ground-eating strides toward the stables as if he couldn't wait to leave her company.
The warmth of his seed was still between her legs. His loving had been so fierce. Their intimacy had been elemental, exciting—at least to he
r. But he had pushed her away yet again. What had she expected?
But through the haze of desire that clouded her senses, she recalled the pure panic that had darkened his eyes.
He had spouted something off about being a viper and her in danger. Could he really believe himself capable of harming her?
He couldn't have injured her, just as he couldn't have killed his brother. She knew with a bone-deep certainty, with every breath she took, that he could never harm anyone—especially someone he loved.
Like her?
Did she believe he loved her? At times he was so incredibly tender, and he'd seemed to go against his own wishes to stay away when he agreed to go with her to Nottingham. He'd even come to the warehouse and saved her from Hill, and changed his silly path of neutrality in the Busby affair. Weren't those signs of love? But how could she convince him?
If only her pixies could put a spell on him—to show him how much he deserved love and happiness, to make him understand that what they had together was a gift, a very magical gift. That seemed the only hope she had.
Chapter 22
Nicola had said she loved him.
Malcolm examined the last few entries on the Yorkshire mill account, then closed the ledger. Bloody hell, he should have gone to inspect the operations rather than dallying in Nottingham. But he wanted to be near Nicola just a little longer to ensure that she was with babe, he told himself; the thought of her carrying his child made a strange sensation steal over him, a mixture of possessiveness, pride and longing. She would be a good mother. He wanted that for his son, something that he himself had never experienced, his mother too busy with soirees and lovers to make time for her boys.
He heard Nicola's soft step and the swish of her skirts as she moved about in her laboratory across the hall. He imagined the cloth caressing those silken yet surprisingly strong thighs. His hands itched to caress her tender skin, to open her and explore that dewy femininity that drove him wild. She was like a drug. With every taste, he wanted more.
He heard the main door open and she spoke. "Good afternoon, Ramsey."
Just her voice caused a tightening of his groin. Adjusting the front of his trousers to relieve the pressure, Malcolm admitted he was in trouble. He had almost given up all his intentions of living aloof because of her.
"Hello, Nicola. It is a good afternoon, isn't it?" Ramsey's voice held enthusiasm.
"You seem excited. What is happening?" Her love for her cousin was evident in her tone.
"Since I talked to Malcolm and the riot was postponed, it got me to thinking about our cause. I have been meeting with some of my acquaintances, but I don't want to say anything more without Malcolm's input. Is he here?"
Malcolm's curiosity surged, and then dipped. Nothing good ever came from Ramsey's affairs.
"Yes, he is in his office. Malcolm?" she called.
Malcolm realized he didn't want to see the young man. The fine hairs on his neck prickled in dread.
"To what do I owe this... interruption?" he murmured as they entered his office, hoping his formality would cause Ramsey to hesitate to request anything.
The youth cocked his head, drawing his brows together, and then shrugged. "I've been thinking about what you told me concerning the stockingers. You said that I should be using my knowledge of the law to deal with their troubles. I wrote several letters to members of Parliament as you advised, but I decided to take it one step further. Several of my friends and I have been working hard with the wording of this new bill we wish to propose. I was wondering if you would read it."
He avoided glancing into those eyes brimming with optimism, the look that mirrored his own youth. That look of innocent anticipation tickled a ghost of a memory of his own, when he'd held a similar optimism as he'd approached his father about ways to improve the tax system. He didn't want to be reminded of that, of his own foolish dreams that had led to William's death.
More than ever, he was aware of Nicola as she stood nearby, watching the whole scene. How could her scent of lemons and wildflowers reach him from so far away? Why did his heart ache with each beat?
Hoping his expression hid the turmoil within him, he moved as if suspended in time to accept the proffered document and read it. It was good, very well written. There was youthful exuberance in the wording. As he continued to read, he knew why Ramsey had approached him. Nevertheless, he pretended otherwise. "This is nicely worded, Ramsey. Good luck with it." He handed back the sheath of papers.
Ramsey took it, momentarily nonplussed. "But I... that is, my friends and I were wondering if you would present it at the next Parliamentary session."
"I'm not going to the session," Malcolm said. "You'll have to find someone else to present it."
"What? But why? You said—" Ramsey's tone held all the bewilderment of a budding adolescent on the brink of manhood.
"Personal reasons," Malcolm answered abruptly. He recalculated a figure in the ledger, trying to ignore the look of shocked hurt on Nicola's cousin's face. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." But more than ever, he was aware of her unspoken disapproval.
She stood with her arms crossed, pushing her delicious breasts up and out. The disillusionment in her eyes was so strong the room vibrated with it. Though Malcolm forced himself to return his attention to the figures, he could no longer see them because all he could think of was her. In bed. With him.
But hell, even those sexual memories were illusions, because when he saw her face with those strawberry locks fanned about the pillow, he could read the disappointment in her eyes. Since when did it matter whether he pleased her or not? Steeling his resolve, he forced himself to stick to his decision.
Vows. He had to remember them. Those ethics he'd developed when he realized William had died by his hand were the only thing that had kept him sane through the years, knowing that he would never enjoy the power of a title he had ignobly won. And that included his seat in Parliament. He owed William that much. "I will get you through law school. I'll aid you toward becoming elected for a seat. Bloody hell, I'll even help you with your electoral speech "but I'm not going to get involved."
"So my cause is not worth your effort, is that it?"
He barely controlled his anger. "This has nothing to do with the stockingers' plight or you. I made a vow a long time ago not to become involved with politics."
"Fine, then," Ramsey replied stiffly. "At least I can rely on the fighting techniques you showed me from India. You can't take that away from me." With a last scathing glance, he threw down his papers and walked out.
"You cannot shirk your duty forever, my lord," Nicola said quietly.
Her comment struck Malcolm on more than one level. "I can and I will, because you are mistaken about my duty." He started for the door, not wanting to discuss it. Everything was hanging by a thread. He'd fought so long to atone…
"You didn't kill him," she said again.
This time, he broke. "How do you know?" he asked fiercely.
"Because you're too bloody noble. I know how you studied law before the accident."
"What?"
"I talked to Lady Teresa, and she said you loved the law."
"You talked to Teresa about me? No, don't even answer because I don't want to know." He paced, miserable. "I was barely out of leading strings. I grew out of that momentary interest in things legal." He gave her his coldest look. "Your point?"
"You deny yourself everything you enjoy. A sort of self-inflicted punishment—"
"Why do you continue to blather about this?"
"Admit it. You loved William, so you would not have killed him."
"It's not that simple. Don't you see the evil inside of me? Everyone else does. My father certainly did. And so did William. Of course, he loved me despite it."
"Come with me," Nicola said and suddenly took him by the hand.
Wariness stole over Malcolm. "Where?"
"Just indulge me."
She led him through the halls and out the door. Alt
hough he could have easily pulled away from her grasp, he didn't—but he put up a token resistance. "I don't have time for this, Nicola. I have an engagement in an hour with my steward."
"He can wait. Besides, this won't take long." Continuing to grasp him firmly, she led him into the woods.
He allowed himself to enjoy the strength of her slender hand as she led him farther into the canopy of trees, the scent of moist earth heavy in the air.
"Nicola?"
"We're almost there," she replied, dodging a thorny vine.
He wasn't certain where she was going until she jumped over the small creek and turned toward the bluff. His abrupt halt jerked her to a stop. "What is this nonsense? Are you trying to twist the knife of remorse just a little harder?"
Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles) Page 28