Heart of Darkness

by Jaide Fox

  With a sympathetic frown on her face, she reached over and cupped his cheek. “I love you, Wolfe.”

  As soon as she murmured the words, Isabeau watched as he started to grin. When she had first declared them and expected him to reply in kind, it had hurt her greatly when he hadn't. But now, she used it to stir him out of the dark moods that sometimes overtook him.

  She believed that it worked as a reminder. Both that she was there for him and that whilst what they had together was deeper than love, it was just a reminder that she indeed felt that way about him.

  “Why must you tease me out of moods that are well deserved?” he replied mockingly and then sat upwards and pressed a kiss to her belly.

  She ignored his comment and looked on as he jumped to his feet and tugged at the bell pull.

  Whether or not Jaegar had come in peace or with a desire to do more harm, Isabeau truly did not know. But a part of her, a rather large part, believed that Jaegar had had time to come to terms with his past, present and future and that he no longer bore ill will towards her or Wolfe.

  When hours later, the sun had set and a carriage rocked into the driveway, Isabeau looked out of the window and down at the travelers. It did not surprise her to see a woman exit the carriage with Jaegar, nor hours later as they dined, did it surprise her to learn that this woman was his mate.

  While both men would forever be haunted by what had happened to them. Both at the hands of their father and the Milesians, she was certain that the Fates' generosity in handing them both mates--women who loved them more than life itself--was their way of repairing the atrocities that had befallen from them. And while she could make no promises for Jessamy, Jaegar's mate, on her own part, Isabeau knew that she would do whatever she could to ensure Wolfe's happiness. For his and her own were entwined and it would be that way forevermore.

  The End

  Here’s a special sneak peek at Jaide Fox’s alter ego, Julia Keaton with Stranger in my Bed, now available through online retailers.

  Ransom had been in the house dozens of times since he had returned, so many times now that it had begun to seem as familiar to him as it had when he was a boy and had torn up and down its hallowed corridors and through its echoing chambers in pursuit of his brother, or being chased by his brother. For a moment he allowed his mind to conjure the ghosts of the past, allowed himself the luxury of reliving snatches of those halcyon days, but only for a moment. The memories were bitter sweet, because he could not summon them without also resurrecting the pain and he had taken to avoiding that because the grief begat anger and fury begat carelessness.

  It would take stealth and cunning to take back what had been wrested from his family and he was ruthlessly determined to avenge his father and his family name and take back what he could reclaim that had been lost.

  Perhaps, in time, if he succeeded, and the day came when he watched his own sons pelting through the ancient family manor, he could reclaim his memories, too, enjoy them as they were meant to be enjoyed without having them tainted by all the losses that had come after.

  He paused in the secret passage as he heard the buzz of conversation within the dining room--women’s voices. Having no interest in anything the occupants of the house might find worthy of discussion, he only paused a moment before continuing along the passage. Not much in the way of conversation, if it came to that. Dull wenches. Mostly all he heard was the irritating whine of the old woman complaining about the food. Wincing, he moved on quickly, and then more carefully when he heard the old woman demanding of one of the man servants if he had put out the poison like she had asked to get rid of the rodents before they gnawed the old house down and it fell about their ears.

  He spied one of the culprits as he set his foot on the narrow stairs that led up to the second floor and studied it speculatively for a moment, an unholy gleam entering his eyes. Harry would have snatched the furry little demon up and left it for the old battle axe to find when she turned down her bedclothes.

  The gleam died in the next moment.

  Harry was gone, too, shot down in the prime of his life by a sniper’s gun half way around the world, all for the glory of God, King, and Empire.

  Banishing the ghost of his brother’s grinning face from his mind irritably, Ransom climbed the stairs that were more ladder than stairs, placing each foot carefully after he heard a board creak ominously beneath his weight. He didn’t hesitate when he reached the second floor. He went directly to the one room in the house he had not yet searched.

  It had to be in this room. Had to be. There was nowhere else to look.

  He discovered as he stood outside the panel that led into the room that he was still reluctant to go in, even after all these years, even knowing that what he sought must be in there because he had searched the entire house and come up empty handed.

  In spite of all he could do the memory of the last time he had been in the room crashed down on him, crushing him with the full weight of a six year old boy’s terror and grief.

  His mother had died in this room, struggling to deliver a child that had never drawn its first breath, screaming until she was hoarse. Mostly he remembered the relief and shame he had felt because he had been grateful that she could not scream anymore because no matter how far he ran or how carefully he covered his ears, he could still hear the pain, and then the fear and grief.

  He remembered the sound even now.

  And the blood. God he remembered the blood. The sheets had been soaked with it, the maids hurrying back and forth, carrying away the bloody linens and bringing more.

  And he remembered his mother, almost as pale as the sheets as the life slowly seeped from her body, her beautiful hair tangled and wet with her labors. She had been cold already when she had summoned him to kiss him goodbye and tell him to be a good boy that she would be watching over him to make certain he grew up to be a fine man.

  Scrubbing a shaking hand over his face, he eased the panel open and glanced around, confirming that the room was empty as he’d suspected it would be, that the Mansfields were both at dinner. Pushing the panel wide, he stepped into the room, wincing as the hinges creaked. He would have to remember to bring oil the next time he came--if he had to come again at all.

  Straightening, he glanced around for the most likely place to search and made a discovery. The room looked nothing like he’d expected, nothing like he remembered. He was relieved, at first, when he saw that it looked nothing as it had the day his mother died, nothing like he remembered the last time he had steeled himself to go into the room before he had left to seek his fortune, for his father had had the room closed after his mother’s death and had not allowed it to be touched.

  In point of fact, he wondered for several moments if he had stepped into the wrong room by mistake but then he noticed the cherubs that supported the fireplace mantle, and the bay windows where his mother had often sat in those last months of her life, happily engaged in making clothing for the child she would take with her to her grave.

  Unaccountably, fury surged through him as he looked around the room again, critically this time, and it occurred to him that they had callously desecrated his mother’s memory, packed up her things and swept the life from the room as if she had never existed at all. His mother’s rocking chair and sewing basket had vanished, the little tables once filled with knickknacks, the small portrait that his mother had had commissioned of her and him and Harry. Her carpets were gone.

  The bed was not the same.

  The one that stood there now had once rested in one of the guest chambers.

  With an effort, he tamped the anger, quashed the memories of the little things that he remembered that had vanished, studying the room again more purposefully.

  A woman lived in his mother’s room, one of the two downstairs he was certain and not a companion or maidservant for they had neither. Pray god not the old battle ax or he might be tempted to come back and strangle the old harridan in her sleep.

  It did not hel
p his feelings a great deal more to think it was the spinster, but after he’d examined it again, he decided it was undoubtedly her, for he saw none of the silly, frilly little things he would have expected to see if the room was occupied by the old woman. It did not smell of the aged--no laudanum or other quack remedies and tinctures in bottles beside the bed, no hot water bottles for aching joints, no ugly armor plated corsets lying about.

  The sister then. The spinster. No doubt she was getting long in tooth by now. Perhaps it wasn’t her room after all?

  She must be getting old enough by now to be desperately seeking beauty aids.

  Not that they were likely to do her much good, whether she was pushing thirty or not. She had to be ugly as hell if even her brother’s money had not snagged a husband for her.

  Or maybe it was her temperament he couldn’t sell?

  Closing the secret passage door finally, he moved into the room and examined the contents of the dressing table. There wasn’t much in the way of beauty supplies--some sort of cream that smelled like flowers and felt like fat when he rubbed it between his fingertips. Moisturizing cream to soften her age toughened hide? He put the jar down again and replaced the lid, looked around for something to wipe it on and finally just cleaned his fingers on the sleeve of his shirt.

  Aside from that a brush and mirror set, cheap and worn with age, which he discovered still held a few stray reddish blond hairs, there was stationary, a pen and inkwell and nothing else. There was a small box on the dressing table, of the sort ladies liked to use to hold their trinkets and he opened it and examined the contents. Hair pins. He found a locket, as well, of the sort generally worn by, and given to, young girls. When he opened it, he found without much surprise, a small lock of dark hair.

  Closing it again, he dangled the locket above the box for a moment, thinking of all of his mother’s things that had been disposed of, and finally dropped it in.

  He had not come for petty little revenges, but to recover his heritage.

  When he had shut the box, he glanced around the room, wondering where she kept her real jewelry. Under her mattress?

  He studied the bed speculatively but finally dismissed it.

  Maybe she didn’t wear jewelry, he thought derisively? Maybe she realized there was no point in hanging beautiful things from her neck and ears?

  No perfume, no jewelry beyond the child’s trinket.

  After a moment, he moved toward a hand painted chest at the foot of the bed. Delicate roses scrolled across the lid. He pried it open, digging through its contents in search of the box he’d come for. He found nothing more than extra blankets and stoles.

  He studied it over for several moments, lifted his head to make certain he could hear nothing to indicate the ladies of the house had finished their dinner, and moved to the armoire. He wasn’t certain what he expected to find, wasn’t certain of why he was even curious but he knew even as he reached for the first drawer pull that he was not merely searching for the box that had brought him.

  Telling himself that he should know his enemies well, he yielded to the impulse to prowl.

  Her brother, he knew. A low down scoundrel, that one, as low as they came, fleecing anyone slowwitted enough to mistake him for a gentleman and sit down at the card table with him, for he didn’t doubt for a moment that his father was not the only one the bastard had cleaned out over the gaming table.

  It didn’t say much for his father that he had been one of the man’s victims, but his father had been old, and grief stricken, and given to drinking heavily in the past few years according to his old butler. A gentleman would have refused to play him, not welcomed him in and cleaned his pockets.

  Dismissing the thoughts, he checked the small drawers first and found naught more than reticules and undergarments--all very plain and sensible. No frills. Certainly nothing to indicate the woman realized she was a woman--unless she was a pious old prude. Closing the drawers, he stood and opened the upper section where her outer clothing was hung. There was little beyond riding habits in the armoire, he discovered, and those had seen three or four seasons at the least from the look of them--carefully mended but still mended. There were a few day dresses, but those looked older than the habits. No ball gowns. Apparently, she was so hideous her brother kept her hidden in the country.

  Mannish, he thought derisively. No perfumes, no trinkets, no sewing box that he had seen, and a closet full of riding habits.

  A vision of his enemy rose in his mind’s eye, dressed in the habits.

  There was a disgusting thought. He supposed he was no judge of women’s tastes, but the man looked like a troll as a man. Even trying to envision a female version revolted every sense.

  He was on the point of closing the wardrobe again when the corner of a box caught his eye. He stared at it in disbelief for a moment. Slowly, he pushed the skirt aside that had concealed all but one corner and pulled the box out.

  A mixture of fury and triumph began to filter through his shock as he stared at the strongbox in his hands, the chest that bore his family crest. There was no mistaking it. The casket had been a gift to some long forgotten grandfather, the first Marquis--a gift from his king that had held the description of the holdings that had been bestowed with the title. His father had prized it above everything else he owned. It had always held pride of place in the main salon.

  And now it had been tucked away in the back of a ‘lady’s’ wardrobe.

  He would get it back, he thought furiously. The lands belonged in his family’s name. The box, he knew, held his father’s will and legal papers, the papers he had been searching for for months now. It would be the proof he needed to secure his father’s estate once more.

  He’d just discovered that it was locked when he heard the distinctive click of a woman’s shoe on the hardwood floor beyond the room. It was sheer luck that it even penetrated for he had been vaguely aware of increased activity for some time, a commotion below that he had put down to arriving guests and the bump and thud of servants carrying trunks and bags upstairs.

  The sound was so clearly brisk feminine footsteps, however, that his head came up as if it had been jerked upright by a puppeteer’s string.

  Tucking the box under his arm, he stared at the door, listening as the tap crossed the upper hallway, clearly coming closer, and then glanced toward the secret passage. The room loomed cavern-like as he gauged the distance between himself and the panel and calculated the likelihood of reaching it and disappearing before the woman was in the room.

  Whirling even as the knob began to turn, he strode toward the opening and stepped through. He only just barely remembered the telltale squeal of the hinges in time to prevent himself from giving his retreat away. Faintly breathless with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he held perfectly still, hoping he would get the chance to seal the door before she noticed anything amiss. Furious with himself for his carelessness, for allowing himself to get so caught up in his curiosity about the spinster that he was liable to end up in jail, he mentally berated himself, peering through the slight opening to see if the woman had noticed the crack in the wall paneling.

  A lot of good it was going to do him to have the damned casket now! The woman would be screaming down the house if she discovered him, certain he was after her maidenly virtue.

  The thought had no sooner entered his mind than he felt the irresistible urge to see just how close he had come to pegging the woman.

  Knowing he was probably going to live to regret it, he peered through the slit as he heard her cross the room.

  The jolt that went through him when she stepped into view paralyzed him for several moments, suspended even his breath as if someone had punched him in his solar plexus.

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