Lady in Red: A Novel of Mad Passions

by Máire Claremont

  “I could still put you in your coffin six sheets to the wind, sweetheart.”

  Lord, she hated it when he called her pet names. He somehow managed to make them sound like such insults, even after the secrets they had shared. “Says a great deal about you, doesn’t it?”

  “Only that I’d have to be dead before you could strike me.”

  Mary scowled. She shifted on the balls of her feet, circling around, waiting, hoping for any opening. Before she could dart in, Powers stepped forward, feinted to the right, then swirled in and grabbed her about the throat. The wooden blade pressed into her jugular.

  She winced and danced on the tips of her toes. “Yes, thank you for another display of your vast superiority,” she rasped.

  He grinned down at her. “Of course.”

  “Mary,” Edward said, his voice worn. “You need to think differently. You can’t outmatch him for size or speed. What can you use against him?”

  Mary flinched as her back protested the arched angle. She didn’t particularly care for the view, either. Powers’s face was alight as it only could be when in the full fledge of gloating. What the hell could she use against the devil? “Release me,” she ground out.

  His fingers surreptitiously stroked against her collarbones before he pushed her away. That icy blue regard of his flared momentarily, then shifted to the hay-strewn ground.

  He desired her.

  Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Powers wanted her. Perhaps because he did see himself in her eyes.

  And that was his weakness.

  Mary tamped down her sudden anticipation. “Again.”

  “Love to, darling.” Powers stalked back into fighting stance.

  Mary matched suit but this time she allowed her gaze to grow heavy, thinking of Edward’s touch upon her skin and imagining it was Edward she spoke to, not Powers. “Do we truly have to fight? Isn’t there another way?”

  Powers kept his stance, yet hesitated. “Are you in possession of some skill I am unaware of?”

  She trailed her glance over his mouth, then very carefully licked her own lips. “I think you could improve my skill.”

  “Yes?” His voice roughened.

  “Before we continue, could you show me . . . ?” She took slow steps forward until she could reach out to touch him.

  Powers held still, watching her with curiosity. “Speak, then.”

  Finally, she gazed at his groin, shocked at her own ability to be so brazen when she felt nothing for the man. “You have another tool I think I could make use of. Would you . . . won’t you . . . give it to me?”

  Powers’s jaw slackened, and as if her words were a suggestive stroke, the bulge in his breeches hardened. And just as he opened his mouth to speak, Mary darted forward, swinging the blade in a figure eight. On the downward slash, she struck his abdomen, causing him to stumble back.

  She grinned up at his stunned face.

  Powers shoved her away from him, his face flushing with anger.

  “Enough,” snapped Edward.

  “I found his weakness,” Mary said simply, lowering her arm and fingering the grooves of the practice knife.

  “Yes.” Edward’s face was tight, his entire body as stiff as a cat thrown into a pond. “Yes, you did.”

  “And you proved where your mind lies.” Powers threw his blade down, any of the kindness that had once been in him gone now. “In the gutter.”

  “Right along with yours,” she countered, pinning him with her disdain.

  Powers’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t push me.”

  “She’s right.” Edward shoved away from the wall and strode forward, his usually graceful gait stiff, kicking up dirt and hay.

  Nothing betrayed Powers’s irritation except for a slight tightening of the muscle under his right eye. “Pardon?”

  Edward placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder, the fingers gripping possessively. “She wouldn’t have succeeded if she wasn’t right.”

  A muscle clenched in Powers’s oh so perfect jaw. “Edward—”

  “I think that is enough for today.” Edward lifted his fingers to Mary’s chin, then tilted her face up toward his. Deliberately, he lowered his mouth to hers and took her lips with a hot kiss.

  Every bit of her commanded she melt under the kiss, but she knew what this kiss was for. It wasn’t for her pleasure. It was a marking. It was unpleasant and, for the first time, Edward’s kiss tasted bitter to her tongue. He saw her not as a woman but as a possession. And the knowledge burned her heart to a cinder.

  Chapter 21

  Edward strode back and forth before his banked fire. He’d made a terrible mistake. All this time, he’d been certain that to make Mary well, she needed justice. After all, he had sought justice years before and he’d thought it had helped him carry on.

  He’d been so wrong. He’d limped through the last years. Alone.

  Justice hadn’t given him peace, or freedom. He was still tormented by memory, unable to heal. Unable to open his heart to Mary.

  What good had justice done? None. It had left him cold.

  There had been something on Mary’s face today. A hardness completely unlike the joyous expression she’d had on the beach. It was one he recognized all too well, for he’d worn it for many years.

  It was quite simple. He had gotten it entirely wrong. Mary didn’t need to destroy her father. She simply needed to move on and build a new life. To celebrate the good and not dwell in the pain.

  What a fool he’d been to give her revenge when he should have been giving her happiness. He winced. Happiness. He’d not had much of it. Perhaps he couldn’t give what he didn’t understand.

  Once Mary had her revenge, she would no longer need him. She would go on with her life, but what kind of life would it be? Why hadn’t he tried something else? Something that would have made her face shine as it had when they’d teased each other riding horses and splashing in the sea.

  He didn’t know what to do, of course. Nothing in his life had taught or prepared him to help another human being in such a way.

  But he would never forget that look as she had gone back to Powers for more practice. A look that placed the destruction of her father above everything.

  He slammed his fist against the fireplace mantel, welcoming the sharp pain. He let out a slow breath and forced himself to tame his fighting emotions.

  He was bleeding. He scowled down at the broken skin on his hand and the seeping crimson.

  “Whatever did the fireplace do to deserve such treatment?”

  Edward stilled and quickly wiped the blood away on his black trousers. A traitorous smile teased the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t hold back the sudden relief flooding through him that she was here. In his room. “Alas, it was giving forth a very poor heat.”

  The quiet rustle of her dressing gown mixed with the pops and crackles of the fire as she neared him. She knelt down before the hearth and her slender white hand stretched out, clasping the brass coal tongs.

  Every part of him thundered to life at her presence. He loved her black hair, short though it might be, and her scent. The smell of delicate rose soap wafted up toward him and filled him with the strangest urge to treat her as if she were made of glass. But Mary was not made of glass—she was made of the eternal metal of the earth. For she was certainly strong enough to cut him from her life if she so chose. And move on to whoever else would give her more strength.

  The surety that he couldn’t do the same singed his soul with punishing fire. In the past, he’d always done so, but with this woman? He needed her now in a way he’d never thought possible.

  She dropped a few pieces of coal onto the fire, then hung the tongs back on their stand. “Surely, this will accomplish a more cheerful heat, and bruise you less.”

  He offered his hand to her. “How right you are.”

  She slipped her fingers into his grip and allowed him to pull her up. Resignation lined her delicate features. “Edward, today—”

  “I und
erstand.” He had no wish to hear her reasoning about the scene between her and Powers and the moment they had shared. Powers was capable of offering her more assistance. It was why he had involved the man. Wasn’t it? Or was it because he knew the man would play at Mary’s affections? To test her loyalty. The very realization made him sick. And yet . . .

  Her fingers tightened around his slightly. “You do?”

  “Yes.” Carefully, he clasped her hand in both of his. He stared down at his hands enveloping her small one. If he could, he would never let it go. Her hand belonged in his. It fit his strong fingers and palm in a way no other woman’s had or ever would. “Now you must understand.”

  Uncertainty shadowed her beautiful face. “Edward?”

  “I think we should stop,” he said evenly.

  She blanched. “You wish me to leave?”

  “No,” he corrected, shocked she could think such a thing. “Not at all. I want you to stay with me, but differently.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Mary, I don’t think you should pursue revenge.”

  The words felt so right. At last, he’d said what had been eating him half alive. Gently, he reached up and teased his thumb along her jaw, wishing nothing more than to seal his declaration with the marriage of their lips.

  Her brow furrowed. “But you said—”

  “I know what I said. I was wrong.”

  “Does Powers agree?”

  “Powers is a dangerous man and unhappy. I doubt he would know what was good for your welfare if it punched him in the face. And I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  Her fingers yanked at his, bidding for escape, and she pulled her head back from his touch. The earlier openness that had softened her face was replaced with confusion. “Edward, why are you trying to take this away from me? It’s the only thing I have.”

  He wanted to deny it, to say she had him, that he would be her protector, but the unfamiliar words wouldn’t pass his lips. “I want you to be happy.”

  “Your words are not making me happy,” she said tightly. “I think I should go to Yvonne.”

  He couldn’t let her go. He had to make her understand. “Can’t you see the mistake we have made? Revenge will leave you hollow.”

  “You’re the one who urged me to it,” she protested.

  His insides burned at his guilt. “Yes, because I know nothing different. But we must try another way. Couldn’t you be happy as my mistress? Just you and I. Like when we read in the library, or the other day riding across the land?”

  “Your mistress. I see.”

  But she didn’t see. Some ugly emotion masked her features and his heart spasmed.

  “Edward, I became your mistress weeks ago because I was running from my father. It is not the life I had envisioned for myself as a girl.”

  “I—”

  She held up her hand. “I must say this. You know the common practice of mistresses,” she said. “I will sell you my allegiance and in turn receive—” A strange sheen glossed her eyes and she seemed not to be looking at him at all, but staring off into some unseen perdition. “Protection and money.”

  He was botching this. Badly. How had he not realized the idea of being a mistress would be so abhorrent to her? Somewhere along the way, he had never learned how two people truly interacted, people who cared about each other. “Well, yes. But—”

  She flicked her gaze back to his and in one quick jerk whipped her fingers from his. Pointedly, she folded her hands before her, creating a barrier between them. “If you wish me to simply be a mistress—no revenge, no chance to empower myself—what will I do when you grow tired of me? Will I simply pass from man to man? I have known that already, Edward. It was a much uglier prison, of course, but I have no desire to return to that way of life.”

  His hands hung suspended between them, ineffectual and empty, as his gut dropped to the floor. “You and I aren’t like that. I would find a way to make you happy without vengeance.”

  “No, Edward,” she whispered, her voice so low and rough his name was barely audible. She drew in a slow breath, which pressed her breasts against her dressing gown, before continuing coolly, “This is something I must do. And if you no longer approve of it, I think we should end our agreement.”

  He blinked. They’d never signed papers. At first, he’d intended it, but there had been no official position or conditions. He would never wish for that. Not with Mary. “Agreement?”

  Her eyes shuttered him out, the pallor of her cheeks as icy as a body left out in the cold. Not even the heat of the fire could penetrate the frigid emptiness growing around them. “Yes, that you give me protection and I give you myself.”

  The words were so frigid, he could scarcely believe she was speaking them. Even if to some degree they were the truth.

  Yet, with every word, she was slipping away. He was losing her. Somehow he had to make her see that he had set her on a path of loneliness, the path he’d walked most of his life. Revenge had never healed the hole in his own heart.

  “Mary, we are more than that—”

  “I owe you so much,” she raced. “I know that. I give you my gratitude.”

  The intimacy between them was fading swiftly as their relationship was broken down to coin and a sense of obligation. Was that all it was? It couldn’t be. “I don’t wish gratitude,” he gritted.

  Her gaze snapped, afire with anger. “Yes. You do. Or you would not speak thusly to me. You would not try to sway me from my path and speak simply of being a mistress. I care for you, Edward, but once I wanted so much more. And while I may not deserve it, I’d like to think that I can have some semblance of my dreams.”

  She swallowed, pausing, it seemed, to steel herself. “And I do owe you my life. But I had dared to think that you might . . .”

  “What, Mary?” He didn’t understand. How had they descended to this place?

  Shaking her head, she said softly, “I don’t dare to think it now.”

  He didn’t know what was happening, only that she was slipping from him with each word that passed between them. “Mary, I care for you.”

  Her face twisted up for one moment, as if she might let the torrent of her emotions spring forth. Perhaps she would proclaim her affection, but instead fury poured from her. “Then how can you try to take my revenge away?” she exclaimed. “Do you know what you are asking? To forgive the man who locked me away, who forced me to live in misery and pain, and who killed my mother? You want to let him go free?”

  Horror gripped him. He couldn’t stop himself. He clasped her arms with his hands. “Mary, I didn’t know about your mother. You never told me.”

  She looked away, her face white. “They were fighting and he pushed her. She crashed down the stairs.” Her voice lowered, empty. “She never got up.”

  “Oh, Mary, my darling. But you must see that you can never bring your mother back by—”

  “No more, Edward.”

  “I will do whatever it takes to help you recover,” he whispered.

  “Can you give my mother peace?” she whispered.

  His heart wrenched. “No. And neither can you.”

  Her face creased with pain. “I can try.”

  “I won’t let you destroy yourself.”

  “Let? Edward, you don’t own me.”

  He felt as if he did. He did want to own her. To claim her entirely as his. “You are mine. Mine to protect.”

  She peered up at him. “Please, don’t do this,” she begged.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t make me choose between my revenge and you.”

  He stilled, the world swinging harshly. “I would lose, wouldn’t I?”

  Her so-proud face lowered, her chin dipping, unable to face him. “You don’t love me, Edward. I am not even worthy of your love. I am not worthy—” The slender muscles in her throat worked as she struggled to speak. “To be your wife.”

  Wife? It had never even occurred to him. Edward didn�
��t know what to say. He had never contemplated marriage. He’d been content to keep things as they were between them. He’d never thought to marry anyone. Not with the blood that ran through his veins.

  “You are more than worthy, Mary.”

  A spark of hope flared in her eyes and he hated himself for it.

  “But it won’t be me that you marry. I can’t. I will never wed.”

  “I see.” She breathed. “What are we to do, then?”

  “Stay with me. Heal.”

  She lifted her gaze to his, her blue eyes heavy with the pain of years of struggle. “No, Edward, not if I can’t have my revenge.”

  There it was and he had created it. The agony of it surprised him. He had always wondered if she would choose another man when she needed help that he couldn’t give. Now it wasn’t a man she was choosing; it was vengeance—a much colder companion. And he’d bloody well shoved her into its arms.

  God, how he longed to pull her to him and settle this without words, but that was the worst thing he could do with her. “You sound as if you are saying good-bye.”

  The anger sifted out of her as she stood, tired yet determined. “I am not saying good-bye, but I will not have you treat me as if I have no choice but to be yours. I chose to come here. Did you not choose me, too?”

  He dug his fingertips into his palms before admitting tightly, “I saw you. I had to have you. And that is what I can say.”

  “Tell me,” she urged, “at long last tell me what it is that haunts you. Why you chose me.”

  He jerked his gaze away, already feeling racked with scouring pain as the memories threatened to cloud in on him. “It—it is not pleasant.”

  “You know about the asylum and my father. Perhaps it might help you to share some of your troubles.”

  Just speaking of it sent tremors of panic through his blood. All he wished to do was run. Run anywhere. Away from that which had ruined his life. “I don’t speak of it, Mary. Not to anyone.”

  “Speak to me.” There was an urgency in her voice as if his reply would determine the fate of her world.

  Edward stared down at the face that had captivated him from the first moment he’d seen it and he considered the possible paths he might take. He could bare himself to her, bare himself as he had never done for anyone. The weight that had pressed upon his blackened heart could finally be lifted. But that wasn’t why he had found her. It wasn’t why he had taken her into his life. He was here to save her, and if he confessed what he wished, she would hate him. She would hate everything about him and his blood. But she had to know so she could understand why it was so important for her to give up her quest for revenge. So that she could heal, as he never had.