by Darcy Burke
His gaze narrowed. “Evelyn…”
“It was a common ground we both share,” she continued. “Both parents who needed a partner. You accepted Mary without any qualms. I would have been the same about your son.”
“Truly? I’ve yet to hear of any other lady in Society who’d gladly take her husband’s by-blows warmly,” his tone turned cynical. “And that is exactly how Nadir would be seen by anyone else because my marriage wouldn’t have been accepted.”
“How could you think so low of me?”
“Darling,” he tried again. “Raising a child isn’t a man’s job. I had a nursemaid for him, but my objective was winning you.” And finding a traitor to stop him from killing more men.
Apparently, from the look on her face, he’d disappointed her. Slowly she stood, her hands flat against her skirts, arranging the fabric that fell perfectly into place already. The iciness of her blue eyes pierced him, turning his veins cold. She stood for a minute, not a word spoken, then she spun and left the room, her heels clicking on the floor at a rapid pace.
At that second, his heart fell again into his stomach. His beautiful wife thought him a fool. A woman he married because he needed a wife, an heir, and, within a minute’s time, because he didn’t tell her before, he lost her.
God, how he hated England.
***
Evelyn walked away from her husband angry and hurt. Both emotions surprised her and fueled her temper that much further. He’d lied to her. Claimed his need of a wife equaled her need of a husband. But he had been married. There was an heir. She was simply a substitute mother to a motherless child. Every nerve was on fire, swirling inside her. At first, as she stormed down the hallway, the flames inside her grew, angry and bright.
A part of her, deep, isolated, but there, breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want her. Therefore, the possibility existed, though small, that he’d refrain from bedding her outside the one heir. God willing, it’d be quick, and he’d be happy without a “spare.”
That idea, though, actually didn’t sit well. It was a surprise. Part of her cried that he didn’t want her because she wasn’t worthy. A woman half a world away could lure him to her bed, but she, Evelyn, lacked any appeal. Her gut twisted, hurt over that. She’d heard the whispers about the erotic women in the East, but that proper English lords married English ladies to give them heirs.
A ruined English lady, though, wasn’t worthy. She’d resigned herself to being alone, sought it even. Delved into raising Mary, knowing it condemned her further in the eyes of the ton and placing her on the shelf. Frankly, at the time, it didn’t upset her in the slightest. To marry meant to place herself at the command of a man who’d expect her to submit to his lust. Pain seized her stomach with a hard fist at just the thought of that.
Then she met Tristan. He intrigued her, enough to chip away at her icy defense, by accepting her without pushing. Except for those kisses. The ones that stopped the world. It made her question her own fear, even stoking a small ember of desire. She should have run, only to where? Her father demanded she marry. Tristan, though, she had tried to push to Sarah, somehow realizing he was dangerous to herself. His looks at her, his touch at the dance and then his claim on her at the lawn party made her question her beliefs, her desire to remain “on the shelf.” That maybe he wanted her.
And then this. That he’d taken another. While he didn’t say it, the woman must’ve meant something to him, to bring the child here and not abandon him. He cared enough to mourn this eastern wife. Jealousy–a feeling she had never experienced–raised its ugly head. How could she feel this way over a dead woman? His moaning over his first wife undid her.
It was the hurt that capped her anger. The tears forming in her eyes blurred her vision, making her miss her step. Clenching her hands, she admonished herself for allowing her emotions to become involved. She married him to save Mary. Period.
Taking a deep breath, she dabbed at her eyes with her lace handkerchief and realized she’d stopped in front of the nursery. Neither child deserved her misery. They had done nothing wrong. She pulled herself upright, bracing her shoulders as she pasted a smile on her lips and opened the door.
***
There, he’d told her the truth. Well, as much as he could convince himself to tell her. The details would open too many doors to more questions and, inevitably, his past would replay, and that wasn’t good. Not only would he jeopardize the men left to do the dirty work of espionage and intrigue that lead to future battles and death—all under the auspices of Crown and Empire—but it would lead to the one thing he couldn’t wipe off his soul. Grifton Reynard. To become friends with others in war always led to disaster. He knew that, had seen it happen over and over again, through fellow agents, through soldiers in fighting units. In families…after all, wasn’t that what brought about his cousins being in line for the title with the twist in his father’s will? Either he bend to Society and obey, do what was best to promote the family through marriage and heirs, or give it all to his cousins? The fighting boys who grew into money-grabbing hounds? They followed their father’s ideas, reasons that had driven apart his father and uncle years prior.
He downed his drink and Evelyn’s. The memory of her face tore at his gut. Christ, he sounded so impersonal to her, so uncaring about her. He ran his fingers through his hair again. The tears in her eyes while she told him he asked too much of her to take Nadir in like Mary played vividly in his head. He shut his eyes, trying to force the image away, but it didn’t leave. Nadir was all he had left of Aatifa. The failure to reach her in time, to spare her from those men, to get her out of the house in time before the flames burned a path to her, was a mar on his soul.
Nadir was his son, his responsibility. Aatifa was his wife, and he had loved her. She was beautiful, respectful, independent but caring–she taught him what he lacked in Afghani speech, clothing, manners and style. Being her husband got him into the places to advance his cause, the English cause and his assignment. But the price was too high, he soon discovered…
And Evelyn. She was beautiful, independent, resilient and resourceful, with strong purpose. Raising Mary under the rules of English Society as a single mother was unheard of and definitely not allowed, but she fought them to do so anyway. With her cool demeanor, she played by her own rules and had attracted him. The stories of that night years ago, the night Mary was conceived, tainted her, but it didn’t deter him from wanting, desiring her, despite his inner anguish over Aatifa. God, he was a wreck.
Nadir needed a mother. He lacked an heir the Crown would accept. Therefore, he got an English wife…and pushed her away.
He banged the glass down and refilled it. Drinking heavily was strongly discouraged for spys. Dangerous even. But since his return, he had indulged to forget, although the memory of Aatifa and Grifton never left him for long. Tonight, though, was another issue.
His wife hated him. And to his mind, she had every right to. Damn.
Chapter Sixteen
Evelyn sat at her vanity, brushing her hair, her anguish and hurt finally easing. Two weeks had passed since the revelation about Nadir. Long days and nights when she tried to come to grips with the idea that her life hadn’t changed. Outwardly, she could hide behind the title of the Marchioness of Wrenworth. Invited to social events again as a member of the ton, respected because of her title and the husband that gave it to her, she gritted her teeth at the very people who ignored her but three months ago. The stain of her fallen status suddenly wiped clean. No, that wasn’t true. They invited her because of Tristan, because that was what was right, but more or less it was false. The coldness hadn’t left. Conversations were limited, light and about trifling issues and over before she knew it.
Then she returned to an empty house. Oh, there were the servants and the children, but Tristan wasn’t around. She hadn’t seen him since that night. Not even a word. One night, through the doorway between their rooms, she heard a voice. It was the middle of the night, and the tone s
ounded tormented, but when she got up, it stopped. She planned to ask him about it, but he was gone the next day.
Even now, it was late. She’d spent the day in the garden with both children. She smiled. Nothing like little ones, playing in the dirt, wearing more of it than the pot they were filling together could hold. Needless to say, she caught the nanny’s distraught face because of their mess before the woman hid her expression.
She was tired. She decided to retire early and perhaps tonight, sleep. The nightmares left her alone mostly because she’d spent her time being physically busy. It also kept her mind off her husband. She feared he was avoiding her and maybe spending his time with a mistress. That thought made her hand falter at the next stroke down her hair. Aggravated, she put the brush down, braided her hair, crawled into bed and blew the candle out.
On her back, she stared at the ceiling, unable to slow the rapid thoughts ripping through her mind. Memories of those kisses that branded her as his, his seductive smile and the twinkle in his eyes came crashing in. The idea that he gave that sort of attention to another almost undid her.
She heard the tick tock of the mantel clock over the fireplace. As the flames flickered and dwindled, she snuggled, forcing her eyes shut and concentrating on the sound. The even clicks lulled her mind, and slowly she drifted into a world of vague images, always dancing before her, undefined and changing. Until one of them screamed.
The roaring yell woke her. She immediately shot upright, trying to orient herself. The room was dark with only a slight glow from the embers in the fireplace. Another ear-piercing scream sounded, and she turned in the direction it heralded from only to find herself facing the door between her and Tristan’s room.
Her mind worked to try to rationalize what was going on. A male howl, one of pain and torment, through the woodwork. She grabbed her dressing gown and tied it on as she tried the doorknob. It turned and the latch gave. With a push, the door opened to his room. It took a moment and another yelp for her to find where he was.
In the center of the room was a four-poster bed, its sheets tangled as Tristan fought them. She raced to the bed.
“Tristan,” she called. His eyes were closed tight. She tried again, but he twisted on the mattress, as if fighting some demon. She tried to grab his arms, but he moved too fast out of her reach, as if she was attacking him.
“No! No!” he yelled.
He was covered in a sheen, his fight against his dream ghosts hard. The vein in his temple pulsated. The jagged scar on his jaw and neck glistened in the firelight. He was scaring her as he fought so desperately against his devil. She tried to put her hand on him, but he moved too fast and was too strong for her.
“Tristan, it’s Evelyn,” she tried again. But it didn’t work. Out of sheer frustration, she did the only thing left. She slapped him hard, across his cheek. The sound was loud, the handprint on his cheek turning instantly red. His eyes shot open, red and the pupils small, a frantic look. Within a second, he had both of her wrists and twisted, pulling her onto the mattress and pinned beneath him.
“Tristan! It’s me!” she gasped. His hold was strong. His legs straddled her hips, her arms wide and above her head. It took a second for her to see he was entirely nude. The bronze tint of his face spread over his muscled shoulders, corded arms and chiseled chest and stomach. His body was one of perfection, like the statutes she’d seen made in Italy. Breathing marble.
The view intoxicated her. She heard panting and realized it was her own. Fear and excitement streamed through her, pooling low in her stomach, causing aches of desire. The way he was planted over her, her nightgown plastered against her body, the material abrading her hardened nipples.
He was staring at her but not seeing her. Tormented by her own mixed emotions, she struggled to pull her hands free. But he squeezed his fingers around her harder.
“Tristan!”
There was a flicker in his eyes. He blinked, still breathing hard and squinted, appearing to finally see her. “Evelyn?”
Her eyes widened. He was so close, his hold on her so intimate that it took her another second for it all to become clear. He was on top of her, nude, holding her down and wide open. And his hardened rod pressed against her abdomen. Fear ate at the edges of her sanity, darkness and remembered pain, through a haze of mental fog, slamming into her. She tried to recoil and fought it. This was her husband. He needed her help, not for her to dissolve into tears. She bit the inside of her cheeks, struggling to retain her sanity.
It only took a second before he recognized her, assessed what he was doing and leapt off her.
“Oh my Lord, Evelyn, I didn’t know it was you.” He reached for his dressing gown. Shoving his hands into the sleeves, he was at her side as she lay trembling. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
When he sat, she scooted away from him, sitting up and rubbing her wrists. She still felt the heat of his body on her, his thighs and stiff member had scorched her through the gown and open robe. Fear tried to take control, but it competed against the heat of seduction that swirled in her belly. Confused and afraid, she shook her head, trying to control her breathing.
“Are you all right?” she managed to whisper.
He hung his head, still breathing hard. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever you saw, you yelled out. Loudly. Woke me like the house was on fire.”
He didn’t look at her. A hollow laugh rolled from his mouth. “No, the house isn’t, but I dreamt of fire.” He had a vacant stare as he turned to her and blinked, sorrow on his face. “I am sorry.”
Her heart went out to him. He had that look Mary got when nightmares woke her. She gave him a tentative smile and touched his scarred cheek. “It’s okay.”
Their eyes locked. The touch of his face relit the fire deep inside her. The voice in her head screamed he will hurt you! But she couldn’t take her hand back. When he covered it with his, every nerve in her burned like a lightning bolt racing through her. He pulled her hand from his face and kissed her palm.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes off him. What was she to do?
***
Tristan refused to let her hand go. He still held it, close to his mouth, his lips warm on her palm, the sweetness remaining. His cock stirred, throbbing painfully to have her so close, on his bed no less.
The demons plagued him. Not unusual other than that they refused to let him have any rest tonight. The information he dug into this afternoon was complicated. The key was close, had to be, but nothing came to him. He began to wonder if he was losing his mind. It was that thought that must have let the door to Hell open further.
Since the night he told Evelyn of Aatifa, the truth about Grifton teased at his conscience. He needed to tell her the truth, of the man dying by his hand. Every morning he woke with full intentions of it, but when he saw her, even at a distance, or heard her voice, his resolve crumbled. She was strong, but he’d glimpsed some weakness, and he just could not add to it. Not yet.
Because of that, the nightmares returned, full force. The fires of Hell burned at him, and the ghosts came. By morning, he was exhausted from trying to contain it all. Apparently tonight, he had failed.
Evelyn had never ventured into his room. Not even a hint of curiosity about what was beyond the door. So to wake with her here, underneath him, made every nerve come alive. Granted she had been pinned to the bed by him, but he couldn’t mistake the soft feel of her skin, her sweet scent invading him. Damn, he wanted her. The flash of fear in her eyes stopped him from seducing her, making her fully his wife. Anger and frustration made him leap off her. The fact she had shied away bothered him fiercely.
Even now, his body covered by the dressing gown, he felt too exposed. He couldn’t stop from wanting her.
“You better go back to bed,” he muttered, fighting the urge to beg her to stay. When she didn’t move, he realized he was between her and the door. He moved but she didn’t. Great, he’d frightene
d her too much. With a swallow, he offered her his hand.
When she slid hers into his, the soft skin nearly undid him. This was ridiculous. He was a marquis, a major in the Army and a well-trained experienced spy, not a school boy with his first girl. A forced smile came to him as he helped her stand.
She didn’t move but stared at him, a questioning look in her eyes. What did she want, he wondered. But if he didn’t move, his silk robe would tent and part to his erection, so he turned to escort her back to her room. He took a step but she didn’t. With a glance back, he saw her face fall for a second. Her mouth thinned, and she refused to look at him.
“What troubles you, dear Evelyn?”
“Nothing,” she said quietly, still avoiding his gaze. She was angry, but his intuition hinted it was something more. Her hand remained in his, but why if she was mad at him?
“Evelyn,” he started.
“No, no, its fine. You can return to your mistress or, or…”
“My what?” Where did she get that idea?
She yanked her hand from his. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
He shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around these words spilling from her mouth. “I have no mistress,” he argued. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Her gaze narrowed. “You are rarely here…”
“I have a job, Evelyn.”
“Job,” she huffed. “You are a marquis. Jobs are for the working class.”
His eyebrows rose. “I see. Several titled gentlemen have jobs. Parliament…”
“Those are not jobs but obligations.”
“I have an obligation, my dear. I have not left the War Office, if you must know.” Why was he telling her this? He was insane.
She bit her bottom lip and tensed. He noticed her breathing deeply, her breasts, nicely formed, free of a damn corset, thrust forward with each inhale. The hardened nipples more pronounced as she straightened her back, as if gearing for a fight.