by Darcy Burke
Her heart barely held together and tugged at her soul. She had loved Richard, but now Tristan had called to her too, and her feelings for him had grown stronger. Her gut twisted–or was it her heart? How could she love the man who killed her first love?
So caught up in her thoughts, she only faintly registered Tristan lifting her gown up or him kissing along her stomach. Her body betrayed her by dampening to his touch, her thighs parting. But when his tongue slid into her, reality slammed into her as well. Desire charged through her hard and fast. Decadent, forbidden, she moaned before she could stop it. What was he doing to her?
He stopped, and the mattress shifted. Hesitantly, she looked at him. Tristan was a ravenous lion before her, with sly animalistic eyes. Seductive, devilishly handsome, he devoured her and wanted more. Palms on either side of her hips, he rose above her quivering body. His hardened cock poised for her slick sheath as she waited for him to bring her to that height, where the stars exploded. She would have begged if he didn’t quicken, but he spared her, impaling her instantly. A gasp escaped her lips as he slid in, filling her to the hilt with his rod. Her hips raised to meet him. His crystal blue eyes stared intently at hers, as he plunged into her as if she was in heat.
Despite the argument she had with herself over Richard, she gave in now to the pressure inside that built higher and higher, as she brought her hips forward to take him in and swing back as he withdrew. Their bodies rocked in time with the primal, carnal dance of nature. He watched her, his face strained, and a pant echoed before she realized it came from her. Her body moved faster and faster, matching him and the rise, the stars almost reached, when suddenly everything shattered.
“No!”
Her cry fell on deaf ears, she was sure. With his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her tight through her quick death, the moment of silence that came after her yelp filled the room. The stars filled her mind as he slowly released her, his cock withdrawing.
Sated, she didn’t move but enjoyed the feeling.
“Pardon me?”
Her eyes flew open. He still knelt above her, his face tight. The question hung in the air.
Had she said that? She heard the word but didn’t realize at the time it came from her. Her mind traced back, thoughts and images of Richard hinted at the edge of her mind. In her head, she saw him fall, bloody and torn, and Tristan standing tall above, a sword in hand. She blinked and the scene didn’t disappear. Horrified, she glared at him and scooted away.
The magnificent man, the chiseled masterpiece of the gods, frowned and tried to move closer, which made her draw up her legs and leap off the bed. Her hands flattened her gown as it fell to the floor.
Quietly, he turned and sat at the edge of the bed, still naked and gorgeous, but, then again, killers came in all shapes and sizes, she guessed. She reached for the shawl on the vanity and wrapped it around her.
He shook his head, brows furrowing. “Evelyn?”
It hit her hard, too hard, the pain in her gut. The burn, a hole where her heart had been before it fell into the fiery inferno below it. She turned cold, the shawl not enough, but she couldn’t move. Instead, she stood, frozen, shaking like a leaf.
He took a step toward her, but she managed to pull back, how she didn’t know because she was too hurt to move.
“How could you?” She managed to whisper before the tears fell.
“Whatever are you talking about?” He stood, tall and proud and confused. But his eyes held a hint of fear, the fear of being discovered.
“You killed Richard,” she stated, shaking her head, hoping for denial, but the drop in his gaze told her the truth. And the silence added to it.
“Evelyn, you don’t understand…”
“You murdered my fiancé,” she started. Inhaling deep, she stood straighter, more tense and continued. “Grifton Richard George Reynard, Viscount of Stauton.” The accusation sat in the air. It was more formal, in her opinion, to state his entire name.
Tristan stood, hands clenched. She saw him swallow through the blurred gaze. “Yes, he is dead, but you do not know the facts.”
Facts? He wasn’t denying her accusation. That alone was evidence or so her troubled mind concluded. A rumble in her chest echoed as a sob escaped her. Not yet. She fought to dampen the feeling. “Get out,” she said, her voice steady and strong.
A flicker passed over his face, as if he’d ignore her request, but he didn’t. He grabbed his dressing gown, wadded it in his hand and stormed back through the connecting doors. The sound of his door shutting reverberated through her. Suddenly, the impact of his lack of denial struck home. Her heart crumbled, and the tears fell.
Chapter Eighteen
Guilt was a nasty beast. It gnawed at a person’s heart, penetrating their soul. Unremitting, it consumed Tristan. It twisted his gut, sped his heart faster, louder and made his head pound as he tried over and over again to find how she knew. How? When? By whom? The questions didn’t go away. He should have told her what happened–and long before now. But, if he had done so before the marriage, she’d have left him. To leave him now wasn’t an option. He’d promised Grifton he would protect her. And worse, she’d burrowed her way into his heart, inch by bloody inch.
Irritated, he dressed and left the house for a ride. He saddled his bay stallion, waking the poor creature by his movements. Once woken, the animal pawed at the stall floor, picking up Tristan’s agitated state. Once in the saddle, he didn’t have to urge the horse to take off at lightning speed though Hyde Park. In the pre-dawn hours, few were out, giving them free run of the greens.
The wind whipped the black mane into Tristan’s eyes and lashed at his face, but he paid it little heed. He wanted the anger and pain of her rejection to vanish from him in the ride. But as the sky began to lighten, pink painting the horizon, he knew it would never be erased. He pulled the reins in, slowing his mount and discovered he was in front of the War Office. With a deep sigh, he slid from the saddle, gave his horse to the saddle boy and went to his office.
He had a job to do. Throwing his office door wide open, his anger squashed the more important question of how did she find out?
***
Sir Alfred Livingston was not surprised to find the gas lamp lit in Wrenworth’s office. He stood against the framing as the door swung open to the slightest push. The marquis sat at his desk, his coat off, his waistcoat unbuttoned, necktie loose and collar opend. With sleeves rolled up, his hair a mess, the whisker-faced agent stared at the pages in front of him. He didn’t even glance up when Livingston stood there.
The assistant secretary cleared his throat, a noise loud enough to interrupt the man.
“What?” Wrenworth’s red eyes shot up as he snarled.
One of Livingston’s eyebrows rose. “How long have you been here?” To hell with titles.
“A while.” He shuffled papers, looking determined.
Livingston waited a minute for more, but nothing came. He took a step toward the desk. The man’s jacket was thrown across the chair before him in apparent disregard of its condition–something the secretary was more than familiar with in his agents. His men were devoted to the Empire and their missions, many times compromising themselves to come out on top. The half-empty glass on the desk of some amber liquid sparkled under the gaslight. A swift sniff of the contents told him nothing new. Brandy.
“You do know it’s six o’clock in the morning,” he stated factually.
“Yes,” the man muttered, shifting pages again.
Livingston frowned. He picked up a sheath of papers and thumbed through them. “Silk imports? Trying to find cheaper material for your bride? Its more than obvious she’s irked at you for something, but silk?”
“No. Trying to find a killer.”
“In silk? What, do you plan to wrap his corpse in it? Rather expensive, to say the least.” He dumped the collection on the desktop, the breeze shuffling the loose pages.
“I’m looking for the traitor in the East.” Wrenworth�
�s voice sounded testy. Good.
“And you think the man is a traitor to the Empire through silk? This ought to be good,” he goaded him.
This time, Wrenworth stood abruptly, leaning over the desktop, his hands fisted on the wood, holding him up. “To find the bastard who killed Reynard!”
“I see. That’s more important than the lovely lady who warms your bed?”
“You go too far!”
“On the contrary, you do,” Livingston replied. “You are a mess, looking no better than a factory worker sitting in a gin joint. Smell no better either.”
“I’ll have you…”
“You’ll have me what?” Livingston stood, arms akimbo, waiting.
Wrenworth stopped and glared at him. “Reynard was her fiancé.”
“Yes, so he was. But, as you wrote in your report and the others testified, you had no choice in the matter. You and all the rest know that going under cover is not to be taken lightly. Death is always on the table when playing the cards we’re dealt.”
The marquis reached for his glass. “I’m well aware of that notion. So was he.” He laughed. It wasn’t a true laugh but the type mired in hysteria. “He asked me to protect her.” He downed the contents of the glass and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I came back to this godforsaken snake pit to find the man who betrayed us. Instead, I find myself in Hell.”
“You didn’t know the girl was Reynard’s woman?” As Wrenworth shook his head, Livingston continued. “Nor that you’d gain a title—a station that requires marriage.”
“Which I had,” he snarled. “But the damn rules of the nobility destroyed that as well.” He poured another glass.
Livingston had heard the news. Reynard wrote it in his last report. He sighed. Wrenworth wasn’t the only one of his men to fall prey to foreign entanglements. “What happened to your Afghani wife?” Oh, he knew the final outcome, but after years in this position, it was better, more soothing, however uncomfortable for him, for the men to speak. And he knew it too well, for they weren’t alone. Livingston’s second wife, his current “concubine,” was half Indian, the ill-begotten result of a British soldier and her mother. Still curdled his blood as well, but…
Wrenworth’s lips thinned, struggling to find the right words. “The bastard went after the village after I took Reynard’s body. I didn’t know they’d torch the village, to ‘cleanse’ it.” He spat into the cuspidor on the floor. “I got back too late. No way to get her to any civilized medicine.”
“How close are you to finding the bastard?” Livingston glanced at the papers as he rifled through them.
“Close. Final strings falling into place, give or take one or two.”
“The boat East leaves shortly. I’ll need you on it. To gather the last of what you can and if not, we’ll take it from here.”
Wrenworth growled. “I must find him.”
“He could be here or in India or even Russia, for all we know.”
“Hence the papers, sir.” Tristan sat down and picked up another folder.
Livingston sighed. “Son, you need to let it go. Let the agents here find the man responsible.”
“No!”
“Wrenworth, you have title and thus don’t need to be caught in this quagmire of intrigue any longer. You have a new wife and two children that need you.” He saw the marquis’ eyes widen. “Yes, I know of your son and of her little girl. So your responsibilities take you out of this mess.”
“Sir, I must…”
Livingston paced. “But since you refuse to take your position as you should, and despite your lofty title, you will follow my orders to the letter. Go. Home.”
Wrenworth glared. Livingston didn’t back down, knowing he’d win against the distraught man. The agent’s eyes were baggy, red and haggard. And his comparison to a gin joint factory worker on payday was true in the look. He needed the man at his prime, not in this self-inflicted Hell. The man finally staggered back a step, the impact of the brandy must have hit. Wearily, he grabbed his jacket and walked to the door.
Livingston shook his head as he watched him leave. As Wrenworth turned the corner toward the door, the secretary turned back to the messy desk and sat in the chair. What the hell was it with silk?
***
Evelyn sat on the chair near Mary’s bed, her temple pounding painfully, but her heart felt worse. It was as if a knife had sliced right through it and hung, cleaved in her chest. The hole there seemed to grow and fester.
After Tristan left her bedchamber, she allowed herself a moment to dissolve, which only intensified when she heard the doors slam and hooves taking off pell-mell down the drive. Left alone, she collapsed further, tears of remorse, of anger and heartbreak, in between bouts of screaming. Part of her protested her childish, immature behavior, but she ignored that. She decided she had the right to mourn—the loss of Richard, doubly impacted as his death by her husband’s hand hit her fresh and hard.
She had no idea how long she’d lain, upset, across the bed, but eventually it dawned on her Tristan had made love to her here not long before. No, she curdled. He’d taken her. Was he any better than those demons of years ago? Again, voices inside her chastised her for accusing him of treating her like a whore, but making love didn’t fit either. Slowly she pulled herself up, splashed water on her face and strolled to the nursery. There, in the darkness of pre-dawn, she sat near Mary, listening to the sound of both toddlers sleeping and with it, found some peace.
Rationally thinking, or so she liked to believe, there wasn’t much she could do. Divorce was difficult under the best circumstances. Infidelity usually the way to achieve freedom from a worthless sot, but that didn’t apply here. Besides, she still saw herself as the damaged one–she never doubted the on dit would always maintain she was ruined. Murder? She had no real proof, just his lack of denial at the accusation. Would he pursue divorce? She pondered with hope but quickly ruled the chance out. To dissolve a marriage was such a messy affair, and the sting went through family lines. As a marquis, he’d never risk censure by the crown. And hers would be hit as well. Her head thudded painfully and she reached up, pushing her fingertips into her temple to combat the sledgehammer inside.
Little Mary stirred, small whimpers escaping her tiny coral lips. Evelyn sighed as she re-tucked the loose blanket around her little angel. Mary’s life began rough, conceived during duress, born to a regretful mother and abandoned. The child had done no wrong to deserve such an ill fate. As she lay on her tiny mattress, one leg now free of the covers, her sweetheart lips cooing to a dream, Evelyn knew what she had to do. It was up to her to protect this little girl, a responsibility she took happily. Which gave her few options now. Her father would refuse her return and would make sure she stayed here with her husband. There’d be no leaving Tristan, no escape. She gritted her teeth. She’d be like the better part of her society and remain, civilly, by his side for public events and for the children. He’d no doubt find a mistress to slake his lust. Deep down inside, her womb clenched. An odd feeling but one she had no control over.
No, she’d submit to all this to keep Mary safe and secure.
A look across the room brought Nadir’s sleeping form into her vision. The motherless boy needed her guiding hand as well. Poor child, his life as hard as Mary’s…
She uttered a sob before she knew it, and she put her hand over her mouth too late. The little girl stirred. It was too early, Evelyn thought to herself. As quietly as she could, she slipped out of the room.
Dawn was peeping through the curtains as she padded down the hall to her room. The servants were up and beginning their daily routine. She passed a couple and tried not to look at them, sure that her eyes were puffy.
As she walked through the door to her room, she started. There was a footman working on the door in between Tristan’s room and hers.
“Sorry, my lady.” He bowed.
In his hands were very fine tools. He’d been working on the doorknob. She frowned.
&nbs
p; “What are you doing, Benson?”
“Fixing the door, my lady.” His voice sounded apologetic. “My lord’s orders.”
She stared at the mechanism, lost. “He told you to install a lock?”
“Yes, ma’am. It functions on your side.” He pointed to the lower turn latch. With a flip, a metal rod jutted out. She saw the hold in the doorframe. Speechless, she nodded.
“Actually, I just finished.” Benson continued, packing the tools in a leather pouch. “My lady,” he bowed and left.
She sank on the floor, all her energy sapped. He gave her permission to keep him out. Planned that she would. What was left of her heart broke. She drew her legs up close to her chest, squeezing tightly, in an attempt to stop the pain. The pieces of her heart dropped into her stomach, and coldness surrounded her. The last time she felt this alone, this abandoned, was when Richard left her for the Army, and then it hit again, harder when news of his death struck home.
She mourned Richard, knowing her love was gone. And for Tristan, the emotions echoed. As she searched through the chasm that held the fragments of her being, she realized it was true.
She’d fallen in love with Tristan.
And with that knowledge, she collapsed.
Chapter Nineteen
After a couple of days…and nights…Evelyn reluctantly grew used to being alone again.
As she sat at the dining room table, Mary and Nadir busily ate under her watchful gaze. Actually, the nursemaid was more actively guiding them in not accidently spilling their drinks or dumping their plates on the floor. Sitting in the highbacked, long-legged replicas of the adult dining room chairs, the children wore long sheets tied around their necks as bibs in an attempt to keep the food from ruining their clothes. It often became a losing battle. Even now, they roared in childish laughter as Lillian reached to prevent the ruby red juice from spilling but succeeded instead in knocking the glass over faster.