The Dark Lady: Mad Passions Book 1 (Mad Passions (Eternal Romance))

by Claremont, Maire

  Ian tried to relax against the coach seat, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d found her. He’d freed her. But now what?

  How could he tell her about the circumstances of Hamilton’s death? Should he even try, given her state? How could he explain now that he’d failed his friend so utterly and, in turn, had failed her? She wasn’t ready to hear that she would have to live on. Even if her son and husband were dead.

  And he would have to live with his dark secret, a dream that would never leave him peace. A truth that rang in his head with such vicious repetition that he would never hope for redemption. Though he would never have peace or forgiveness, at the very least he could make amends.

  Ian lifted a hand to his face and rubbed it over his eyes. God. Mary had killed that keeper, but blood had slicked Eva’s hand, too. It didn’t bear imagining, the way she had had to fight for her freedom.

  The keeper had deserved his brutal death. No question. But such things couldn’t be done without affecting Eva’s beautiful, battered soul.

  In the last five years, he’d killed. Blood was on his hands, and they would never come clean. He’d borne witness to things he never would have believed possible. It would be unimaginable for him to judge Eva if she had killed Matthew, but for a jury of men? She’d swing for it.

  A vision hit him of her small body swaying at the end of thick rope knotted about her slim throat. With how light she was now, she’d be lucky to die in five minutes. Would he be able to have done as he’d seen others do for their loved ones—pull on her feet to help her strangle all the faster?

  Thank God Mary had claimed the blame. And he prayed that she was indeed too important to be harmed or given over to the authorities.

  A heavy knot formed in his throat. He swallowed quickly before letting his attention wander unrestrained over Eva, taking his time on her face. The hollowed cheekbones, faint shadows beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin and the slight parting of her full lips struck his heart. Even like this, she looked as she did when he had first met her and she was all of six years old. An elfin creature who had wandered into this world from some magical place. She didn’t belong among mere mortals.

  She looked so familiar, even if she was no longer that girl—the girl who had stolen both his and Hamilton’s hearts.

  If only he had not been such a fool. If only he had known that leaving her would rip his guts out and leave him an empty shell. At the time, he’d had no other recourse. Not after what the old Lord Carin had said on his deathbed. But in fact, leaving had been the greatest mistake he had ever made. And he was paying for it.

  Eva had already paid for it. Dearly.

  Now all that mattered was how he could help heal the woman across from him.

  Especially since a particularly strong feeling ached to ease her off the opposite seat and curl her against his protective body. Christ, he longed to comfort her, but so much had passed, he no longer felt the right to draw her into his arms.

  Eva’s face should have appeared childlike in sleep, what with her short hair and her nightshift of a dress.

  There wasn’t a damn childlike thing about her.

  Instead, her eyelids twitched and a frown pulled at her full mouth. Every now and then her fingers fluttered as if searching for something. Nightmares. Laudanum would help her sleep, but it would fill her dreams with specters. Did she dream about Adam, her infant son, even now?

  Or perhaps Hamilton?

  The very thought bothered him, and that fact bothered him even more. He had no claims on this woman, except those of a protector over his ward. It didn’t matter that once he had secretly longed to make her his. But he couldn’t go back. In his mind, she would always belong to Hamilton.

  The man he had betrayed.

  Yet a disturbing, possessive tug urged him to claim her for his own forever. It mattered not that he would never be able to touch her. All he longed to do was give her safety and shelter for the rest of her life.

  He’d fought these protective feelings all his life. All his life he’d longed to break the expectations of the old Lord Carin and fight for her hand, but obligation had compelled him to silence.

  Now she was Hamilton’s widow. She belonged to the dead man. He could never allow himself this wanting. Dropping his head back against the velvet cushions, he tried to turn his gaze from her face, but was unable.

  It was as if he were a man who had searched for water for days and finally come upon an oasis. Eva Carin was more trouble than he might find in any rebelling village or bigoted officers’ camp, but he felt drawn to her.

  Drawn in the manner in which a moth flies to the flame only to die, anguished and burned. Even with such knowledge, he kept looking. He was certain that somewhere deep inside this shell of a woman was the Eva he had known all his life.

  If he could find that Eva, perhaps the part of himself he had left behind in India with Hamilton’s corpse could be found as well. It was a dangerous game he was playing, this all-consuming need to alleviate the grief of his dishonored soul.

  He plunked his elbow against the side of the window and leaned against his fist.

  Thomas had claimed she was stark raving mad and guilty of rash action resulting in her son’s death. But what was madness? He had seen men kill themselves, their brains splattered against their tent walls because they spent too many coins at cards.

  That was madness.

  And Hamilton . . . When he’d arrived in India, he’d begun to change even more. That swift shift in Hamilton’s moral attitude toward the natives had shocked Ian. It had been remarkable and horrifying the way Hamilton had swallowed the swill that the Indians were somehow subhuman.

  To grieve over a child? Over a husband? Could such a thing be construed as madness? Perhaps. To someone who had never loved, who had never lost.

  Smallpox had claimed Ian’s parents while he’d been at Eton. He thought he might go half mad himself. But the old Lord Carin, his father’s best friend, had taken him in, not committed him to the madhouse. Still, Thomas had intimated that Eva had attempted to drown herself, the final straw before her committal.

  No doubt in a few days Thomas would know what Ian had done. And Ian had no idea how Thomas would react. After all, Ian had used his name and liberated the very woman he had locked up. There were no other words for what Thomas had done—that asylum rivaled Bridewell Jail for horror.

  Eva shivered in her sleep.

  Without giving it a thought, Ian took his thick wool coat and slipped it over her small frame. For the briefest of moments, her frown eased and she rested.

  It was the most relieved his heart had felt since before Hamilton’s brutal death.

  There was no question he’d made a bold and irrevocable move. He was certain that Thomas would not have approved. In fact, he very much expected a detective from the Bow Street Runners upon his doorstep within days.

  But when they came, he would be ready.

  Chapter 7

  England

  Six years earlier

  Ian braced himself up on his stirrups, keeping his chest low, adjusting his weight with the pound of his stallion’s hooves against the hard earth and bright green grass of the country.

  He could almost taste the win.

  In the distance, the two trees that marked the finish line and a crowd that included Lord Carin had gathered. They hollered and called to him. Ian’s stallion, Dragon, sensed it, too. The white beast charged forward, his stride smooth and perfect, mane whipping through the air. A thrill at the speed and grace pumped deep in Ian’s heart. He let out a laugh at the wild joy working as one with Dragon gave him.

  Just behind, perhaps two horse lengths back, Hamilton shouted.

  Ian couldn’t quite make out the words his friend was yelling, but the intensity penetrated the thundering of the horses’ gaits. Ian narrowed his eyes against the wind, focused on the finish. Focused on winning. Ahead the crowd waved wildly, their cheers piercing t
he air. Ian leaned in, his cheek dancing against Dragon’s mane. “Come on, boy,” he urged. “Come on.”

  At those soft words the stallion stretched his neck, increased his stride, and tore across the remaining distance to the finish. The shouts of the crowd boomed around him as he raced between the two trees. He caught Lord Carin’s face, beaming, his gray beard framing his broad smile.

  On an undignified but triumphant whoop, the old man lifted his top hat and waved it.

  Ian pulled gently on the bit and Dragon immediately eased back, coming to a slow walk. Ian patted the stallion on his graceful neck. “Thank you, Dragon.”

  “Well done!” Lord Carin shouted, walking up beside the seventeen-hand-high horse. “Well done, son.”

  The whole crowd was pressing in to congratulate Ian, and a smile of pure triumph pulled his lips. All that mattered was winning Lord Carin’s approval. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You could always outride Hamilton,” boomed Lord Carin. “Foolish boy, to try and best you.”

  Ian swallowed, though his heart beat wildly at the praise. He glanced back over his shoulder and spotted Hamilton’s stricken face as his friend reined his horse in. “He rode well,” Ian said.

  Lord Carin waved a dismissive hand. “He rides adequately. Doesn’t understand horseflesh. Not like you, my boy.”

  Ian froze atop his mount as a snaking feeling of dread grabbed his gut. He hadn’t intended to so thoroughly outride Hamilton.

  Red tinged Hamilton’s cheeks, and he seemed to shrink atop his horse. “Are you not proud of me as well, Father?”

  Lord Carin hesitated, as if searching for words. “Of course. Of course. But Ian here . . .” His voice trailed off, the meaning clear to all.

  The crowd began to slip away, moving toward the manor in chatty groups, eager to partake in the cake and cider provided. Only a few curious bystanders remained to watch the scene unfolding between the lord, his son, and his ward.

  Dragon shifted nervously and Ian stroked the stallion’s neck.

  Hamilton’s throat worked, apparently to hold back his emotions, but the beginnings of tears glazed his eyes. “I tried, Father.”

  Lord Carin looked away. “ ’Course you did. You always do.”

  “And I always fail,” Hamilton said bitterly.

  “Don’t,” Ian said, his gloved hands tightening on the reins. “You know—”

  “What?” Hamilton snapped. His russet horse danced at Hamilton’s agitation and he gave a sharp yank to his bridle. “That you will always best me? In everything?”

  “That’s enough now,” Lord Carin said darkly. “Apologize to Ian.”

  Hamilton’s eyes flared. “Apologize?”

  Lord Carin drew in a long breath before he said, “It’s not Ian’s fault you’re not as skilled.”

  “Father—”

  “Enough now. You lost.” Lord Carin’s eyes turned steely. “Don’t disgrace yourself. And wipe those damn tears out of your eyes. To think you’re nearly a man grown.”

  “But, Father—”

  “I do not wish to hear your excuses. I sometimes wish—”

  Hamilton’s lips went white. “Wish what?” His focus whipped to Ian. “That he was your son?”

  Lord Carin looked away, the lack of contradiction a powerful reply.

  It was what Ian had always longed for. Strove for. He’d sweated blood and tears over the years to prove himself worthy to be the old man’s son, a real part of the family, but he never thought it would be at the expense of Hamilton’s place.

  Hamilton nodded. “I understand.”

  Lord Carin’s silence stretched out.

  Ian started to speak, but Hamilton swung his horse around, riding back over the small hill in the distance.

  Ian looked down at the man he’d respected for so long. “Why?”

  Lord Carin shook his head. “There’s something weak in him. Something dangerous. He needs to understand that.”

  “But he desperately wants your respect.”

  “Then he must earn it. If—”

  A pistol shot cracked through the air. Dragon reared, his ears snapping in the direction of the hill.

  Ian’s guts twisted. Hamilton. He squeezed his calves against Dragon’s barrel and the animal sped forward. With every beat of his stallion’s hooves, panic thundered through Ian’s veins. Lord Carin had driven his friend too far. He’d known. He’d known how important it was to Hamilton to appear strong in his father’s eyes.

  As he mounted the hill, he braced himself, but what he saw seized his breath and burned his eyes despite his resolve.

  Hamilton stood sobbing, his arm outstretched and a pistol in his hand, and his own steed lay prone upon the earth. Blood stained the bright green grass about the stallion’s dark mane.

  Dragon let out a fierce whinny, his eyes rolling wildly.

  “What have you done?” Ian yelled, swinging down off Dragon. He ran to the animal on the ground.

  “He failed me.” Hamilton sobbed.

  Ian’s hands hovered above the once vibrant, beautiful creature that had graced God’s land with pride. Now its gaze, framed by soft lashes, was void of life and its sleek body seemed dull of the magic that had warmed its blood. “Failed you?” Ian whispered, a raging ache growing inside him. Why did the innocent always have to pay?

  “I needed to win, Ian.”

  Ian closed his eyes, feeling the stallion’s flesh cool beneath his palms. It took every bit of strength he had to reply calmly, “I know.”

  “But you won.”

  The earth seemed to slip beneath him and his stomach lurched. “Yes.”

  “You always have to win.”

  When Ian looked up, he longed to see the friend who had eased him through his childhood griefs, the third member of the Merry Band. But he saw only a stranger. A man willing to kill an innocent animal to ease his pain. “How could you?” he asked, his throat tightening around the words.

  “How could I?” Hamilton echoed. “How could you? You’ve stolen my father’s esteem. As long as you are here, he will never love me,” he railed. “Do you understand?”

  “I—You wish me to go?” Ian asked, incredulous. They’d been together, inseparable, since that day he’d come to Carridan Hall ten years before.

  Hamilton hesitated, then said, “No. No matter how angry I am, Ian, I could never wish to be separated from you.”

  Ian closed his eyes for a moment, then gently rested his forehead along Hamilton’s stallion’s neck. “Go with God, my friend,” he whispered.

  Slowly, he stood and pointed at the dead horse. “You know this changes everything.”

  “What?”

  “This,” he said, pointing from the dead stallion to the pistol in Hamilton’s hand. “You. What you did. It changes everything. You’re becoming someone I don’t know. Someone I don’t wish to know.”

  Hamilton’s eyes flared. “Ian . . .”

  “No. I—” Tears stung Ian’s eyes. “We can’t let this happen. To you. To our friendship.”

  Hamilton nodded. “I know. I promise.” He swallowed, his face ashen. “I promise I’ll do better. Somehow, I’ll make you and Father proud.”

  Ian longed to shout that none of that mattered, that honor mattered. But Hamilton wasn’t listening. His friend was staring off into the distance, tormented by demons that even Ian couldn’t see.

  England

  The present

  They came into the city of York at dawn. The gray-pink light of morning was obscured once again by the heavy white clouds that heralded another batch of snow. Ian glanced out the window, then back at Eva. They were about to arrive at the coaching inn. One of lesser repute, the Norseman’s Arms.

  They rattled over icy cobblestones, passing the medieval wall protecting the city from ghostly marauders. The harsh metropolis bore a quiet welcome at such an early hour. Certainly, at the heart of the old city there would be the cry of street hawkers. But here on the outskirts and in this ramshackle bit of town at this
hour, one would turn one’s head before raising a hand in greeting.

  But even with so few people about, Ian couldn’t deny that Eva was a sight. Any Bow Street Runner would be able to track down a woman of such a description. Only ladies struck by illness had hair shorn to such a degree.

  The last thing they needed was undue attention.

  The coach rumbled to a halt and his man jumped down. The snick of the carriage steps being unfolded heralded the door’s opening. Ian nudged Eva, but she didn’t move. Heavy sleep had taken her. Although he wished he could let her rest, it would be difficult to make a quiet entrance with her in his arms. He might as well shout their presence from the rooftops.

  “Eva,” he prodded.

  “Mmm?”

  He stroked her arm, savoring the touch. For years, he had not been able to do more than imagine her. Now all he longed to do was drag her into his arms, to hold her, to know she was real. Hunger stirred within him, shocking hunger for the woman who was before him. Just that gentle touch was enough to send his blood pounding. She was his to care for now. His to ensure that nothing ever harmed her again. Carefully, he stroked his fingers along her shoulder, tempted to cup her cheek. He hesitated, unwilling to frighten her. “Wake up.”

  “Don’t want . . .”

  Gently, Ian drew his cloak back from her slight frame. “We’ve arrived. Wouldn’t you like food?”

  She shivered at the cold and her fingers stretched out, searching for her lost blanket.

  He glanced to his manservant, Digby, who stood just outside the door. Servants had long been a part of Ian’s life. In India, he’d adjusted to the personal service of a single batman, but now . . . Now he was returning to the ever watchful eyes of an army of servants routine to a man of his station. Digby and the two other liveried servants—their names Ian couldn’t recall—craned their necks, trying to get a glance at Eva from under their matching black-and-gold braided hats. No doubt the men were stunned by the events of the night and this strange addition to Ian’s vehicle.