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

by Claremont, Maire

  Laudanum. He hadn’t even thought to ask if she’d managed the purchase this morning. His stomach clenched. How could he have forgotten that Eva was no ordinary woman? That she was a woman half possessed?

  It should not have surprised him. She wouldn’t be over such an addiction from a kiss, but still . . . It was almost as painful to see her clutch that bottle as to know a half dozen men might be coming after them.

  It was all he could do not to cross the room and knock the poison from her hand. He was tempted to shout, “Don’t!” He bit back his demand and strode out into the pitch-dark hall. There was no time for that.

  Such duels between them would keep for later.

  He only prayed she wouldn’t drown herself in the stuff while being dressed.

  He rushed down the stairs and out to the back alley, where the coach would be waiting. The savage thought that all of this was his fault raged through him. Hamilton was the precursor to all this. And while Ian hadn’t driven the blade home, he’d been the instrument that killed his friend. He still felt the hot blood on his hands and the traitorous desire to see justice done.

  But there was no turning back now. The dead were dead, and he had enough concerns with the living.

  Chapter 14

  The back stair creaked.

  Eva hoped that in the future Mrs. Marlock might use a pittance of her funds, perhaps the funds Ian had contributed, to fix it. As it was now, she treaded on light feet, the iron floorboard nails making a horrid racket against the old wood. ’Twasn’t easy descending so carefully. Her limbs were beginning to shake again because she hadn’t taken quite enough laudanum before her dressing. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over her skin and her stomach was an angry tangle as she forced herself to move.

  Every instinct demanded she lift the small vial and drink, but just now she needed her attention as sharp as possible.

  She gathered her strength and hurried down the last few stairs. Each breath she drew echoed with an unnatural harshness in her own ears.

  She had to get to the coach.

  She came out into the windowless back hall. Darkness enveloped her and she blinked, hoping her eyes would adjust quickly. As soon as she was able to make out the gray shapes of furniture she darted past the table and cupboards and started for the back door.

  Voices echoed from the hall leading out to the foyer. Eva suddenly felt her feet hesitate. Instead of walking out the door to the coach as she should have done, a voice inside her demanded she quietly pause at the hallway.

  Mr. Marlock’s rich Yorkshire tones rippled through the air. The sound of rough voices echoed back.

  There was a long pause and Eva wished she could see what was happening. Then there was the solid chink of a large amount of coin. The sound of a sizable purse being flung down on a table.

  The innkeep’s voice eased into a tone of awe. One of the other men laughed.

  The saliva dried in Eva’s mouth. She backed away from the hall, bolted around, and scrambled for the door. If only Mr. Marlock had the fortitude of his wife.

  Footsteps rumbled in the hall behind her. Heavy, booted steps, making a quick pace. The swaggering stride of men who were no better than dogs.

  Eva didn’t look back, even when she reached a trembling hand for the door. She grasped the black iron latch and lifted. The heavy panel resisted her tug. She gritted her teeth and dragged it back. It gave way, opening with a groan. The cold north wind swirled around her, infiltrating her cloak, freezing the sweat upon her skin.

  Eva rushed into the deepening night, searching for any sight of Ian.

  The coach light swung just a few feet off in the narrow alley. Ian’s silhouette pierced the light like a devil in the dark. His gloved hand stretched out toward her.

  She took it with more purpose than she had known in years. Sliding his hands about her waist, he bundled her through the door and dropped her unceremoniously onto the cushioned velvet seat. He shouted something to the driver and then he was beside her, slamming the door.

  He didn’t settle back, but instead remained at attention, his hands twin fists on his knees.

  Eva seized his forearm, his body angular under her fingertips. “They’ve paid the Marlocks,” she said tightly.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Marlock. They’ve paid him.” Ian’s face was nothing more than a pale oval in the darkness, but she had to make him understand. “I’m sure of it.”

  A muscle worked in his cheek. “How can you know?”

  “I heard the chink of coin, and then boot steps were heading for the back kitchen.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Did he truly not trust her ability to understand what happened around her? “Yes, Ian,” she snapped. “I am certain.”

  His doubt seemed to linger between them; then he spoke with intensity. “We must make haste from this damned place.”

  She turned her face away from him, confused and angry. Angry that she should have to run and be so afraid. And confused by her feelings.

  She wanted nothing more than to hold on to Ian, to feel his touch. For the first time in years, she truly wanted to be caressed. Terrifying though it might be, she was sure she desired it, but only from Ian.

  Such treacherous thoughts were dangerous. Whether she wished to say it aloud or not, she was a monster. And whatever faults Ian might have, he deserved far more than a monster . . . or a woman who could never be more than a burden and risk to his very safety.

  She pried her fingers from his arm and clenched her shaking hands. She stared out the coach window, watching the night streets race by, swallowing back her returned nausea, unwilling to show him how desperately she needed to reach for her laudanum. It would be so easy to make all this vanish, but not now. Not when he so loathed that particular weakness in her.

  Instead, she focused upon the knowledge that another coach followed them. That it might be a mere few hours before she was taken again.

  Ian wouldn’t allow that.

  She wouldn’t allow that.

  Even as her brain felt it was rattling apart, of that she was sure. Nothing would make her go back. She’d rather die.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had not known what danger was. Even in the asylum she had been safe. Locked away, half mad, but safe in a fashion. And now that she was free . . .

  The danger seemed stronger. For it was no longer simply she who could be damaged. Oh, no. She could now destroy the man who had come to save her.

  He had been a damned fool. A fool to be so soft. A fool to think that he could let Eva rest. His stupidity had very nearly got them caught. And that would be the end of everything.

  Eva was Thomas’s legal ward. The prick controlled everything about her. Who she could marry, where she could live, how much money she could spend—and when all was said and done no court in the land would let Ian keep her, not until he proved her sane.

  The coach rocked on the winter road, jostling them brutally. Ian ground his teeth together, staring out at the outskirts of the city racing by. He couldn’t look at Eva. He’d let lust—lust—seize his reason.

  He’d made so many mistakes. He was still making them, allowing his emotions to turn into a riot in his staid body. He sucked in a sharp breath and nearly gagged.

  Even inside his pristine coach, he could smell the slums just on the other side of the lacquered wood. No matter how frozen the earth, that smell of rancid death would prevail if he did not steel his mind and heart to the task.

  There was no questioning the resolute truth of it. The softness in his heart had to be hardened. He could no longer be merciful. Not in his need to keep her safe, not in his resolve to destroy those who had brutalized her, and not in his absolute certainty that she would never drink laudanum again.

  Chapter 15

  India

  Two years earlier

  The letter from Eva had been full of descriptions of baby Adam—his firstborn son and heir—and it had, for a moment, filled Hamilton’s hea
rt with such relief that he had been certain that all of the confusion between him and his wife would dissipate. But then, slowly, it had struck him that the letter had not truly been written to him. Though his name was on the parchment, it had been written to Ian. The subtle description of the forest in the fall, the animals going into hibernation, and the state of last spring’s colts were all meant for Ian. Ian cared about such things. Not him. It was as if she were tearing his guts out. Didn’t she understand that? She’d been promised to him since their childhood and God and the law had sealed that promise. She’d never been for that moralizing prig who only played at their friendship now, unwilling to join him in cards, drinking, or the occasional trip to a heathen whore.

  Anger pumped through Hamilton as he stared at his men marching over the dusty ground. They had been marching for well over an hour beneath the high sun. And they wouldn’t stop sweltering until he deemed them perfect.

  These men needed discipline. They were certainly raised without it, with no care for order, or law, or that which was right. When he looked at his men, all he could see was the grasping hands of the bazaar sellers, the filth in the streets, and the smell of the latrine in the heat.

  These people had no idea how to govern themselves, but, by God, those who came under his rule would come up to snuff, even if a few of them had to pay dearly for his satisfaction. He had learned long ago from his father that anything less than perfect would condemn him to shame. And he wouldn’t let his men shame him.

  He’d known enough shame from his father. And just because the old man was dead didn’t relieve Hamilton of the looming hand of hundreds of years of familial expectation.

  The straight lines wavered as one man stumbled and fell to the earth. His tan uniform blended into the puff of dust that spiraled up around his body.

  Hamilton ground his teeth together as two men pulled the fallen soldier away from the ranks. “Lazy bastard,” he muttered.

  Sergeant Ames snapped his attention toward Hamilton and said, “Perhaps the men should cease drill. This heat—”

  “I don’t give a damn about the heat,” Hamilton snapped. How hard was it for Ames to understand that he would settle for nothing less than perfection from these heathen dogs? “Drill them harder.” Hamilton turned his gaze to the retreating figures of the men carrying the fallen soldier away. “And have that one flogged.”

  Ames’s eyes flared. “Sir, you—you can’t do that.”

  Hamilton snorted and raised his brow. “The man is negligent, lazy, and attempting to free himself from duty. As such, he must be punished.”

  “But he is not one of us.”

  Hamilton paused, then blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine, then. Reduction of pay and extra duties.”

  As the drill continued, Hamilton forced himself to stare straight ahead. It was a travesty, the lightness of discipline given to the natives. But it was law. A native could not be flogged, not like the men from British soil.

  It mattered not. The man would pay for his indiscretion. After all, there were worse punishments to endure than a mere flogging.

  England

  The present

  The bitter wind whipping across England penetrated every crevice of the coach. The charcoal burner had long ceased to warm Eva and the worsening jittering of her body was not of the cold but of need.

  And bloody Ian, who had offered her such comfort not so very long ago, sat at a distance as if finally awakened to the truth. She was a leper. Figuratively if not literally. If he touched her, he too would be caught by the horrid shame contaminating her soul.

  She could not recall when last they stopped. Hours? A day? In fact, they raced on so cruelly she could not bring herself to ask him to stop. Driven. ’Twas the only word to describe him. His face, which had seemed like that of an angel of mercy at the asylum, had changed into the brutal visage of an avenging beast who would not relent.

  He stared out the window, his profile cold. Angry. Eva dug her fingernails into the tops of her thighs to the point of pain. The sharp sensation was welcome; it distracted her. With each rocky groove in the wintery road, her body ached . . . but it was not the ache of simple discomfort. It was the ache of fever, the ache of her body screaming out for its medicine. The shock of every surface of her skin feeling utterly alive.

  They had traveled all through the night. Faint blue light insisted on lighting the interior of the coach. The icy fingers of the early sun touched them.

  More than anything save laudanum, she needed water. Water to alleviate the sandpaper cruelty of her throat. Water to bathe her itching skin. She let her fingers fidget over her lap. “Ian?”

  He didn’t turn from the window. “Yes?”

  She licked her lips, shocked to find they were hot, feverish. “I . . . need to stop.”

  “No.”

  Something, in the middle of the night, had changed. She could not stop the impossible feeling that the moments she had been cared for and not judged were gone now. “Fine, then.”

  Only the eternal thunder of horse hooves against icy earth penetrated the silence that commenced.

  Until finally he burst out, “I will not stop. Not for you. Not for God. Not for any man.”

  In answer, she fingered her laudanum bottle. She lowered her eyes to the jar hidden by her pocket. “Fine, then,” she repeated. She yanked the smooth pottery from her coat, determined to swallow but a drop so the wild, skin-scratching call for peace would stop.

  His eyes jerked toward her, the jade green orbs snapping wide. His entire body seemed to enlarge in his sudden rage. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

  “You give me no comfort and you will not let me rest.” She lifted the bottle and gave him a mock salute. “This gives me both. Beautifully.” She lifted her cold fingers to the stopper and pulled it out. The pop echoed and she locked gazes with him, defiant.

  “Give it to me,” he commanded.

  She laughed, the sound frightening to her own ears. “Stop the coach,” she countered.

  He sat so still one might think his muscles had turned to the rock that filled the moors. “Give it to me, Eva.”

  “Go to hell,” she retorted, then lifted the bottle.

  “God damn you!” he hissed.

  And before she could move another inch, he darted over to her and yanked the bottle from her grasp.

  She slammed her fist against his shoulder. “Bastard!”

  “Addict,” he snapped, holding the bottle far out of reach.

  Desperate now that he’d risen to her taunting anger, she bit out, “It’s my bottle.”

  He leaned over her, his face but a few breaths away. “It is in my possession. You’ll never have it. Never again.”

  His nearness only exacerbated the tingling of her skin. If only she could come out of her fleshy envelope. If only she could find some release . . . And the only release she knew, he’d just denied her.

  She’d pushed too far in a war she could not win, and panic grabbed her guts. But she needed what was in his hand. Needed it to still the voracious animal tearing at her insides. “Please, Ian. Give it me.”

  “Never.”

  “Please!” she pleaded, hating the hungry note in her own impassioned voice.

  “Never!” he roared.

  They sat in silence, staring at each other like two dogs eyeing the other before the attack. Until finally she couldn’t bear her hateful feel of her demanding flesh, and the drive to find release. This was compulsion. There was no other word for how she felt. That damn bottle compelled her to act as mad as Thomas accused her of being.

  “Ian,” she began. Her stomach tightened with what had to be self-revulsion. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt . . . She stared at his beautiful face, then let her gaze travel to his broad shoulders. Shoulders that had shielded her from danger . . . This thing now urging her felt like anticipation.

  She bit her lower lip, slowing her suddenly uneven breathing. She’d made bargains before. Not of a sexual nature
, but she’d seen the other girls do it. It always worked to their temporary advantage. And Ian was a man. A strong, undoubtedly virile man. She allowed her eyes to soften with the promise of pleasure. His pleasure. To her shock, it did not take much for her to feel the liquid heat of wanting when she looked on him. “I . . . I will do anything.”

  She closed her eyes as a wave of intense want hit her. For him? For her laudanum? Slowly, oh so slowly, she placed her hand on his broad thigh and, amazedly, her body thrilled to the hardness of his leg. Would he be just as hard farther up his thigh? She let her hand trail up his leg toward his hip, seeking answer. She glanced down to her fingers. It would be so easy to believe it was someone else’s hand. But it wasn’t, and she liked seeing it there. She flicked her gaze back to his, her breath growing ragged. “Anything.”

  Ian stared at her, completely still. At his lack of response, she dared herself to venture farther. To give in to the sudden interest of her own body. She’d known so little pleasure. But something whispered inside, something that turned her heart and core into molten desire, that Ian could give it to her as no one else had. She slipped her hand up the soft material encasing his muscular thigh until she cupped his length in her hand. To her surprise, he was not aroused. Even so, her hand could not contain him through the fabric.

  He’d be large. A size that some women would give anything for. Lovemaking had always been a duty to her; she’d never understood the girls who’d spoken of coupling as bliss and size as an advantage.

  In her agitated state, she suddenly realized how much she wanted to understand.

  “Please,” she moaned, massaging her fingers over him, feeling him harden. What would it feel like to have that hard length inside her? Would it stroke her to the release she so needed? The only release she’d ever known was in the rolling of laudanum. Would it be better than the opiates?

  Cupping him, the heat of his cock caressing her hand, she had no doubt. Yes. Yes, it would be far better because Ian was unlike any other man she knew. And so the pleasure would be unlike any other.