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

by Claremont, Maire

  Still, needs must.

  A feral growl came from her throat and her body turned into the harsh angles of an angry cat. “Put me down,” she snapped. “You cannot treat me thus.”

  He said absolutely nothing as he thrust her into the vehicle, bum first. “Digby,” he shouted.

  His man ran from the back of the inn, his hands at his breeches, buttoning them swiftly.

  “My lord?”

  “We’re leaving. Now,” Ian ordered.

  “Yes, my lord.” Digby turned about and called over his shoulder, “I’ll fetch the others.”

  Ian gave a sharp nod, adjusting his hold on Eva.

  She dug her nails deep into his shoulders, but he ignored the sharp pain as he eased her back onto the cushioned seat. Despite being so thin, she struggled and twisted against him with a force worthy of the fiercest grenadier. With each thrust and twist of her, her bottom curved into his hips.

  Ian swallowed, grabbing her hands and wrapping his arms across her chest. A double embrace. An embrace one made after making love. Not for subduing women on the brink of madness.

  At last, he could take it no more. “Stop fighting, woman.”

  She glanced back at him, her teeth bared. “I’ll stop fighting if you stop being an ass.”

  His arms tightened about her as he yanked her tighter against him, her back to his front, her breasts soft yet firm under him, and the thin curve of her hip pressed against his. “Don’t be mad, you little fool,” he gritted against her ear.

  Instantly, she stilled. Her eyes lifted to his and his heart slammed against his ribs. Those cool blue depths stared up at him as if he were an enemy. “I am not mad. Nor am I a fool,” she said, her voice so low it rang through the small space like a tragic bell.

  Suddenly, he felt stricken, as if somehow she had delivered a mortal blow to his heart. But it was he who had delivered the blow. A verbal one. “I—”

  She turned her face from him, her entire body held rigid against him as if such a pose were the only thing keeping her inside her skin.

  “Eva?” he coaxed, suddenly wishing she still thrashed against him. Anything but this. “I—I didn’t mean it. You must know that?”

  As horse hooves, harnesses, and the soft talk of servants loading supplies onto the coach echoed through the yard, she didn’t relax against his chest or yield to his words.

  The animation of her spirit slipped away from him, even though he held her in his arms. With each painful moment that slipped past, he knew whatever trust she might have had in him was gone. Shattered as easily as spun glass. With careless words.

  Chapter 17

  Mad. It had pained her more than any beating to hear the word slip past Ian’s lips. Worse even than whore.

  Slowly, Eva inhaled and the tangy salt air stole into her lungs.

  Soon they would arrive at his castle. Moments, really. After all, Ian had claimed they’d rolled through the gatehouse leading to his estate. Though she had said nothing, a part of her rejoiced. They would reach their destination and she would finally be free of this horrid box racing across England.

  He’d been tense since the inn, as if he were as wary of returning to his life as she. Would he find it easy to be the lord of the manor? Would he delight in the return to his castle?

  As if in answer to her thoughts, the coach rattled over gravel and came to a halt.

  “We’re here,” Ian said, his voice wary. He lingered, staring out the window, his hand on the door handle. A brief look flashed over his face. A look that brought to mind the sweet boy who had come to Carridan Hall afraid and alone.

  She resisted the urge to comfort him. He was a man who would not likely accept such a thing now.

  Eva didn’t move. For all that she longed to leave the coach, she was unsure what awaited her outside it.

  The door sprang open and Ian vaulted down into the damp gray light of lowering evening. His hand reached back into the coach. Expectant. “Come, Eva. It’s time.”

  She gave consideration to staying in the coach in the hopes that reality might just let her fade away as it had done many a time before. But in truth, no such thing would occur. It took more effort than she liked, but she forced her stiff limbs to move. She inched forward until her feet brushed the edge of the coach. Head high, she took the barest tips of his fingers and stepped down.

  Ian stood just behind her as she paused on the sweeping drive.

  Twelve servants stood upon the steep steps of the castle front. Their pristine gray-and-black uniforms flickered in the cold breeze. As if a single being, the servants stiffened at her shocking appearance. But as good servants, they averted their gaze, staring at the intricately patterned white-and-gray cobbled steps.

  She had not seen the castle now in almost a decade. Long before, they had visited Ian’s aunt and uncle often. And of course, they had come three years earlier, upon Ian’s vestiture as viscount.

  As a child, it had seemed enormous. Perfect, the stuff of legend. A legend she had played in, often pretending to be Lady Marian to Ian’s Robin Hood and Hamilton’s Sheriff of Nottingham. Nothing untoward could happen in this place; it had been such a place of love and dreams.

  Now it still towered, but it was an earthly domain, its surfaces touched by the encroaching years and sea wind. Strange plantlike creatures pressed like barnacles to its mammoth walls. The stone edifice still towered high above her, though not as high as she remembered. But the turrets, resplendent and majestic, as if waiting for knights of old to guard the keep, were just as she remembered.

  The castle dated back to well before the Tudors, and the family had added onto it in the madcap fashion of aristocrats. If she were to wander the gravel path to the other side, she would face a French chalet facade with high windows and butter yellow stone.

  Eva squared her shoulders under the staff’s pressing eyes. They all must have thought Ian was the mad one, bringing a scrawny rat into their pristine, orderly world after so many years away. Unwilling to face their censure, she focused again on the place that had been a haven, struck by the immensity of it.

  The power of the castle was unlike anything she had known in so much time now, it was daunting. Once, such a house would have felt as normal as the rain in the fall months. Now normalcy was a dark room in a brown dress surrounded by loneliness.

  “My dear!” a bright voice cried.

  That voice rang out, an echo from the past. Eva froze.

  Ian turned toward it, and for the first time in days a true smile turned his strong, sensual lips upward. A deep, booming laugh flowed over his lips, and he strode toward the woman, his greatcoat flapping behind him. “Aunt Elizabeth.”

  The lady, her soft silver blond hair floating about her face, came forward, her pace as elegant as a queen. And by her side charged a great, slightly drooling mastiff, his tawny body almost as large as a small pony. The animal’s tail wagged excitedly, beating against Elizabeth’s skirts as she opened her arms.

  “Dear boy!” Her slender embrace extended, her sapphire day dress pristine yet feminine. “Welcome home!”

  Home. It was indeed his home, but he hadn’t seen it in years. Did that perchance make him as she was? A stranger but not a stranger, daring to look in and pray for the peace of acceptance?

  Ian swept his aunt in his arms and whirled her around as if she were a young girl. The massive folds of her skirts belled out. “It is so good to see you.”

  The dog let out a booming bark but bore no aggression, just a sort of canine joy at its mistress’s pleasure.

  “Indeed!” Aunt Elizabeth exclaimed as she staggered a little, patting her hair, then patting a hand on her dog’s massive head. “It is too long. Too long since you left us. And how different you look. So strong and so dark. And so impertinent.”

  Eva swayed ever so slightly on her feet, unsure what to feel. Her hands shook slightly as her throat tightened up.

  “You shall be glad to know, I’ve kept the estates in good order with you away,” Eliz
abeth said.

  Ian replied, but Eva was not certain what he’d said as memories consumed her.

  Lady Elizabeth Blake, dowager viscountess. Oh, lord, the woman had been at her wedding to Hamilton. At Adam’s christening. Eva sucked in quick breaths, the memories hitting hard and fast.

  For the briefest moment, the ground beneath her feet swung on a heavy axis and she had to close her eyes to keep from tilting.

  Lady Elizabeth had always been so kind, her eyes glinting with mischief. The older woman had teased her about the pleasures of a husband such as Hamilton, fluffing her bouquet of flowers as Eva had received guests after the ceremony. And she’d been right: despite Hamilton’s defects, he had been a good husband. Perhaps distant, even in the bedroom, but he’d fulfilled his duties.

  It had always been a disappointment, that lack of feeling between them. But once she had learned that he had brutally killed an innocent horse over the loss of a silly race, she’d found it hard to appreciate him, to trust him, and most certainly to love him as Hamilton’s father had so wished.

  But even with the distance between them, they’d created together the most beautiful boy. For that she would always be grateful. Even though she had lost him. Eva’s throat closed. The one only true thing that had come from her marriage was gone.

  And these memories? A tide of emotion threatened to crash down upon her, but she couldn’t stop them.

  At his christening, Elizabeth had brought a perfect silver rattle to shake in front of Adam’s bright eyes. She’d watched with delight as Adam had been taken to church in his little white gown with lace embroidered by Irish nuns.

  Elizabeth was a figure who’d brought brightness wherever she went.

  Eva’s lungs clamped tight as the world whirred faster out of focus. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go back into this horrid world where everything would remind her of what she had lost. Of what she had so foolishly and easily destroyed with her rash decision to not listen to Thomas, the grooms, or even the coachman. Perhaps Ian was right. Perhaps she was a fool.

  Just as her whole body cramped with sadness, the velvety brush of a damp nose and canine cheek rubbed against her hand. The big dog pressed into her as if it somehow sensed her distress and wished to offer up his Herculean body as a source of refuge.

  She swallowed back the tears that the animal’s pure and affectionate presence brought forth. Truly, didn’t the dog sense she was not worthy of such gentle love?

  After all, she’d been determined to go on her own. And . . . why had she gone? The letter. The letter to whom? Hamilton was already dead. To Ian?

  Yes. The letter had most definitely been to Ian. She blinked, shocked at this new information taking root in her thoughts. Why had it been so important for her to hand mail a letter to him?

  She opened her eyes and dared to stroke her hand over the soft, velvety ears the size of her palms.

  Ian glanced back over his shoulder, his smile gone. A white sort of worry masked his dusky features. “Eva?”

  She met his gaze, returning to him after an unbidden journey through an unwelcome landscape of thought. Then she looked to the older woman. How strange her silence must have been to them, but she couldn’t help it.

  Once, years before, Lady Elizabeth had known her, known the Eva she had been. They had been equals in joy, in gossip, and in joie de vivre. She had no wish for this still glorious woman to know the Eva she had become.

  Clearly, Lady Elizabeth had not noticed her at first. Not in her delight to see her nephew. Now, as those clear eyes turned to Eva, her shining blue gaze darkened with shock and her lips parted. “Ian, what—?”

  “Aunt, you know Lady Eva Carin.”

  Lady Elizabeth snapped a smile back onto her features and padded toward Eva with dainty steps. “Of course, my dear.”

  To Eva’s growing panic, Lady Elizabeth leaned in as if to kiss her on the cheek.

  Eva lurched back and quickly murmured, “How do you do?”

  Ian’s aunt remained leaning forward for one more moment, as if her kiss were hanging in the air. She recovered quickly, as any lady worth her salt would. “Very well.”

  But when Lady Elizabeth looked away and then glanced back, her soft blue eyes shone wet. There was nothing to say, it seemed, and the lack of words pressed down on them, flattening out the beautiful world that was Blythely Castle. Lady Elizabeth’s face creased with sadness. “I am so sorry—”

  “There is nothing to be sorry for.” She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. She could not talk of her past with this woman. No matter how kind. If she began, she might never stop, and then? As if the dog, now leaning heavily against her leg, were a lifeline, she continued to stroke her fingers over his head. “I am tired,” she said firmly, hoping Lady Elizabeth would perceive her blunt hint without insult.

  Lady Elizabeth’s face paled as she slowly took in Eva’s frame and then her face. “Of course you are.” She glanced down at the dog and smiled as if there were nothing wrong in the world. “And it certainly looks as if you’ve made a friend.”

  “A friend?” Eva whispered.

  “Falstaff,” Elizabeth said.

  Eva studied the dog, who tilted his massive head back and gazed up at her with dark, adoring eyes. All the while his tongue slipped out the side of his mouth as he took great panting breaths. There was something completely accepting in that soft brown face. As ridiculous as it sounded, she longed to throw her arms around the mastiff’s thick neck, press her face into his fur, and cry. Instead, she pulled her hand back from the dog and squared her chin. She couldn’t fall apart. Not here, before Ian, his aunt, and all their servants. She lifted her chin. “Does he love the ladies and drink ale?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “No ale, I’m afraid, but he does prefer ladies to gentlemen, and he’s a jolly soul.” Even as Elizabeth spoke, the older woman carefully studied Eva, and the hints of knowing glinted in her eyes.

  In a few short looks, Elizabeth had learned so much, Eva was sure, and that fact terrified her. She didn’t want Ian’s beloved aunt seeing the agony darkening her soul. If Elizabeth did, she would surely see Eva’s sins. The sins that rightfully condemned her to a raging, soul-ripping damnation.

  The older woman smiled another gentle, undemanding smile. “Come, my dear. We shall ready a guest room for you and you shall lie down.”

  To Eva’s distress, Lady Elizabeth took her hand in hers. As if it hadn’t been ten years since she’d played here as a child, the society hostess led her into the house.

  Shockingly, Eva did not wish to fling the hand from her. The soft touch was warm, calm, and assuring, as if a soft blanket had been tucked around her, defying the general dislike she had for contact with another person.

  Falstaff hefted himself up from the ground and followed closely behind, never out of reach as Eva made her way back into Blythely’s world. Ian trailed behind, perhaps as careful of all this grandness as she.

  They both had much to face, here at the end of England, where the sound of the sea crashing filled the brisk air.

  Without words, the older lady seemed to communicate silently to the servants.

  As soon as they were inside the large hall, their feet treading on the perfectly checkered black and white marble, Eva knew she was indeed a prisoner. But a prisoner of kindness. A prisoner of those who would save her.

  She had no idea what to make of it. So she remained silent as they walked past the towering windows that gazed out onto the immaculate English garden and as they finally entered a salon that overlooked the white-capped sea.

  The ice blue and ivory room was the most stunning tableau she had seen in years. She knew she shouldn’t sit on the settee. Not in her horrible gown and short hair and black soul. She’d stain the striped silk and mar the intricately carved marble mantel. The gilt mirrors that reflected the chandelier dripping with crystal and the delicate Chinese porcelain placed carefully about the room would surely be blackened by her presence.

  But Lady Eli
zabeth guided her solidly and simply, finally easing her down onto a chair and placing her hands on the delicately carved pale arms. Falstaff, in the strangest sort of immediate devotion, plunked himself down beside her, resting his jaw on her toes.

  The animal’s touch seemed to ground her. A blessing, considering how completely unreal this all felt.

  She perched on the French furniture, so fine it seemed made of spun sugar, and was terrified it would break. She’d known nothing but dark brown rooms and dirty cots for the longest time. This lavishness? It made her feel out of place, stretched her nerves with anxiety.

  The moment Lady Elizabeth lowered herself onto an Empire chair of ivory silk, her skirts masking its gold claw-feet, a servant bustled in with a heavy silver tray laden with an ornate silver teapot and matching cream and sugar set. The nearly translucent pink cups, painted with gold and ruby roses, seemed to float beside the small, tiered silver plates of sugar-dusted scones.

  Eva glanced at Ian, and she felt the sudden and bizarre desire to grin. He looked like a man unsure whether he was about to be hanged or given reprieve. Standing at the edge of the room, he watched silently. Without his greatcoat, his shoulders seemed broader, his whole body too big, like a bull that had been suddenly set down in the middle of a china shop. And surely, wherever such a big man stepped in such surrounds, carnage would ensue. In fact, his aunt had most emphatically insisted he remove his high boots and replace them with a pair of embroidered slippers, more suited to a man’s dressing room than a drawing room, lest he traipse mud upon the scrolled Turkish rug.

  In this salon of feminine confection, he looked terribly out of place. This battle-hardened man seemed far more ready to be in a scarlet coat, blade at the ready and a battalion of men at his command, than standing uncomfortably about to receive a fragile china cup. Yet he owned this castle, the lands around it, and was responsible for every soul who graced it.

  Perhaps he did feel just as out of place as she.

  “Place the tray on that table, Anne,” Lady Elizabeth ordered, her voice melodious yet firm.