“Why?” she asked forcefully. “Hasn’t Eva suffered enough? Can’t we just care for her here? Battling with a hunger for laudanum is not easy, Ian. Even when she has no physical need for it, the emotional and mental need for it may consume her for years. We can hire assistants who are specialized—”
“No.” He took hold of her delicate hand as if he could will her by touch. “Thomas will come for her. There is no question. He sent her away for some reason that he hasn’t given light to and he is legally her guardian. It is within his right to send her back to that place. So we must show the world that she isn’t mad and thereby revoke his power over her.”
“But, Ian . . .” His aunt’s voice lowered. “What if she can never recover?”
He ground his teeth together. “She will. She must.”
“We will protect her,” Aunt Elizabeth added calmly, her bright eyes racing with plans.
“We must instruct the staff that Thomas or men on his behalf will come.”
“But surely Thomas would let us care for her?”
Ian scowled. “I have very strong doubts.”
“Why?” she exclaimed. “We—as family—wish to protect her from scandal.”
“I’m not certain, but when last I saw him, he seemed unsettled about Eva. And why would he lock her away in such a place if he wished her to be cared for?”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about. That Thomas could do such a thing to his brother’s wife.”
“It does not.” But Ian wondered. Thomas had always chosen to live on the outskirts of life, feeling little for anyone or anything. It had been unnatural, his isolation and independence from any sort of affection.
But there had to be some reason aside from indifference that Thomas would do such a thing to Eva. Perhaps he did not know the horrors of Mrs. Palmer’s establishment.
And yet . . .
“What will you do, Ian?”
He tapped a finger against his glass, the crystal ringing dully. “Bring Eva back. Whatever it takes.”
“I see.”
There was a provocative note to her words. “Yes?” he questioned.
“Nothing.” She took a sip of brandy. “Nothing. Only, she needs kindness just now, Ian.”
“What she needs is to be proven sane.”
His aunt nodded quietly. Yet her concern filled the air around them, as if she didn’t quite agree.
“I will do what is best,” he promised. He would. Nothing mattered more.
She hesitated, then tilted her head slowly to the side, her features assessing him. “For you or for her?”
Ian drew back, his eyes narrowing at her insinuation. “Explain yourself.”
Grief softened her face. “You couldn’t change Hamilton, could you? Nor could you save him. Oh, his father wished you to, but I never expected such a thing, both of you being soldiers and reckless. And Hamilton. Well, Hamilton had a streak—”
“Aunt Elizabeth . . .” His voice trailed off, a warning tone insisting she not pursue the subject. She had no idea about the circumstances of Hamilton’s death.
“Eva is not Hamilton,” she said. “You cannot save a dead man by saving her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said curtly. The words hung between them, ringing as loud as a slap. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”
“Of course, Ian.” She stood slowly, for once her movements slow and tired, evidence of the fact she was no longer a young woman and that she had worked hard over the years of his absence. She paused. “I always hoped my boy would come home, but now I see he is as dead as Hamilton.” She glanced back over her shoulder, regret filling those kind, intelligent eyes. “And that is as it should be, I suppose.”
Somehow, somewhere he had walked down some unseen road that had diverged from Hamilton’s. “I am still your nephew.”
“You are a man now,” she said simply. “No boy left within you.” She whisked from the room, her skirts trailing just behind her as she stepped briskly into the hall. Leaving him. In silence. In the growing dark.
He couldn’t contradict her. It was true. The boy in him had died, in the stench of death and the heat of injustice. But that boy had been deluded with illusions of a kind and beautiful world.
Now he understood the world to be the ruthless place it was. And only those who confronted the ugliness of it would survive.
India
Two years earlier
“You must cease this behavior.”
Hamilton held the wine bottle by the neck and resisted the urge to launch it across the room. Instead, he lifted the mouth to his lips and drank deeply. The thick red wine coursed over his tongue and he choked it back, desperate to feel nothing. He wiped his hand over his mouth, then arched a brow at Ian. “Cease what exactly?”
Ian’s gaze crackled with fury and impatience. “That soldier. He killed himself.”
Hamilton shrugged and took another swig of wine, wishing he and Ian weren’t alone. He had no desire to be made to feel inferior yet again. He’d dogged the young Sepoy for months, determined to teach him the importance of discipline. The importance of deference to the English. He’d used every tactic he could think of to make the boy’s life hell—singling him out for punishing drills, latrine duties, night sentries, reductions in pay, lack of leave while his companions were given free time. In fact, by the time the soldier had killed himself, he’d had no friends, as Hamilton had ensured that whenever he’d made a mistake his comrades had been punished in conjunction. A good man would have risen above it, but not the native. “He was weak,” Hamilton retorted.
Ian’s face contorted into disbelief. “He was deprived of sleep, abused beyond all human capacity, and utterly isolated. And you’re doing it again! To another soldier!”
Hamilton looked toward the screened window and the dark night beyond. Somewhere out there was England. He never should have left it. Never should have tried to be what he wasn’t. He’d wanted to show his father, even after his death, that he was worthy. But it was never going to happen now. And it seemed he was never going to have Ian’s friendship again. Well, Ian bloody well should have stayed at home. Be damned his father’s last wishes.
After all, Ian was right. He was doing it again.
Another soldier’s indolent nature had been brought to Hamilton’s notice recently, and, well, he’d been giving the native special attention. It was the only thing Hamilton excelled at, the instruction of discipline. It served as a warning to others to keep in line. And Hamilton was more than willing to use whatever means available him, no matter how degrading or torturous, to project that message. “It’s for the boy’s own good.”
Ian stepped forward, the line of his mouth hard. “He’s not a boy. He’s a full-grown man who deserves respect.”
A half laugh bubbled from Hamilton’s lips. The idea was absurd. These natives were children who needed one hell of a strict father. He stumbled forward and pointed. “They need an example.”
“An example?”
Hamilton gave a sharp nod, his mind swimming slightly. “To show these brown buggers what will happen to them if they step out of line.”
Ian’s shoulders tensed, and he took a long, slow, disgusted gaze up and down Hamilton. “Who the hell are you?”
That judging look seemed to peel Hamilton’s skin from his already burning body. “I’m your goddamn friend, though you never show it now.”
“My friend?” Ian whispered, his voice so quiet it was lost in the soft wind blowing off the mountains. “He doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Yes, he does.” Hamilton pounded a hand against his chest. “I’m standing right here.”
“No.” The emotion drained from Ian’s face, replaced by a crushed sort of acceptance. “He disappeared a long time ago.”
Hamilton swallowed convulsively, suddenly feeling sick. “What? Is this still about that bloody horse? I made a mistake.”
Ian’s hands balled into fists. “You shot him. Over petty jealousy.”
Hamilton took
another step forward until they were but a pace apart. He wanted to throw a punch. To make Ian understand that this was all about needing to win. To be the best. But Ian was oblivious—as always—to the way Hamilton’s heart was ruined, so he kept his fist at his side and drawled, “If I upset you so damn much, you should have stayed at home.” He sighed. “It was a horse, Ian. A horse.”
“Your father asked me to come. I was glad to, but”—Ian looked down, his green eyes pulsing with regret—“is that what you will say about this soldier who killed himself? That he wasn’t a man? Is that how you justify your behavior? By not giving a damn for living things?”
“For God’s sake, Ian, he was just a worthless piece of native shite.”
Ian nodded slowly, then took a slow step back. “He was a man who needed guidance. You are just a bigoted, sick-minded bastard who has to be stopped before you kill anyone else.”
“I didn’t kill him!”
“Didn’t you?” Ian turned away and started for the door. He stopped. “I can’t make you resign, and you do well enough that your sort of violence is overlooked by command. But I can’t overlook it. I can’t. I’ve failed you and the promise I made your father.”
“Come back.” Hamilton grabbed Ian’s shoulder and tried to whip him around, but Ian was too strong and Hamilton lost his footing, tumbling to the floor. Wine sloshed out over his hands and spilled down his trousers.
For one terrifying moment, Hamilton was sure it was blood from the way it spread and darkened the tan fabric of his trooper uniform.
Ian paused but didn’t turn back. “I warn you. You must cease. If you keep driving men to their deaths, you may meet a similar fate.”
Hamilton scrambled over the floor, his guts clenching. “Is that a threat?”
Ian remained standing still for one long moment, letting the silence fill up the space between them. And in that space was Ian’s answer. Yes, it was a threat. “I have tried to have you sent home. Failing that . . .”
Hamilton closed his eyes for a moment. He wouldn’t abandon his commission, as much as he hated India. Soldiering was the one thing he was actually good at. “Do you see nothing good left? Between us?”
“The good I still see is why I have yet to act further,” Ian said roughly.
With that, Hamilton’s onetime friend, onetime brother left him on the floor covered in wine and indignity.
Something took root in Hamilton’s heart at that moment. A sort of hate that he’d never experienced. He hated Ian so much for his own weakness and for the fact that Ian had to be so damn good. Well, if Ian insisted Hamilton was a villain, then he would damn well play the villain. And no one would play it better.
Chapter 19
England
The present
For the first time in a long time, the world was bright and absolutely, gloriously beautiful. Every hue of yellow filled Eva’s vision as she floated in the sleek warmth of beautiful linen. She hadn’t dared close her eyes, terrified that if she did she would awaken to the browns and shadows of the asylum.
She burrowed deeper into the luxurious covers. But the feeling of soft sheets and warm blankets didn’t fade. Indeed, she felt cocooned like some exotic butterfly. Not once had she allowed herself to drift into slumber. Not once through the wind-howling, rain-pounding night. Not once when she was surrounded by a waking dream.
The yellow silk walls glowed, even though the winter sun was veiled by unending clouds. Cheery white snowdrops and lavender crocuses, their throats teased with streaks of orange, filled vases on every possible surface that she could see. Even the walls were painted with white dogwood blossoms. Blossoms that seemed to float down from the crystal chandelier hung at the center of the ceiling.
Eva drew in a slow breath and drank in the soft scent of lavender. It was hard to trust. Perhaps she had paid for her sins? But an insistent voice kept whispering over and over again that she should indeed still be with Mary. Thomas had made it plain that it had been her rash decision and hers alone that had led to the death of her son.
Footsteps thudded down the hall and lingered outside the door. Ian’s steps. She already knew their firm clip.
Anticipation mixed with a hint of wariness tingled along her skin. She never knew what to expect from him. Except that he would defend her until his death. Even if in the process he drove her wild with aggravation.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Ian eased his large body into the room. No doubt, just as she did, Ian looked completely out of place. His black hair, overlong now, hung about his face in jagged waves. Dark shadows deepened the hollows of his defined cheeks, emphasizing his brutally green eyes.
Eva shifted on the bed, grabbing at the covers, suddenly aware she was nigh naked, her body barely covered with a thin chemise. Though he’d seen her thusly before, there had been an openness at the time between them. That openness had vanished somewhere on the brutal road between York and Blythely Castle. She cleared her throat before beginning: “I see you didn’t sleep, either.”
Ian’s eyes darkened with surprise as his gaze locked on her. His chest expanded in a large breath before he shut the door behind him and crossed to the bed. “You should still be sleeping.”
She arched a brow, feeling remarkably vulnerable in his home, under his linens. “As should you. Yet here you are.”
“A point to you.” Easing his big frame onto the bed, he sat like a gargoyle guarding precious secrets.
Immediately, Eva grabbed on to the thick coverlet so she wouldn’t roll toward his body.
He smiled briefly, a forced concession on his weary face. “I have not slept through a night for some time.”
Eva eyed him. What demons kept such a strong man from his rest? Did they torment him through the night as hers did? If so, she pitied him. Only the damned deserved the thoughts that kept her from slumber. “I suppose that is something we have in common, then.”
Despite her best efforts to cling to the mattress, his added weight to the feather bed sent her rolling toward him. Her hip brushed his thigh and her shift eased off her left shoulder, almost baring her breast. Eva quickly tugged the fabric back into its proper place.
“How do you feel this morn?” he asked, his voice as impersonal as a Bath physician.
“I—” In truth, she felt ill. Her stomach twisted and jumped as if a wild dervish. But she would not give him the satisfaction. She would not play into his ideas about her weakness. “I am well.”
A softer smile turned his lips. Slowly, he leaned forward. His long, strong fingers, a soldier’s fingers, reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back from her face. “Brave of you, sweetheart, but you look a trifle green.”
Nodding slightly, Eva dropped her gaze at his touch. God, he could be so tender. At this moment, she could wrap herself up in his strength. Yet, mixed with the passion in his eyes, it was there.
Eva sighed, her eyes wide as she stared blankly at the crisp white sheets. When he looked at her, he saw a damaged woman who needed to be saved. ’Twas heartbreaking to be relegated to such a creature when once she had been his equal. She turned her head to the opposite wall, pulling more firmly at the covers to twist her body away from him. “Well, Ian, we all know the cure for my ill humors, do we not?”
“Indeed, we do,” he said with a brittle cheer. “I need your advice on running this blasted estate and I need you up and about to give it.”
The sheets and covers flew away from her body. With one quick move, Ian whipped them to the floor.
Advice?
Eva jerked back toward him. Her shift twisted about her body, exposing her legs all the way up to the apex of her thigh. “What—?”
“Get up,” he said, his voice still full with seeming cheer. The cheer a governess supplies before a mathematical lesson. “We begin.”
Eva narrowed her eyes, unsure of this new tack. The day before, he’d been as stubborn as a bull. Eva pushed herself up onto her elbows, her garment hanging about her shoulders, the thin string
bow precariously tied. She pulled her bared legs ever so slightly toward herself. “What are you about? I thought I wasn’t to be trusted.”
A hot lick of defiance running through her was wonderful. She hadn’t felt so many emotions in an age.
Ian’s face tensed as he scanned her half-bared body. His gaze intensified with a curious expression until his eyes glowed the blue-green of a hot spring. “Perhaps, when it comes to your own health, no. But in regard to the running of the estate and the house? Who could guide me better?” This time, his voice was softened, reaching her on a whisper. “Would you deny me help?”
He eased back down beside her, his hand resting only inches from her body.
“I—” Eva buried her fingertips into the sheet as longing coursed through her limbs. God, she desired to reach out to him, to have him hold her as he had done before. Nor could she forget the warmth of his kiss. Had he forgotten? “Elizabeth would be best—”
“Elizabeth is skilled, but I’m afraid I’ll bark at her and send her running down the halls of this castle. You aren’t afraid of me. You tell me exactly what I need to hear.”
Ian’s hand slowly slid across the bed toward her. She held her breath, every nerve aware of that rough hand that could stroke so softly. It would take only one touch. They would be in each other’s arms. They could leave the world behind if he pulled her to him. No, she wasn’t afraid of him. She never had been and she never would be.
A sudden flash of deep brown hair and blue eyes in a laughing face flashed before her and she gasped at the sudden pain. Hamilton. She had not truly remembered him so clearly since . . . Eva jerked her leg away from Ian’s touch. “Don’t,” she whispered, her voice ragged.
Every trace of desire vanished from Ian’s face. His hand curled into a fist as he rested it on the bed. He closed his eyes and the lids tensed, pain tightening his face. “I—I apologize.”
She had not thought of her husband. Not since she’d drowned in a sea of opiates. In these last days, Ian had been the center of her world . . . but now, as the laudanum left her, the world was coming back with an intense clarity of memory. It would only grow worse. “Ian, we—”
The Dark Lady: Mad Passions Book 1 (Mad Passions (Eternal Romance)) Page 16