She had gained the upper hand, and she wielded the power. “You caused me to abandon him in his need. He is ill, dying. His affliction could spread throughout the house, leaving all within….”
But she needn’t finish. Vincent had removed himself with such speed as to make Faith wonder if his presence had been a nightmare.
Justin’s dry retching, his gasps for breath, as if each might be his last, moved her. She sat him up and propped pillows behind him. Still his stomach convulsed. “Try holding your breath for a minute to interrupt the heaving.”
He couldn’t respond.
“Justin. Your body is responding to the same action over and over. Break the pattern. Swallow or take a deep breath.”
Finally, he swallowed, which made a slight difference.
“Again, darling—”
“Are you so enamoured of a near-dead man, Miss Wickham,” Vincent said from the door, making her jump. “That you would speak to him with such pathetic pretence?” He stood close enough to hear, far enough to miss the changes in Justin. Faith hoped.
“Your grace,” she said digging her fingers into Justin’s shoulder, reminding him to remain still and keep his eyes closed.
“‘Tis a sick game you play,” Vincent said.
She shrugged. “Justin is my only company.”
Vincent became a predator, she his prey. “You’re fortunate I returned. I can…we can entertain each other.”
Justin tensed under her hand. She lessened the pressure on his shoulder and soothed as best she could with what she hoped looked like an unconscious movement.
Vincent saw her stroking fingers and focused upon them.
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Faith removed her hand.
He snapped back to the present, as if from a dream, and shifted his stance. “Tomorrow evening you will dine with me downstairs.”
“I cannot. My patient. Your brother is—”
“Too ill to miss you for the night.”
“He cannot be left alone for a moment. You saw how tenuous—”
“Harris will stay with him.” Vincent’s furious jaw-action boded ill.
“Harris is not here.”
“Where the devil has he gone? I do not remember giving him permission to leave Killashandra.”
“To…get more medicine.”
Vincent smiled. “I thought there was enough.”
“We wanted to be certain—”
“Considering your patient’s condition, I suspect what we have will do, but it’s best to be sure…that we have enough.”
With which to kill, she thought. “With Harris gone, I must stay with him.”
“I’ll send a maid.”
Faith gave up. “Some nights are better than others. If he needs someone, I’ll tell you when I see you.” If Justin waited alone, it would be a good excuse for her to return early.
“Good. Until tomorrow evening, my little nurse.”
Faith bit her lip to keep from saying she was not his anything.
Vincent departed as silently as he’d returned.
When Faith looked at Justin, his eyes were closed. She put the room in order. After replacing his blankets, she inspected the damage to the door. The jagged wood fit neatly and quite securely back into its proper spot. The lock, however, was another problem. Faith pushed a small chest against the door. Then she fetched a tiny bell and fastened it to the knob. The slightest turn would ring it. She nodded. It would serve.
“I forbid you to go to him.”
Justin’s furious voice startled her. “I thought you slept.”
“I said, I forbid you to go to Vincent.”
She returned to his side. “I am only dining with him.”
“It’s time to grow up, Faith. He wants more than your company at dinner. He said he wants you to spend the night with him.”
Faith laughed for Justin’s benefit, but she was frightened. “He meant the evening. And, I’m not a child. I dined with him before and he left the next morning. He’ll leave again tomorrow.”
“He came back for a reason.”
“He wants to know if the medicine is working. I’ll assure him you’re failing fast.”
“He wants you, you little fool.”
She agreed, but she had no choice. “I’ll be fine.”
“I said no.”
“You have no right to tell me what to do, or what not to do.”
“Just a while ago, you would have given me any right.”
Faith wouldn’t let him use her love this way. “Until you can prevent my departure, you have no choice but to watch me go.” She’d matched him for low tactics, and she hated that. But if she apologized, he’d think her weak.
He made a sound between a laugh and a sneer. “You will always do what you damn well please, will you not…Catherine!”
He may as well have slapped her. Faith went silently to her room, closed the door between, and for the first time since his recovery, left it closed all night. She paced until the middle of the longest, loneliest night of her life, but she refused to go to him.
In silence, she performed his morning ritual.
With a few words, Vincent had severed their tenuous bond. Sadly, the connection which had taken months to form, took only moments to destroy. A sign it was weak at best and not worth this deep sense of loss. But she was furious with Justin for not seeming to care at all. Under these strained conditions, and with Vincent in residence, Faith decided Beth’s visit must wait.
Dressed for her evening with Vincent, Faith placed Justin’s dinner before him.
“Do not expect me to eat this slop.” He pushed the plate away. “You look like a harlot.”
“Of course I do. It’s what you expect, is it not? I would never disappoint you. I could also act the harlot, if Vincent wished.” If she knew how. “After all, I must earn the money he pays me. And that slop is all you will get. I can hardly ask for food if I’m dining downstairs. You’re supposed to be too ill to consume anything, if you will remember.”
She adjusted her bodice to a precariously low position, taking satisfaction in the tensing of Justin’s jaw. “Better, do you not think?” When she left, breasts nearly falling from her dress, she punctuated her departure by slamming the door.
In the hall, she straightened her bodice and covered herself.
As she and Vincent ate, he studied her. “You’re quiet this evening, my dear. If I remember correctly, you had an avid interest in anything to do with my brother when first we dined together.”
“I find the subject decidedly uninteresting of late, your Grace. Tell me of your travels in France?”
Vincent looked suspicious, which made her uncomfortable, but he gave an account of his search for a rich, French wife. As he rambled, Faith floated peas along the gravy rivers in her plate, wondering how to get Justin something nourishing to eat.
Vincent cleared his throat. “Miss Wickham, do you attend me?”
“What? I’m sorry.”
“Since you’re not hungry, I’ll speak with you in the library. Now, if you don’t mind.” He chuckled. “Or, even if you do. This way please.”
She followed him to his study, disliking his smile as much as ever, wondering what he wished to speak to her about. With a taciturn man like him, thoughts were difficult to imagine.
“Miss Wickham, I must say, you’re disgustingly lacking in your attention to your employer this evening. Kindly look at me, and listen.”
Faith snapped to attention. “I apologize, your Grace. I am tired this evening. I am awake many nights with your brother.” Then she saw them. Slender-necked and amber. Lined up, three in a row upon his desk. Full vials of Justin’s medicine.
Faith vowed never to set another mousetrap.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Faith had been with Vincent for nearly an hour, while Justin paced—inasmuch as he could in a wheelchair. He stared out at the night sky, frustrated as hell that he could do nothing save sit and hide when his family needed him. His famil
y. The image included Beth in his arms and Faith by their side. That gave him pause, because he found himself as repelled as drawn by the notion.
Had he, despite resolving never to be so foolish again, fallen for Miss Faith Wickham, that too-innocent-to-be-believed child? He shook his head. Of course he had not. Faith was a giving, nurturing, voluptuous creature. But he dare not fall. Women were dangerous. And Faith behaved true to form, cavorting with his brother, doing God knew what, while he waited here in agony, and fear, for her safety.
Justin swore and rolled his blasted chair into the hall, intent on rescue. He was sick of hiding like a coward. But at the top of the stairs, he looked down, and smacked the chair’s arms, snapping one clean off. He couldn’t defend a pup much less a woman, against a man who would stop at nothing to gain his ends.
Inspiration hit. Defence came in many forms. A man in a chair, with a weapon, could be as strong as one standing. Justin wheeled himself to the library balcony, pleased at the strength in his arms. But once there, he saw his father’s duelling pistols mounted much higher than he remembered. And it would be no use trying to get them if he couldn’t load them.
He checked the desk, where the case was kept. Lead balls and flints. The powder flask and oil bottle were full. Rod, patches, turn screw, spring cramp—all there. He examined the fireplace…and hoped he found the mantle as sturdy as his bedpost.
Faith stared at the vials and smoothed her skirt to wipe her palms and gather her wits. Footsteps in the hall reminded her she was not alone, except that she should probably not count on Vincent’s servants.
The mantle clock chimed the quarter hour.
Vincent’s impatient fingers drummed a tattoo on the desktop, and he stabbed her with his gaze. “Explain. Now!” he shouted, and she jumped.
Heart pounding, she stepped to the French doors to gaze out and steady herself. Forging courage, she imagined herself the cat, Vincent the mouse. The image emboldened her. She turned and smiled. “I’m not the naive child you think me, your grace.”
Infused with alarm, Vincent staggered and knocked over a chair, the crash bringing him to his senses. But the pungent taste of fear brought him the strong desire to punish the strumpet. She hadn’t even flinched when the chair fell. Even now, she ignored him and returned her gaze to the window.
Vincent whipped her about. “Tell me,” he demanded, shaking her, her alarm exciting, making him wonder whether he should beat her or take her.
She moved away and into the room, searching furtively, as if rescue were to be found in a dark corner. When she raised her chin, he laughed. Her fallacious courage might be spirited, but he wondered if she knew what a formidable opponent he could be.
Her eyes, the greenest he’d ever seen, widened as she took a step back for each he took in her direction. When the desk stopped her retreat, he smiled. As she poised to bolt, he lunged, devouring her with his kiss, invading her with his tongue, slipping his hand in her dress.
“No!” His quarry rebelled with astonishing force.
He stumbled, caught hold and tore her bodice, raking her breast with his nails.
Straightening, he saw the cuts, and smiled. The top of her breast bore the image of a music staff etched in blood. “I seem to have branded you.”
She raised her hand to slap him. He caught it, but her momentary strength amazed him, and he fell against a table. At his bellow of rage, the starch went out of her. He shoved her in a chair, imprisoning her with his arms. “Why were those vials outside?” He grasped her chin and raised it to examine her. High cheekbones. Full lips. The rapid pulse in her lovely neck revealed her fear. Her cat’s eyes pierced him so thoroughly, it was a wonder he didn’t bleed. “The truth,” he said. “There is no game I cannot win.”
She licked her lips, inviting him to do the same, and when he did, she bit his tongue. With an oath, he pulled away, highly aroused.
“Justin kept waking,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Double the dose!”
Faith watched in horror as Vincent growled and threw a chair at a glass-fronted cabinet. Even as it shattered, he narrowed his eyes on her and reached for a marble urn.
As fast, faster, she threw a Chinese vase.
Sailing by his ear, it splintered on the hearth.
His expression blanked. With shaking hands, he placed the urn on the desk. “Why did you do that?”
To hurt him, God help her. “I thought…you’d finish sooner if I helped.”
His smile, easy, disturbing, made him seem almost human. He straightened his coat and ran his hands through his hair.
A loud rapping startled them.
Vincent opened the door, and the library cat slipped into the room. Someone spoke. Vincent chuckled. “Thank you, no. Miss Wickham was just having a tantrum. But she’s fine now.”
He shut the door and turned to her. “You made too much noise.” He looked at the disarray. “And a nasty mess. What am I to…how the devil did that cat get in? Ah. Hemsted. Where he goes, so goes Satan.” He opened the door and kicked the cat out…literally. “Feeling better now?” he asked Faith.
Good Lord, did he actually think that she had done this? “I’m fine,” she said, afraid to unbalance him further.
“Look,” he said, all concern. “You tore your gown.” He made to console her, his hand on her neck clammy, his wine-sour breath too close.
She made to move from his hold. “It’s nothing.”
“No, let me help.” He tried to straighten her bodice. She wanted to slap his hand away; instead, she stepped back, holding the torn fabric against herself.
He stared at it. “You’re bleeding.” He reached for her. “Let me see.”
“No!”
His fury at her rejection made Faith panic. “Justin was suffering!”
“What?”
“That’s why I threw the vials.”
He stopped, collected himself. “You said he woke.”
“In a manner of speaking. He was out of control…mad.” If Vincent Devereux didn’t understand madness, no one would. And if she lived through this, she could go on the stage.
“You can’t stop giving him the medicine!” he snapped.
“No, no. Look.” She picked up an unbroken vial, and holding her bodice, she tried to open it.
Vincent came too close again, and Faith tugged hard, unstopping it with a vengeance, and almost-accidentally tossed the contents at him.
His jaw tensed.
“I apologize.” She pulled the soiled coat toward his face, nearly strangling him. “The colour is wrong. See? And the odour.” She shoved the soaked fabric under his nose, making him gag, tearing his waistcoat. “It’s plainly turned.”
She looked into his eyes. “The man responsible should hang.”
His eyes widened. His nostrils flared.
“I could hang him myself for mixing the medicine carelessly and causing Justin to suffer.” Faith shook so hard, it was a wonder she could speak. “If you will excuse me, your grace, I must see to my patient.”
Vincent seemed to awaken, as if from a trance. “About my manners. I was…overcome…by your beauty.”
Did he now remember his actions? Her shock must be apparent.
“If you would allow me to explain myself.” He paced as one caged. “When I think of my brother, dying, and there is nothing I can do, it fills me with such…rage.”
Faith didn’t want him to read her alarm, but his sporadic sanity frightened her more than his madness.
“Here now, Miss Wickham,” Vincent said with gentle rebuke. “Surely you can forgive your employer.”
A clear threat to her position, and she must heed the warning, for leaving Justin was unthinkable. She smiled as falsely as he. “There is nothing to forgive.” The words tasted bitter. Desperation to be free overwhelmed her. She willed herself to remain, and not to turn tail and run, yet. “If you will excuse me. It has been a difficult day.” She left sedately but without awaiting dismissal.
The momen
t the door shut, violent shudders seized her. Her skin was icy, yet moist with perspiration, her heartbeat erratic.
Hemsted stepped from the shadows, concern etching his features. He asked a silent question. Was she all right?
To discourage further inquiry, she gave him a relieved smile.
He relaxed, turned and stepped through a door, shutting it.
On shaking legs, Faith made her way toward her room. The hall seemed cavernous, the stairs too high, the corridors too dark.
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