Entwined (Darkest London)

by Callihan, Kristen

  He stared at her for a moment, as if shocked.

  “I lost all the animals you made for me,” she blurted out in the silence. “During the coaching accident.”

  Eamon blinked, his skin going pale. “You…” He cleared his throat. “You brought those trinkets with you here?”

  “Trinkets?” She scowled at him in mock outrage. “Do not dare call them that. They were works of art.” She couldn’t quite meet his eyes as she confessed, “They were among my most treasured possessions.” Her letters being the most. Those she had carried on her person, the heavy weight of them in her pocket a comfort during her travels.

  Lu took a fortifying breath. “I hope Aidan conveyed to you how very much I appreciated you making them for me.”

  The fire snapped and hissed.

  “He did.” Eamon’s voice was rough, and she glanced up to find him watching her with something that appeared to be yearning. But then he frowned. “I did not know they meant so much to you. I’m sorry that you lost them.”

  “Not all was lost.” Lu slipped a hand beneath the collar of her dressing gown and pulled free her pendant.

  As if drawn, Eamon leaned forward, and so did she. They met in the middle. His long, blunt-tipped finger cradled the tiny steel lilac as he inspected it. While he did, she inspected him, wondering how a man with such large hands could have forged something so small and delicate.

  “I never take it off.” She felt the need to whisper and hold her body still, as if he might take flight and disappear. So close were they that she could feel the warmth coming off his skin and see the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took. His thumb slid over a fragile petal, a slow hypnotic gesture that she followed with her eyes.

  “How did you add the blue color into the steel?” she asked.

  “Chemical reaction.” His soft reply was like a breath against her lips, and she found herself leaning in closer.

  “I want to see you work,” she said in a hushed rush. His thumb stopped, and the pendant slipped away to fall with a thud upon her chest.

  Pain, yearning, and regret tightened his expression. “I want nothing more than to please you, Bit. But my work… The smithy…” He scratched behind his neck and scowled. “I don’t do well with people watching me work.”

  “I understand,” she said, even though a lump of disappointment lodged beneath her breastbone.

  He didn’t look pleased but miserable, and Lu touched his wrist. “Honestly, Eamon. I do. Artists are a temperamental lot. Everyone knows that.”

  Eamon snorted. “I’m hardly an artist.”

  “Oh, but you are. I’ve never seen your equal.”

  His mulish, ruddy expression did not abate. Stubborn man. Then he caught her eye, and a wry smile curled over his lips. The moment held, and slowly that smile turned into something quite different, something darker, hotter, and Lu’s breath caught as his deep voice slid smooth and warm over her skin. “Nor have I seen yours, Bit.”

  Before she could answer, he stood abruptly and gave her a formal nod. “I’ve some house business to settle. I’ll see you tonight.” At that his face went violent red up to the tips of his flame-bright hair. Lu felt herself redden too, for she knew precisely what Eamon was thinking of now, and the knowledge filled her thoughts as well. Tonight, they’d consummate their marriage.

  Chapter Eight

  Night was far from falling, and Eamon’s nerves were swiftly rising. When he thought of what awaited him in just a few hours, his cock grew hard and hot, and his stomach dipped down to his toes.

  Shite, shite, shite.

  Would he be able to please her? Would he make a fool of himself and spend at the first touch? Given how twitchy he was, he just might.

  Pacing his room was of little help. Nor did he want to drink; that might make him sloppy, and he wanted his full faculties when he finally got to touch Lu. Ah, gods, but she was lovely. The mere sight of the graceful curve of her neck where it swooped down to meet her shoulder could hold him in thrall. She’d be soft there. Warm and fragrant. He imagined her breast would be soft too, soft and plump and waiting to be suckled.

  A groan left him, and his hand drifted down to the ache in his trousers. He’d suckle the sweet pillow of her bottom lip first. Lick his way along her jaw and down to her collarbone. Perhaps she’d open her legs for him, and his hand would slide up her tender thighs.

  Eamon gave himself a squeeze and shuddered. “Shite.”

  The knock upon his door nearly had him jumping out of his skin, and his voice was not quite steady when he finally managed to say, “Enter.”

  George entered. As usual, the man wore a frown of worry and disapproval.

  “What is it now?” Eamon bit out.

  “Two things.” George handed him a thick envelope. “This came for you. From London,” he added unnecessarily, as the postmark was apparent. It was from the family’s solicitor and the Evernight family trustee, Mr. Sawyer.

  Eamon opened the missive and scanned through the documents inside. “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he finished.

  “Bad news?” As usual, George’s curiosity rivaled ten cats. And while Eamon kept his own counsel on many things, this wasn’t one such instance. Not when his head was reeling and he had the great urge to hunt Aidan down and throttle him.

  “The little shite has given me Evernight Hall and over half of the family fortune.”

  George’s thick white brows knitted. “And this is a bad thing, sir?”

  “It’s his! Not mine.” Eamon ran a hand over his now-aching brow. “Father was quite clear on that.” It did not sit right with Eamon that Aidan had just given him the lion’s share of the Evernight funds.

  George, however, looked at Eamon as if he were cracked. “Master Aidan was always of the mind that the estate was yours to share. It appears he’s finally done something about it. And not a moment too soon, now that you have Mrs. Evernight to care for.”

  Eamon sighed. In truth, he wanted his brother back. This news felt ominous, as if Aidan would never return. And as thankful as Eamon was for the money, he did not want it in exchange for never seeing Aidan again.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eamon asked, “What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “Young Sean went into town this morning. It appears there is a man asking questions about you and Mrs. Evernight.”

  It took Eamon a moment to realize that George was referring to Lu. God, she was his wife. His.

  “What sort of questions?”

  “If anyone had seen her in the flesh. About the details of your wedding.”

  Eamon’s hands fisted. “Odd.” And disconcerting. Did they seek to sully Lu’s name now that she’d married him? And why? He’d kept to himself, hadn’t he? Why bother her? The thought of his supplier escaping the other night made Eamon’s gut go cold. Had someone found out what they’d been up to?

  “The man’s a Londoner,” George continued. “People are thinking he’s a reporter or some such gossip hound, so they’ve been tight-lipped for the most part.”

  Eamon’s voice was surprisingly even when he spoke. “Does Sean know where this fellow is now?” Because Eamon was going to have a nice chat with him.

  George’s smile was slightly evil, as if he too were picturing how Eamon would be communicating his displeasure. “He’s camped out at the Red Lion.”

  * * *

  Whoever had been asking after Lu was not in the Red Lion. Eamon recognized this with one glance. The sad little room held only a few patrons, local men who went there to drink away their cares.

  The moment he stepped into the tavern, all conversation ceased. He could hear old Shaughnessy’s stomach gurgle from the far side of the room as he slowly walked to the bar. Eamon had never been friends with these men, who watched him as if he were the devil incarnate. Nor did he want to. He’d decided long ago that those who would judge him based on appearance or rumor were not people he wanted to be acquainted with.

  Finley,
the tavern owner, eyed him with open suspicion as he stopped before him. The man made an ineffectual swipe over the greasy bar with his rag. “I reckon you’re here about the gall who was asking after your lady.”

  Not a difficult guess. Eamon couldn’t fathom any other reason for being there.

  Finley tossed the rag aside. “He ain’t here.”

  Eamon’s fist curled with the urge to punch something. Or someone. “When did he leave?”

  “An hour’s past.” Finley’s small eyes narrowed, the wrinkles about them deepening. “Felicitations, Master Eamon, on your nuptials. ’Twas a great surprise to us simple townsfolk.”

  At his elbow, Danny, the local furrier, snorted. “Considering she was your brother’s fiancée, I’d say she was surprised as well.”

  Eamon turned and stared. Hard. Danny looked away first, hunkering down in his seat before muttering a weak, “Felicitations on your marriage.”

  But the seeds of dissent had started. And a grumble went through the bar.

  “An’ I heard he had to pay a bride-price for the privilege.” Dougal’s stage whisper carried as intended. Eamon knew Dougal well. They were of an age. When Eamon had been twelve and scrawny, the farmer’s son had pummeled Eamon until his father found him, face first in a pile of horseshit.

  Father had taken one look at him as Dougal ran off and sneered in disgust. Beaten down by a pauper. What a shining example you make for our family, boy.

  Eamon outweighed Dougal by two stone of muscle now, and towered above him by at least a foot. Not that Dougal seemed to take that as a threat. He continued on his overloud voice, “Twenty thousand pounds.” He elbowed the man sitting beside him. “Imagine you were fair relieved when her old man went feet up before the wedding.” The two of them erupted into hennish cackles.

  Eamon kept his gaze on Finley, who had the grace to pale. “Let me know if he returns.” He set some coin upon the bar, and the man nodded, his hand sweeping the bribe up in a blink.

  The patrons were silent, and Eamon turned heel and walked toward the door. Dougal watched him come, his expression imperious. Every man here knew Eamon did not resort to violence. Eamon grinned inwardly. That might have been true once. But he hadn’t a wife before now. And he was right finished with playing nice. No one was dragging Lu’s name through the mud.

  He nearly passed Dougal, not making eye contact, and the fool smirked as if knowing he’d won. But then Eamon stopped short and leaned close, taking note of the way the smaller man’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened in silent protest. “You know what I’ve heard, Dougal?”

  Dougal weakly shook his head, unable to speak as Eamon pressed in, resting one of his massive fists upon the table before him. “I heard your pecker has spots and no woman in the village will have you.” With a swipe of his foot, he knocked the seat out from under Dougal just as he grabbed the man’s greasy hair and slammed his face into the table. Dougal’s head rattled the cups.

  Eamon held him down, exerting enough pressure to hurt. “And if you ever speak of my wife again, I’ll cut that pecker off and cram it down your throat.”

  * * *

  Eamon walked on light feet the whole way home. In truth, he grinned. He was grinning still as he took a moment to check on his smithy before going in for the evening. He didn’t even see the danger before a blow took him across his temple, and everything went crimson.

  Chapter Nine

  Eamon did not come to dinner. Lu was painfully aware of the fact as she waited in the empty dining room on the night of her wedding. The fire roared in the grate, the candles flickered in their silver holders, and the ormolu clock upon the mantel ticked away. And still he did not come.

  Sitting before a rapidly cooling first course of fish soup, Lu tried to ignore the presence of young Sean the footman, who was witnessing her humiliation, or the hollow feeling within her breast. He had not abandoned her too. He had not. He’d merely lost track of time.

  Ten minutes later, she’d had enough. Tossing her napkin down, she wrenched back from her seat before Sean could pull out her chair. She ignored his sputtered apologies and queries as to her well-being. No, she was not well. She was close to murdering her husband on their wedding night.

  Stalking out of the house by way of the conservatory door, Lu headed toward the smithy. The moon rode high in the now clear sky, and she easily picked her way along the well-worn path. The small, squat stone building had windows that were glowing blocks of light in the darkness. A beacon that did little to quell her temper. In fact, it grew. Exponentially.

  “Do not go to the smithy, my arse,” she muttered. What rot. She was beginning to suspect Nan had ordered her not to go to the smithy to bait her. Lu didn’t know why Nan would want to, nor did she care. Eamon wasn’t hiding from her. And if he’d left, well then, she’d…

  Her steps slowed. She didn’t know what she’d do. She was now mistress of Evernight Hall, so she supposed she could stay here, humiliating though it might be. But then you aren’t really Mrs. Evernight, are you? Not if anyone should find out the truth.

  Lu ignored the insidious little voice in her head as she arrived at the smithy. Standing before the door, she could feel the heat coming off the walls, as warm as a baking oven. It stopped her in her tracks and trepidation skittered over her skin. Perhaps this was a mistake.

  “Fuss and feathers.” Lu opened the door, and faced a dark outer hall. Slowly she crept forward, only to jump when the weighted door swung closed with a thud, plunging her in blackness.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right.” Indeed, a sliver of golden light along the floor marked the inner door. She merely had to reach it.

  Heart pounding in her ear, she edged along, holding her hand out before her to warn her of any impediments. By the time her palm came into contact with the warm inner door, she was sweating beneath her gown.

  Fumbling, she found the door latch. A blast of heat hit her full-on. Lu blinked in the brightness.

  Eamon’s smithy sat empty. The fire of the forge was banked for the night, and his tools were hung neatly along the wall. A few pieces of wrought steel lay upon a battered worktable. Lu couldn’t make out what they were supposed to be, only that their shape appeared vaguely familiar. They looked almost like small renditions of branches or driftwood. But that wasn’t right. The pieces were something else.

  Frowning, she turned her attention to the back door, which lay open just a crack. Cool air drifted through the door, and a strange, cloying smell had her insides recoiling and her instincts clamoring to run in the opposite direction. It was tempting to do just that, but she moved closer. Eamon wasn’t here. And perhaps he had well and truly left her just as Aidan did. If so, she wanted to know for sure. She needed to see all of the smithy.

  Ignoring the sticky feeling of dread, Lu walked with assurance toward the door. She would not cower nor make excuses for being here. She was Eamon’s wife, damn it all, and she wanted answers.

  Oh, but this was bad. The door led to a cellar. Lu paused at the top. Darkness and dank air lay beyond. Grabbing a small lantern that hung by the side of the door, Lu lit it and descended.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. Turn around now.

  Lu continued on, the weak light of the lantern wavering under her shaking hold. Cool stone pressed against her feet with each step, and the air grew thicker, fouler. Death. It was death and decay.

  That scent was prevalent in London, where the corpses of horses and dogs would rot where they’d dropped. And the realization filled her with terror. Yet her damned, ridiculous curiosity pulled her onward, into the low, square cellar. The light of her lantern bounced off the damp walls and brought the room into blurry focus. There were worktables here, littered with bundles of wood, bleached white.

  White. White wood. The image rearranged itself.

  She stood frozen for one long, horrid moment. A scream rose and died in her throat. They were not wood. They were bones. Panting, she swung round, illuminating another
table. More lumps, meaty and red, pale and swollen.

  A severed arm. A leg. A hand. Body parts.

  A gurgle rumbled in her throat as her vision went spotty. She was going to faint.

  And then she heard it, a low, pained moan. Lu screamed, stumbling backward in an effort to flee. Her foot caught on the edge of her skirt, and she fell hard, her bottom slamming onto the stone and her teeth rattling. The lantern landed at her side, illuminating the floor, and the light shone on a pair of eyes.

  She screamed again before realizing that she was staring into the eyes of her husband.

  * * *

  It was her scream that woke him. Eamon’s eyes snapped open in an instant, and pain followed. Darkness surrounded him and then a blinding light. He saw spots before he could focus. And then he saw her face, so pale and frightened as she stared at him.

  “Lu,” he whispered.

  She scrambled back, crab crawling to get away from him. Eamon frowned and then became aware of the cold stone beneath his cheek and the smell of decay filling his nose. Christ, he was in the cellar. Christ, she’d seen what he kept here.

  “Lu!” He hauled himself up as she got to her feet and dashed up the stairs. His head spun and his stomach pitched as he stumbled after her.

  “Lu, wait.” God, but his heart pounded.

  She was nearly to the outer door, her tumbled-down hair streaming out behind her and her dress marred with mud.

  “Lu.” He grabbed her arm and tried to be gentle as he pulled her back. She wasn’t having any of it. With a guttural cry, she wrenched her knee up between his legs. The only things that saved him were quick reflexes and a man’s instinctive drive to protect his cods at all costs. Pain shafted through his thigh and he grunted, but he didn’t let go.

  “Stop, Bit. Just stop.” He wrapped an arm about her and hauled her against him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Bit. Never. Never.”

  Something of his words got through to her for she stilled, her small frame heaving against his, and her breath heating the hollow of his neck.