by Jenny Brown
He left his breakfast untouched and called for the chaise to be brought round. The sooner they reached Iskeny, the better. As the carriage jolted down the rutted road, he struggled to keep his leg from touching the thick fabric of Zoe’s skirt, lest he remember about what lay hidden beneath it. But avoid her as he might, his flesh still tingled where her gentle hands had stroked him the night before.
If only he had truly been asleep. If only it had been the touch of a dream woman he’d responded to. But he hadn’t been asleep, not the whole time. He’d awakened as Zoe had been going about her business, and that was what he couldn’t forgive himself for. Even when he’d known she was not some phantom summoned by his loneliness, he’d allowed her to continue—nay, he’d done far worse than that—he’d ensured that she continue, by using his rusty lover’s skills to make her want him more. The memory appalled him.
Barely a week after receiving the letter that told him he’d been chosen to be the Dark Lord’s heir, he’d betrayed his master’s trust and come within a hairsbreadth of violating the vow of chastity he’d maintained for nine long years, that vow whose fulfillment had made him fit, finally, to avenge his sister. No, he must be honest, he had violated it. That he hadn’t gone on to orgasm under the girl’s ministrations was unimportant. He had opened himself up to her, blended his energy with hers, and given her something that couldn’t be recalled.
And the most damnable thing about it was that even now, when he knew how serious his lapse had been, the sight of her ankle peeking from behind the thin edging of her gown was causing his indomitable manhood to stir again. He still lusted for her, though he knew full well that his cursed lust was the reason he’d failed his sister. He still wanted what Zoe had offered. He, who had sanctified his manhood to earn his absolution.
Zoe stirred on the carriage seat beside him, heaving a small but poignant sigh. He wanted to be angry at her. Her behavior last night had been more than shocking. What kind of young virgin seduced her guardian in a country inn?
But his conscience had an answer for him: the frightened daughter of a woman with no morals, a woman who had sold her daughter to some stranger, a woman who had demonstrated, thanks to him, that she’d cheerfully sell that daughter once again.
He wanted to tell her not to fret. He wanted to hold her and soothe her fears—then, shocked at the direction his mind was turning, he squelched that thought. Damn him, it wasn’t comfort he wanted to give her. He wanted to embrace her again, to finish off what they’d begun. His body throbbed with desire for her.
He rapped on the roof of the compartment to attract the postilion’s attention and when the chaise stopped, he threw open the carriage door and lunged out into the waiting dampness. He’d ride outside. The abominable English climate would soon cool his ardor.
But even riding on one of the lead horses beside the postilion, with the rain dripping from the brim of his hat and his lust beaten back, he was haunted by the memory of the sadness he’d seen in her eyes just now, which he hadn’t observed before the events of the past night. His rejection had wounded her. She couldn’t know that the revulsion he’d felt had been toward himself, for the weakness that made him crave what she’d offered—and he’d take pains to ensure she never knew.
If only the journey that stretched out before them weren’t so long. Once they arrived at Iskeny, it would be easier to remember what he was and what he must become: there, where the energies of the Old Ones still flowed through the standing stones, where he would become, in truth, the Dark Lord’s heir, and she would become—but that thought brought him even less comfort.
He didn’t want to think of what awaited her on the island. The Dark Lord knew, better than anyone, how deeply he’d yearned for revenge and he’d promised Adam would attain it soon—in the very same paragraph where he’d commanded Adam to bring him back the virgin.
No, the thought of reaching the island brought him precious little comfort at all.
Thank God Lord Ramsay had left the compartment! It had been torture to have to sit beside him in its cramped confines. Zoe doubted she could have borne it for another moment. Why did he have to look so painfully handsome in that brooding way of his, when he’d made it clear he loathed her, body and soul? And even worse, now that she knew how he felt about her, why couldn’t she stop wanting him?
It must be what her mother called maladie de la vierge, the virgin’s sickness. She’d warned Zoe about it—explaining how a first sexual encounter with an attractive man could cause a dangerous state of mental instability that made young girls long for proposals of marriage where none were possible and kept them from accepting more profitable arrangements that were.
Zoe had thought her good sense would render her immune to it. She had no romantic expectations—she’d never had them—and she’d known exactly what she was getting into when she’d entered Lord Ramsay’s chamber. She hadn’t dreamed the virgin’s sickness would afflict her. But apparently she’d been wrong. For her body burned now with the yearnings the sleeping lord had awakened in her—though all she had awakened in him was disgust.
She told herself there was no point in dwelling on what she couldn’t change and forced herself to stare through the raindrops that drizzled down the coach window at the monotonous moor that stretched away in all directions. But it was no use.
Why had his eyes looked so unexpectedly kind this morning? Why had he made her feel as if he could sympathize with the pain she felt—the very pain that he himself had caused?
She forced her attention back to the window just in time to see a circling raven swoop down on some invisible prey. It seemed like an omen. Could Ramsay really be a wizard? She recalled those odd words that had burst out of him when he had discovered her fallen knife: The Dark Lord’s heir must not touch iron.
There was only one kind of creature that feared cold iron—a witch. She was too good a student of science to believe in witchcraft, but still, he had read her thoughts, more than once. And though he was an educated man—far better educated than she was—he obviously believed in wizardry. She couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps what he believed in was more than just a fantasy.
Men had been hanged for witchcraft in Scotland within living memory. There must still be some there who practiced the ancient ways, and if they did, where better to practice their grim rites than on a remote island far from the reach of the authorities? Whatever she might believe, what had taken place the past night in Lord Ramsay’s darkened chamber left no room for doubt about the power he attributed to sexual purity—which made all the more worrisome the Dark Lord’s insistence she be a virgin.
In spite of herself, she shuddered.
She couldn’t allow him to take her to the island. She must flee before he brought her to his master. She would do it tonight, when they stopped at the next inn. She would have to.
At least she need not fear that when she was out on the road alone some brigand would ravish her. Lord Ramsay had made it clear that, as her mother had always told her, no man would ever want her in that way.
But that night they didn’t stop at an inn. They barely stopped at all, and when they did it was only to change horses. Though Ramsay was soaked to the skin from the dreary mizzling rain that had been falling much of the day, he seemed possessed by some fury that drove him to keep on traveling.
When they did stop to change horses, he ordered hampers of food to be brought out to them, but except when she went to answer the call of nature, he didn’t let her out of his sight. At their last stop before nightfall he informed her that they would ride all night. The skies had cleared and he wanted to take advantage of the full moon to make more progress on their journey.
Zoe’s despair grew as the horses clattered each lengthening mile from the city. How would she ever get away?
It was close to midnight when they stopped yet again to change horses at an inn that stood in the center of a tiny village. Zoe had fallen asleep, but woke at the sound of Ramsay’s voice calling out an
order to the postilion. By the time she was fully roused, he was gone. Through the window of the chaise she saw him striding into the inn to make his arrangements. This was the first time all day he’d left her alone. He must have thought her still dozing.
She waited until she was sure he wouldn’t immediately return. Then she made her way out of the chaise, acting as if she were merely stretching her legs in case he should be observing her. But he didn’t return. She was really alone. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for.
Their post chaise stood at one side of the moonlit inn courtyard. A lone postilion was wearily unharnessing the team. As casually as she could, she hailed him.
“It’s so cold. Would you fetch my box from the chaise so I can get my shawl?”
She pointed to where it lay, atop the pile of luggage lashed to the boot of the post chaise. When the postilion handed it down to her, she reached into her purse and gave him a sixpence for his pains, which he tossed into the air, where it spun brightly in the moonlight. Then he slapped it into his pocket and headed into the taproom to exchange it for a hearty draught that would provide warmth for the long night’s journey ahead.
She was alone now. There would be no cheering warmth for her for many hours to come, but if she was lucky there would be freedom. After a swift look to make sure Ramsay was still inside the inn, she rooted through her box for the things she couldn’t leave behind and transferred them to the small valise she’d packed into the larger trunk. She took only a change of dress, some stockings, and a pair of sturdy shoes—she’d need those for the long walk ahead of her.
Then she picked up the old doll MacMinn had given her and gave it a furtive hug before laying it back in the box, warmed by the memory of how her mother’s coachman had hugged her when she was small and sheltered her with his long, gangling body as if she, too, were a beloved doll. But this was no time for sentiment. She must make her escape.
Zoe made a bundle of the clothing she must leave behind and grabbed her old bonnet. With every sense on high alert, she reentered the chaise and heaped up the bundled garments in the corner she’d previously occupied. When that was done, she set her bonnet on top of the pile, closed the door, and stepped away.
In the gloom, the mass of cloth did look like a woman sleeping in the chaise. With Ramsay so eager to avoid any contact with her, it was unlikely he’d venture close enough to the huddled form to realize it wasn’t hers. She hoisted her valise and hurried away from the center of the tiny village. Her father, the duke, would be so proud if he could see the job she’d made of her escape.
She took a path leading away from the inn, looking for some place where she could hide until the post chaise had gone. But the countryside around her was one of open fields and hedgerows offering no shelter. She didn’t dare take refuge in one of the stone barns that stood behind the village houses, for if she disturbed the animals, their cries would give her away. There was no alternative but to head out into the fields.
She opened the first gate she found and began to run along the tall hedgerow that bordered it. Twigs caught in her shawl and snapped as she brushed against the bushes that formed the hedge. Soon her breath was coming in ragged gasps, but she pushed herself to keep going, feeling her heart pound. She must get far enough away from Lord Ramsay that he couldn’t find her when he learned she’d fled.
Then her foot encountered an unexpected dip in the path and she tripped, falling onto the cold, damp ground. She lay there panting, clutching the leather-wrapped handle of her valise convulsively as the odor of the trampled grass assailed her nostrils. In the distance she heard a dog bark.
She resisted the impulse to leap up even as her arms broke out in gooseflesh. Was a farmer tracking her, thinking a poacher had come onto his land? She lay as still as possible, but that would mean nothing if the dog found her scent. She shivered, and not just because of the cold. The dog was getting closer. She could hear its snuffling and the scratching of its claws on the hard earth. If she were to run now, it would treat her as prey. Then, though no command had been given, it stopped, and she heard new footsteps approaching her, human footsteps. She stood up, holding the flimsy valise as if it could ward off whoever it was who’d tracked her down, knowing it was useless.
Her pursuer lumbered toward her, a short heavy man. His features were hidden by the night, but she could hear him panting with effort. She launched herself into a run but heard him gaining on her. Then, suddenly, there were more footsteps and the sound of a struggle. She heard her pursuer grunt as he hit the ground, and a wave of relief swept over her—until a voice called out, “Zoe.”
Ramsay. She mustn’t let him catch her.
She flung her valise at him, hoping to knock him down, but it fell short. With every bit of energy she had left, she scrambled away as fast as she could along the hedgerow. She heard his steps pounding behind her, louder than the sound of her own ragged breath as she raced along in the dark. Though she knew she couldn’t outrun him, she couldn’t stop. Her life had come down to this—that she dared not let him catch her. But he was gaining on her.
Another hedgerow loomed before her. The only way through it was a stile with a three-barred gate that glimmered in the moonlight. If she could climb over it, perhaps she might still elude him and the punishment that was sure to follow if he caught her. She threw herself at the gate with the last bit of breath she had left and set one foot onto the board that made up the lower crossbar. She was just lifting her other leg over the higher bar when the board she was standing on gave way.
Her ankle twisted and a searing pain slashed through her as her full weight fell on the gate’s upper bar, cracking it and sending a long splinter of rotten wood ripping through her thigh. She fell headlong onto the ground and lay there quivering, overcome by pain, as the smell of the damp ground filled her nostrils.
Ramsay staggered toward her. He stopped, only a few feet from where she lay, looking around him like a hunting dog that had lost the scent. He sank to his haunches. Only then did he notice her lying on the cold earth where she’d fallen. As he leaned over her, the planes of his face were illuminated by the flickering moon. He was so beautiful even now. Damnably beautiful.
“Are you injured?” His voice held a note of fear.
When she made no reply, he reached for her wrist, taking it in his much larger hand with a grip that was surprisingly gentle. A thrill ran through her. Followed by confusion. How could she find such comfort in the touch of her worst enemy? And why was he, who hated her, holding her hand so tenderly? Then she remembered. He was a trained physician. He wasn’t offering her comfort. He was looking for her pulse.
After finding it, his hands moved swiftly to her head where he checked the angle of her neck. Next he ran his hand along her spine. Only when his examination was complete did he gather her into his arms, pausing only to order someone following behind them to fetch her valise.
As he bore her away, she clung to him, though she hated herself for needing to. With her nose pressed against the rough wool of his shirt, she inhaled his pungent scent. She wanted to beg him to leave her here, even now, though there was no chance he would. But she couldn’t make the words come out. She could barely cling to consciousness. Each jolting step he took drove more pain through her thigh.
Her last thought, as her awareness succumbed to the mist that overwhelmed her, was how strong he must be to carry her over so much ground. He looked so unworldly at times. She hadn’t expected him to have such strength.
And then—it seemed like a long time must have passed—she awoke in a narrow bed. For a moment she thought she was back in her small cubicle at Mrs. Endicott’s school, but when she opened her eyes and saw the unfamiliar cracks on the smoke-darkened ceiling, the memories of her flight rushed back, and she knew she must be in a bedchamber at an inn.
Someone had tended her wounds and loosened her gown so that she could breathe after she had fainted. Her ankle was wrapped tightly with rags, and there was a dull throb where
she had torn her thigh, but she couldn’t determine the extent of the injury, for it, too, was bound. She struggled to sit up, only to meet Ramsay’s luminous eyes.
He was seated on a spindle-backed chair by the side of the bed. His long hair was matted with sweat, and a deep scratch slashed through the tattooed serpents on one arm. A wave of relief swept through her at the sight of him, until she remembered that relief was the last thing she should feel, now that she was once again back in his power.
“I told you not to run away from me,” he whispered. The long planes beneath his cheekbones made him look stern.
“You gave me no choice. Why didn’t you let me go? If you had, you wouldn’t be troubled by me anymore.”
“You don’t trouble me.”
He was lying. She did trouble him, immensely. She could feel him resonate with her pain and with something else—something she couldn’t understand.
“I pollute you,” she protested. “My touch disgusts you. Why can’t you let me go? You don’t want me.”
“Oh, I may not want you,” he said, so softly she could barely hear him. “But I need you. You must come with me. The Dark Lord is waiting.”
He looked away. A pang of longing filled her as he broke the connection, followed by despair. He felt no echo of the yearning that filled her. He loathed her and would be glad to see the last of her. He kept her beside him now only to do the Dark Lord’s bidding. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t keep her eyes off him, when he had made his distaste for her so clear?
She pushed herself up to a sitting position and pulled one leg out from beneath the gray sheets of the dirty bed, but the searing pain that tore through her ankle forced her to sink back onto the mattress, defeated.
“You’ve probably sprained your ankle.” He spoke in the distant tone he must use when tending all his patients. “If so, it’ll be uncomfortable for a day or two, then it’ll heal. But for now, you must rest. I’ll stay here with you until you fall asleep.”