Dark Fires

by Brenda Joyce

  And suddenly it became of overwhelming importance that the earl should see her as a grown woman.

  The earl paused on the landing to the third floor. The rich, bell-like sound of a woman’s laughter rang out merrily, deeply. Jane Weston. His response was instant—a tightening of every fiber in his body. He heard his son’s childish giggle in response. His surprise died. He had, after all, ordered her to the nursery. But, he thought as he approached silently, Governess Randall had never laughed like that.

  Nick paused in the open doorway, without a sound. He was purposeful in being quiet. He had been raised on a ranch, and his father was half Apache; his mother had been a Mescalero squaw. Derek had also been a captain in the Texas Rangers, and he had taught all his children, even Nick’s sister, to track and hunt and to move soundlessly. It was a part of their heritage, Derek had always said. And one day, maybe such skills would save their lives.

  The earl felt the old, old stabbing then, an anguish so deep and intense that if he didn’t cut it off immediately he wasn’t sure what would happen—he would cease to be a man. He did cut it off. And he corrected himself, silently, with a bitter twisting of his lips in the mockery of a smile. Not his father. His father hadn’t raised him, his father was dead. Killed violently by the man who had raised him and called himself his father—the man Nick had adored as his father his entire life. Until he had learned the truth.

  He shook it all away, but he could not shake the self-hatred and self-disgust. It was all one big joke. He was not Nicholas Bragg, Lord Shelton, the Earl of Dragmore. He was nothing more than the grotesque product of a violent rape.

  He was glad Derek had killed his real father, the Comanchero Chavez. Because if he hadn’t, Nick would have.

  His stunning, dead wife’s image loomed. Her face was white, so carefully painted that it appeared natural. Rich blond hair was coiled atop her head. Her expression was one of horror.

  He hadn’t even shared the terrible secret. He had started to. He had only gotten as far as confessing his Indian heritage. And she had recoiled …

  Abruptly he shoved his morose thoughts away. And saw his son. Nick softened.

  Everything went soft. His face, his eyes, and the tension in his body drained away. Chad was almost five, with dark-brown hair and a medium complexion and his mother’s green eyes. He was giggling, although trying to be serious. The earl watched as Jane filled a wineglass with water, then lifted her own. “To you, my lord,” she said in a high, false voice. “To the Lord of Dragmore.” Governess Randall, a big, stocky horse-faced woman, frowned disapprovingly and harrumphed.

  “To you, my lady,” Chad mimed, and they drank their toasts. The earl smiled.

  “My lord, I fear there is some urgent correspondence awaiting you in your library,” Jane continued. “If you have finished, perhaps we should see to it.”

  “I am finished,” Chad announced. “Do we go downstairs?” His adorable face screwed up quizzically. “Papa may be in the lib’ry!”

  “But my lord,” Jane cried, standing with dignity and gesturing grandly to the corner of the nursery. “Your library awaits you there.”

  Chad stood, imitating her graceful, regal movements. The earl was no longer watching his son. He was watching Jane. She had changed out of her schoolgirl’s dress and was wearing a simple skirt, sans crinoline or bustle, and a silk, striped blouse with a lace collar. Her hair hung in a braid as fat as his arm to her buttocks. He had seen a few wisps before, peeking out from the bonnet, so the pale, champagne color did not surprise him. She had beautiful hair. The tail teased the small of her back. It was a saucy, impudent curve of derriere, high and round, and realizing what he was eyeing, he abruptly jerked his gaze away. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “Papa!” Chad shrieked.

  The earl caught his son as he charged into his arms, lifting him high and swinging him around. He slipped Chad to his feet, ruffling his thick hair. “How was supper, son?” He was squatting.

  “Jane and me, we played a game,” Chad cried excitedly. “I was lord and she was my lady! That’s our lib’ry. Want to come in?”

  The earl knew how to play with his son. He had taught him how to ride, fish, and hunt, how to track. The way Derek had taught him. Now he was uncomfortable, with Chad pulling on his hand, trying to drag him into the “library.” He felt the heat of the skin on his face. “Maybe later,” he said, his hand in the boy’s hair. It lingered there. Chad was not disappointed. He gazed up at his father with adoration.

  Nick met Jane’s glance. It was soft and surprised and curious. A blush stained her cheeks. He didn’t like her regard, and he shot her a quelling look. In return, she gave him her fragile smile and cast her eyes away.

  As she stood there in the blue serge skirt without the crinoline, he realized her legs were very, very long.

  “My lord,” Governess Randall interrupted. “I really think these games, at the table, are quite inappropriate. Chad should learn his manners, not—”

  “I think Chad can both learn manners and play games with Jane,” the earl said abruptly. His gaze strayed of its own accord from Randall to Jane. She was poised like a bird about to take wing; then she relaxed and smiled a true, wide smile. It was warm, it was light and laughter, it was happiness. Nick felt the surge of an answering warmth in his own heart. Confused, he stared at her. And he became aware of her gazing back and the heat building slowly in his loins.

  He recoiled. What the hell was wrong with him?

  She was a child, his ward.

  But the heat grew. And he was afraid, so very afraid, that he knew what was wrong. Abruptly he wheeled and left the room, for once not even hearing his son calling after him. His strides were long, hard, fast. As if he could outrace the thought forming in his mind.

  But he couldn’t.

  He was thinking of his father, the Comanchero Chavez.

  5

  The sooner she got this over with, the better.

  Jane took a deep breath, for courage. She was standing outside the massive teakwood doors of the library, which were closed and highly forbidding. She knew, already, that this was the earl’s solitary, private domain. She had sensed that even his son was hesitant to venture forth there. She knew he was within. Not that she had asked his whereabouts—she could feel his presence.

  It was tangible.

  Jane hesitated, remembering hotly how he had found her playing childish games with his son in the nursery. She once again regretted her impulsive behavior and her flyaway imagination. She was confirming his first opinion of her—that she belonged in the nursery. Gnawing her lip, she resolved to control herself. To be graceful, dignified, adultlike. She knocked.

  There was no response.

  Jane hesitated, more sure than ever that he was within, afraid now to incur his displeasure, or worse. But she did not believe in procrastinating. She had to get this over with. Bravely she knocked again, harder this time.

  The door opened so abruptly and without any warning that Jane, leaning against it, fell forward and against his body. She did not have to look up to know it was he. He was so tall and so hard, harder than she believed possible. He caught her, exclaiming, “What the hell!” She gasped and looked up. His hands dropped from her shoulders as if he’d been burned. For an instant their gazes met, his so pale yet so dark. He was angry.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. She regretted now her foolishness in seeking him out. It was like bearding a wolf in his den. Her heart was thundering in her breast.

  “I take it you want something,” he said, arms crossed.

  “May we speak?”

  He nodded and turned his back on her and paced to his desk. He sat behind it. Jane slowly crossed the room, so nervous that she didn’t pay attention to its size, the plush carpets, the thick, gleaming mahogany walls. The desk was overly large—it suited him. She couldn’t help but notice the endless piles of paperwork, ledgers, and books. She felt like a supplicant at the royal throne.

  She was
n’t sure whether to stand or sit, so she stood.

  “Well?”

  “My lord.” She took a breath, looked him in the eye. “I cannot marry.” Not an emotion crossed his face. “No?” “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am an actress, sir.”

  It was said with such seriousness, such conviction, that Nick felt the corners of his mouth trying to lift. He fought the urge to smile. “Indeed?”

  “Yes.” Calmer now, Jane smiled. It was so sweet the earl felt the stabbing all the way to his gut— and he didn’t like that. His jaw clamped, but she went on serenely. “You know, don’t you, that my mother was a famous actress, Sandra Barclay. And I, well, I had my first role at ten at the Lyceum Theatre.” Her eyes shone. “I was on the stage until I was fourteen,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  The earl was stunned and disbelieving. “Your mother was an actress? I find it impossible to believe that the blue-blooded Westons would allow such a woman into their noble midst.”

  Jane grew slightly pink.

  “You are a Weston?”

  She didn’t respond, pinker still.

  “You are somehow related to the family? I was led to believe you were the dear, dead duke’s grandaughter.”

  “I am,” she squeaked.

  “I see,” he said, leaning back, his face ferocious-looking now. “A bas—illegitimate?”

  She was red. “My father, the duke’s third son, Viscount Stanton, loved my mother to distraction. And she loved him.”

  “But they weren’t married.”

  Jane was both upset and angry at his prying. “He could not marry her, sir,” she said clearly.

  He raised a brow.

  “He already had a wife,” she managed.

  “Ah,” Nick said. “I see.”

  Jane swallowed, hard. Some time before he had died, her father and mother had carefully explained that they weren’t married, although they loved each other completely, and that her father already had a wife from the time before he’d known and fallen in love with Sandra. Jane knew they loved each other and was so secure in this fact that the truth had not upset her. It was only much later, after her mother died, that her father’s marriage and her own illegitimacy suddenly became an issue—with her newly found fame as London’s darling of the stage.

  The earl felt sorry for her. He fought the unfamiliar sympathy. He concentrated on his smoldering anger—he had been tricked, deceived. Marrying the chit off would be no simple task. It would be nearly impossible, no matter how pretty she was. She was the bastard of an actress—her mother might as well have been a prostitute for all the difference it would make to Society. He would have to give her an incredible dowry—and then some.

  And it wasn’t exactly as if his reputation was spotless, either. He almost laughed, then, thinking of the irony of it—the man who had stood trial for the murder of his wife, in one of the century’s most shocking courtroom dramas, trying to arrange a “respectable” marriage for an actress’s bastard. How appropriate.

  “He loved her very much,” Jane said. She was staring at the floor. “It’s the truth.”

  He eyed her.

  “Those were the best, most wonderful times.” She looked up, eyes wet. “Daddy and I would watch Mother on the stage. He’d hold me in his arms, up high, so I could see. He would always tell me how wonderful she was, how beautiful. Then he’d tease me, telling me that one day I’d surpass even her. And she was wonderful, she was beautiful. She always performed to standing ovations—the audiences couldn’t get enough of her. And the men. They all fell in love with her. But she wanted no one except my father.”

  Even if it were true, it made no difference to Nick. He supposed they, were lucky, to have shared something special, even if for a short while. He thought of Patricia. He thought of the day he had learned the truth—the day she had left him and Chad and run away with her lover. He looked at the fragile child standing in front of him. “Your mother died when you were fourteen? And you were sent to your aunt’s?”

  “Mother died when I was ten. Robert—the manager—let me stay on with the company until I was fourteen.” Suddenly she blushed and gazed at the floral carpet. “Something happened,” she mumbled. Recovering, she met his gaze with a faked shrug. “He decided I had best go to relatives.”

  It was unbelievable—a child raised by a troupe of actors. “What happened?”

  She blushed again. “One of the actors, someone new …”

  He studied her, at seventeen still so young, and imagined her at fourteen—nearly sexless, a mere child, a wraith most likely. He felt hard, hot anger. “Did he hurt you?”

  Jane shook her head. “Scared me, is all. He wouldn’t have … I’m sure he wouldn’t have … He only kissed me, touched me. He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was my friend.”

  She believed it. Whoever had molested her had been depraved, but she, to this day, thought him her friend. She was utterly innocent. He imagined, with some horror, what would happen if she was allowed to go to London to the stage. A lamb among wolves. She would be slaughtered. The earl stood abruptly. “It’s late.”

  She smiled tremulously. “Then you understand? I won’t have to get married?”

  The one thing the earl understood was his duty, his responsibility. And she was now his ward. “You will be married as soon as I find a suitable prospect,” he said firmly, moving to the door and opening it.

  Her eyes were wide, distressed.

  “Good night, Jane.” He watched her. She wanted to argue. He waited, and it came.

  “I won’t get married.” Her full lower lip pouted, trembling.

  He smiled slightly. “We shall see.” It was a dismissal. He watched her leave, trying to ignore the tumult rising within him. There was no choice, he must marry her off. The problem loomed, like a five-foot stone wall before his Irish-bred hunter. Just how in hell was he going to find her a suitable husband when he had not been among Society since the murder trial?

  And he felt it then, anguish, dread.

  But with iron control, he shoved both feelings deep, deep inside.

  6

  Jane passed a sleepless night. She tossed and turned, both miserable and angry. She would never give up her dreams, yet she sensed that the earl would be as immovable as a stone wall. Again and again their conversation replayed itself in her mind. The words became lost among the images. Mostly his image, dark and threatening. He had not a jot of compassion in his entire large, hard body. His eyes were silver ice. If she wasn’t careful, she would probably be married within the fortnight.

  Knowing him now, as little as she did, sensing the dark, hot anger pulsing within him, she thought that perhaps what they said was true, perhaps he had killed his wife. After all, where there’s smoke there’s fire, and he had been on trial for the murder—the trial of the Earl of Drag-more had been sensationalized by the press, making headlines every day for a week. It had only been three and a half years ago. Jane had seen some of the papers. That particular week Matilda and the parson had argued vehemently once over whether he was guilty or innocent, Matilda certain he had done the grisly deed. She had won that battle. But he had been acquitted. Some time during this period he had gained the popular title the Lord of Darkness.

  And then she remembered his hands.

  She saw them clearly, big and powerful, hands that could kill. Yet how could a murderer’s hands stroke a little boy’s hair with such tenderness? Jane was assailed with the memory of how, earlier, in the nursery, Nick had not been able to take his palm out of Chad’s thick hair. The power had been cowed by gentleness, such gentleness …

  Jane hoped he hadn’t killed his wife. Suddenly she wished she could remember the details of the case. She had only been fourteen, and she hadn’t read the papers, just glanced at the headlines and listened to Matilda and the parson fighting.

  When she finally fell asleep she dreamed. But not of the murder. She dreamed of his hands, big, gentle, stroking Chad’s hair.
Except the hair changed from brown to blond. And he was stroking her hair. His warm hand, throbbing with life, slid to her neck, cupping it. And across her shoulder, down her arm … The pleasure was unbearable. She awoke stretching like a cat, sensually, languidly, a smile on her lips. Her breasts felt full and aching, and her nipples were small and hard, rubbing against the thin lawn of her nightgown. Jane did not want to wake up. She touched her breast, a small caress, held it, then her hand drifted to her belly and paused. Her gown was twisted up around her thighs, which were spread open, sprawling lasciviously. She recalled then, in a flash of clarity, that she had been dreaming of his touch, and she went pink. Yet it had been so real.

  She would never dream that dream again!

  Thank God he would never be able to read her mind!

  Jane leapt from the bed and washed and dressed in a plain blue-striped dress. She wished now that she had brought her crinoline, but because she hated it and never wore it at the parsonage she hadn’t. She wondered if he expected her to take her breakfast in the nursery as well. She was seventeen, not six. She would not—even if he thought her a child. Still, as she went downstairs she was soundless, purposefully, and outside the doors to the breakfast room she hesitated, momentarily unsure, even afraid to enter. The room was empty.

  Relief was vast, but there was a tingling of disappointment too.

  The sideboard was still graced with hot, covered serving dishes and platters. His place was empty, the plate gone but the setting still there, left in disarray. Jane could still feel his presence, or so she imagined. There was no setting for her. With determination, she went out and into the kitchen. A dozen servants stood about, gabbing. Food being prepared for the earl’s next meal lay about on what appeared to be a dirty countertop, the mutton unwrapped, not even on a plate. Jane was aghast. Dirty pots were piled in the sink. The floors were filthy, both dirty and stained. The walls, usually white and now gray, needed a washing as well.