Ghislaine knew it would come to an end. Knew it with the beat of her heart, the throb of her blood, the salt of her tears that had finally returned to her.
Sooner or later her past would catch up with her—through her drugged fog at Madame Claude’s she had seen a roomful of men bidding for the prize of deflowering her. Wrexham had won, but there would be others who remembered.
And Nicholas would have to kill them.
She couldn’t live with that. The destruction of a group of dissolute noblemen bothered her not one whit. But the destruction of one particular dissolute gentleman would kill her.
She’d thought he was so strong, so cold, so impervious to emotions other than his own rages. She’d imbued him with superhuman qualities, the better to keep her distance.
Instead she found herself caught in ways far more permanent than her recent captivity. The beautiful young man she’d once loved was still there, but so was the tormenter. The rake, the betrayer, the lost soul, the sulky little boy who needed her love so badly he didn’t even recognize his need.
She wanted to give him that love, to cradle his head against her breasts and comfort the dark torments of his soul. She wanted to be his lover, his mother, his partner, and his child.
But her presence in his life would be his final destruction, the one he’d courted and avoided for so long. He’d changed since Wrexham’s death. Opened to her, in ways she wouldn’t have believed possible.
The moments were small, unimportant, and therefore even more precious. The morning they lay in bed, the sunlight sending dappled shadows over their bodies as he tried to teach her piquet, only to have her beat him soundly once she’d mastered the intricacies of the game. The afternoon he coaxed her into a gondola, teasing her unmercifully as her complexion turned from white to green and back again before he finally made the gondolier pull over to the side of the canal. He’d carried her home then, through the streets, and if his gallant gesture made her even more seasick, she hadn’t told him.
There was the evening they ate cold chicken beneath the stars, and danced in darkness, Nicholas humming beneath his breath an old English country tune, as she relearned the waltz.
And there was the night she held him in her arms as he lay, sleepless, tormented, as the ghosts and guilts of a lifetime visited him once more.
She heard about it all without flinching. His boyhood pranks that grew steadily more serious, his father’s rejection and death, the young man he’d killed in a drunken duel.
She heard about the women he’d ruined, the fortunes he’d won and lost, the heedless, soulless pursuit of pleasure and forgetfulness. And one of the things he’d most wanted to forget was a fifteen-year-old French girl with her heart in her eyes.
She heard it all. And she loved him. Knowing it was not enough.
She’d been brought up in the church she’d abandoned to believe that confession was good for the soul. It truly seemed so for Nicholas. Once he’d told her every dark, hideous thing he’d done, a weight seemed to lift from him. He could look at her and smile, without a trace of mockery. He could even laugh. Which made her decision all the more devastating.
She would have to leave him. She had no choice, none whatsoever. When she left, he would rage once more. But there was a chance, just a chance, that he might find someone else, someone more worthy to love. And his own darkness would pass forever.
With her he stood no chance at all.
She’d been around the last of the mad Blackthornes for too long—it was making her crazy as well. He’d never told her he loved her, never suggested that there was anything beyond the passion of the moment for the two of them. But she knew, better than he did. She knew, with a wisdom that came from her heart, that it was love between them. A love that would haunt them both for the rest of their days.
She had no idea where she could go. She didn’t even know when she’d be strong enough to make the break, to turn her back on her only hope of joy. After the numb, dark years that had followed her parents’ death, she’d come to life again, and the pain and despair that had taken hold of her had begun to heal.
But that pain and despair were waiting, lurking, ready to return and destroy her. She’d learned the hard way that there were no happy endings in this life. The happier she was, the more devastating the fall. And she was determined to escape before she brought Nicholas down with her as well.
She had to leave, even though it would break her heart, a heart she’d thought broken long ago. It was the one gift she could give him.
The palazzo had a small, enclosed garden to the right of the canal. It was overgrown, tangled, and utterly charming. Luisa had banished Ghislaine from the kitchen, threatened by her fancy French ideas, but the garden was no one’s domain, the gardener having long since found other employment. Ghislaine spent the sunny hours there, working in the dirt, trying to ignore the future. She was never certain where Nicholas might spend the day. He slept later than she did, a lifetime of indolence at war with her hard-earned sense of duty. He usually managed to entice her back under the covers when she attempted to roust him, to their mutual pleasure, but she couldn’t rid herself of the belief that they were living on borrowed time. Disaster was at hand.
And sooner than even she expected. Nicholas came to stand over her as she grubbed in the dirt, and she sat on her heels, unabashed. “We’re heading back to England tomorrow,” he said, his voice oddly diffident. “Don’t worry, I promise we won’t go near French soil, and we’ll travel across land as much as possible. It never ceases to amaze me that someone with your fierceness would be possessed of such a weak stomach.”
She couldn’t bring herself to smile. “I don’t want to go back to England. And how can you return? Aren’t you still in trouble…?”
“That can be sorted out if I make the effort. I still have a few friends with influence. Tavvy will help you pack…”
“Leave me behind.”
All expression left his face. For the first time in days he looked cold and distant. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Be sensible, Nicholas. You don’t need me…”
He moved so swiftly her words faltered as he pulled her to her feet, cupping her face with his hands. He was so tall, so strong, and yet oddly vulnerable. “I need you,” he said in a tight, angry voice. “I thought I made it clear to you, my love. I’m not about to let you go. Ever.” He kissed her, hard, and she flung her arms around his waist, unable to deny him. Knowing that she was simply falling more deeply in love with him with each passing moment. And knowing it would be harder than ever to give him up.
The damnable thing was, she couldn’t even tell him good-bye. He’d stop her, she knew he would. So she simply looked up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the forced brightness of her smile, the lingering hold of her hands as she kissed him good-bye.
She stood without moving, watching him leave. He’d be making arrangements for their journey, and her time was coming to an end. She ought to make her own plans, but for the moment she couldn’t. She stayed in the garden, her mind feverish, watching her tears splash hotly on her hands, and she despised them. For ten years she hadn’t cried. Now she couldn’t seem to stop.
She heard the commotion from a distance, but she stayed where she was, on her knees in the garden, wiping away the dampness from her eyes.
And then she heard a voice she had never thought to hear again. “Gilly!”
She toned, to stare in shock at Ellen Fitzwater’s tall form in the garden doorway, shadowed by an even larger form behind her.
She couldn’t help it, her instincts took over. She rose, ran across the stretch of garden, and flung herself in Ellen’s welcoming arms, sobbing loudly.
“My poor angel,” Ellen said, holding her tightly.
“It must have been awful for you. We’re here now; Tony won’t let him hurt you ever again, he’s promised me.”
Ghislaine couldn’t say a word. The sobs were choking her throat as Ellen drew her into the cool interior of th
e salon. “It’s not…” She hiccupped. “I can’t…”
“Hush, now. Tony, see if you can find someone to bring us some tea. Gilly needs a good strong cup before she can calm down.”
Ghislaine heard a muffled assent as Ellen drew her down on the settee, and she managed a watery chuckle. “You English,” she said. “You think tea is the answer for everything.”
“And so it is. That’s why we’re such a staid, respectable race,” she said comfortably, pushing Ghislaine’s hair away from her face.
“Staid and respectable like Nicholas Blackthorne?” Her voice cracked.
“What has he done to you, Gilly? Has it been very awful? Has he hurt you terribly? It must have been dreadful, to be carried off like that. Do you hate him very much?”
Ghislaine’s laugh bordered on hysteria. “You have to get me away from him, Ellen.”
“Don’t worry, my pet, we will. Tony and I will protect you. If you don’t want Nicholas near you I promise you he won’t touch you ever again. Tony will see to it.”
“Tony will see to it,” Ghislaine echoed, for a moment distracted from her own misery. She looked down at the hands clasping hers, at the diamond and sapphire wedding ring, and she managed a smile. “I see.”
Ellen flushed to the roots of her hair. “I’ve always loved him, you know. And oh, Gilly, I’m so happy! You can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I can imagine.”
“Oh, no, Gilly,” Ellen breathed. “I thought you hated Nicholas. You aren’t… you couldn’t be…”
“I’m in love with him.”
“Oh, Lord. Why him, of all people? The most selfish, wretched, disreputable, care-for-nothing in the world. I could kill him, I could absolutely kill him.”
“He does tend to bring out that desire in people,” Ghislaine said with a hollow laugh. “I have to get away from here. Now, before he returns. I have no idea where he’s gone, but he could come back at any time.”
“We’ll get you away, never fear. Though if you love him, perhaps he could be made to marry you…”
“No!” Ghislaine shrieked. “That would only make things worse.”
Sir Antony Wilton-Greening had returned, compassion on his handsome face. “We’ll do what we can to assist you.”
Guilt swamped her. “I’m not certain you’ll want to.”
“Of course we will,” Ellen protested. “We’ve chased over half a continent to do just that.”
“You may regret that you did. I am not at all respectable.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’ve always been secretive about your past, but I’m no fool. I assumed your family was lost in the Terror. You must come from decent stock—blood always tells.”
“My father was the Comte de Lorgny. Nicholas Blackthorne’s godfather.”
Ellen took in a shocked breath. “Well, I hadn’t guessed that high,” she admitted.
“When my parents were killed, my brother and I lived on the streets of Paris.” She paused, and the words burned in her heart. “I earned our bread the only way I could.”
Ellen, for all that she had a wedding ring on her finger, simply looked blank. It was Sir Antony who comprehended instantly, and he moved between the two of them. Doubtless to protect Ellen from her contaminating presence, Ghislaine thought.
Instead he knelt down and took Ghislaine’s hands in his huge one. “Those were bad times, mademoiselle. No one will blame you for what you had to do to survive.”
She managed a pale smile. “It’s funny. That’s what Nicholas said.”
“What did Nicholas say?” A cool, malicious drawl interrupted them.
Sir Antony released her hand slowly, and turned to face Nicholas Blackthorne. He stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed, his face still and pale. “Good afternoon, Blackthorne,” he greeted him politely enough.
“And my little cousin besides,” Nicholas said, strolling into the room, his body fight with suppressed rage. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“We’re taking Gilly away from you!” Ellen shot up.
“No, you’re not,” Nicholas said with deceptive gentleness. “She’s staying with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Blackthorne,” Sir Antony said. “Haven’t you done enough harm as it is? She doesn’t deserve to be used this way…”
“Fancy her yourself, do you?” he inquired pleasantly. “If you put your hands on her again, I will cut your heart out.”
Ghislaine had seen that look in his face before. When he’d come back from killing the Earl of Wrexham. And she knew, with certainty, that he might kill again. That one thing had terrified her, for his sake alone. If he forced a duel on Sir Antony, he would either leave her best friend a newly made widow or die himself.
“Stop it,” she cried. “Sir Antony is married to your cousin. He has no interest in me…”
“A man would have to be dead not to have interest in you, my pet,” Nicholas said. “Perhaps that’s what Sir Antony should be.”
“You could always try,” Sir Antony said politely. “I would think you’d be rather tired of killing people, but perhaps it’s a habit that grows on one.”
“You might find you can develop a taste for it,” Nicholas said in a dangerous voice. “I’d be more than happy to indulge you if you’d care to try.”
Ellen rose to her full height, towering over Ghislaine, and took her icy hand. “Come with me, Gilly,” she said imperiously, tugging her away. “Let them settle it.”
“No!” Ghislaine shrieked, tugging at her arm. “They’ll kill each other.”
“You can’t stop me,” Nicholas snarled. “Go to your room and wait for me.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Ellen said, pulling her. “Come along.”
“You don’t understand,” Ghislaine babbled as she found herself being hauled up the long winding stairs. “He’ll kill him. He’ll kill your husband, and it will destroy him…”
“You don’t know Tony very well. He’s more than capable of dealing with Nicholas. Granted, my cousin is very dangerous indeed, but I have developed infinite faith in Tony’s ingenuity. We’ll go up to your room and get you packed, and by the time they finish their little argument we’ll be halfway to our hotel.”
“Ellen…”
They reached the top landing. “Come along, Gilly. Unless you find you’d rather stay. I think he cares about you. Not that I would have thought it was possible for someone like Nicholas, but there might just be hope for the future, if you love him. I’ve never seen him so possessive about a female before.”
“Don’t you understand? I can’t stay!”
Ellen shook her head. “The French are crazy,” she said flatly. “But then, I always suspected as much. Which reminds me. A letter came for you. I’ve carried it halfway across the continent with me.
From the floor below they could hear the sudden, dangerous snick of steel on steel. “They’re fighting,” Ghislaine said, numb terror washing over her.
“Tony can defend himself without killing Nicholas,” Ellen said calmly. “Have faith.”
“I have no faith.”
“It’s past time to develop some. Show me to your room, and I’ll pack for you while you read your letter.”
Ghislaine wanted to run back downstairs, to put herself between the two men. But Ellen was taller, stronger, and more determined. She gestured toward the door to the bedroom and drew her in, pushing her into a chair and handing her a wrinkled, worn piece of paper.
Ghislaine stared down at the unknown hand in blank incomprehension, part of her mind still straining for the sound of death and disaster from belowstairs. Ellen had hauled out a valise and was busy filling it with clothing.
“How did anyone know where I was?” she asked, sudden dread swamping her. The letter was addressed to Citizeness Ghislaine de Lorgny, an ominous enough phrase. Who had known where she’d disappeared to—she’d even lied to fat Marthe at the Red Hen.
She tore
the wrinkled missive open, her hands shaking. Old Bones could neither read nor write, but he knew where to find a cleric willing to earn a few sou. Of course he would know where she’d gone; Old Bones knew everything. Including something she never thought to hear.
She lifted her head, tears streaming down her face. “My brother is alive,” she said in a broken voice. “He’s been found.”
Ellen stopped in the midst of her packing. “You have a brother?”
“He’s in a small French village up in the mountains. I have to go to him, Ellen. I must.” She leaped from her chair, dashing the tears from her face.
Ellen didn’t even hesitate. “To be sure,” she said briskly. She glanced down at the valise she’d packed so carefully. “I wonder if we’ll have room to take this.”
Ghislaine stared at her in shock. “What do you mean?”
“I’m coming with you, of course. I’ve become very adept at traveling since Tony and I have been following you, and I’m certainly not about to let you go alone. I know how terrified you are of ever returning to France. At least with me by your side you’ll have someone to turn to.”
Ghislaine managed a watery smile. Ellen’s innocence would never be a match for the dark forces that threatened her in France—compared to Ghislaine she was a babe in arms. But Ghislaine loved her for her determination. “No,” she said firmly. “Your new husband would never stand for it.”
“You wouldn’t consider letting him come with us?” Ellen asked wistfully.
“Absolutely not. I have to go alone.” Indeed, Old Bones’ letter had made it more than clear that she needed to arrive at the tiny mountain village of Lantes without an escort. Otherwise her chances of seeing her brother would be mysteriously nil.
Ellen shrugged, smiling brightly. “They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she said. “Tony will forgive me.”
“You’re not coming with me.”