“Why?” he whispered.
Her hand paused against his heart. She knew the question he asked, he was sure of it. Yet the silence grew.
“Tell me.”
She tilted her head back, her hazel eyes meeting his. “Because I’ve wanted this for years.”
Her words shocked him.
“Brendon,” she had cried out, her nails piercing his back as he entered her.
His heart skipped a beat.
Brendon.
She’d called him Brendon. His butler would never have used his given name, yet somehow she knew. Brendon tossed the covers aside and bolted from the bed. His heart slammed so loudly in his chest that surely she could hear it. Teeth gritted, he jerked on his trousers realizing he’d been duped. Bloody hell, what was going on?
Half-dressed, he spun around to face her, his fingers fisted as he resisted the urge to shake her. “Who the hell are you?”
The confusion in her gaze gave way to wariness. She hesitated, then pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I told you my name. Clara.”
Clara.
With that simple statement, suddenly he was gone, thrown back in time.
She was looking at him. Always watching him.
“Clara likes you, you know,” his sister’s voice broke into his thoughts.
He tore his gaze from the dark-haired girl sitting under an oak and smiled at Elizabeth. “I know.”
Elizabeth slid her arm through his and watched him slyly. “And…do you fancy her?”
He rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help but glance at Clara once again. She was looking away, pretending interest in the garden. She would be beautiful…some day when she was old enough. He knew that. But he couldn’t wait for someday. His father had already picked out his future wife and he wasn’t sure he could ever think of Clara as anything other than a child.
“Well?” Elizabeth prodded.
He tweaked her nose. “If she was five years older, perhaps.”
“Clara.” He hadn’t realized he’d said her name out loud until she responded.
“Yes?”
It was there. How could he be such a dunce? Those innocent, hazel eyes. Those pink, lush lips. But she was older now…even more beautiful…stunning really. He should have felt odd…terrible…wrong having slept with the woman who was his sister’s childhood friend.
He didn’t.
He felt…right.
“Clara?” Legs weak, he settled on the edge of the bed, his gaze scanning every feature on her familiar face. He couldn’t seem to look away.
She focused on her lap and drew the blanket up to her chest, her face flushed, her eyes downcast. He didn’t like to see her this way, shy and unsure. He liked her bold, as she had been when he’d kissed her.
He moved closer and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Clara.”
Her gaze flashed with uncertainty. “Yes?”
He smiled. A smile of half bewilderment, half awe. “My God, Clara. How could I have not known it was you?”
She sucked in a breath, her face draining of color. “You remember.”
It might have taken him longer than it should have, but of course he bloody remembered. How could he forget? “What are you doing here, Clara?”
She jerked away from his touch and slipped from the bed. In a flurry of movement, she reached her clothing. “I’m so sorry.”
He surged to his feet, only to hesitate, afraid if he touched her, he’d offend her and she’d run. Hell, he didn’t know what to do. “No, please. Don’t leave.”
She paused, and glanced over her shoulder. There was so much emotion in her hazel eyes that his heart clenched. For one long moment they merely stared at each other.
“Your sister sent me a letter,” she finally whispered. “She told me everything. About your wife…” She dropped her gaze to the floor.
He flinched. He could imagine what she thought of him. The world believed he was a bastard, why not her too? No wife left her husband for another man unless her husband was evil, they whispered. How he wished he could ignore those sidelong glances whenever he went out into public. When she’d died in a carriage accident with her lover, she’d become a martyr, he a monster for making her flee into the arms of another.
“You left everything behind,” Clara continued, having no idea the way of his thoughts. “Your money. Your responsibilities. You’d become an artist, she said.” Clara smiled softly as she pulled her shift over her head. “I remember you drawing…always drawing.”
Not even his wife knew he liked art. But then there were a lot of things his wife hadn’t bothered to learn about him. He’d realized after saying I do that his wife had married him for his money. Unfortunately it had been too late. Their relationship had been superficial, at the most.
“What happened?” He started toward her, slowly, afraid of frightening her away.
She shrugged, refusing to look at him. “You know my parents, they like to spend. We’re…rather destitute.”
His stomach churned and he froze, ill. Dear god, was this about money? “You want money?” He turned his back to her, his heart beating frantically. He felt as if he was with his wife all over again.
“You didn’t have to sleep with me, Clara. I would have given you whatever you needed.”
“No! I’m not…I’m not a whore.”
He raked his hands through his hair. Hell, he didn’t know what to believe anymore. If she wasn’t here for money, if she didn’t think he was the bastard the rest of the world thought he was…then…
“Father promised me to a man I’d rather not marry. Your sister told me you were studying art, paying models...”
His heart broke, crumbling into the pit of his belly. “And so you came for the position.”
“No. Perhaps I used that as an excuse. But in reality… damn it all, Brendon, I came for you.”
He turned, needing to see her face. Only truth shone in her eyes. Him. She was here to see him. No. It couldn’t be true. It was too damn beautiful to be true. “Who is it, this man, your fiancé?”
She paused for one long moment. “Lord Desmond.”
His fingers fisted, his nails biting into his palm. He hadn’t met the man but he knew of him. “He’s three times your age and known for his cruelty.”
“I know.”
As, most likely, did her parents. They’d sold her. Damn them, he was tired of the harshness of life. Tired of selfish bastards…tired of people like him. If it hadn’t for lust, he wouldn’t be in this hell. If he’d loved his wife like he should have, perhaps she wouldn’t have had to find love in the arms of another. If he’d been more attentive, she wouldn’t have left him that evening to go to her lover and she wouldn’t have been killed in that carriage accident with the babe she carried. A babe he wasn’t even sure was his. He should have never married her. Anger gave way to desperation.
He couldn’t save his wife now, but he sure as hell could save Clara. “I’ll kill him.” He stalked across the room and scooped up his shirt, punching his fists through the sleeves.
“No! Brendan, you can’t! He merely kissed me.” Clara rushed toward him, latching onto his hands. “Please. If anything were to happen to you…”
Merely kissed her. Perhaps, but the bruises on her arms said he’d done it with a force not needed. She released his fingers and clutched the front of his shirt, surprisingly strong for such a small woman. Tears stung her eyes making them glow a brilliant sea green. His knees grew weak. She cared. Dear God, she still cared about him after all these years.
“Get dressed.”
She shook her head, those sable brows drawing together in confusion. “Why?”
He knew, in that moment, what he was about to do was right. “Get dressed. We’re getting married.”
She moved, as if the shock had literally pushed her back. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t…”
He was in front of her in one long stride. He gripped her shoulders and jerked her f
orward, his mouth finding hers. It was a hot kiss, hard, demanding. Just when she slumped into him, he pulled back. “Do you still love me?”
Heat shot to her cheeks. Obviously embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the ground. Her silence was like a punch to the gut. Was he wrong?
He gave her a soft shake. “Do you?”
Her gaze met his. “Yes, damn you. I’ve forced Elizabeth to tell me everything about you for the last ten years.”
He grinned, his heart warming. This was right. For the first time in almost three years, he felt alive again, he felt hopeful. “Then get dressed.”
Those tears she’d been trying to hold back, slipped down her cheeks, one…then another and another. “I won’t. I won’t let you marry me just because you feel some sort of guilt.”
He sighed and brought her close, holding her warm body gently to his chest. “Clara, there are a million ways I could help without marrying you. Hell, I could give you a purse full of coins and send you on your way.”
“Then why? Why do you want to marry me if not because of guilt?” she whispered against his chest.
He pulled back, slid his finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “Because this night I’ve felt more alive than ever. I’ve felt…finally after feeling nothing but numbness for years, I’ve felt again.”
He slipped his fingers into her cool strands, cupping the sides of her face. “Tell me you’ll marry me.”
Her lower lip quivered, tears glistening in her eyes. He knew her answer, it was there in her gentle smile, in her beautiful gaze, but he needed to hear the words.
“Clara?”
“I—”
Before she could respond, the door burst open, splinters of wood dancing across the floor. As one they spun around. A man stood in the doorway, a pistol pointed to the temple of Brendon’s trusty butler.
Chapter 5
Brendon pushed Clara behind him, so quickly she suddenly found her view blocked by his broad shoulders. She stumbled back, the edge of his work table biting painfully across her bottom. Dizzy with fear, she latched onto his shirt, regaining her balance.
“I don’t believe you were invited in,” Brendon growled.
Always the knight, he was shielding her body with his. Unable to resist, she stood on tiptoe and peeked over his right shoulder. The familiar face sent her heart plummeting to her feet. No. No, he couldn’t have found her. She’d been so careful! Clara bit hard on her lower lip, the pain her punishment. How could she have put Brendon in danger?
Desmond stood arrogantly near the door, his gray, weathered face a mask of confidence. Beside him, a strange man held a pistol to the butler’s head. Smith looked more annoyed than frightened. Still, just the site of that gun sent bile to Clara’s throat. Her fault. All of this was her fault. She’d been so selfish to come here. So selfish to steal this moment with Brendon.
Desmond slowly pulled the leather gloves from his hands. The site of those pale, stout fingers brought horrible memories to mind…him…touching her flesh. Clara shivered.
His dark eyes slowly scanned the room and by the look on his face, he found the place lacking. “I am here for my wife.”
Clara’s fingers dug into Brendon’s shirt. The word wife made her stomach clench. The bastard. They weren’t married yet, and if she had her way, they never would be.
“No one here is married, that I know of,” Brendon replied.
The strength in Brendon’s voice calmed her…for a brief moment. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. She hadn’t wanted this. She’d never meant to put him in danger. Guilt flared bitterly in her gut. There was only one way to rectify the situation. Releasing her hold, she started to move. Brendon raised his arm, blocking her.
“Please,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Let me go.”
He didn’t bother to glance down at, but kept his gaze pinned to Desmond. “No.”
Desmond started forward, slowly traversing the distance between them. “This is what you’ve left me for?” He quirked a gray brow, amusement flashing in those dark eyes and damn, if she didn’t feel that same sickening fear she’d always felt when he was near.
A confident smirk spread across those thin lips as if he knew her fear. That same look he’d given her the moment he’d smashed his mouth to hers. He’d intended on doing more than kissing her that evening. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten the chance. But she wasn’t innocent any longer. No, she’d given her virginity to Brendon. It was the one thing, no matter what, that Desmond could never have.
“A poor artist?” He looked Brendon up and down. “Pathetic.” Desmond was smaller, much, yet he was cruel in a way Brendon could never be. The closer he got, the harder her heart slammed against her chest. She would not let Brendon give his life for her.
Desmond paused a few feet away and held out his hand. “Come, Clara. Come now, and no one will be hurt.”
Objection roared in her ears. Her body began to tremble for she knew what she had to do, with Brendon’s consent or not. She would give herself to the demon. She’d had one night of heaven, and she would cling to the memories of that one night for the rest of her life.
“Don’t come, and your pathetic friend and his man servant will die.”
She rested her hand on Brendon’s back, his muscles stiff under her touch. “Please, Brendon, let me go.”
Once again, he didn’t bother to look at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Irritation momentarily replaced her fear. She narrowed her eyes and frowned up at him. Damn it, didn’t he understand she had no choice? “I’m not ridiculous, I’m being practical!”
He snorted. Snorted, for God’s sake.
She stomped her bare foot. “I am!”
“Enough!” Desmond roared, his pale face flaring an unflattering shade of red.
The man was losing control, the monster slowly being released and Brendon merely stood there as if they were watching some odd animal in a curiosity shop. Panic welled. She swallowed hard the lump of tears that clogged her throat. “Please, Brendon, let me go.”
He didn’t bother to turn. “I can’t.”
Such a simple response. He couldn’t. Why? Guilt? Because she was Elizabeth’s friend? Didn’t he realize he could die because of her? Perhaps he wanted to die, wanted to follow his wife to the afterlife. Well she wasn’t going to allow it!
She stood on tiptoe, the side of her face pressing to his neck. He felt so wonderful, so incredibly wonderful. How badly she wanted to wrap her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed in his scent.
“You have no choice,” she whispered next to his ear.
“Behind you, in the drawer, my pistol. Get it,” he murmured so softly that for a moment she thought she’d misheard him.
Desmond slapped his gloves against an open palm, the sound like a gunshot through the room. “Come now, I tire of waiting.”
Clara shuddered, her bare toes curling into the floorboards. What if she couldn’t reach the pistol in time? She closed her eyes briefly and prayed, prayed that just this once everything would work out the way it should. And then he touched her. Brendon took her hand, briefly squeezing her fingers in his.
She knew she had no choice but to try. Slowly, she lowered herself to the heels of her feet. Hidden behind Brendon’s wide shoulders, she took a brief moment to calm her harsh breathing. Reaching behind, she fumbled across the smooth tabletop until she felt the cool porcelain of a knob. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and slowly opened the drawer.
“And what will you do if she doesn’t leave?” Brendon mocked. “Shoot us?”
“If I have to. That’s completely up to you.”
Clara ignored their conversation, ignored the way her heart leapt at their words. The drawer squeaked open. She froze, cringing. But the opening was just large enough that she could slip her hand inside. Paper, pencils, an inkwell. She leaned back, fumbling further. Brendon crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers resting against his side, so close,
so temptingly close. “And you think the death of a famous artist will go unnoticed?”
“Famous?” Desmond chuckled. “You live in nothing more than a shack.”
Thank God she couldn’t see her fiancé’s face or she just might lose her nerve. He thought he had the upper hand, perhaps he did. Brendon’s fingers drummed against his side, his expression bored. “You shouldn’t judge by looks alone, you know.”
Where was that damn pistol? Frustrated, Clara shoved her hand right. Her fingertips hit cool metal. Relief sank into her gut. She wrapped her hand around the handle and pulled the pistol free. The weapon was smaller than she’d expected, the silver gun fitting in the palm of her hand.
“Really?” Desmond said. “Then please, you must tell me the names of your clients?”
“Well,” Brendon shifted, his legs braced apart as if preparing for battle. “I just recently worked a marble statue for Lord Clemmons.”
“Hmm,” Desmond replied, obviously not impressed.
“And then there is the statue I’m currently working on for the Queen.”
There was a moment’s silence. Stunned, Clara froze, the pistol pressed to her racing heart as she stared at the back of Brendon’s head. The Queen? He must be jesting, wasn’t he?
Desmond tsked, clicking his tongue in that annoying way of his. “Why do I find that highly unlikely.”
Brendon shrugged. “Perhaps I’m lying, but are you willing to risk it?” He wiggled his fingers, an unspoken plea to hand him the weapon.
“Here,” she whispered, pressing the small pistol into his palm.
“Yes,” Desmond said. “You know, I think I am willing to risk it.”
Brendon stiffened, it was her only indication that something was about to happen. He swung his arm forward, the weapon pointed directly at her fiancé. “They might not think twice about an artist being shot dead, but they will an earl.”