Who on earth—? The girl stopped uneasily on the lowest step, a beautiful doe-eyed vision, taking in Roddy’s expensive clothes and maid in one glance. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid you must have the wrong house.”
From somewhere out of the depths of shock, Roddy found her voice. “This is Pelham Cottage,” she said slowly. She stared into the other girl’s lovely dark eyes, and felt a rush of furious jealousy that was like nothing she had experienced over Liza Northfield. “Miss Ellen Webster?” she asked, in a voice that wanted to shake with rage.
The young woman stiffened. “Who are you?”
Very deliberately, Roddy said, “Faelan Savigar’s wife.”
The revelation had all the impact she could have wished. Miss Ellen Webster stood immobile, her mind unable to cope with the announcement. Wife, she thought in horror. Wife. Then her hand tightened on the banister. “You’re lying,” she hissed. “Leave here at once.”
Roddy eyed her coolly. “I think ’tis you who should leave. I’m afraid my hospitality doesn’t extend to tolerating Faelan’s mistresses.”
“Mistress!” Miss Ellen flew down the last step and grabbed Roddy’s arm. “I’m no more his mistress than you’re his wife! Get out, before he finds you here, or I shan’t answer for the consequences!”
Roddy pulled free of the other girl’s grasp. “Nor I,” she said.
Her coolness increased Miss Ellen’s panic. “Get out!” she cried, while her maid curled into a ball on the floor and sobbed harder. “Get out!”
Roddy laughed. Out of the searing pain of this new betrayal sprang a malicious mischief, a need to antagonize this girl with the lovely face and ugly thoughts. “Is he expected so soon? I’ll wait, then.”
She started for the stair.
“You can’t!” Ellen clutched at Roddy’s arm again. “He’s going to marry me!”
Roddy stopped.
Ellen’s mind was near hysteria. He’s coming, she was thinking wildly. His note—the money. He’ll come to me. Not her, not her—He’ll marry me—
Roddy whirled on the other girl. “You’ve had a note from Faelan?”
Ellen stood back, her lips pressed together in mulish silence that shouted Yes to Roddy.
“What did it say?”
Meet him. Money. Elope. “I’ve had no note,” Ellen snapped. “And I wouldn’t speak of it to you if I had. I want you out of this house, else I shall have you thrown out.”
Roddy stared at her, focusing her talent full on those delicate eyes. “What did the note say?”
Ellen set her full lip against speaking, but her mind couldn’t help reviewing the lines she had memorized in her joy. My Darling little girl, my love…fortune enough now for us to be happy together…whatever you wish shall be yours… Through Ellen’s eyes, Roddy saw the bold, familiar F.S. in signature. Happy together, Ellen thought again, with a hazy image of Faelan kissing her: a chaste, virgin’s kiss that was nothing like what Roddy knew of him. Happy together. And rich.
Roddy had fallen from a horse once, flat onto hard-packed ground. This was what it had felt like—her ears rang and she could not get her breath, could not think or feel or move. Martha took Roddy’s hand, murmuring words that made no sense to her. “Come away, mum, don’t pay that slut no nevermind.” It might have been spoken in words or might have been Martha’s thought. Roddy was too stunned to know the difference. She followed Martha in a numb silence, out the door of Pelham Cottage and down to where the groom still waited in helpless puzzlement, not even knowing what to do with the horses.
It was only when she was seated again in the phaeton that she remembered why she had come. She sat still a moment, feeling the smooth leather between her fingers and the light, restless tugs of the horses at their bits.
Damn him, she thought. Let him hang.
She was still in that mood three days later when he returned to Banain House.
She’d reasoned, in that time, that he was not actually planning to elope with Miss Ellen Webster. Perhaps Miss Ellen Webster had been led to believe so, but Roddy did not think Faelan was so stupid as to hope that Roddy’s father would stand by and allow his son-in-law to abandon his wife and still keep her money.
And it was the money Faelan needed.
Roddy had known that, but she seemed to keep forgetting it. She let him lead her on and cajole her, kept playing with him a game at which he was a master and she was a dupe.
The same as Miss Ellen Webster. Poor Miss Ellen Webster. Much as Roddy hated the girl, she would not have wished on her the ruin that Faelan must have in mind.
Even the dowager countess knew. She worried and fretted and thought of Ellen constantly. As constantly as Lady Iveragh thought of anything. She never seemed to get very far in her logic. Roddy avoided her mother-in-law to the point of rudeness, eating in her own room and spending hours in the garden, keeping her barriers firmly in place. At night she lay awake until she was certain Lady Iveragh had taken her medicine and lay in dreamless sleep.
By the time her husband returned, Roddy was exhausted. She’d been lying in bed, trying to stay awake and escape the dowager countess’ dreams by reading the most riveting book she could find in Faelan’s library. But Volume Three of Theory of the Earth; or, an Investigation of the Laws Observable in the Composition, Dissolution, and Restoration of Land upon the Globe did not help much to keep her from drifting into the countess’ nightmares and tumbling back. She jolted out of one to find the demonface turned tender and smiling as Faelan leaned over and touched her cheek.
“You’re up late, little girl,” he said softly, and eased the fallen book from her hands as he sat on the edge of the bed.
Roddy just looked at him. She felt her insides all knotted up and hurting, and knew nothing would come out of her mouth but a sob if she tried to speak.
He tilted his head. “You’ve been crying.”
It wasn’t true; she hadn’t been, but at his words the tears welled up and made his face go to a blur of shadow and candlelight.
“Roddy,” he said, and moved to take her in his arms.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried. “And don’t lie. Please don’t lie to me anymore!”
He sat still, watching her. She realized she was probing wildly with her talent, but there was nothing there to guide her.
After a moment, he said, “Tell me what’s happened.”
“You know. She must have told you!”
He frowned. “I’ve just returned. I’ve spoken to no one.”
Liar! her mind cried. I hate you! But she drew in a great, shuddering breath and spoke. “Geoffrey came. About the guns. I needed to find you, and I—I asked Minshall. He…told me about Pelham Cottage. So I went there. I went there, and I found…” She bit her lip, and said in a whisper, “Ellen Webster.”
He turned his head at the name. Just a little. Just enough for Roddy to be certain that it meant something.
“Ellen Webster,” he repeated softly. His lashes lowered, and he stared into the shadows, frowning faintly. “Darkhaired? And beautiful?”
“Very beautiful,” Roddy said. Her voice was harsh and crisp, but it broke a little on the last syllable.
“Yes. I remember her.”
“Remember her! Oh, God—” Roddy couldn’t contain a sob. “Faelan—”
He glanced at her sideways. For a moment she read nothing in his face. Then his eyes focused on empty space with the arrested intent of a man hearing distant music. Like a shadow the change came, the darkness she was growing to know too well. His lips curved upward a little, into the grim smile of one of Lady Iveragh’s dream-demons. When he looked at her again, his eyes were the blue of flames dancing deep in the hottest fire.
“Miss Webster. She was at this…Pelham House.” He stood up, a sudden, violent move that belied the controlled tautness in his voice. He moved from the bedside to the dressing table and stood, staring at himself in the mirror. “I suppose you found that I’ve had a lover’s correspondence with her, and
she was expecting me to carry her away.”
No regret. No remorse. “Do you think nothing of it?” Roddy cried. “To lie to me? To her? To ruin that poor girl, for your own…” Her lips twisted in disgust. “Did you enjoy her, Faelan? Have you told her the truth yet—that there’ll be no elopement and no wedding and no money? Or do you plan—”
“Roddy,” he said. “I warned you of this.”
She had opened her mouth to add more bitter words. At that, she closed it.
Yes. He had warned her. And she had not believed him.
She hid her face in her hands and moaned. It was as if something had died. Something had: all her faith, all her hopes. She had gambled and lost. The Faelan whom she loved did not exist. There was only this silent man who offered no justification or reason for what he had done, who only said, “I warned you.”
She moved suddenly, sliding off the bed without looking at him. Her bare feet hit cold wood, but she did not wait to find her slippers.
He caught her before she reached the door. His fingers dug cruelly into her arms, but the instant she jerked to a stop, his grip loosened. He held her, lightly but firmly, his chest not quite touching her back. “Little girl,” he said, in a ragged voice. “Don’t leave me now.”
She stood rigid, refusing to answer. Refusing even to acknowledge that he held her fast.
“I need you,” he whispered.
If he had tried to kiss her, tried to use the power that he had to make her body melt and burn, she could have resisted. She could have imagined him with Ellen Webster—a picture guaranteed to act like ice water on the fire. But he did not.
He only held her, with a faint, faint trembling in his fingers, and waited for her answer.
It’s all an act, her reason warned her.
And: He needs me, her heart replied.
Against all evidence, all sane judgment and common sense…the barely perceptible tremor in a man’s strong hands.
She did not give in to him. But neither did she pull away.
An eternity later, his touch slowly relaxed. She stood still as his palms slid upward, skimming her arms, outlining her shoulders, and then smoothing her hair. It was not a lover’s touch—it was more like a child’s: searching, memorizing, asking reassurance. I need you, that light, tentative contact said. I need you.
“They say I murdered my father,” he said. It was hardly a whisper.
Her knees felt they would buckle beneath her.
“Did you?”
His hands stopped their restless motion. “Roddy—” She waited. She could not even hear him breathing. When she turned, he was staring into nothing.
“Did you?” she repeated.
“I don’t remember.” He looked at her. “Roddy, I don’t remember.”
Chapter 11
“I’ve never heard of Pelham House,” Faelan said to the shadows on the far side of the room. “I’ve never written to Ellen Webster. But she was there. I don’t doubt she was there. Waiting for me.” His lips curved in the feral imitation of a smile. “You have a choice, you see. Your choice of a husband. A villain or a madman.”
Roddy kept silence. The bitterness was on him, as she had felt it once before on a high Yorkshire cliff above the sea. He turned away and walked to the window, yanked open the velvet curtains, and threw the sash wide.
“A full moon,” he sneered as the cold air poured inward. “Shall I howl?”
“Faelan—”
He gripped the curtains with an inhuman laugh. “Faelan! God, how fitting. Wolves do howl, don’t they? Wolves and lunatics.” He stood there, breathing harshly. Then he clasped his hands hard around his head and slid slowly to his knees, his fine, strong fingers white against the black of his hair. “Lunatics,” he whispered. “Oh, God…” He leaned on the sill. “I don’t remember. Roddy—I swear it, I swear—I don’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said: a stupid thing, because she knew nothing else to say. She only stood there, with the wind blowing her gown in soft billows around her.
He came to his feet in a sudden, lithe move and began a restless circuit of the room. His slanted look back toward her held watchfulness: the mingled distrust and hope of a half-wild animal, lost and hunted and longing for shelter. “It matters,” he said in a voice that was cracked. Driven. “After my father…” He paused, and then took a shuddering breath and spoke with unnatural calm. “After my father was killed, they sent me to England. My mother told Adam it was Iveragh. She said that place would drive anyone mad.” He gave a hollow chuckle. “Dear Mamá. She’s afraid of me. She hates being in the same house with me. I suppose she thinks I’ll push her over the stair rail some night in a frenzy.” The moonlight caught the blue glitter in his eyes. “I’ve thought of it, by God—watching them drain Iveragh dry. Like a pair of vampires.”
There was savagery in his voice, and a kind of challenge. See what I am, he seemed to be saying. I hate. I want to hurt the ones who’ve destroyed what I love.
“So they sent me to school,” he said—not to Roddy, but to the bed, the chairs, to anything that was not alive. “And things began to…happen. Animals. Beneath my window, in the morning—they’d find…” He stopped in front of the dressing table, looking at something dark and far away. After a long moment, he said roughly, “Mostly cats and hares.” He spread his fingers wide. “They’d pull us out of bed and line us up, all in our nightshirts and barefoot—and God, it was so cold. I was always last, I had to stand there while they went down the row…and they would come to me…they knew it…the way they looked at me…” He stared at his image in the mirror. “The others were all white. All clean. And they made me the last; they went down the whole row every time, even when I was standing there…all spotted with it—on my shirt and my hands…and they held up the animal, and they asked me…”
His voice trailed into silence. The night wind blew in the window, lifting the curtains and ruffling his hair.
“I always told them no,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t do that.” His mouth grew taut and dangerous, and with a move so swift that Roddy had no time to interpret it, he swung his fist in a backhanded arc and slammed it into his reflection.
The glass exploded in the silent room. Roddy jumped back, her eyes squeezed shut, and opened them an instant later to see him close his bleeding palm around the shards in his hand. “I didn’t do that,” he repeated in a strangled whisper. “I couldn’t have.”
Roddy moved. There was a panic in him, in the way he tightened his fingers until she was sure the glass must be driving jagged edges deep into his hand. He stood motionless, but she sensed a breaking point, a violence that threatened to erupt in far more than the destruction of a mirror. With the same instinct that had aided her in calming a stricken mare, she went to him and touched his shoulder, slid her hand through his hair, and drew him into her arms. He was stiff a moment, resisting, and then an instant later he leaned against her. The shards fell tinkling to the floor. He turned his face into her body with a rough, clinging move, as if to hide what she might see.
She waited, smoothing his hair down over the high, stiff fold of his neckcloth.
“I should have told you,” he said. His voice was peculiar and thick against the gown. “I tried to. But I just…wanted to go home. You were the only way left. When you looked at me—those eyes of yours—” He shifted, moving away from her, but not far enough to break her touch. “You’re so damned wild and lovely,” he said. “I just couldn’t let go. When I saw you with Cashel—” The name choked in his throat. “—that bloody whoremongering hero—my friend, the only one who’s stood at my back, knowing what I am…” His hand tightened around her hips. “I wanted to murder him for touching you. I wanted to put a bullet through his damned noble brain, and then—God—you came to me and said you didn’t want me…and, Roddy…I was afraid of what I might do. I didn’t sleep; I went off, as far as I could, and I never let myself sleep until I was sure that Cashel must be out of the country.”
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nbsp; He pushed her away and slid his fingers around her wrist, turning her palm upward and staring down at the bright smear of his blood on her skin. “I’ve loved three things I can remember. Iveragh and Geoff. You. If ever I hurt any one of them—” He closed his eyes, and with a gentle, terrible certainty, whispered, “In the name of God—I’ll kill myself.”
She gazed up at him, and realized something in that moment: how Geoffrey’s loyalty to Faelan was an ideal of the mind, of reason and philosophy, while Faelan counted his honor in more primitive terms. In lifeblood and love. No elevated sentiments. Just a quiet, deadly promise: If I fail you…
Madness. It had a horrible, improbable logic. It explained a score of things. But the shock of his admission blunted feeling or response. Once before, she had felt this way—long ago when a favorite dog had died. Dry. Emotionless. Unable to accept the reality when she had seen the beloved brown eyes close forever. Instead of the weeping hysteria it seemed she ought to feel, she found that a brisk, numb practicality directed her movements and her words.
“Sit down,” she said. “Of course you’d never hurt me. ’Tis you who’re hurt.” She lifted his bleeding hand and reached for one of the towels that hung beside the dressing table, wrapping the cloth firmly around his wounded palm. With the other towel, she brushed broken glass from the needlepoint bench-cushion, pushing the wicked shards onto the floor as if they were so much insignificant dust.
She looked up into his eyes and splayed her hand on his chest, exerting just the slightest pressure to urge him onto the bench. For a moment, she thought he would resist. His face was tight and strange. Beneath her palm, his chest rose, making her vividly aware of the leashed power under her hand.
He held her gaze an infinite moment, a battle of wills that Roddy was afraid to lose. She summoned concentration, put all the force of her mind and heart behind her talent. It was a look that would have penetrated fathoms deep in any mind but his.