Wicked Nights with a Lover Page 19

  And that’s when she saw him.

  Ash, riding hell-bent down the middle of the street for her. He held her transfixed, a prisoner of his black-eyed gaze. A chill rippled over her. She had never seen him look quite like this. Not even when he chased her down in that field. Satan himself couldn’t look so wicked.

  Dear heavens, how would she explain her presence here, outside Madame Foster’s shop? She sent a guilty glance over her shoulder, eyeing the narrow shop squeezed between two buildings, its crude wood sign swinging over the door.

  He’d think her mad if she confessed the truth to him. Declaring everything to the understanding Grier was one thing, but her jaded, rough-edged husband was another. Even worse, what if he truly believed her? Could she abide to see pity, perhaps even fear, in his gaze when he looked at her? She shuddered. Absolutely not.

  She couldn’t tell him the truth.

  He was closer now. She could see the light glittering off his dark pupils. The hard press of his mouth. The tiny tick near the corner of his eye. The stark whiteness of his crescent-shaped scar.

  Her breath froze, her heart stilling at the cold fury in his face. He knew. Of course. How else did he come to be here? Grier had told him. She had told him everything.

  Dread sank in her belly, as heavy as stone. Her heart wasn’t the only thing frozen. Her legs were locked immobile. Her feet didn’t move, didn’t budge, had become great leaden weights where she stood. She opened her mouth, but no words fell. She didn’t know what to say that could make him understand … to make any of this seem less absurd.

  Then his face changed. Altered in a flash. Became something terrible and fierce. Harsh-cut lines, his mouth open, gaping.

  “Marguerite!” Her name tore through the misty air, a horrible broken sound. He wasn’t looking at her, but somewhere beyond her.

  She turned.

  It seemed she moved slowly, but she was sure she did not. She was sure she whipped her head around on her shoulders swiftly—in perfect time to see the phaeton bearing down on her.

  A thought skittered across her mind, irrational, dim.

  Not a carriage. It was a phaeton.

  Madame Foster had been wrong about that.

  The phaeton’s driver was laughing, his ruddy, jovial face turned on his companion beside him. Glancing ahead, he saw her. His eyes flew wide and he jerked on the reins with both hands, dropping a bottle from one hand. It seemed to bounce, skip in the air, its amber contents spraying out into the rain.

  Rain. It had begun to rain some time during the last few moments. The pound of rainfall filled the air, like the steady distant roar of a faraway beast. Only it wasn’t far. It was on top of her, soaking her to the bone.

  The driver fought to bring the speeding horses under control. Their eyes rolled wildly in their heads. They screamed, clawing air with their hooves high above her.

  Bile rose high in her throat. She lunged to the side. Her heel caught. She fell, splashed in a puddle with a jar hard enough to rattle her teeth.

  Wet, cold, covered in mud—Marguerite suddenly felt removed from everything, outside herself looking in.

  She threw her hands before her in a feeble effort to protect herself, scooting backward, using a rut for leverage. Hooves crashed down beside her, shaking the ground, vibrating up her body. She rolled, shrank away, trying to avoid those glinting hooves dancing violently around her, crashing in every direction.

  She cried out when one hoof grazed her shoulder. She didn’t have time to recover from the pain before she was struck again. Agony exploded in the side of her head. Darkness sucked her down, pulling her in, under …

  Then there were hands. On her, over her. Beneath her arms, hauling her from the tangled fray of horseflesh and cutting hooves. She blinked past the black, emerging through the gray and breaking into misty-hued reality.

  Voices clamored around her, congesting the air and adding to the buzzing pain in her head. An incessant clacking noise filled her ears—her chattering teeth, she realized. The more she tried to still her jaw, the harder her teeth chattered.

  “Marguerite, can you hear me?”

  She winced. “I’d hear you in China,” she muttered, her speech slurred.

  She tried to touch her head where it throbbed, but she couldn’t. The effort to lift her arm was too great.

  The rain had abated to a slow, freezing drizzle that penetrated her clothes, sank into her with a bone-deep chill so cold it burned.

  “Marguerite!” Ash loomed above her, the sound of her name an angry bite on the air.

  She lifted her head sharply, pain hissing past her teeth. She fought it, swallowed down the discomfort, the bile that rose up in her throat as she glanced down at herself. Cold and shaking on the ground. Wet. Muddy.

  Just as Madame Foster predicted.

  “Marguerite? Do you know where you are?”

  “I haven’t had the sense knocked out of me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, just trampled by horses,” he replied dryly.

  “You’d think you’d sound a bit happier and not so cross with me. I’m not dead,” she snapped. And she realized with a start that she wasn’t. She wasn’t dead.

  A jolt of energy shot through her. She forced one elbow down in the cold sludge, propping herself up. Ash quickly moved to help her. Sliding an arm beneath her, he pulled her to her feet. When her legs gave out, he swept her up into his arms, his face stark, a tangled blend of concern and anger.

  “I’m fine,” she said with a breathy gasp. Better than fine. She was wonderful, even with her body battered and broken and aching. She was alive … and going to stay that way for a good while.

  He adjusted her in his arms, his movements gentle. “We’ll see about that.”

  He strode toward the hack, his every step jarring, shooting pain through her body, but even that could not stop the smile from curving her lips. Her fingers smoothed over his shoulder, relishing the strength there, the rippling power beneath the fine fabric of his greatcoat. At their approach, the driver scurried to attach Ash’s mount to the back of his conveyance.

  Calling out directions to the driver, Ash settled and arranged her on the squabs like she was an invalid he must treat with care for fear of breaking. Missing his arms around her—the strength and comfort—and loathing the way his dark eyes skimmed over her, like she was something broken, she straightened on the seat, inadvertently bumping her tender head into the carriage wall. A cry slipped past her lips.

  She could cope with his anger, preferred it even. Let him be mad. His solicitous pity she could do without.

  He didn’t miss the sound. With a curse, he glared back over his shoulder as if he would vault from the hack. “I’ve a mind to take a whip to that bloody driver. Was he blind—?”

  She reached for his hand. “But I need you here. With me.”

  He dragged his gaze back to her. “You could have gotten yourself killed,” he growled.

  “But I didn’t,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “I won’t.”

  He looked at her intently, his gaze drifting from her face, scanning the length of her shivering body. She could well surmise his thoughts. He was thinking about why she’d come here … wondering if she might not have been correct to believe the predictions of a diviner.

  “It’s over,” she said, happy relief swelling her chest. For nothing else mattered. It was over and they could be together without fear of tomorrow.

  He shook his head, clearly not understanding.

  She clasped his warm hand, not realizing until that moment how cold she was, her fingers wet icicles. “You know why I came here …”

  He nodded tightly, his dark eyes intense, accusing. The hard cut of his lips sent an uneasy trickle down her back. “Madame Foster, yes, I know. Grier told me.”

  “Madame Foster saw me like this.” Marguerite waved a hand over her body. “In the rain, covered in mud.” Her words rushed loose in a babble. He had to see, had to believe … “There was a carriage,
and rain and thunder and then you over me.” She gestured between them for emphasis. “This. This is what she saw happening. She didn’t read the situation correctly. She thought I died. Don’t you see? It’s happened. And I’m still alive.”

  Ash dragged a hand through his hair, pulling at the long ends. “If I’m inclined to believe some fortune-teller—”

  “I didn’t believe her at first either, but everything she says always comes to pass.”

  “So,” he said slowly, air exhaling from his nose as though he was grappling for control. “You think this woman can truly see into the future? That she foresaw what happened just now—” he cut himself off, his beautifully carved lips twisting.

  “You have to admit it’s more than coincidence. How else could she relate so many details?” She nodded, then stopped, hissing at the fresh pain it produced in her head. She pressed a trembling hand there, fingering the goose egg.

  He scooted closer, removing her hand and gently testing the knot with his warm fingers, his voice distracted as he muttered, “I only care that you no longer believe you are going to die.”

  Disappointment surged through her. “You think I’m mad then. That I can’t be right about this?”

  “Sweetheart, I’ll believe anything you want right now.”

  “I am not a little girl with fanciful notions that must be indulged.” Bristling, she glared up at him through her lashes. “I’m not daft, Ash. I’m quite serious—”

  “I know you are,” he snapped, “as much as I’d like to pretend otherwise. I can’t fathom why you’ve let some charlatan’s tales guide you in your dealings with me, Marguerite. I credited you with far more sense.”

  She sucked in a breath, glaring at him, unaccountably hurt. “I’m not foolish,” she whispered, her voice low and wounded. “And you needn’t scold me like a child. I’m full-grown.”

  He rubbed a hand over his forehead, looking suddenly weary, but still angry. She marked that at once in the flexing of his jaw. As though he ground his teeth together to cling to his composure.

  “I don’t want to argue with you. I’m still trying to rid my head of the image of you falling beneath those horses …” His voice faded and he sighed deeply, raggedly, pausing as if words were elusive, beyond him.

  Her chest felt tight and prickly, watching him.

  She’d never seen him so … affected. He swallowed, his throat working. “When I thought I lost you … I don’t want to ever feel that way again,” he said thickly.

  Is that what worried him? She reached for his cheek, hoping to reassure him. He turned his face away and her fingers only grazed his jaw. “You won’t. I promise.”

  He busied himself removing his greatcoat and draping it over her shivering form, and in that moment, in that carriage with him, it didn’t matter that he was unable to look her in the eyes, that his face looked carved from granite, that a foreboding quiet hung about him. She told herself it was just because he cared about her. Perhaps he even loved her.

  He just didn’t know it. Yet.

  Chapter 23

  He was a bloody fool.

  All this time he’d thought his parents’ marriage would be the worst fate imaginable. The type of marriage where love soured and turned twisted, descending into a state of constant hostility. The kind of poisonous union that had killed his sister and left him scavenging the streets of St. Giles at an early age.

  But even worse than that fate, there loomed another.

  Loving and then losing someone to death … well, that was a pain he wouldn’t face. Not if he could help it.

  And he could.

  Evidently, falling in love was not something one chose, but embracing that love was. As the choice

  was his, he chose not to embrace what he felt for Marguerite. He knew it would hurt to let her go. Just the thought made his throat squeeze. Yet nothing could hurt him as much as those moments when he watched Marguerite fall beneath slashing hooves.

  He’d miss her, long for the yielding heat of her in his bed, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, but the ache would ebb. Eventually, he’d grow numb. Perhaps even forget her. His chest clenched suddenly at that thought.

  Marguerite slept, snoring lightly beside him. She’d scarcely moved since nodding off after the physician Ash had called for examined her and treated her with a small dose of laudanum.

  Lying beside her on the bed, he trailed his hand through the cascade of her ink-black hair. Rubbing the tendrils between his fingers, he watched her, memorized every delicate line of her heart-shaped face until a faint blue-gray of dawn tinged the air, seeping into the room beneath the damask drapes.

  He knew she believed the risk to herself over, but he didn’t believe in fortune-tellers. He didn’t believe that one’s fate was decided in the dregs left in a teacup. One’s fate could not be foreseen. He brushed an ebony strand off her forehead, wincing at the sight of the nasty scrape edging her hairline, so stark against her fair skin. Life was dangerous, full of loss and pain. A diviner didn’t need to tell him that.

  He’d died inside when those horses reared over Marguerite. The sound of her cries ripped through him, playing through his head still. He doubted he could ever close his eyes and not hear her screams … not live in a state of constant unease that he would one day suffer that again. Only worse because the next time she might not survive.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, marveling at how entangled he’d become with her in so short a time. The slow clatter of carriage wheels sounded below.

  Lowering her hand back to the bed, he rose and moved toward the window. He recognized Jack’s carriage. A groom helped two women. He recognized Grier at the lead. The other one—smaller and younger—was vaguely familiar from the night he’d stormed Jack’s house looking for Marguerite. He slipped quietly from the room, sparing one last glance at Marguerite, still sleeping soundly.

  He met the women as they entered the foyer.

  Grier fixed her steel-eyed gaze on him. “We came as soon as we heard.”

  Ash snorted. “Indeed. Ash Courtland rescuing a woman from beneath a carriage. I’m certain it was all over St. Giles.”

  “Jack wouldn’t permit us to call on you last night,” Grier complained. “He made plans for us to attend the opera with the Duke of Colbourne. Bloody ass,” she muttered.

  Ash wasn’t certain she referred to her father or the duke, but he didn’t inquire. “Marguerite is resting,” he informed them. “The doctor assured me she’ll be fine.”

  “Madame Foster was right then,” Grier said.

  He angled his head dangerously at Grier. “Not you, too,” he warned.

  “Come now. Don’t you find it a coincidence—”

  “Yes,” he snapped, cutting her off. She sounded too much like Marguerite. “A coincidence. Nothing more.”

  “Cheerful fellow, aren’t you?” Grier asked with a wry twist of her lips.

  He swept his gaze over the pair of them. “You’re welcome to wait in the drawing room, but it could be a while.”

  “We would not wish to overwhelm Marguerite the moment she wakes,” the sister who had yet to speak murmured. “We’ll call again when she’s better. Please let her know we were here.”

  “You may not find her here,” he announced.

  Grier blinked. “You’ve just arrived in Town and you’re departing again?”

  “I’ve an estate outside Town that I’ve paid little mind over the years. The place needs a proper mistress to care for it—”

  “You’re moving then—”

  “No. I’m staying. I still have the gaming hells to oversee here. God knows your father won’t see to their operation.”

  “But you’re dumping her in the country?” The younger sister crossed her arms over her chest, dragging them back to the subject of Marguerite. The very subject he wished to avoid.

  He stared at the two females. They’d only just met Marguerite, but they behaved like the fiercest of protectors. “It would seem th
e safest place for her. She’ll enjoy it there, away from the dreary City.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Grier held up a hand in supplication. “You said you love her.”

  “That bears no significance,” he snapped, his face heating with the reminder of his confession. “This is the best thing for Marguerite.”

  Grier shook her head. “Marguerite is asleep. I wager she has no notion you’ve made this decision for her. Why don’t you ask her when she wakes if she wants to be discarded—”

  “Because I know what she wants!” he shouted, tossing his arms wide. “And I can’t give her that. I won’t go through yesterday all over again. I can’t.”

  The sisters looked alike in that moment. With brown eyes similar to Jack’s, they gawked at him in wide-eyed wonder.

  Grier looked him up and down with ill-concealed disgust and sneered, “Coward.”

  “You know nothing of me,” he spat. “Or Marguerite for that matter. Sharing blood doesn’t make you an instant family, it doesn’t make love just magically emerge.” He swept his hand toward them in an angry wave.

  The young one spoke quietly. “You’re absolutely right.” She stepped forward, undaunted by his glare or that he towered over her. “Love is something that doesn’t happen instantly or easily. But for whatever reason it’s happened between you and Marguerite. And you’re a fool to throw it away.” With a slow exhale, she swept Grier a glance. “I’ll wait in the carriage.”

  Feeling as though she’d taken her reticule and beaten him about the head with it, Ash watched the female he had dismissed as unassuming take her leave. With a weak smile that looked damnably close to pity, Grier followed her.

  Ash stared at the door for some moments with a scowl on his face before marching away to his study to write a missive for his housekeeper in the country, informing her of his wife’s impending arrival.

  “What do you mean I’m going to spend some time in the country? By myself?” Marguerite lowered her fork to her plate, the breakfast she had thus far consumed suddenly rebelling in her stomach. The rasher of bacon that she had so looked forward to sinking her teeth into no longer looked appetizing.