Forbidden Fire (10 page)

His lip curled, but he was neither amused nor pleased with her recitation. “My dear Mrs. Tremayne, but you've got a quick and dangerous tongue!”

“I'm repeating what I've heard,” she said tartly.

“I didn't come here to fight with you,” he said easily enough. With a lazy stride, though, he was moving toward her. “However, madam, I do find it tempting to remember my deep and solemn vow of guardianship and see to the mending of your reckless ways.”

“Oh! And what did you intend?” Marissa gasped, but she thought it wise to move quickly, even while challenging him.

“Oh, something mild. A sound thrashing, perhaps.”

“You most certainly can't be serious!” she assured him.

“Can't I?” he demanded. His arm snaked out and his fingers wound around her wrists, and she suddenly found herself drawn tight against him. He was taunting her, she knew, but he was also tense with anger. “Take care, Marissa, for you do not know me at all. I do not always know myself. Take this morning. I certainly had not intended to wed, and you began to speak and I found myself engaged in the deed.”

“You said—”

“I said that it was my fault, most assuredly. For no man can be so twisted and manipulated unless he allows it to be so. But I will not be twisted or manipulated any longer. Still, I did not mean to tell you that.”

“Please,” she murmured suddenly, twisting her wrists in his grasp. She could not bear to be so close to him; she had discovered that this morning. Warmth seemed to leap and sizzle from his body into her own, and she felt too keenly the form and shape and strength of his body. And she felt the rivers of warmth that invaded her, entering her blood, her limbs. The racing fires left her weak and uncertain, wanting to escape, wanting to fling her arms around his neck so she could continue to stand.

“Marissa, I wanted only to tell you that you would find the city beautiful, and my house an easy one to dwell within. You may take the later ship, as I have told you. It will be an easy enough life for you, I daresay. Leave me to my peace and remember I cherish my name and would harshly revenge the misuse of it, and we may get on better than most.”

Her head fell back as she ceased to struggle. She was suddenly caught by the deep blue command of his eyes, and she could fight no more. Nor could she speak.

And he fell silent, too. He was gazing into her eyes. She did not fight him, but neither did he let her go.

Then suddenly he released her, turning away. “I shall see you again directly before I leave. I'm taking the
Princess of the Seas
the day after tomorrow. I shall have all your necessary travel papers and instructions on how to reach San Francisco prepared for you. Oh,” he added. “And for your friends, of course.”

She nodded. Now he was brisk and cool once again, all business. He reached the door, and suddenly she found herself moving after him. “Mr. Tremayne!” She hesitated as he turned. “Ian,” she said softly.

“Yes?”

“I—I didn't thank you.”

“For what?”

“For Mary and Jimmy. For accepting them so cordially. For—for giving him a job.”

He shrugged. “He seems a likeable enough lad. And he's wed himself a true lady. I'd not make your life a living hell, madam, no matter what your beliefs on the matter.”

He turned and started to leave again.

“Ian!”

She was startled when she called him back a second time. He held the doorknob somewhat impatiently and awaited her words.

His given name still felt so strange upon her tongue, she was amazed that it had slipped from her lips so easily.

“I—I do not wish to make your life miserable, either, sir.”

She thought that she detected a hint of a smile just barely curving his mouth. “Well, thank you for that,” he told her. “Good night.”

He left for good this time, closing the door firmly behind him.

She did not call him back.

She leaned against the door and closed her eyes, thinking that she had survived the day.

And then she remembered that she had married him. Legally married him.

She remembered his kiss, and her fingers brushed over her lips. She felt a swift, searing warmth sweep along her spine.

She tried to close her mind to the memory, to the feel of his hands upon her, to the power within them. He could be very kind …

But he also had a sharp and mercurial temper.

And she had lied to him. She had more than lied to him. She had played a monstrous pretense upon him.

If he ever discovered the deception …

She didn't dare dwell upon the thought. She pushed away from the door with resolution and poured herself a very small sherry, sat down and began to daydream of the trip to see Uncle Theo, when she could tell him that he would never have to step foot inside a mine again.

It was all going to be worth it. Everything. She could do so very much. She had succeeded in the charade. She had learned her lessons well. Everyone was going to be so very happy.

She swallowed more sherry.

If that was the case, then why did she see visions of his searing blue gaze upon her every time she closed her eyes?

And why did she remember so constantly the feel of his hands, the warmth of his touch …

And tremble?

Chapter Five

T
he London fog was rolling in, but it didn't disturb Ian. He was accustomed to fog, and he loved it. A lot of London reminded him of home—the sight of an expanse of bridge, the swirl of the mist and the coolness of the night against his face.

He had met with a Scottish wool merchant for dinner, and had chosen to walk to the boardinghouse rather than take a hansom cab. He was enjoying himself. There was a great deal of beauty and elegance here in the heart of the city. He paused before a new house going up and critically studied its lines. It would be a beautiful home.

He frowned then, thinking of the postponed meetings he was going to have to reschedule when he returned home. He'd been hired to design an office building. The site was to be upon some of the newly reclaimed land in the marina area, and he was having a hell of time convincing the owners that if they chose to build there, their costs would go up. He felt uneasy about building on the land—it was all fill. Deep pilings would be necessary, and a great deal of steel. And it would also have to be a building capable of sway. Tremors often swept the city, and a certain amount of sway was necessary to keep the structures from cracking. He had been watching buildings go up ever since he was a boy. And he had known even then that more than anything else in the world, he wanted to build. And he had hated the store for standing in the way of that dream.

It was late, he realized, really late. He started to walk in the direction of Hyde Park, and as the moon flared its soft light upon him to join with the glow of the gas lamps, he suddenly raised his hand to note the thin white band around his pinkie where he had removed the signet ring in the middle of his wedding ceremony.

He stopped cold, feeling ill, feeling a heat sweep over him. For what seemed like the thousandth time that day he demanded harshly of himself just what in hell he had done.

And why, in God's name, had he done it?

He paused and leaned against a fence and closed his eyes tightly. He had vowed on the day when he had stood in the drizzling cemetery and watched as Diana's coffin was sealed into the family mausoleum that he would never marry again, never call another woman his wife. They had loved one another too deeply, too fiercely. She had been the most gentle woman he had ever met, so gentle that she had left life behind her with barely a whisper.

It had been a long time before he had managed to touch another woman, and then, perhaps, he had managed to rationalize things in his mind. It was all right to find women entertaining and amusing, and it was even all right to form certain relationships, as long as they were kept in their proper perspective. As long as the women were never his wife, as long as he need never rouse himself to offer love.

And he had been managing just fine.…

Now there was this chit of a girl in his life. He had accepted the responsibility that Sir Thomas had begged of him, but he had never expected this.

His mouth set in a grim line of anger. She wanted her inheritance enough to beg and plead. She had sold herself, just as surely as the finest courtesan in London or the most jaded street girl in San Francisco. She'd used logic, indignation, a touch of pathos and even fury, and somehow, she had sparked something dark and dangerous in his heart. He had said no, he had meant no. And then suddenly he had been out pounding the streets in a state of total dishabille, digging up the Honorable Mr. Blackstone—

And exchanging wedding vows.

What was it that she did that could cause him to feel such a passion of fury in his heart and soul? He didn't want to hurt her. By God, she was Sir Thomas's daughter.

No, he didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to be near her. He had just wanted to go on living, allowing her to roam his house and giving her the freedom of her own life. And she, in turn, should have politely avoided him, stayed out of his way, and behaved graciously and kindly to guests within his home. It could have worked.

But he'd lost his temper and married her …

He pushed away from the fence, still furious with himself as he strode down the street, heading for his room.

He hated her, suddenly and intensely, and what she had goaded him into doing.

He paused again, inhaling, exhaling. No, he didn't hate the girl. He hated his reaction to her. He hated the curiosity she drew from him when he looked into her eyes. She could appear so haunted. As if she was desperate to reach out and grasp things, and hold them tightly, simply because they had always eluded her.

She could have a look about her, as if she had witnessed serious nightmares.

She had just lost her father, he reminded himself. And yet there was more. She could be regal and supreme, she could speak with a voice that rang cool and imperious, and yet, caught unaware, there could be that beautiful and haunting appeal in her eyes. Those cat's eyes, green cat's eyes, proud, spirited, beguiling.

His wife, he reminded himself, and tasted the bitterness on his tongue.

At least she was beautiful. Maybe she had a point. She would be an asset to his home and to his business. He imagined that she could throw an elegant dinner party, and wear mink or silver fox to the opera with panache.

It could be a bargain well met.

And along with her came that young Jimmy O'Brien. Ian was impressed with the lad. Oh, he was raw, but his eyes held honesty, and he was earnest. And he was seeking the American dream, something that Ian believed in deeply. No kings, no queens, no royalty. Just a tough but beautiful land where hard work and ambition and dreams could be realized. O'Brien could be trusted, he felt.

And O'Brien could save Ian a great deal of time. Ian knew he could have sold the emporium, but it would have seemed like a betrayal. His father and grandfather had loved the store.

And if Diana had survived, and their child had been born, perhaps his own son or daughter would have loved the merchandising business, too.

But now there would be no children, no heirs, ever, he promised himself. He could sell the bloody business.

But he would not.

He had returned to his lodgings, and he quietly let himself in the front door of the boardinghouse.

Just as he reached his room on the second floor, he heard a sound and looked down the stairs. A woman was standing there. A tall, handsome blonde with a full figure and proud carriage. She was dressed in red silk with a matching feather-ornamented hat. Her name was Molly, and she played the piano and sang at the Gray Friars, a pub down the street. She could be elegant, and she could be discreet, and he had shared a pint or two with her during trips to London. He had even mentioned vaguely that he might see her when he had first arrived two nights ago.

She smiled slowly, and he was tempted to call her up. But before he could open his mouth, he felt as if he were suddenly blinded by a pair of flashing green eyes. He could hear Marissa's voice, painfully scornful and dignified despite the very sweetness of her tone, as good as telling him that he was welcome to his harlots and his whores and his dance-hall girls.

Desire seemed to surge within him, along with a sizzling of fury. But when he looked at the tall, handsome blonde he felt only weariness.

“Good evening, Molly,” he called to her.

“Mr. Tremayne!” she murmured.

Ian knew she expected more, but he merely said, “Good night, Molly,” and entered his room.

He sat at his desk. He had spent last night with the brandy bottle to warm him. It seemed that tonight he would do the same. And he would drink until he could drown out the sight of those haunting emerald eyes.

His wife's eyes.

He groaned and took a long, long swallow of the burning liquor.

Then he leaned his head back and prayed for a decent night's sleep.

At two-thirty the following afternoon Marissa stood before the altar at Saint John's to witness Mary's and Jimmy's wedding.

They had both come to the hotel not long after dark the previous night, blushing, happy, so blissful that they appeared to be a pair of fools. And they had announced their wedding to Marissa. Apparently Jimmy had seen a minister the moment they'd come to London. The banns had already been called.

Marissa had been startled and hurt that they had kept it a secret from her, but then she realized that Mary had not wanted her to know, had not wanted Marissa to feel that added pressure.

Jimmy and Mary both hugged her fiercely, thanked her again—and then assured her that they both thought the very world of Ian Tremayne.

Marissa said tartly that that was quite nice, since Mary really should have been the one married to the man, but they were so very happy that she couldn't put a damper on their tremendous enthusiasm.