Forbidden Fire (5 page)

“You will be provided with a home, and I shall, of course, do my best to see to your needs.”

“I don't want your charity!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear God!” she murmured suddenly, and sank back to the settee. That she had even tried to be decent to this man when everything was a disaster! She looked up at him sharply. “We must break the will!”

“There is no way to break the will, I assure you,” he said calmly. “The squire was entirely of his right mind throughout his entire life.”

“How could he have done such a thing!” Marissa whispered.

Ian Tremayne sighed, and she thought that he was very carefully swallowing his impatience and irritation. He came to the settee and sat beside her. He took her hands in his and for one wild moment she wanted desperately to snatch her fingers free. There was so much power in his touch, so much heat. And he was close beside her, his knees touching hers, his breath once again fanning her face with warmth, his eyes seeming to blaze through her and read her heart. Could he see the deception there?

Did it matter anymore?

“I believe, Katherine, that your father thought you were involved with a rather inappropriate young man. He was worried about you. He felt that your health was weak, that you might destroy your own life.”

“He knew!” she gasped, and then she colored, because he was staring at her again, and she realized that he thought
she
had been involved in an affair with an inappropriate man.

Well, it wasn't her, and Jimmy was far from inappropriate! Fury filled her because she was quite certain that he was condemning her with his dark blue gaze.

He dropped her hands and stood. “Yes,” he said wryly, “I believe he knew something. Is your affair over?”

Her cheeks flamed once again. It was none of this man's business.

Well, at least she could tell the truth.

“That is none of your business whatsoever, Mr. Tremayne.”

“If not now, Miss Ahearn, it will certainly be so once we travel to the States.”

She didn't respond, but sat stiffly. “I don't believe that we shall be doing so now,” she said at last.

“I beg your pardon, Katherine?”

“Marissa,” she said. She smiled tightly. “It is Katherine, initial M, Mr. Tremayne, and I am known as Marissa.”

“Marissa,” he murmured. She was surprised at the soft way her name whirled upon his tongue.

“There is no reason for me to come with you,” she said wearily.

“There is every reason for you to do so. I am your guardian. And I command it.”

She looked at him with a certain amusement. “And do you intend to shackle me to your side, Mr. Tremayne? To pull me across the ocean in chains?”

“Trust me,” he said pleasantly. “I shall see to it that you come, one way or another. It seems ever more important that I attend to your father's trust in me.”

“I cannot go!” she whispered almost desperately.

Once again, he spoke gently. “It will not be so bad. As I have told you, I am scarcely about. I've my own past to live with, and I am not a man anxious for company. I will see to your needs—”

She was on her feet once again. “How could you ever agree to such a setup!” she demanded furiously.

She heard the sharp intake of his breath and saw the angry narrowing of his eyes. “I agreed to take on a guardianship. I knew nothing of the stipulations of the will. Yet I have told you—”

“You agreed to a betrothal.”

“Yes, I did, for your father seemed desperate. But he knew that I had no intent of marrying again, that I wanted nothing to do with a new wife. Perhaps that was why the stipulation. He assumed you would be quite safe in my care until you reached your own maturity. And as I have said, it is inconsequential. I can provide—”

“But you cannot provide!” she interrupted him on a husky note, and then she fell silent as his sharp gaze queried her. She could not tell him that she didn't want to accept his charity with one breath and then inform him with the next that she was afraid his charity would not be sufficient to cover her needs.

What in God's name was she going to do? It seemed they were all doomed. Even playing this elaborate pretense had not altered their situation.

“Miss Ahearn,” he said, suddenly very impatient, “I am afraid that I am tiring of hearing what you can and cannot do. I have stated the facts to you and they are what they are. Dear Lord, but this could have been easy, and here I am bickering with a whining child—”

“I have never, never whined in my entire life!” Marissa spat out, her hands clenched at her side. And then she realized how close she had moved to him, and felt again the sizzling heat that seemed to emanate from the man. She saw the furious tick of his pulse against the hard cords of his throat and felt the cobalt blaze of his eyes hard upon her. She wanted to back away. She dared not show such a sign of defeat, and yet she wished desperately that she had managed to handle things with more cool dignity and much less drama and passion.

“Nor,” she said softly, “am I a child.”

“Well, we shall see, won't we?” he asked her quietly. “I pray that you are right.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean, sir?” she demanded coolly.

“It means that you are exasperating me beyond all sensible bounds, young woman. I have business in the city. And at this moment I'm afraid I need to bind you to my side as I go about it, for my fears concerning you—Sir Thomas's fears—seem quite justified.”

She realized suddenly that he was serious, that he seemed to think she might be ready to run off with the lover she had seemed to admit that she had. She shook her head vehemently.

“You need fear nothing concerning me.”

“Needn't I?” He walked around her once again, and she felt his eyes surveying her as he did so. “What guarantees do I have that you will not run the moment my back is turned?”

“There is no guarantee,” she said softly, uneasily, whirling to face him. Then she smiled bitterly. “Truly, I have nowhere left to run.”

“Make things difficult for me, Miss Ahearn,” he said in a tone so soft it might have been gentle, “and I swear, I shall hunt you down. I've neither the time nor the inclination for this, and if you force my hand, I swear that it can be a ruthless one.”

“Of that I've no doubt,” Marissa murmured.

“Good,” he said after a moment, “then we are understood.” He headed for the door and paused before opening it. “I will be back tomorrow evening. We will finalize our plans then.”

He did not say goodbye. He exited, closing the door firmly behind him.

Seconds later Marissa heard Mary's cry of anguish coming from the bedroom, then her friend rushed out, pale, nearly hysterical.

“Oh, Marissa! What shall we do now? There is nothing left to do. Dear Lord, I must find Jimmy! I must marry him immediately before he finds out! I don't care about the future, oh, I swear! I can live anywhere, I can do anything. I can find a position as a governess. That would not be too taxing upon my health. I will live in a cottage or a hovel or a one-room flat, I will scrub it, I will—”

“Die in it, most likely,” Marissa said bluntly, wearily. “Mary, stop. Take hold of yourself. You are barely over your last bout of fever. You are talking nonsense, and Jimmy loves you far too much to allow it.”

“I won't let him know!” Mary cried passionately, her warm brown eyes glistening with the hint of tears. “I love him, Marissa! There is nothing else to do!”

“Mary, listen to me! Your health—”

“No, Marissa, you listen to me!”

“You've lost touch with the realities of life—”

“No, Marissa, you have! Life cheated you when you were a child, so now you would cheat it. You truly don't understand what it is to love someone. Oh, Marissa! I would rather have one moment of ecstasy with Jimmy than a lifetime of mediocrity with any other man. Oh, don't you see that!”

Mary sank down on the settee facing Marissa. The tears streamed down her face. “There is nothing left, nothing left at all!” she said.

Marissa found herself patting Mary's shoulder as her friend sobbed.

“We've lost,” Mary groaned. “We've lost everything.” Then she added passionately, “I hate my father, oh, God, I hate my father!”

“Mary, hush! The squire is dead, and you loved him dearly.”

“I might as well be dead.”

“Don't say that!”

“It's true.”

“No, no, there is a way out of this, I know it,” Marissa assured her. But Mary was so desolate that Marissa sought desperately for some further words of encouragement. “We must call the solicitors again in the morning. I'm sure Tremayne must be wrong about this allowance stipulation.”

“Father knew about Jimmy!” Mary whispered. “And he had no faith in me!”

“Let's have a sherry, shall we?” Marissa said. “And we'll work on this in the morning.”

It took her some time, but she coaxed Mary into taking a drink, and then into bed. Late that night the proprietress of the hotel tapped on the door to say that there was a phone call for Miss Katherine Ahearn downstairs.

Marissa checked to see that Mary slept peacefully, then she hurriedly descended the stairs to reach the establishment's single phone. The connection was very bad, but at length Marissa heard Jimmy's voice.

And she lied. She told him that things were fine, she had met Tremayne. She told Jimmy that the man was young and gentle and very kind, and that she could foresee no difficulties. “I can take care of things, Jimmy, I promise,” she vowed.

Then she wondered what she had done, for there was no truth to her words.

“You mustn't sacrifice so much for us, Marissa Ayers,” he warned her firmly.

“Jimmy, I'm not sacrificing anything.” He didn't believe her. “My Uncle Theo is at stake here, too, Jimmy. My own livelihood.”

He laughed softly. “I don't think so, Marissa. You've incredible strength and will. You put the lot of us to shame. And I will not have you doing anything to hurt yourself, and neither would Mary.”

“I won't do anything to hurt myself,” she said.

“You don't owe us this.”

“But I do,” she murmured. Jimmy might not understand. Maybe there was no one who could understand.

Mary and Sir Thomas had taken her away from the coal mines. She owed Mary everything. “Jimmy, please be patient. I'll be in touch soon,” she promised vaguely.

She stood against the wall, the ear piece still in her hands. For a moment she glanced at it, marveling at the ingenuity of Mr. Bell, who had invented the amazing piece of equipment.

Then she replaced it and grew amazed at herself instead.

Why had she lied to Jimmy?

Because she could not bear that they could not make things work. Nor could she listen to Mary's dreams of ecstasy. She was the one living in the real world, and she knew it.

She had seen the brutal cruelties of that real world often enough, and it seemed that the best way through them was to keep one's gaze ever upward and climb over them.

She sighed and closed her eyes. There had to be a way to make it work.

Moments later she opened her eyes and resolutely made her way up the stairs.

Aye, indeed, there was a way to make it work. And so help her, she would see that it did.

She had to. She loved Mary; she loved Jimmy.

And she could already smell the scent of coal dust sweeping around her ankles.

It was very late when Ian Tremayne at last rode through the almost silent streets near Hyde Park to reach the boardinghouse where he was staying. Most carriages were already off the road, and he hadn't seen a single motorcar.

The vehicles hadn't caught on as quickly in London as they had in the States. Of course, in the States, things were still in a mess because of the growing number of horseless carriages and more traditional transportation. Just before he had left home there had been quite an accident on the street down the hill when a horseless milk truck had collided with a horse-drawn ice cart. Suddenly every vehicle on the street—whether motor-powered or animal drawn—had collided into something. Motors had died, horses reared, and ice had melted all over the place. Once it was ascertained that no one had been injured, the spectacle had been rather amusing. Ian smiled with the memory. Diana would have loved the sight. She would have laughed with delight.

But then his smile faded as he dismounted from his rented mare before the boardinghouse and walked her to the gas-lit carriage house. It was a typical London night, filled with fog. And the fog somehow seemed to shroud his heart, letting more painful memories rush upon him.

It had been like this the night Diana had died. A night when the fog had rolled in from the Bay. He had sat with her upon his lap, and they stared out their balcony window, watching the mystic beauty of the fog. She loved San Francisco as deeply as he did, and in those moments, it seemed that their souls touched. She pointed out the stars, disappearing in the fog. And he said that it seemed they sat in heaven, where they were. She rested her head upon his shoulder and sighed softly, and it was several moments before he realized that she had breathed her last. Diana, so fair and fragile, with her delicate features and soft gray eyes. Listening to him build his dreams, listening when he ranted and raved about his buildings and his frustrations with the city. Always there, his support, his life, beside him.

Beside him no more. She was gone, and had been gone nearly two years. Though he would never forget her, never stop loving her, he knew that he had to find a way to keep her from haunting his dreams and his thoughts. She was with him almost always. And the pain of her loss was with him always, too.

Except tonight.

Well, he had to give credit to Sir Thomas's wayward daughter. She was so proud, so damned argumentative and so sure-fire irritating and troublesome that she had made him forget—if only for a little while.