Marissa Day (15 page)

“Are you trying to hurt her, Darius?”

Miranda. Darius remembered the feeling of her hand in his, so strong and yet delicate. She tried so hard not to be afraid as this new, strange world opened around her. He understood that. He wanted to reach out to her, to protect her as she made her journey into understanding, to hold her and tell her it would be all right.

“It’s killing me,” he whispered.

“What is?” Corwin moved closer, although he stayed behind Darius. Darius was glad. His erection had not yet gone down, and he felt ashamed of it as a schoolboy would.

“This. This need.” He could have lied, could have pushed Corwin away as he had so many other times, and Corwin would have given up and gone, just as he always did. But he didn’t.

“Darius ...” began Corwin with that familiar impatience. This time, Darius snapped.

“No!” He rounded on the other man, his fists clenched hard at his sides. “It is not simple! If you don’t care, I do. I care ... I ...”

Corwin stood stock-still. He met Darius’s gaze without flinching. “What?” he asked simply.

“How can I love her when I love you?” demanded Darius. “How can that be right?”

He’d said it. He’d said it aloud, and it could not be undone. The force of this truth set his hands trembling.

“Do you love her, Darius?” asked Corwin softly.

“I don’t know,” Darius whispered, running his shaking hand through his hair. “I want her. I can’t stop thinking about ... about us, together.”

“You and her, or all of us?”

Darius closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His throat had gone suddenly dry. “Both.”

“Ah.”

Fury snapped Darius’s eyes open. “Don’t mock me, Corwin!”

“No, Darius.” Corwin met Darius’s eyes and Darius saw his comrade and lover was both sorry and sad. Anger fled as abruptly as it had come. Darius wanted to take Corwin into his arms, to hold him and apologize, to say it was all right if Corwin left him, as long as he, Corwin, was happy.

“Darius, I do not pretend what is happening is simple,” said Corwin softly. “But I know this much—love is not water in a well. If it is real, it cannot be used up no matter how many partake of it.”

“That is a fine platitude for jealous siblings, but this is different.”

Darius waited for Corwin to say something teasing, as he had so often before, but while Corwin smiled softly, his dark eyes remained solemn. “Very different. But it is real, and because it is real it leaves us with only two choices—to face it or to run from it. You know as well as I we cannot run. If we do, we endanger our mission, our country, our very freedom, not to mention the lives of thousands, Miranda Prosper among them.”

“So you’re saying it’s my duty to give in to this lust?”

Corwin’s smile twisted. “Don’t be thick.” He slapped Darius’s shoulder. “I am saying that if you are wasting your energies trying to deny your feelings, you will not have full use of your brain, and your brain is something we desperately need. What comes after this mission ... I don’t know what it will be. But I know this.” Corwin moved toward him, and laid his hand on Darius’s arm. The familiar heat of Corwin’s presence seeped into Darius’s skin even as the power of his gaze seeped into Darius’s soul. “I love you, Darius,” Corwin whispered. “I need you. I care for Miranda Prosper, and yes, I desire her, as do you, and she feels similarly toward us. Whether this will last ... We can only hope, Darius, hope and trust and move forward with our task. Can you do this?”

The question stung Darius’s pride, but even as he opened his mouth to make a sharp reply, he felt Corwin’s fear roll over him like a shock of cold water: fear that if Darius turned away this time, he would never come back, that he, Corwin, had been too careless, that he had lost Darius, lost him forever.

Something loosened inside Darius, whether he wanted it to or not.

“Yes, I can do this.” Darius gripped Corwin’s arm, a hard touch, meant to say so many things, and looked in his eyes, and he knew Corwin understood. “And I will.”

Corwin kissed him. It was so sudden Darius barely had time to raise his glamour, but then he gave himself over to it fully. Corwin’s strong, ready mouth, his tongue, his hard hands clasping Darius’s head to pull him close.

They kissed until breath left them, and Corwin smiled when he pulled away. “You see?”

“Yes.” Darius nodded and laced his fingers through Corwin’s hair. They stood like that for a long moment before Corwin removed his hand, turned it over and kissed the mottled skin on the inside of Darius’s wrist.

“Now, you must continue your investigations. We will meet again tonight, and see what we can do to set Miranda’s fears at rest. Are we agreed?”

Darius nodded, and Corwin planted another hard kiss full of promise on his mouth. Then he started off through the bracken with Darius watching.

“Darius?” Corwin looked back over his shoulder

“Yes?”

“You can be as spiteful as you want to me. I know you and nothing you say will alter my feelings toward you, but do not do so to her again. You will break her heart, and I cannot sanction that.”

Darius met his gaze for a long time, and then nodded. Corwin nodded in return, turned his back and walked away. Darius stood facing the lake, and it was a long time before he could make himself turn and start off in the opposite direction.

For Miranda, the walk home passed in a storm of shifting emotions. She said not a word to Louise. She could barely see the streets before her, her mind was so filled with the memory of Darius’s blue eyes the moment before he turned and strode away into the woods.

It was unfair. Darius had neither the right nor the reason to be contemptuous of her. They had come to her. They had led her into this—although she had followed willingly.

Miranda clenched her fists tightly. That was the root of it. She had followed. She had desperately wanted what they had to show her. Now she found that one of her guides on this impossible journey ... He ... He what? Disliked her? Distrusted her? Distrusted his feelings for her, certainly.

Did he distrust her enough to leave her and convince Corwin to go with him? Corwin cared something for her—of that Miranda was sure—but his relationship with Darius was one of long standing. He could not possibly abandon the old for the new. If Darius went, Corwin would follow, and she would be alone, not just for an afternoon but for always; stranded on this path before she had even truly started down it.

That thought terrified her, but there was nothing to do but keep walking, and glance over her shoulder yet again, hoping against hope to see Corwin and Darius up the street, coming back to her.

When Miranda reached the house, she had every intention of heading straight to her room. Unfortunately, the sitting room door was open, and Mother was waiting on the other side.

“Miranda, my dear,” Mother called. “I would like to speak with you, please.”

Miranda hesitated at the foot of the stairs. “I’m sorry, Mother. A sudden headache. I need to lie down.”

“But I have something very particular to say to you.”

Of course, you do.
Miranda sighed and looked longingly up the stairs. She could ignore her mother and continue. But that would lead to recriminations later. Her whole world might have turned upside down in nearly every respect, but this remained constant—she still lived in her mother’s house.

Miranda let Louise help her off with her bonnet, and then schooled her face into her habitual attitude of calm and walked into the sitting room.

Mother was sitting on her favorite pink-upholstered chair, where she could see out both the windows and the door without turning her head. Her sharp eyes flickered up and down as Miranda entered the room and sat on the plush sofa.

Looking for flaws, as ever.

“Miranda, I’ve just had a visit from Lady Thayer.”

“Lady Thayer?” Miranda repeated, shocked out of her calm resolve. Lady Thayer had seldom even spoken to her mother, but first they were invited to the end-of-season party, and now she was paying calls? What had happened?

“She wanted to extend us an invitation to her summer house party at Hallowgate. She was most anxious that you should attend.”

Miranda opened her mouth and closed it again. She found she had nothing at all to say to that.

“I’m sure you can see this is an excellent opportunity for us both,” Mother went on. “So I want you to be careful between now and then not to do anything to ... call attention to yourself or cause talk.”

“Are you referring to my walk this morning with Mr. Rathe?”

“You know what I am referring to.”

Miranda straightened her spine. “May I remind you I had your open permission to accompany him. I honestly thought I would find you in here selecting my wedding clothes.”

“That’s enough, young woman.”

“No, I don’t believe it is,” Miranda snapped back. “For years I have listened to your endless criticisms because I could not attract a man. Now I have done so, and every time I turn around I find you have changed your mind about him!”

In response, Mother stood. She walked over to her writing desk and pulled out a large, leather-bound book. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s your accounts book,” replied Miranda promptly.

Mother slapped it down onto the desk and flipped it open. “Come here.”

Frowning, Miranda stepped up beside her. Mother pointed to the neat columns of figures, the majority of which were written in bright red ink. Miranda felt her eyes grow wide as they traveled down the page.

“As you can plainly see, we have nothing left, Miranda. Nothing.” Mother’s voice was flat and her eyes were hard. “I have done everything I can to find another husband, but I have so far been unable. It is up to you to secure our future.”

“But ... Mr. Quicke left you a fortune.”

“On paper, yes. A number of those investments did not prove to be as judicious as they initially appeared.”

Miranda blinked at her mother, for a moment feeling like nothing more than a bewildered child. She had known they were economizing. They had done so before, in the period between Mr. Lester and Mr. Quicke. But Mother had never let her near the accounts, and the truth was, Miranda had not asked to see them. She had kept herself as aloof as possible from her mother and her mother’s doings, which included the daily running of the household.

“Lady Thayer has a nephew who is interested in meeting you. Unless you can be absolutely certain Mr. Rathe will be making you an offer before the end of the summer, I suggest you make up your mind to be very agreeable at the Hallowgate party.” Mother snapped the book shut and returned it to the drawer.

“I see,” Miranda said slowly, although in truth she felt as though she had been blind. She had blithely assumed that Mother would find a way to manage, because she always had. She had always taken care of herself, of them, a fact that Miranda, in her distaste for her mother’s flirtations and her anger at the criticisms, had never looked at clearly before.

“I hope you do see,” replied Mother grimly. “You may go now, Miranda.”

Miranda drifted to the door. This latest shift was almost too much. She felt ill. A thousand questions rang through her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask any of them.

Except one. Miranda paused in the doorway and laid her hand on the threshold.

“My father was a poor man,” she whispered. “Why did you marry him?”

“I thought I had money enough from my first husband,” Mother replied. “I thought I could afford to marry for love. I was wrong.”

“I see.”

Miranda maintained enough pride to walk calmly up the stairs, down the hall and into her room. But as soon as she shut the door, she collapsed into the chair beside her fire and dropped her head into her hands.

The sight of the ledger filled with red ink had been a blow from nowhere. She tried to remember any time when she had stopped to consider money, and she couldn’t. Not in any real way. She had her allowance and she managed that. But for the larger finances, Miranda had simply assumed her mother, who loved appearance and luxury, would get by as she always had: by finding another man. She’d believed implicitly in Daphne Quicke’s irresistibility. She’d hated all Mother’s dazzling flirtation as much as she had hated her mother’s constant carping and criticizing, so she’d shut herself away. She who prided herself on being so practical, such a realist, had not even considered the possibility that there might not be enough one day.