Obsession Wears Opals (14 page)

Isabel held as still as a bird, her face tipped up to his to welcome his touch.

His breath mingled with hers and a tickle of anticipation sparked out across her limbs. She could hear her own heart roaring in her ears and wondered if he could hear it, too.

And then his lips grazed hers, as light as silk but so warm she gasped, an arc of delicious electricity skipping out across her skin, making her blush. Darius’s touch redefined the act, and her soul surged with relief. His arms tightened around her, pressing her against him as the kiss changed from tentative contact to a feast of sensations as Darius took command. He kissed her harder, a moan escaping his lips that made her hips buck and spasm in response. She clung to him to maintain her balance, and her lips parted naturally to taste his, inviting him to do the same.

I’m no maiden, God help me. But this—this is new.

Richard had never kissed her like this. He’d never been tender, using his teeth until she’d feared his mouth as much as she’d dreaded his fists.

Darius’s tongue teased the plump curve of her lower lip and Isabel trembled. Without thinking, she did the same to him and was instantly rewarded with a flurry of searing white-hot kisses that defied description. One kiss tumbled into another until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began, only that she didn’t want it to stop. The world dropped away and everything she knew of the workings of men and women was dashed into nonsense.

Shame fell away and Isabel leaned into him, eager, willing, hungry for more.

Isabel arched her back and was rewarded as he cradled her against his chest, but Darius lifted his face, a man fighting for air and composure.

“We can’t . . .” he whispered. “
I
can’t do this.”

Isabel pushed against his chest, instantly freed to stand before him.

“I’m . . .” She stepped back to touch her lips, swollen and soft from his kisses, her cheeks blazing with a heat not entirely inspired by embarrassment. “I should—leave you to your—”

“I’m so stupid, Helen. That was—”

The front bell rang and both of them instantly froze.

“Helen, perhaps you should return to your room until I see who this is.”

Terror made her agreement total. The kiss was momentarily forgotten. She fled without a single argument, moving as quickly and quietly as she could to regain the safety of her bedroom before the unknown and unexpected visitor was sorted out.

Once she had the illusion of the security of a locked bedroom door at her back, she marveled once again at the speed with which a person’s life could change. He’d kissed her and a universe of longing and passion had opened up like a flower as effortlessly as any bloom. But before she could absorb what it meant, she was cowering in her room waiting for some ominous summons that would drag her back to her husband’s cruel keeping.

It was a ridiculous impulse but her imagination immediately began painting a scene where her husband was standing at the gate downstairs with the constable demanding her return. He’d have brought his man with him and the carriage would be standing in the lane.

I won’t survive the ride home. I don’t think I can survive any of it again.

She sank down on the floor, her head tipped back against the door. Muffled male voices below did nothing to soothe her nerves.

I’ll go mad.

She clamped a hand over her own mouth to keep from keening like a wild animal as the fear began to overtake her reason.

It’s him.

He’s come.

Tears flowed down her cheeks and she began to shake with the agony of her emotions. Every gain was stripped from her hands at the specter of pain awaiting her and the punishments her husband had always promised if she should ever dare to try to step beyond his reach.

The urge to run was so overwhelming, she lost her battle for control and cried out.

Can’t. Can’t reach the stables past them if they are downstairs. He’ll have put a man into the stables and found Samson. Proof that I am here. No escape.

When her eyes fell on the window, she sobbed again.

Steps approached and the doorknob turned above her head, the metal catching on the lock before it rattled back into place.

I’ll jump. There’s a window.

If it’s him. If they’ve come, I’ll just throw myself out headfirst onto the flagstones below and—

***

“Helen?”

Darius knelt in the hallway and spoke to her softly through the door. His heart was pounding but he made a conscious effort to sound almost nonchalant—as if the rending cries he could hear through the wooden door weren’t tearing him to pieces.

“All is well. Helen, it was a messenger. A hired runner from a business I have dealings with in Edinburgh. Nothing to do with—there’s no danger.”

The sounds paused and Darius took heart.

Please, God.

“N-no danger?”

He could barely hear her but he could taste his own relief. “Not a sliver. It’s probably just a lovely new piece of information for our puzzle, Helen.”

He waited patiently, listening intently as she gathered herself on the other side of the door. The rustling of her skirts and the creak of the floorboards as she stood comforted him, and Darius mirrored her movements by getting on his own feet.

“No wooden horses, I promise,” he added softly.

At last, the door’s bolt was thrown back and she opened the door to face him, the confidence and humor she’d displayed throughout the day gone. Her beautiful face was ravaged with tears and her eyes didn’t meet his.

“I’m a stupid child, yet again, Mr. Thorne.” Her voice broke. “One ring at the front door and I’m . . . as you see.”

“It was unexpected. It’s only natural to feel fear, Helen. You are
not
a stupid child. You mustn’t say such things.” His palms itched to touch her again, to smooth away the tears from her pale cheeks. And then he wasn’t thinking about restraint. It was her misery alone that could not be allowed to stand. Darius gently put a finger underneath her chin and lifted her face until her pale blue eyes fluttered open to look into his. “You are gloriously brave.”

Her lips parted in a sigh, and every apology he’d meant to make for kissing her in the library was forgotten.

It was insanity to touch her again. But it didn’t feel sane to stop himself.

Darius pulled her into his arms and affirmed that whatever had begun impulsively in the library was no illusion. His desire for her flared so quickly it was painful and made his heart twist into a knot of molten fire inside his chest. She was so sweet and eager against him, each kiss trailing naturally into the next, and he was ensnared by a tender lust for her that stripped him of intellect.

He had never kissed a woman before, never envisioned that such a simple act could hold such power. But there was more to it than flesh pressing flesh, and he was humbled at his own ignorance.

She was quicksilver in his arms, and every shockingly soft texture of her mouth pulled him into a spiral of need that made his body tighten and pulse. His arousal was immediate and the sensation of hot sand trickling down his spine and weighting his cock was so overwhelming he nearly cried out.

Experienced or not, his body didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything his mind was advising of caution and restraint.

Which shook him to his core.

A lifetime of discipline, lost in the span of seconds.

Lost to Helen of Troy.

Damn. Here’s a merry disaster of my own making. . . .

The sound of Mrs. McFadden’s steps on the stairs ended it. He released her in a guilty rush, shifting his stance to shield Helen from view and praying the dim hall would keep his housekeeper from noticing the embarrassing way his pants were stretched taut.

“Is there a lunch, then, Mrs. McFadden?” he asked briskly.

“Of course there’s lunch! I was going to bring it to the library and then noticed everyone had strangely scattered!” The housekeeper pursed her lips and gave him a searing look of suspicion. “What are you doing in madam’s doorway this time of day?”

But before he could answer, Mrs. McFadden’s eyes widened in alarm. “Is she unwell? Is everything all right?”

“I am fine,” Helen answered as she peeked out from behind Darius’s frame. “The bell upset me and Mr. Thorne came up to make sure that I was all right.”

Mrs. McFadden’s sober look was daunting. “I see. How are his toes?”

Darius squinted in incomprehension. “What?”

Helen’s squeak of unhappiness only added to his confusion. “I’m . . . I shall eat in my room.”

Damn it. I’m not apologizing with Mrs. McFadden standing there, and I’ll be damned but I think I just missed a critical step—perhaps it’s for the best!

“I’ll be downstairs.” Darius retreated without looking back, cursing himself for trespassing twice in a span of minutes and discovering that he was a man without control of any kind when it came to Helen. He’d dropped his guard in the library and sampled joy that had turned his entire world around more than once. Ashe had joked in India about getting drunk on a woman’s kiss, and Darius had chalked it up to pure exaggeration and laughed.

He wasn’t laughing now.

Touching Helen was a dream. Without warning, every cell in his body felt parched and Helen was cold, clear water. This was a longing so powerful and unexpected it made his knees shake. All the clichéd phrases he’d once dismissed about a man being
lovesick
or
swept away
came back to him in a symphony of internal mockery.

A few kisses and Darius was accepting that the deliberate gaps in his education had come back to haunt him and might be his undoing.

Perhaps if I’d dabbled a bit like Ashe, I’d be more immune. But it’s too late to lament my choices now.

He drove his hands into his coat pockets and found the note. He’d completely forgotten it in his concern for Helen and gripped it like a lifeline now. “Back to work, Thorne.”

At his desk, he examined the sealed note that the messenger had brought. He’d generously paid the boy, amazed that Mr. Masters would go to such trouble to send word. “Probably just in search of another gem or two and seeking a sale,” he muttered, breaking the wax and forcing himself not to think about kissing Helen as he settled in to his desk to read.

Mr. Thorne,

As we did not see you this last Tuesday as usual, I was unable to pass along the following as I’d intended. From your many steady inquiries, I had begun to feel a sense of regret that I have never been of any assistance in your quest. But in the week prior, a startling bit of business came to my attention.

A foreign gentleman of Indian origins, wearing a turban, of all things, approached my son and asked to speak to me privately. I agreed in shock and will admit to a certain amount of curiosity. For he was very mysterious. He said that he knew of a sacred treasure in English hands. He said that I should warn its keepers not to trade or sell it. He said it was cursed.

“Sacred treasure” were your very words and so I took note if not credence to his statements.

He said that while it was distasteful to think of the treasure in English hands, some holy man of his region had prophesied that it would leave Bengal for a faraway land where it would fulfill its destiny. Then there was a bit about a deadly threat if the wrong hands touched it, and it was all I could do to nod before the fellow left! I assume he is making the rounds to several shops with his warning but I cannot say for certain.

Rubbish, I know.

I had sworn to pass along anything I learned as expediently as possible. And as you were looking to acquire an artifact, or sell it—it seems the turbaned gentleman was warning against the attempt in either case.

It is a tangle.

All nonsense aside, I have had several inquiries for another ruby of equal quality to the one you sold us last year, so please keep in mind our honorable efforts to demonstrate our interest and support of your business (even in the passing on of useless gossip from exotic characters) and advise if you have any such stones on hand for sale.

Yours sincerely,

Walter S. Masters, Esq.

“Damn it,” Darius exclaimed and read the letter through three times before the buzz inside his head quieted. He would have to compose an apology to Helen later. He stood quickly, crammed the letter inside his pocket, selected one of his notebooks, and walked out of the room with long, hurried strides. “Hamish! We’re to Edinburgh!” He raised his voice to make sure it carried up the stairs. “Mrs. McFadden! I’m off to the city! Please see to Helen! I’ll be home after nightfall!”

He didn’t wait for replies, swept up in the maelstrom of the mystery that had haunted the Jaded for months. He grabbed a winter coat and let the door close behind him to make his way across the muddy yard to the stables to collect Hamish for the dash to the city. He had to hear the entire story directly from Masters and make sure that whatever plans his friends were making in London weren’t about to set the worst in motion.

That assassin—the first one—that attacked Galen all those months ago! He spoke Hindi. Is it possible there are two factions on our heels? Are we in the middle of something bigger than ourselves?

After weeks of careful thought and soul-grindingly slow progress, Darius had the sinking feeling that time had just become a luxury he couldn’t afford.

“See that?” Mrs. McFadden tapped her foot as she stood breathlessly in the front hall after a failed attempt to catch Darius before the carriage raced from the yard. “Forgot his hat and scarf. Let’s pray the weather doesn’t turn on him for it!”

Isabel could only nod mutely.

Mind his toes.

And let him go.

Chapter

10

At the breakfast table the next morning, Darius poured himself a strong cup of coffee. He was bone tired from his unexpected jaunt into Edinburgh, but it had been worth every grueling mile on muddy, icy roads. He was at once eager to share what he’d learned with Helen and dreading facing her after yesterday’s intimate exchanges and his awkward departure.

She has every right to be furious if—

“You didn’t return until well after midnight,” she said softly from the doorway, a vision in a soft yellow day dress.

“Did I awaken you, then?” he asked, standing as she came in and pulling out her chair. “I tried to enter as quietly as I could.”

She shook her head. “Burglars would have envied your skills, Mr. Thorne, but I was so anxious for your safety on the dark roads. . . . Mrs. McFadden felt compelled to bring up the threat of brigands and highwaymen more than once, and I lost the ability to sleep.”

He smiled and returned to his seat across from her. “She’s thinking of Hamish, then. I’ll get an earful later for exposing him to the criminal elements.”

“It was all to do with the note you received?” she asked.

He nodded and pulled the rumpled paper from his pocket. “It’s a bit worse for wear but here is the original note.”

She read it quickly. “Cursed? So now we must not only figure out which stone it is but . . . there is a curse of some kind?”

He shrugged. “I’m not exactly a believer, but clearly there is a player on the board who is. I questioned Mr. Masters more thoroughly and was able to get a better grasp of the story. Apparently, someone is making a distinction about who should have it, according to that prophecy, and I fear that my friends and I are the default
keepers
in this scenario.”

“And the nature of the curse?”

“If we hand it over, and this is a direct quote, according to Mr. Masters, ‘to the invading snakes and the Black Dog of the East India Trading Company,’ all lives are forfeit.” He picked up another muffin from the tray. “It’s a wrinkle.”

“And if you keep it?” she asked, beginning to fill her own plate.

“No blood will be shed.” Darius held out the coffeepot. “Care for some?”

She shook her head. “So the mystery takes a turn. You have to keep it—whichever one it is.”

He sighed. “Whatever or whichever one it is. We are back to square one. Except I’ll need to go to London at some point. I only have my gemstones and we’ll probably need to look at everyone’s very carefully to make a proper assessment. I think pearls and opals are the least likely candidates due to their delicate nature and distinct essence.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I’ve already sold a few other stones on my friends’ behalves, rubies and emeralds. It could be a diamond dyed to red or green and I only hope I haven’t botched it already and passed the thing off. It’s a stupid mess, isn’t it?”

“It’s worse than that. If you follow this myth’s instructions, you have to keep your treasure. But—is not there some threat from the Company’s agent for you to turn this item over? Wasn’t that why we were trying to ascertain its appearance? So that you could satisfy this man and save your friends?”

“We might be between the proverbial rock and the hard place,” he admitted. “The problem is that in Ashe’s last letter, he wrote that they weren’t going to wait much longer. I’m worried that they’ve cooked up a plan in London to try to move things along.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “But they can’t!”

“I’ll compose a letter this morning to send by courier to Rutherford and put an end to it.” He added more hot coffee to his own cup and set it down. “It is pressing but I’ve caught it in time so I don’t want you to be anxious. Michael won’t let them rush headlong into anything. He’ll keep Blackwell in check.”

“My goodness.” Helen set down her fork. “We haven’t even had time to come up with a test for our first theory about one of the stones being dyed or colored in some way. How in the world do you test a stone for its magical properties? Are you going to seek out some mystic textbook on the subject?”

“Rowan is the nearest thing we have to a scientist. I’ll send a letter to Dr. West and delegate the task.” Darius smiled. “I only wish I could be there to see his face when he reads it.”

“You miss your friends.” It wasn’t a question but the care reflected in her eyes made him ache inside.

What would it be like to have a woman look at you like that, all the time? To fuss over each setback or smile at every glimmer of progress?

Damn it, why do I keep torturing myself by even asking such things?

“I do. They are family to me.” He studied her for a moment. “Do you miss anyone?”

She shook her head. “No, which makes me sad. All those friends and acquaintances of my first two social Seasons vanished like so many ghosts, and I cannot say if anyone ever bothered to correspond after the wedding. Perhaps they did, but my husband never allowed me letters. As for my parents, all I can think of is the relief on my father’s face and my mother’s indifference once I’d made my debut.”

“Well”—he tried to lighten the mood—“if you wish to aspire to being a hermit, I warn you, it has its drawbacks.”

“Really?”

“For one, the conversations you have with yourself can be very one-sided.” He took a sip from his cup, savoring the bitter warmth before setting it down.

“Ah, but I would win every argument,” she countered mischievously.

“Helen,” he said, pushing aside his plate. “I should apologize for yesterday. It was the worst betrayal of your trust. You are a married woman and I never—”

“Wait! I was the one who . . . I did nothing to protest what happened in the library. I encouraged you, Mr. Thorne. You cannot take
all
the blame.”

“P-perhaps but I don’t think that holds true for that second kiss in your bedroom doorway.” He sighed.

“Then we are even,” she said, surprising him at the defiant tilt of her chin. “I’m not—apologizing for my part. I won’t.”

Darius was stunned into silence. “I wouldn’t have expected
you
to apologize. I thought it was generally the gentleman who took responsibility for any—”

“No.” Helen stood from the table and stamped one of her slippered feet in frustration.

Darius had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the unexpected little flash of temper in her eyes as he also rose from his chair. “No?”

“I’m tired of moving blindly from one square to another or allowing someone else to decide my fate, Mr. Thorne. I—I wanted you to kiss me. I am . . .” She took a deep breath. “I am not helpless.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” Darius forced himself to regain a bit of perspective. No matter how appealing, it was up to him to draw the line—for her own protection. “But it was wrong of me to touch you. I promised you a haven and a sanctuary, Helen. I have no right to . . . trespass and will strive not to do so again. We must be practical.”

“I’m grateful for the walls of Troy.” Her bravado faded, the flutter of her eyelashes shielding her eyes from his. “Practical. I don’t feel practical.”

“It isn’t a feeling, Helen. It’s a dictate of reason.”

She looked back up at him directly. “Can you do that? Separate the two so easily?”

“I’ve had to for a long time.” Darius did his best not to flinch under her steady gaze. “I’ve tried to live my life with logic and intellect as my guides.”

She shook her head, stepping back from the table. “You cannot have intellect without heart. The most perfect mind without emotion is devoid of compassion and capable only of conceiving cruelty and pain. Genius doesn’t protect you from heartache. It isn’t a refuge.”

“I don’t strive to live without feelings. I simply cannot let them rule me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust them, Helen. When has passion served to improve man’s circumstances? Or bettered humankind’s existence?”

“It serves every day. Not all our emotions are basely driven. The heart can be a noble thing, Darius.”

He shook his head. “I am in awe of you, Helen. To say such things after . . .”

“Don’t be too quick to admire me, Darius. My knees are shaking.”

“Why?” he asked, a twist of concern wrenching through him.

She smiled. “I’ve disagreed with you. I was a bit of a shrew just then and—” She broke off suddenly with a laugh that surprised them both. “I am still standing, Mr. Thorne. I am holding my own.”

All hail the White Queen!
Darius found he was grinning like a fool. “You’ve done more than hold your own. You’ve won the argument, if that’s what it was. I did . . . enjoy the foot stomping.”

She gasped and threw a cloth napkin at him, then laughed again at her own daring. “A lady does not stomp, Mr. Thorne!”

His laughter joined hers and he pressed the napkin to his mouth to try to stifle it. “As you say!”

“Well, here’s a merry morning!” Mrs. McFadden chimed in from the doorway. She brought in a tray with a folded newspaper and a small bowl of apples. “My niece just stopped by from the village and brought these from the post, Mr. Thorne. I knew you’d asked for them.” She set down the bowl and handed off the paper to Darius, who immediately opened it to study the front page. “Good morning, madam. You look a bit peaked! Should I make a spot of warm bread pudding for—”

“Damn it!” He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose to try to ward off a headache, then looked up to apologize at the distressed expression in Helen’s eyes and at Mrs. McFadden’s gasp of disapproval. “I’m sorry to curse. It’s just . . . this paper is over a week old and . . . The meeting is set for four days from now.” He threw it down on the table in frustration.

“The meeting?” Helen asked, her brow furrowing with confusion.

“The Jaded are set to meet with that mysterious figure we dubbed the Jackal. I can understand their impatience to move forward and confront whoever it is and get some answers but . . .” Darius let out a long, slow breath of frustration. “Mrs. McFadden, I’ll need to pack for a trip to London. Can you see that I have the right clothes laid out and ask Hamish to get the carriage ready to take me to hire a carriage to the nearest inn for the post chaise? Although I might consider the trains. . . .”

“London? Good heavens! You just got back from Edinburgh last night!” she exclaimed but withdrew in a bustle to make preparations, apparently determined that this time he not leave behind the essentials in his haste to go.

“It’s a week to London, isn’t it?” Helen asked softly.

Darius turned back to Helen, shaking his head. “A week if you travel comfortably and make good time, but if I leave today, forfeit comfort, I might make it in time to stop them if I don’t stop except to change horses or catch a train. The carefully crafted letter outlining our new conclusions that I was planning is useless if they make this meeting with the Jackal.”

“You’re certain? You trust Mr. Masters so completely?” she asked. “I mean, I know that you do, but it does seem odd to think in terms of curses and prophecies. After all, it’s 1860 for goodness’ sake! It is a modern world, is it not?”

He bit his lip. “Not entirely. And it doesn’t matter how we view the world or this mythology. Prophecies have power when people believe them, and if the Jaded are in this one’s path, then logic isn’t the tool to apply. It’s chess, Helen. They’ve developed a strategy and arranged for this confrontation, but they don’t have a view of the entire board or all the pieces. It’s an ambush!”

“You said yourself they don’t have anything to give to this Jackal.”

“True. But does the person behind
this
”—he held up the note from the gem dealer—“do they know that it’s just a first meeting? That we have no intention of turning over anything after the threat to our lives?”

“I see what you’re saying.”

“Helen.” He took her hands into his. “I don’t want to leave you here. There’s so much . . . Yesterday was . . .” He let out a long, slow breath of frustration. “I need you to trust me. I have to go to London and stop this meeting if I can.”

Her eyes took on the sheen of unshed tears. “I know it.”

“If someone could please explain to me why I am constantly rushing out of doors. . . .”

She managed a shaky smile. “For a scholar, you do appear to lead a very exciting life, Mr. Thorne.”

“I would take you with me if I could, but I have to travel with speed, and if I’m worrying about your comfort or your safety—”

“No, I understand. You have to go, Darius.”

“Helen, please. Don’t look so stricken or I’m not sure I’ll manage this with any dignity.”

He watched her in a careful, compassionate study as she rallied, the fire in her pale blue eyes undampened. At last, she smiled. “Go.”

Damn it.
His own voice failed him and he turned on his heels to make his hurried preparations for the journey, despising the notion of abandoning her just when she’d begun to recover her spirits and regain her strength.

And just when I’ve discovered how much I’ve come to care for her.

***

Within the hour, he was standing in the entry hall and they were making their final farewells. Darius took her hands into his, pressing something small into the palm of her hands before folding her fingers around it. “Here, I want you to carry it in your pocket while I’m gone—to remind you.”

She took it, gripping it possessively. “I want to be brave and not cry, but . . . I’m afraid I’m already failing.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

“Mrs. McFadden will take good care of you, and Hamish will guard you like a lion in my absence.”

“I know.” Isabel felt small and slight but squared her shoulders. “I’ll sleep with the skillet next to my bed.”

“You’re as strong a woman as any I’ve known, Helen. It’s just for two weeks at most and I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” He hesitated. “Will you promise to be here when I return?”

She nodded, unable to speak through the miserable lump in her throat. She’d have promised him anything in that moment, but a wounded part of her curled around the strange hurt of his departure and pointed out the obvious.

I have nowhere else to go.