Passion (23 page)

Chuckling at her snort, albeit huskily, he
put his jacket on and quietly went around the table, taking his
time once above stairs to use her bathing closet.

Jules had never made a woman climax, never
paid one to, or watched one do it. Sex, since his university days,
was something to be taken care of when it became annoying and
distracted him from the rest of his life.

He’d never felt that erotic, not since that
night he lost his virginity. Harry knew that—and how she knew that,
Jules did not care to ask. He shook his head at his glassy eyed
reflection in the mirror before pouring water, washing his face. He
then held a cool towel to his nape.

Harry wanted something from him, and it was
not what everyone else in his world wanted. Unfortunately, he had
told her the truth, he was not afforded that luxury.

Calmer, he went to check on Raith.

Chapter 9

Raith had taken a long time to feel the
extent of injuries, thanks to the amount of medication forced on
him. The doctor wanted him as immobile as possible, and what he
refused to drink, he suspected was put in his coffee or food, by
Lady Harriet….or rather Harry.

Despite his wish to be left alone, and his
efforts to be as grim and remote as possible, he received daily
visits from his father and brother, the cousin, Ry, and several
times, Jules.

If he eventually responded more to anyone, it
was Blaise. A more mature, rugged—and blind, Blaise. He had not
gone into great detail about the long drawn-out plan and execution,
though his brother always brought the paper and news sheets with
him.

What he had told him, Blaise responded with,
“Brilliant strategy, Raith, but the most risky.”

“It doesn’t bring her back,” Raith heard
himself say that day.

To which Blaise retorted, “No. But take it
from myself, and Ry here, it takes a lot bigger balls to live with
loss, than to die.”

He had told Raith about learning to ride, to
fence, and even shoot blind. “I wanted to give up. That is the
truth. I came close to it. But I’m not a coward, and neither are
you.”

Raith had not responded. Nor had he when his
father came and talked into the night. He understood, in some
sense, what they were doing, and he knew it was genuine, but he
also felt they were trying to understand the extremes he felt and
had gone to, and Raith could not explain that to anyone.

When Jules came to see him last, after a long
evening with Ry and Blaise—one where Ry had talked of the war to
the point Raith gathered that neither man had spoken of it in such
detail before…and, he discerned the cousin was trying to liken it
to the battle of making life out of nothing again.

At this visit, Raith found himself studying
Jules, who seemed to be the golden one of them all—blessed by
looks, fortune, a life he did not desire himself, but many
envied.

In that way, Jules had always been the
eldest, the heir, the most aloof and seemingly perfect one. He
talked with all the proper words and accents, knew all the right
things to say.

Raith had not forgotten that Jules came back
for him that night and saved him—and he pondered why Jules did it?
His brother did not strike him as someone who welcomed anything
chaotic in his life. Nor a man to crease his cravat or mar the
shine on his boots. In some moment of seeing beneath the veneer, he
also saw a question in Jules eyes. Maybe, because they were blood,
he discerned that Jules was marveling at the darkness in him. They
all had that same childhood, each separate, each in their own
world. Moreover, he could read Jules’s iron control, which was as
much a result of that, as his own bitterness was. Raith did not
think his brother wanted to admit that. No, he did not think Jules
opened those locked doors, any more than he had. It was a visit
with many silences, silent studying of each other, older now, more
mature, but never having spent time in each other’s company growing
up. The taken in bastard son, and the one-day Duke and rightful
hair.

Despite the grace and beauty in Jules, the
iron and hardness in himself, they shared much of the same bone
structure and coloring. Yet, it was the events of their younger
years—mayhap the adult ones, unspoken as they were, that had them
really looking at each other for the first time.

Also, before he submitted to the Duke’s
insistence he move into his Grace’s house—his father putting it
about that his son, Lord Montovon, had a coach accident, Raith had
another, private visit, with Jules.

He could sit in a chair now, though his left
leg had to stay extended until the bone healed. His ribs and back
hurt. Raith was doing that, sitting by the window, breathing the
usual hearth smoke tinged air when Jules arrived still wearing his
riding clothing. Raith’s gaze followed him to where he sat on the
edge of the bed.

“Was she your mistress?”

“Who?” Raith regarded him.

Jules stared. “Who else. The Duke of
Coulborn’s daughter.”

“Why is it your business?”

“It isn’t. I’m trying to understand.”

“Don’t—try,” Raith uttered abrupt and looked
back out the window.

“All right. It does not matter if she was or
was not. But she was seen with Stratton, yet you rescued her.”

“I told you. She lived with me, many
years.”

“Yes, and one assumes you plotted
together…”

“Stratton killed her mother, slowly, by the
worst means. He hunted her like an animal. He made her
terrified.”

“I’m sorry. That explains…”

He herd Jules sigh and then say, “Raith,
whatever happened, whatever the past, we are brothers. All of us.
If you cannot see the hand and help, we have offered to you—there
is not much else we can do that will make any difference. I do not
know what you plan to do, but you are in no shape to see to
yourself as yet. Do not make this harder on the Duke. He has
explained how his choices colored all of our lives. And, though it
doesn’t change the past, you have it in your power to forgive
him.”

“Is this your (we have all suffered because
of you,) speech?” Raith sneered.

Jules returned, “No. I was not going to say
that. But since you put it that way, he suffered in his own way, to
keep you.”

“Perhaps he shouldn’t have.”

“Perhaps. However, it does not change
anything. What I am asking you, is to try to see through your own
bitterness. We have done it. Do not blame him for what the Duchess
did. I can’t speak on your pain or the loss of your wife, but you
need to untangle it—from your feelings toward our father.”

Raith growled. “I don’t need to do anything,
Jules. I am not you! I don’t give a bloody damn.”

All reasoning was gone in a blink, replaced
by a stare that Raith could feel the ice in, coldly Jules said,
“You will do it. Even if 'tis simply pretense.”

Raith’s head turned, looking up as Jules came
to stand near him.

His brother’s eyes were hard as glass when he
uttered, “He’s keeping it from us, but father is dying, Raith. You
bloody will do whatever he wishes. You are the one, the one he
breaks his heart over. You’ll give him whatever he needs…”

Stoneleigh’s hand curled into a fist, his
face rigid. “You’ve slain your demon, avenged your wife. You are
the one with the power now. Do something honorable with it.”

“You think there’s no honor in vengeance?”
Raith nostrils flared, his blood running not cold but rather like
hot coals.

Jules shot back icily, “I understand it. That
does not mean I do not also see the twisted rage, and how it
consumed you. I am not a fool. I know you wanted to die that night.
Well our father is dying. He wants two things, his sons as
brothers, and you…your forgiveness. Make him believe it. Then I
don’t give a bloody damn what you do.”

Raith watched Jules spin on his heel and
leave. He stared at the closed door, a bitter smile twisting his
lips. Jules—was more like him than not. Ice or fire. It was the
same consuming passion.

Later that night however, it took Ry and two
footmen to assist Raith into his father’s coach. When he arrived at
the mansion, there was no fuss made, and he was glad for it. The
servants showed him to a suite of rooms. The footmen saw him
settled in.

Raith bathed himself as best he could and
only let them assist in pouring the water over his head, holding it
over a pan. Afterwards, dressed in trousers and a robe, he
submitted to the doctor’s examination.

He refused the laudanum again, and paid for
it later that night.

The surroundings were much more elaborate,
though thankfully masculine and not overly done. Raith awoke
gasping for breath. He hobbled to the window. The pain in his thigh
throbbed, the splinter of it was constant in various parts of his
body. It and felt like shards going through muscle and bone.

He braced his hands on the window and had a
sudden mental flash of Gabriella’s face, her eyes, looking up at
him from that lower hall when he had rasped her name. As always,
the words would not form. Lowering himself to the ledge, he closed
his eyes, leaning his head against the sill. It still throbbed too.
He would never forget the sight that met him at Stratton’s—the
picture of a horribly battered and bleeding Gabriella, half lying
across the bed, her dagger still in her hand. Stratton, restrained,
screaming foul and filthy curses whilst blood ran from a dozen
wounds. There was no doubt he knew who she was, because he raged at
both Gabriella and her mother.

After Raith had gotten her out and to Jules,
he had gone in and finished Stratton…taking as much time as
promised to let him know who destroyed him and why, killing him,
just as he had promised. Stratton, to the very end, died with foul
curses and crude, cruel, insults towards Raith’s wife on his lips.
He had eventually known whom he had killed, but she was nothing, as
Raith was nothing to him.

Stratton had destroyed more life than that,
nameless, uncounted, unnoticed, he bragged, and never having been
caught or confronted gave him a God-like sense of himself, as
perverse as it was. He perfected torture, delved into untold
darkness—but Raith knew, eventually, was subject to his own
impulses.

It was only his death, his silence, that
silenced the rage in Raith. It was that very emptiness, void of
that passion for revenge, fulfilled, having both the satisfaction
and the horror of what he’d done warring in some black pit in what
was left of his own soul, that made him turn to that window with
the burning drapes…aware of how high up from the ground he was—and
run toward it, closing his eyes just before he saw Suzette in those
flames, smiling softly, holding out her arms to him, at
peace…beckoning him to share it.

Yet—here he was, alive.

And Gabriella...

Raith flashed to those feverish moments at
his house, before it all ended…on the bed…when he had lost all
control. Each time he allowed it to surface, it was a spark of
light in utter darkness, like a flicker of flame in his dark
soul.

He still did not know if he had actually
rescued her all those years before, or destroyed her. He sometimes
thought, he was not all that much better than the devil they had
killed.

It was too late to second-guess or regret if
he was some shadow version of Stratton.

No. Bloody hell no.

He had not always been conscious of what his
obsession, tied to hers, may do to her afterwards, as consumed as
he was with Suzette. There was some part of Gabriella that was
him…some part of him, that was her. Though healing in body, it now
felt raw, seeping, un-assuaged, separated. It felt like—it needed
to be merged, healed…Although he did not see himself as the
healer.

Raith found his bed again and lowered his
body upon it. The pain and soreness was constant. He missed her. He
had never thought he would. He did not ever expect to.
Nevertheless, from the moment, he opened his eyes— he had wanted to
see Gabriella’s face.

The other part of it—was fear—a kind of
terrifying realization, that he had long ago replaced Suzette’s
image with hers. He never dreamed of Suzette’s death anymore, not
since he had ended Stratton’s life, not even under the medication.
He always, always, saw Gabriella.

When Gabriella’s image haunted him, it was
animated, filled with emotion, some expression that he could feel,
because he knew her, her spirit, her soul, her strengths. It was
not the same as the haunting of Suzette had been. Nonetheless, he
was afraid he would never feel whole, healed, or not haunted.
Perhaps that was his destiny. Perhaps—it was the price of his own
sins.

Looking up at the high vaulted ceiling gave
the impression of an endless void. He had never lived with
(silence) of spirit. It seemed he was born wrestling with his own
heart, soul and mind. He said at Stratton’s last breath (forgive me
Suzette, forgive me for taking the sweetness and love you offered
for I led you from safety. It did. His restlessness, his not
telling her the full truth of who and what he was.) There were more
like Stratton out there. He had seen them on his haunts. Predators.
He was not guilty of that.

He did not want Gabriella to be another
obsession. There. He could at last admit it, if only to himself. He
wanted this…struggle to be for something other than darkness.

* * * *

The day following Raith’s moving in, Artis
was assured by the servants that Raith was up, dressed, and that he
had eaten. Knocking on his door, Artis heard the muffled (enter)
and opened it, spying Raith by the window, standing with the aid of
canes.

When his son turned around, it killed Artis
to see the hardness in him, even as he acknowledged it had helped
Raith survive. Walking closer, he watched his youngest lower
himself into a nearby chair, a small table next to it holding
coffee.