Seize the Fire (7 page)

Her slight smile flattened. Her bosom rose and fell in a deep sigh. Sheridan grinned and pushed her back.

"Too damned cold for a bath," he said. "I'm all grown up now, you see. I don't need you to pat me on the head and tell me I'm a good boy—which I ain't, I can assure you." He reached past her for a hairbrush from the dressing table. When he'd dragged the brush through the thick tousle of his dark hair, he eyed her again where she stood planted in front of him. "Still here? What
do
you want from me, my dear?"

She was silent.

Sheridan moved past her to pick up his coat. "Not money, I hope. I'm perfectly flat. You should have inquired as to financial particulars before you jumped beneath the bedclothes so eagerly." He slung the coat over his shoulder and gave her a lopsided smile. "Call it a charity job. Or a patriotic gesture. In lieu of singing 'Rule Britannia' on behalf of the homecoming hero."

"Sheridan," she said quietly, "I have something to tell you."

Her tone brought him up short in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder.

"I can save you a trip to the solicitor," she said. "I know the terms of your father's will."

He leaned against the doorframe. "Ah. Yes. I had my suspicions. It all goes to you, does it?" When she made no answer, he rubbed his chin. "Well, you certainly did more work for it than I."

"You never came to see him," she said softly, her face growing wistful. "Not once, after you were grown."

It was one of her best tricks, that look. As a boy, he had been gulled by it times without number. He stared at her face, that lovely affectionate lie, and felt something dangerous spring awake in the depths of his brain, as if a sleeping wolf opened golden eyes in the dark.

He made an effort to give her his sweetest smile. "I disliked him excessively. And there was the small matter of various admirals, you see, who kept suggesting that I postpone my social engagements until I was no longer needed to blow up hapless foreigners in the interest of His Majesty's peace of mind."

"You might have left the service anytime these twenty years."

The wolf lay there, watching from the shadow. He imagined a wall, built a cage brick by brick to keep that other self at bay. With his fists safely trapped in his pockets, he said, "And done what, my love?"

She clasped her hands and looked down with a little shrug. "Gone into politics, perhaps. Certainly with your reputation you could have—"

"Starved to death quite nicely, I'm sure. You seem strangely naive for a woman your age, Julia. Medals are helpful, no doubt, but it takes hard cash to buy a seat in Parliament. And no"—he pushed himself away from the door abruptly—"my father would not have paid for it, I assure you."

"You don't know that."

"I know it," he said deliberately. "Do you think I'm still a ten-year-old fool, dear?"

Her smooth brow creased in a little frown. "What will you do now?"

Sheridan east his coat over a chair. He walked to a small table and picked up the dusty decanter that sat atop smooth mahogany, blew on the crystal stopper and opened it, sniffing the contents. "Do you suppose this is actually brandy, or some droll imitation that will cause me to fall down in amusing convulsions?"

"I worry for your future," Julia said.

He ignored that and set the decanter down again. "Best to let Mustafa try it. Nothing will kill him. I've attempted it myself several times, but no luck."

"Sheridan," she said, "what will you do now?"

"Now that I have no prospects whatsoever, you mean." He turned to the window, where the last ghoulish gray of daylight still flowed into the candlelit room. He put his hands on the sill. "I've been thinking about that. Cataloging my assets. I have my medals—I imagine those will bring a farthing for the lot, at the very least. My epaulettes might be worth fifteen guineas if I cleaned 'em up well enough. I've a presentation sword I can pawn." He leaned on one hand and massaged the back of his neck. "But perhaps I should keep hold of that. I'm a knight, after all. I might post a notice outside debtors' prison. 'Dragons slain. Princesses rescued. Naval battles and accidental harebrained heroics a speciality.'"

"You're in debt?"

"Oh, yes. Quite spectacularly." He laughed, looking back at her. "And the devil of it is, I didn't even have any fun getting dipped." He shrugged. "Can you imagine that just a few years ago I swallowed the bait again—that I was idiot enough to believe my father when he offered to loan me the money to invest in a stock he recommended? One of these damned railway notions, it was—with a locomotive engine, if you can credit that. It was certain—
certain
, mind you—to make so much blunt hauling coal, I could afford to leave the navy within the year."

She stood watching him, her fine lips pursed.

He shook his head and stared out the window. "I was ripe for the taking, I'll tell you. Been hanging off Burma in the monsoon for six months, waiting on those poor suckers of marines holding Rangoon. Foodstores all gone rotten in the heat—flies everywhere, mud stink and rain and nineteen out of twenty on board dying of dysentery or cholera or some goddamned disease that I don't even know the name of—and the putrid corpses showing up in the mud flats every time the tide went out. No land transport, the stinking Irrawaddy in flood; not allowed to go back, no way to go forward—and here's this letter, delivered specially by a crisp-looking fellow in a chartered yacht who had me on board to dinner. We had venison pie and lemon pudding and a roasted pheasant. And fresh rolls." He leaned his hands on the windowsill and lowered his head between his arms. "Do you know what fresh rolls taste like? They're soft. They're
soft
. I could have cried. And then he handed me that letter from my father, and explained all the documents, and I…"

Silence closed in on the room. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and his heartbeat pounding in fury—at himself, who should have known better, at one insane moment of weakness that had taken all his hard-won savings and bought him disaster for life.

"Well," he said, pushing away from the sill, "you can guess the end of this story. The railway is of course a dead issue, the authorizing bill having been thrown out of Parliament. I believe it was determined that the line would disturb the afternoon naps of two spinster ladies in a cottage outside of Crewe. I own the whole of the shambles, since it appears there was a minor clause in the documents which guaranteed I would assume on my loan the shares of anyone who wished to sell. Oh, and yes—here's the best part. My esteemed father also thought it would be a humorous touch to barter my note to a moneylender in St. Mary Axe, who hasn't ceased dunning me since for his four hundred thousand pounds."

Julia gave a little gasp. "Four hundred…"

He smiled. "It really is a vastly amusing tale, don't you agree? But you take your inheritance, Julia, and don't mind me. I won't inconvenience you. My moneylender's still a bit reluctant to press a patriotic figure like myself, but I think I'd best be off directly." He swept up his coat and shrugged into it. "I'll just skulk back to India, steal myself a wooden bowl and sit on a street corner with the rest of the beggars, looking suitably wretched."

She stood still and erect, staring at him thoughtfully. Her figure seemed carved of black-and-white marble. Sheridan grew impatient. He was about to send her to the devil when she seemed to start out of her reverie. She frowned and asked sharply, "Is this the truth?"

"Do you think I dreamed it up?" he exclaimed. "If only! I ain't here to weep because the old bastard finally had the grace to cock up his toes, I'll tell you that. I knew he wouldn't leave me anything apurpose, but I hoped to hell he might have died without a will." He curled his lips and held out his arm in a stiff little bow toward her. "No such luck, apparently."

"No," she said. "No such luck."

"Well." Sheridan shrugged. "Nice of you to stop by for a sympathetic coze. Or was it in the way of an eviction call? I suppose the house is yours, too—although I warn you, it's a damned cold mausoleum full of vicious pranks." He swept a look around the room. "And ugly to boot."

Her fine bosom rose and fell in a sigh. She said slowly, "I imagine this bitterness was to be expected. I'd hoped we might deal together better."

"How kind of you. But I see no reason for us to deal at all, my dear. I do like a wench with experience and style, but not on these terms, thank you. I'll just be collecting my—"

"Sheridan," she said. "Stay a moment and listen. Your father did leave his fortune to you."

He halted in mid-stride. For a moment there was nothing but the jolt of surprise. He stared at her, realized he was gaping and closed his mouth. Then like a spring that burst into a fountain, the relief and elation exploded in him, crashing into his fingers and toes. He made a wordless exclamation. A thousand pictures whirled through his head; the things he could do; the life he could have: comfort at last, peace when he wanted it, hell-raising when he didn't, first-class travel to civilized places—and music…oh, God, the music. He could go to Vienna and hear it—Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn…Lord, he could buy orchestras and composers and commission his own damned symphonies. And a French chef…all the soft white rolls a man could consume. He could sleep in soft white rolls. He could seduce women in soft white rolls. He gazed at Julia's bosom, overlaying that image with the floury sweet warmth of baking bread, and found himself chuckling giddily. He heard the crazy note that vibrated beneath the laughter and caught his breath. He managed to silence himself.

"Julia," he said. "Julia. You wouldn't lie to me, love? Not about this."

She shook her head. There was a peculiar tightness around her mouth, but he discounted that as jealousy. Why should she lie? He had a light-headed magnanimous impulse and blurted, "You can live here. Not
here
, that is—I'm going to demolish this granite horror. I'll build you a lodge off somewhere that you'll like, and you can live there the rest of your life, I promise you."

In the midst of that pledge he realized just what he was saying. The last thing he wanted was an aging whore anchored around his neck, particularly one who would happily slide a knife between his ribs the moment she saw some fun and profit in it. He knew well what Julia was, beneath that veneer of motherly sympathy.

But what of it? Promises were as free as air. And she still had a few good romps left in her, that was certain. He grinned and held out his hand. "We owe you that much, the old man and I."

She did not take his hand. She simply stood watching him. A trickle of premonition seeped in his belly.

"Deal?" he asked, still offering his hand.

She smiled, that dry curl of her lips. The trickle became a flood. Sheridan dropped his hand, suddenly smelling one of his father's jokes so strongly he could have choked on the stench.

"What is it?" he said suspiciously.

She wet her lips, a cat licking cream.

Between one instant and the next he lost himself. The wolf sprang alive, snarling for blood; the battle-fury rushed through his brain like a high wind. "Damn you—
where's the catch?"
he roared.

She took a step backward, her thick lashes going wide. She seemed to shrink a little, flinching away from him as her glance went warily and instinctively to his fists. Sheridan knew that gesture; had seen it a thousand times in whorehouses and back alleys and on waterfronts all over the world. She thought he was going to hit her.

As if a monstrous wave had washed him and passed on, the madness evaporated. He stared at her, breathing hard, feeling queerly fragile. For one horrible instant he thought he was going to break into tears.

He grabbed the decanter and aimed it at her head, giving her plenty of time to duck. It hurled past and shattered all over the damask wallpaper behind her with a satisfying crash.

She stood straight, only trembling a little. "Are you finished?" she asked when he made no other move.

He walked around her, keeping his face impassive to hide his shaken wits. He made a slow, considering circle. When he was satisfied that he was in full control of himself again, he came to a stop behind her and waited, watching her spine grow tense. Then he lifted an inkpot and dropped it on the bare floor.

She jumped like a cat at the sound.

"Perhaps I'm finished," he said softly. "Perhaps I'm not."

She took a deep breath and turned sharply to face him. "Have your fun," she hissed. "
Hero
. Maul me if you will. Kill me. And see what it gets you."

Idiotic baggage. She was damned ready with stupid invitations. He watched her narrowly, sniffing at the trap.

"What's the catch?" he said. "Do I have to marry you?"

She laughed at that, archly. "Would you?"

He looked at her, at the way she stood straight in spite of her wariness, and recognized from long experience the posture of someone who was certain they held all the cards. "I can think of worse fates," he said with a little shrug, and then added a nice touch by reaching out and stroking his finger down the line of her cheek. "Far worse," he said softly.

Her eyelashes lowered. She went still for a moment. He deepened his caress, taking her chin and pulling her toward him for a kiss, thinking sourly that it was about what he might have expected, that the old man would dangle all that money and then shackle him to a worn-out whore. Capital joke.

Except that Julia was not precisely worn out yet. She pressed up against him, writhing gently beneath his hands. When he finally had to come up for air, she leaned back in his arms, her eyes half closed. "Damn you," she whispered. "Damn you for a beautiful lying bastard."

He couldn't see damning himself for that, since it was clearly an advantage with the likes of Julia Plumb. If he wouldn't hit her, it was just as well the evil hussy lusted after him. So he gave her a squeeze and tried to kiss her again.

She pulled away, though, and stood breathing unsteadily. "Enough of that," she said, with a little proud toss of her head. "I want to talk."

But she had a look in her eyes that suggested if he chose to override her, he needn't expect to meet serious resistance. To put her in mind of who'd come spooning around whom in the first place, he cut her dead; let her stand there ogling him, with her lips parted and her breasts heaving, until he reckoned she must have realized how fatuous she looked. Then he said in lazy mockery, "Oh, God, Juli—don't. How can I stand it when you tease me like that?"