The Wicked One (33 page)

"Yes.  I don't like the idea, of course, but I will not forbid you to go."

"It must be difficult for you."

"Excruciatingly so.  But I'm trying."

Charles took another sip of his coffee, contemplating his cup for a moment, his thoughts his own.

"Charles?"

"Yes?"

"You've uh, been through all this.  All of you have.  Is this —" he swallowed, making a helpless little gesture with his hands as he tried to find the right words.  "Is this the way it's supposed to feel?"

"Is this the way what's supposed to feel?"

Lucien frowned, his gaze sliding to the still figure on the bed.  "I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"I'm sure I do."  Charles smiled.  "I must confess, however, to taking a certain satisfaction in wanting to hear you say it."

"Far be it from me to deny you, then."  Lucien smoothed a stray tendril of hair from Eva's brow.  "All these years, I have scoffed at the idea of my ever falling in love.  Not that I didn't believe in it, of course; I remember how it was with our parents.  I see how it is between all of you and your spouses.  I just never thought it would happen to
me
.  Never thought I had time for it, never thought my responsibilities to the dukedom would allow it, always thought I could . . . control my feelings such that I would never be plagued by it.  And now it
has
happened to me."  He shook his head.  "Funny, how quickly it creeps up on a person — I never saw it coming."

Charles just stood there, smiling gently.

But Lucien was still gazing at Eva, his eyes deep and dark and sad.  "Never saw it coming," he repeated, almost to himself.  "And never expected it to — to feel like this."

"You mean, gloriously euphoric one moment, and as if someone is carving up your heart in the next?"  Charles gazed at his brother's bent head.  "Yes, Lucien, that is exactly how it is supposed to feel.  At least, in the early stages.  Things do get easier as time goes by, though.  More . . . settled, I suppose you might say, as you grow into a friendship with each other."

"Even so, one must wonder why anyone would choose to even
be
in love."

Charles was still smiling.  "I don't think most of us actually
choose
, Lucien.  Sometimes love chooses
us
."

Lucien said nothing, his coffee going cold in its cup.  Both brothers were quiet for a few moments; only the sound of the fire snapping in the grate and the wind sighing outside broke the silence.  Both were lonely sounds.  Mournful sounds.  "I have much to atone for, Charles," said Lucien at last.  "If she lives, I don't even know where I shall begin."

"Well, you could start by telling her how much you love her.  Tell her you cannot live without her, that she means more to you than anything on this earth.  It might give her the strength she needs to survive."

"I am not convinced she even wants to survive.  I have treated her grievously, Charles.  Forced her to do my will.  For her, death will be an escape."  He clenched his jaw.  "An escape from me."

Charles finished his coffee and looked down at his brother's bent head.  Never had he seen Lucien like this; never had he seen him laid so low, never had he seen him so humbled.  Then he cast an appraising eye over the woman in the bed.  Charles had seen enough men dying while in the army, that he recognized the signs.  And he knew, with a certainty that he didn't bother to question, that the Duchess of Blackheath was not going to die.

Not anytime soon, at least.

But Lucien didn't know that.  And, given that love was already changing him in ways that Charles had never even begun to imagine, strange and wonderful ways that were preciously exciting, he decided that it was best, perhaps, not to interrupt its course.  Love had a lesson to teach his brother.  And Charles would not interfere.  Let Lucien experience the full range of feelings that went with giving your heart to another person . . . including the frightening helplessness that often went with it.

For a man so used to control, it would be good for him to feel helpless.

He gathered up the tray and cups.  "Well, I'm off to bed, then," he said.  "Good night, Lucien."

"Good night."

He moved past his brother, whose head was bowed in anguish, dropping a hand on his shoulder as he passed.  And then he exited the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Outside, Gareth and Andrew waited; they got immediately to their feet, frowning as they saw Charles's thoughtful, preoccupied expression.

"Well, what is it, man?"

"Lucien."  Charles smiled, his heart full of what he'd just witnessed.  He looked at his two siblings.  "He has finally, I think . . . received his true comeuppance."

~~~~

Some hours later, Eva opened her eyes.

It was dark in the room.  Preternaturally still.  She could hear the distant roar of the sea, the casements rattling in the wind, the first cry of a newly awakened gull.  For a moment, her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened to her, knowing that something wasn't right.

That something was missing.

She felt a grinding ache that went deeper than physical, and into her very soul.

And then she remembered.

I've lost the baby.

Everything came back to her.  The fight with Lucien.  Her determination to leave him despite the storm.  The accident.  Oh, God — the accident.  She had a dim memory of her husband coming for her.  Rescuing her from the treacherous face of the cliff, even as the blood had oozed from between her legs, silent, endless, and terrible — as though her entire body were weeping for the baby's loss.

I've killed it.  It's dead.

Dead.

She lay there, hot tears trickling from her eyes, moving in silent, meandering misery down her temples and soaking the pillow beneath her. 
It's dead.
  Her womb was empty now.  So was her soul.  She, with her pride and lack of faith, had killed her little baby.

Dead.

She wept soundlessly, staring up at the ever-lightening ceiling above her head, the distant sound of the surf tolling her baby's death with each mournful crash.  It was getting lighter now; blackness was becoming gray, and around her, the still, silent shapes of furniture were materializing from out of the gloom.  There, the highboy just visible through the parted bed-curtains.  There, the darker shape of a painting on the wall.  There, somebody in a chair drawn up beside the bed, so close she could hear his measured breathing.

She reached out and laid her fingers on his hand.

Lucien.

He stirred.  His fingers closed around her own.  He said nothing, just sitting there holding her hand, giving her a lifeline to his indomitable strength.

You are not alone, dearest.  I am here.

She was unsure whether the words came from his lips — or from the deepest recesses of his soul.  She only knew that he had said them. 
I am here.
  Her tears turned scalding, though she did not sob, did not make a sound. 
I am here.
  She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping his hand, the hot, salty droplets rolling down her cheeks in silent misery. 
I am here.

The bed sagged as he sat down beside her, holding out his arms in unspoken invitation.

A year, a month, a week ago, she would not have accepted the comfort he was offering, would have laughed in his face, would have shunned the desperate ache in herself that now made those arms the only place in the world she wanted to be.  A place she never wanted to leave.  A place that would always hold her, keep her safe from harm, offer refuge, comfort —

Love.

Without further hesitation, Eva went into them.

"Lucien," she sobbed brokenly.  "The baby . . . oh, God, the baby . . ."

He didn't say a word.  He simply held her and let her weep until she had no tears left to cry, until the raw agony of grief began to subside, until exhaustion filed in to take its place.  But she knew that he shared her anguish.  That the solid, comforting strength that surrounded her would always be hers.  That he had been with her by the bed all along, that he would always be with her.  Her mind began to shut down, to seek relief in the deep oblivion of sleep.  She was safe now.  After all these years of distrust, resentment and pretense, she was safe.

With him.

Chapter 28

In the days that followed, Eva slowly went about the business of healing.  Grieving.  Accepting not only that she had lost her baby, but any chances of ever giving her husband the heir that was so important to a proud and powerful aristocratic family like the de Montfortes.

She had failed him.  She could never keep him now.  Not in a million years.  Annulment was sure to come.  Day after day, she waited for his attentions to cool, to wander, waited for him to find some other pursuit than sitting at her bedside, encouraging her to eat when she had no appetite, joining her under the covers at night, his big body keeping her warm as he shared stories about his life, his childhood, those he knew and loved and cared for . . . and encouraged her to do the same.  She was wary, waiting for the bubble to burst, waiting for him to realize that she was no good as his duchess now.  Useless.  But he did not go away.  He did not leave her.  And as the days turned into weeks, Eva's wariness faded to confusion, and then a fragile hope that maybe — just maybe — she had found that which her sisters-in-law had.

That which she had longed for all her life.

The deep and abiding love of a man.

God knew
she
loved him.  How could she not?  He was the antithesis of all she had believed the human male to be.  He was powerful, intelligent, compassionate, devoted, caring, and worthy of the respect she had never thought she would give someone of his gender.  She ached when he left her room, even for a moment.  She glowed when he returned, knowing her smiles also lit him up, banishing the shadows from beneath his eyes, the severity from his face.  He told her he loved her.  He proved it in gesture, kindness, and word.  But she could not bring herself to do the same.  Not yet.  It was the last threshold she must cross, and her inability to do so began to wear on her . . . in the form of frustration, in the form of guilt.

She determined to make it up to him.  To do something — anything — that would atone not only for her failings as his duchess, but for her sins against his family.  Something that would prove her love for him when she could not quite bring herself to utter the words.  As her strength grew, she began to pace her room, and then the house, and then the gardens outside, looking out over a sea as restless as her own heart . . .

And then one morning, a long-awaited letter arrived from France.

~~~~

Nerissa awoke with the dawn.

Three weeks had passed since Charles had left in search of Perry.  Three weeks, of worrying not only about her brother's safety, but the fate of her lost love.  Three weeks — of watching, waiting, for word from France.

Oh, where was he?  What had he found?

Please, Charles, come home.  Come home, and bring Perry with you.

The strain was showing on everyone.  Gareth and Andrew, who'd elected to stay at Gingermere until Charles's safe return, were desperate to return to their wives.  Gareth blew out his frustrations by taking long gallops across the dales; Andrew, much to everyone's dismay, occupied himself with his new explosive, the first earth-shattering detonation even setting the bells in the village to ringing the alarm until Andrew himself, fingertips burned and eyebrows singed yet again, had ridden over to explain the source of the fearful booms, reassuring the panicky inhabitants that no, the French were not attacking, and no, Britain was not at war with her age-old enemy across the Channel.

Yet.

But any day now, the dreaded news would come.  It was a certainty.  Nerissa feared for Charles's safety.  She paced her room, constantly looking out over the sea, watching, waiting, worrying.  And now, as she sat at the window and watched the sun rise in a fiery orange ball, sparkling like diamonds on the water, she wondered if today would bring the news that the two countries were at war once again.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in," Nerissa called, and turned to see her new sister-in-law enter the room.

"Why, Eva — good morning."  She frowned.  "Are you sure you shouldn't be resting?"

"Bah, I have had more than enough of resting.  In fact, I'm feeling quite like my old self these days.  Well enough, I think, to even go riding with Lucien this afternoon."  Eva's green eyes sparkled, as they always did when she spoke of the duke.  "Meanwhile, I thought we might have breakfast together."

Nerissa surveyed her with a critical eye.  Eva was still thin and pale, but every day had brought healing, and the return of a little more of her old spirit.  As Eva came fully into the room, bathed in the fiery glow of the newly risen sun, Nerissa sensed an inherent strength about her that even now seemed to have been enhanced, rather than beaten down, by all that she had been through.  It was no wonder Lucien had fallen in love with her.  No wonder he had barely left her side for the past three weeks.  But was it Lucien's obsessive care that had brought a new softness to Eva's haughty features?  Was it Lucien's love that now made her beautiful face glow with openness, something bravely vulnerable, as though all the hard edges had been razed off, leaving a glittering jewel in its place?

A maid came in behind her, bearing a tray of hot rolls and tea.  She set it down, curtseyed, and left the room as quietly as she'd entered.  Nerissa turned back toward the window.  She stared out over the water, watching the gulls wheeling, diving, floating over the silvered sea as Eva came up beside her.

"My Perry . . . he is alive," she murmured, gazing out at the horizon.  "If he were dead, surely I would have known . . ."  She placed a hand over her heart.  "Surely, I would have felt it in here the moment his dear heart stopped beating, the moment he took his last breath.  Am I not correct, Eva?"