Lady in Blue (33 page)

After rinsing the blood away, she studied the wounds intently, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. “I see a few splinters of glass. Try not to move while I draw them out.”

Moving was definitely beyond his power. He could scarcely breathe as her words echoed in his head:
I must leave you.

He watched in a daze as she worked. Now and again she soaked his hand in a basin of fresh water before dipping tweezers into a cup of brandy and plucking nearly invisible pieces of the wineglass from his flesh. After a while, she began to press his palm and fingers with the pad of her thumb. “Tell me if you feel anything,” she instructed.

Twice he nodded, and she went back to work with the tweezers. Finally she washed his hand in soapy water, rinsed it well, and drizzled brandy over the wounds until the cup was empty. He felt nothing, saving only the pain in his heart.

After applying salve, Clare wrapped the hand in gauze and came to her feet. “That should do it. The footmen will help you change into a clean nightshirt.” She picked up one of the trays and moved to the door, followed by the maids.

“Come back,” he managed to say between dry lips.

“Yes. When you are settled in bed.”

A few minutes later, stretched on his back between fresh sheets, he watched the footmen extinguish all the lights except for one lamp on the night table. As the room grew dim, it seemed they were snuffing, one by one, his hopes and dreams.

I must leave you.

He didn’t hear the servants depart. The darkness closed around him, crushing his chest, driving the air from his lungs. How was he to live without Clare? The finality in her voice had been unmistakable. She was determined to go, for some reason that had nothing to do with him.

Even if she explained, and he was not certain she would, no words from him would change her mind. She had made a promise, one she could not set aside. And he well understood what it was to be bound by honor to a course that led nowhere. How impossible it was to turn back.

“Bryn?” She came into the room and closed the door behind her.

“I’m awake. Come here, Clare. We must talk.”

“I know.” She lowered herself on a chair at his side and lifted the bandaged hand. “Does it hurt?”

“Attila did worse damage.” In the soft glow of the lamp, her long hair loose around her shoulders, she had never looked more beautiful. He felt the effort it cost her to smile at him.

“You must take better care of yourself. Now we have only one unscarred hand between the two of us. I ought to scold you for being so clumsy with that glass.”

“How did you expect me to react? You said you were leaving me. For God’s sake, why? I don’t understand.”

She lowered her head. “It seems that you do. It is precisely for God’s sake that I must go.”

“That makes no sense whatever,” he said, after a beat. “This is between you and me.”

“I only wish that were true. And I shall try to explain, Bryn, although I don’t expect you will be persuaded I have no other choice.”

“I am already convinced you believe it to be true,” he said quietly. “Don’t be afraid to tell me how you feel. I’ll not object or interrupt.”

Nodding, she folded her hands in her lap. “You know that my father was a man of faith. From the cradle, I was taught the Commandments and schooled to believe as he did. Even when my stepmother twisted those principles into a rigid discipline that had little to do with true religion, I never lost my own faith.

“But when I became your mistress, I fell from grace. I knew that and accepted the consequences, although there was still hope I’d be forgiven if I spent the rest of my life repenting and making reparation. That was my intent, until I began to take pleasure in my sin. I never meant to. You remember how I fought it—and you.”

He winced, remembering all too well.

“At the end, I could not help myself,” she confided. “I came to want you more than salvation and was sure I would never regret our time together, although it meant burning in hell for eternity.”

He wanted to protest, but he swallowed his words. Clare was, for once, speaking from her heart. And his own heart ached as he began to realize the incalculable pain she had kept hidden from him all these weeks. She was a vicar’s daughter, driven to sell herself at the risk of her soul for the sons of a madwoman who’d tortured her. The interior struggle with her exacting conscience had torn her apart.

At that moment, he’d have willingly consigned his own black soul to the devil if she could be spared one instant of her torment. A poor bargain, he reflected darkly. Already firmly in Lucifer’s grasp, he had nothing to offer any of the Powers that ruled an afterlife he’d never believed in.

She was speaking again, in a low monotone. “You were dying, Bryn. I felt you slipping away, so far away that nothing could bring you back except a miracle. I prayed so hard, knowing I had no right to pray, and still you grew weaker. Sometimes I thought you had ceased to breathe altogether. And then I promised God that if He let you live I would never sin with you again. I knew it was a futile prayer, since I was lost already, but immediately the words were said you squeezed my hand. Opened your eyes. For some reason, that vow made all the difference. Do you understand that I have given my word and must honor it?”

He stared at her in blank astonishment before remembering that moments ago he’d thought to do the same thing—make a bargain with God, or Satan if need be, for Clare’s sake. With
anyone
having power to alter reality to suit his own wishes. But he had not truly believed that possible.

Clare did.

Now that he understood the depth of her religious conviction, he could not blame her. But she was wrong. She had to be, because he would not give her up for a promise she made under duress. No god worth his salt would hold her to it.

Releasing a long breath, he took hold of her hand. “Do you honestly think the Almighty bargains with his creatures for their lives and souls? Clare, listen to me. I recall very little of what happened after I was shot, except the sound of your voice. I kept trying to reach it, but whenever I got close the pain turned me away.”

He drew her fingers to his lips, wanting her to feel his words as he spoke them.

“The last moments before I awoke are very clear. The temptation to give up was nearly overwhelming, and I’m fairly certain I would have done so, if not for your voice and the assurance you were there, waiting for me. I cannot believe any god would be so cruel as to lead me back to you, only to snatch you away because of a promise you made out of desperation. I won’t believe in a god who plays games like that, pitting us against each other for his own amusement. And neither should you.”

She was quiet for a long time, her eyes closed. Then the tip of her forefinger stroked his taut lips. “Perhaps you are right, Bryn. I don’t know what God has in mind, and I cannot imagine He is toying with us. But I promised. Surely He expects me to—”

He cut her off with a foul oath. And immediately apologized. “Forgive me. I know very well what it is to be entangled in promises, and how it feels when they suddenly make no sense at all.”

“What shall we do, then?” she murmured. “We can never be happy with each other under these circumstances.”

“There is a solution,” he said forcefully. “What we need is time, to figure out what it is. For the foreseeable future you are in no danger of sinning with me, since I can barely lift my head, let alone anything else. And when I regain my strength, I won’t try to seduce you. Stay with me, Clare, and promise you won’t run away again until we find an answer.”

Her lips curved. “You are always so sure of yourself. It never fails to astound me. I’ll make no more promises, because I’m very unsure of myself at the moment. But so long as we are not lovers, I have no reason to leave you.” Her voice grew soft. “Nor do I want to.”

“Well enough, then,” he said, wishing she would kiss him. To his astonishment she did, lightly, no more than a brush of her lips across his, but the tiny gesture gave him hope.

“Sleep now,” she instructed, coming to her feet and moving with a determined stride to the door. “This has been a long and difficult day, and we are both beyond coherent thought. I’ll join you for breakfast.”

He lay awake for several hours after she’d gone, reflecting on the things she had revealed about herself and what she endured while he selfishly pursued his own goals, oblivious to her silent anguish. As exhaustion took possession of his senses, only one thing seemed clear.

He must go home and face the past that still haunted him. Confront the ghosts who had set him on a collision course with any hope of a future with Clare.

And she must go with him, because he lacked the strength to confront them alone.

Two weeks later,
Clare and Bryn set out for River’s End.

She was glad to be on the road at last. Bryn had been impossible the last few days, sometimes brooding, other times chafing at the restrictions imposed on him by the doctor. In general, a royal pain in the backside.

She knew he was unhappy, as was she, but by silent agreement they never discussed her departure. Instead, they quarreled incessantly about how much he was permitted to drink, why she must remain at St. James’s instead of moving back to Clouds, and her refusal to accept the expensive jewelry he requisitioned from Clark and Sons. A new parcel arrived every afternoon, containing diamonds and rubies and emeralds enough to support her in comfort for the rest of her life.

She could not bear to look at his gifts, although she loved him all the more for wanting to take care of her, and angered him with her determination to preserve her independence. Was she not already indebted beyond her power to repay him?

They kept hurting each other, without wanting to.

Sometimes she wanted to disappear again and make a clean end, but he would find her. She intended to settle in Hastings. The seaside town had become a popular summer resort, and Florette knew of an excellent modiste who would be pleased to employ her. With a job and a place to live until she could afford a cottage of her own, one close enough to visit the twins, there was no reason to stay in London now that Bryn was recovered.

She had agreed to accompany him to the Caradoc estate only because of the little he’d told her about his childhood there. There must be compelling reasons why he had not gone back for twenty years, although he refused to speak of them. And when he begged her, with uncharacteristic humility, to make the journey, she could not refuse.

Heydon Manor, a few miles north of River’s End, was a pleasant and unpretentious country house surrounded by well-tended gardens. Robert and Elizabeth waited by the circular drive to welcome them, along with the viscount’s mother, Lady Dorinda Lacey, who rushed to hug Bryn the moment he stepped out of the carriage.

Almost immediately Clare felt at home, despite one awkward moment when they were shown to a single bedroom.

Since the day he first awoke, Bryn had wanted to sleep with her. After learning of her vow, he swore he’d not touch her sexually, although he still wanted to hold her in his arms.

She believed him, but she did not trust herself and finally told him so. He had been inordinately pleased by her confession.

Separate rooms had been reserved at the inns where they stopped, and he seemed content to hold her hand in the carriage and kiss her cheek when they said good night. But when they were ushered into the bedchamber at Heydon Manor, Bryn saw the distressed look on her face and drew Lacey aside. A few minutes later she was escorted to a room of her own.

Dinner was informal, everyone talking at once, catching up on the news. Robert described, in high good humor, the adventures he and Elizabeth encountered on the road to Gretna Green. Bryn sketched, briefly, his encounter with the thugs who shot him, passing over his near brush with death. Lady Dorinda asked about Isabella and Ernestine.

Through it all, Clare smiled often and said nothing. She could not help but envy Robert and Elizabeth, so obviously happy together, and kept sneaking glances at Bryn, lounging in his chair beside her. What would it be like, to love him freely and openly? Without shame?

Once, she had thought it difficult to go to his bed. Once, she could imagine nothing worse than damning herself irretrievably because she wanted to be there. Now she understood those torments were nothing compared to the agony of saying goodbye for the last time.

When the ladies withdrew, leaving the men to their port and cigars, Bryn turned to Lacey with a serious expression. “Elizabeth’s father is dead,” he said flatly. “We must decide how to tell her.”

“He was the one who shot you, of course.” Lacey swirled the wine in his glass. “Any fool could figure that out, except, apparently, the magistrate. Yes, a report of your near demise made it all the way to the local news rag. I assume you lied to protect Beth, but how did Landry meet his end? You were in no condition to see to it.”

Bryn regarded his friend with new respect. He had thought to gloss over the truth, but changed his mind and outlined the details, omitting only Max Peyton’s name. A reliable source had assured him that Landry was butchered at a gin mill and that his body would probably wash up on the banks of the Thames.

“I don’t want Elizabeth to know her father put a bullet in me,” he finished. “She already feels indebted to me, and guilty because he tried to force a marriage between us. Why is it, Lace, that victims take responsibility for the people who hurt them? Why do they protect the whoresons?”

“Why, for that matter, do you insist on protecting Beth? Tell you what, old sod. She’s stronger, in her way, than you or I will ever be. And she would want to know the truth. I’ll be the one to tell her, though. It will be easier, coming from me.”

Nodding, Bryn refilled his glass. “I haven’t told Clare, so make sure Elizabeth understands that.”

Lacey frowned at him. “Damned stupid, if you ask me. Women don’t like being lied to.”

“Clare and I have enough problems as it is,” Bryn said curtly. “Have you made any progress at the estate?”

“Not to speak of. Still on my honeymoon, you know, and I never dreamed you’d swoop down for an inspection. Last week I hired workmen to sweep out the cobwebs and cart away the rotted furniture, but the place is a shambles. Hell, Bryn, what do you expect to see?”

“Hell is precisely what I expect to see. Don’t worry, Lace. This is by way of a pilgrimage, not an inspection. I’m looking for the part of me I left at River’s End, and a few answers.”

The viscount regarded him sternly. “The answers are perfectly clear. Thing is, you’re not asking the right questions.”

Bryn gazed moodily into his glass of wine. “At this point I’m ready to listen to any advice, even yours. So what are the questions?”

Lacey propped his elbows on the table. “Only one, really. Why are you hellbent to live out your father’s life instead of your own?”

Bryn’s head shot up. “I’m not doing that.”

“No? Well, not his real life, of course. Just the one he ought to have lived, the one without the gaming and whoring.”

“And what the devil is wrong with declining to lose my fortune at the tables or kill myself with diseased women? You came a damned sight closer to both than I ever did, before you met Elizabeth.”

“Point taken,” Lacey said with a grin. “Thing is, you’ve gone to extremes in the other direction. Oh, you’re no saint—far from it—but you just plain don’t
see,
Bryndle. Your mind is like your eyes, only a few colors you can take in. The others you are missing altogether, and one of them is named Clare.”

“You know nothing about Clare and me.” Bryn gave him a scorching look. “Stay out of this, Lace.”

“I intend to. But you did ask, so I’ll give you a last piece of advice. Tell her everything, from the beginning. Let her know who you are and how you got that way.”

“You think that will make a difference? She has troubles of her own, ones that have nothing to do with me. Except they mean she cannot—” He waved a hand. “Knowing me better won’t change that.”

“She might help you know yourself. Anyway, that’s the best I can do. Honesty. Try it.” Lacey came to his feet. “One other thing. Last time you were at River’s End, plotting out the rest of your life, you were fifteen years old. You ain’t too smart now, old boy. What in blazes did you know back then?”

MOUNTED IN FRONT of Bryn on a large bay horse, Clare regarded the derelict house with amazement. It was part medieval castle, part Tudor mansion, with bits and pieces of architectural styles tacked on here and there over the centuries.

The crenellated stone walls had been torn down in front but still surrounded the house on three sides, as if the Talgarths had turned their backs on Wales. Ivy covered much of the house, and weeds had taken over the gardens.

Bryn swung down and helped her alight. “The place is a mess,” he warned.

“I can see that. Robert will bring it to life again, or as much as he can until someone makes it a home.”

“That won’t happen for many years, Clare.” He led her up the steps to the unlocked door, which creaked when he pushed it open. “I want it restored for my heir, and to give Lace a job he can handle. I’ve no intention of living here myself.”

Aware of the bitterness in his voice, she only nodded and followed him inside.

The smell of damp stone and moldy wood nearly overpowered her. In the wide hall, stained paper curled away from the walls, which were hung with faded portraits, the figures nearly unrecognizable beneath decades of dust and grime. Empty niches and barren pedestals gave bleak testimony to better days.

“The original fortress was constructed in the eleventh century,” he said. “Not much is left of it, except the great hall and the defensive walls.”

She trailed him through an enormous arched doorway into a massive room, the stone walls blackened by smoke except where tapestries had previously hung. At the far end of the hall a veritable medieval arsenal was arrayed behind a platform that once held, she suspected, the table of honor at lavish banquets. There were crossbows and spears, pikes and maces, broadswords and long knives of all sorts. Two fireplaces, one on either side of the room, were tall enough for Bryn to stand in.

From overhead, she heard the rustle of birds nesting on the heavy wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling.

“It was not always so desolate,” Bryn said quietly. “When my father came home from his travels with a horde of friends in his wake, the hall was filled with music and laughter. I used to watch through one of the peepholes and imagine myself sitting there”—he pointed to the platform—“in his chair. He was like the king of a glittering court, always the center of attention. I wanted to be like that. Like him.”

He laughed, the sound echoing hollowly in the vast room.

“A child’s dream, built—like all dreams—on quicksand. Is anything ever the way we think it is, Clare? Or want it to be?”

She gazed at him helplessly, but he didn’t appear to expect an answer. He had begun to wander around the hall, lost in his memories. “Would you rather be alone?” she asked after a while.

He spun on his heels. “God, no. If you can bear my company and this house, I need you with me. We won’t stay long. There is only one other room I want to see.”

She held out her arms. “As long as it takes, Bryn.”

With a swift stride, he crossed the room and seized her hand. “Come upstairs, then. And thank you. I would sooner not face this alone.”

The sheer size and odd configuration of the manor became apparent as he led her to a wide staircase and then down a seemingly endless passageway that turned first to the right and then the left before dead-ending at a wide doorway. The door itself hung drunkenly from one hinge and made a groaning sound when he pushed it open.

“My father’s chamber,” he said without expression. “He died in that bed.”

Only the carved wooden frame and canopy remained. Against one wall stood a heavy armoire, and a side table ran almost the length of the other. There were no chairs, no carpeting, no other furniture. Her eyes were drawn to a large painting, the sole touch of color in the room although it badly needed cleaning.

Still holding her hand, Bryn moved to stand in front of the portrait.

She gasped. The hair was powdered, but the blue eyes and forceful chin were more than familiar. “That could be you!”

“Owen Talgarth, sixteenth Earl of Caradoc. Whenever I look into a mirror, I see him. Or rather, I see this picture. He looked nothing like it the last few years.”

“When he was ill,” she said, gripping Bryn’s fingers tightly. Even through her gloves and his, they felt cold. “Will it help to tell me what happened?”

He shrugged. “Lacey said I should, although I cannot think how it will change anything. I’m not even sure why I brought you here, or why I came myself. Can you work an exorcism, Clare? Rid me of these demons?”

“I can listen,” she said simply.

And she did, for nearly an hour as he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. With growing horror, she followed him through the years when he had idolized his father to the loneliness of mother and child when the earl abandoned them in favor of his own pleasures, and finally to the destruction of everything Bryn had believed in.

He looked at the portrait as he told the story, as if addressing Owen Talgarth instead of her. And she looked at his face, reading the pain he tried to conceal as he skimmed over the worst details, making little of his own ordeal.

It was a long time before she realized he’d stopped speaking. He had been describing the last night before his father sank into unconsciousness and seemed unable to continue.

Finally he tore his gaze from the painting and looked at her. “I might have forgiven him anything, Clare. I wanted to. But he killed my mother.”

Her heart gave a lurch. “Oh, God, Bryn. He murdered her?”

“He might as well have done. She contracted the pox from him, or that’s my guess. He was sick from it when he came home for a few months but seemed to recover. The disease comes and goes for a time, and then it stays. I think he knew he was dying when he took off again for one last mad grab at life, gambling away what remained of his fortune—and left his wife to confront her illness alone. She could not. One day she walked into the river, and her body was found a few miles away. Everyone called it an accident, but I heard the whispers.”

His voice hardened.

“The hell of it is, he loved her. And she thought he walked on air. But love was never enough for him. He had everything that ought to matter, and he wanted more. At the end, he had nothing at all.”