Love Letters (6 page)

Not even his wife knew he liked art. But then there were a lot of things his wife hadn’t bothered to learn about him. He’d realized after saying I do that his wife had married him for his money. Unfortunately it had been too late. Their relationship had been superficial, at the most.

“What happened?” He started toward her, slowly, afraid of frightening her away.

She shrugged, refusing to look at him. “You know my parents, they like to spend. We’re…rather destitute.”

His stomach churned and he froze, ill. Dear god, was this about money? “You want money?” He turned his back to her, his heart beating frantically. He felt as if he was with his wife all over again.

“You didn’t have to sleep with me, Clara. I would have given you whatever you needed.”

“No! I’m not…I’m not a whore.”

He raked his hands through his hair. Hell, he didn’t know what to believe anymore. If she wasn’t here for money, if she didn’t think he was the bastard the rest of the world thought he was…then…

“Father promised me to a man I’d rather not marry. Your sister told me you were studying art, paying models...”

His heart broke, crumbling into the pit of his belly. “And so you came for the position.”

“No. Perhaps I used that as an excuse. But in reality… damn it all, Brendon, I came for you.”

He turned, needing to see her face. Only truth shone in her eyes.
Him.
She was here to see him. No. It couldn’t be true. It was too damn beautiful to be true. “Who is it, this man, your fiancé?”

She paused for one long moment. “Lord Desmond.”

His fingers fisted, his nails biting into his palm. He hadn’t met the man but he knew of him. “He’s three times your age and known for his cruelty.”

“I know.”

As, most likely, did her parents. They’d sold her. Damn them, he was tired of the harshness of life.
Tired of selfish bastards…tired of people like him.
If it hadn’t for lust, he wouldn’t be in this hell. If he’d loved his wife like he should have, perhaps she wouldn’t have had to find love in the arms of another. If he’d been more attentive, she wouldn’t have left him that evening to go to her lover and she wouldn’t have been killed in that carriage accident with the babe she carried. A babe he wasn’t even sure was his. He should have never married her. Anger gave way to desperation.

He couldn’t save his wife now, but he sure as hell could save Clara. “I’ll kill him.” He stalked across the room and scooped up his shirt, punching his fists through the sleeves.

“No! Brendan, you can’t! He merely kissed me.” Clara rushed toward him, latching onto his hands. “Please. If anything were to happen to you…”

Merely kissed her.
Perhaps, but the bruises on her arms said he’d done it with a force not needed. She released his fingers and clutched the front of his shirt, surprisingly strong for such a small woman. Tears stung her eyes making them glow a brilliant sea green. His knees grew weak. She cared. Dear God, she still cared about him after all these years.

“Get dressed.”

She shook her head, those sable brows drawing together in confusion. “Why?”

He knew, in that moment, what he was about to do was right. “Get dressed. We’re getting married.”

She moved, as if the shock had literally pushed her back. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t…”

He was in front of her in one long stride. He gripped her shoulders and jerked her forward, his mouth finding hers. It was a hot kiss, hard, demanding. Just when she slumped into him, he pulled back. “Do you still love me?”

Heat shot to her cheeks. Obviously embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the ground. Her silence was like a punch to the gut. Was he wrong?

He gave her a soft shake. “Do you?”

Her gaze met his. “Yes, damn you. I’ve forced Elizabeth to tell me everything about you for the last ten years.”

He grinned, his heart warming. This was right. For the first time in almost three years, he felt alive again, he felt hopeful. “Then get dressed.”

Those tears she’d been trying to hold back, slipped down her cheeks, one…then another and another. “I won’t. I won’t let you marry me just because you feel some sort of guilt.”

He sighed and brought her close, holding her warm body gently to his chest. “Clara, there are a million ways I could help without marrying you. Hell, I could give you a purse full of coins and send you on your way.”

“Then why? Why do you want to marry me if not because of guilt?” she whispered against his chest.

He pulled back, slid his finger under her chin and tilted her head up.
“Because this night I’ve felt more alive than ever.
I’ve
felt
…finally after feeling nothing but numbness for years, I’ve felt again.”

He slipped his fingers into her cool strands, cupping the sides of her face. “Tell me you’ll marry me.”

Her lower lip quivered, tears glistening in her eyes. He knew her answer, it was there in her gentle smile, in her beautiful gaze, but he needed to hear the words.

“Clara?”

“I—”

Before she could respond, the door burst open, splinters of wood dancing across the floor. As one they spun around. A man stood in the doorway, a pistol pointed to the temple of Brendon’s trusty butler.

Chapter 5

Brendon pushed Clara behind him, so quickly she suddenly found her view blocked by his broad shoulders. She stumbled back, the edge of his work table biting painfully across her bottom. Dizzy with fear, she latched onto his shirt, regaining her balance.

“I don’t believe you were invited in,” Brendon growled.

Always the knight, he was shielding her body with his. Unable to resist, she stood on tiptoe and peeked over his right shoulder. The familiar face sent her heart plummeting to her feet. No. No, he couldn’t have found her. She’d been so careful!
Clara bit hard on her lower lip, the pain her punishment.
How could she have put Brendon in danger?

Desmond stood arrogantly near the door, his gray, weathered face a mask of confidence. Beside him, a strange man held a pistol to the butler’s head. Smith looked more annoyed than frightened. Still, just the site of that gun sent bile to Clara’s throat.
Her fault.
All of this was her fault. She’d been so selfish to come here.
So selfish to steal this moment with Brendon.

Desmond slowly pulled the leather gloves from his hands. The site of those pale, stout fingers brought horrible memories to mind…him…touching her flesh. Clara shivered.

His dark eyes slowly scanned the room and by the look on his face, he found the place lacking. “I am here for my wife.”

Clara’s fingers dug into Brendon’s shirt. The word
wife
made her stomach clench.
The bastard.
They weren’t married yet, and if she had her way, they never would be.

“No one here is married, that I know of,” Brendon replied.

The strength in Brendon’s voice calmed her…for a brief moment. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. She hadn’t wanted this. She’d never meant to put him in danger. Guilt flared bitterly in her gut. There was only one way to rectify the situation. Releasing her hold, she started to move. Brendon raised his arm, blocking her.

“Please,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Let me go.”

He didn’t bother to glance down at, but kept his gaze pinned to Desmond. “No.”

Desmond started forward, slowly traversing the distance between them. “This is what you’ve left me for?” He quirked a gray brow, amusement flashing in those dark eyes and damn, if she didn’t feel that same sickening fear she’d always felt when he was near.

A confident smirk spread across those thin lips as if he knew her fear. That same look he’d given her the moment he’d smashed his mouth to hers. He’d intended on doing more than kissing her that evening. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten the chance. But she wasn’t innocent any longer. No, she’d given her virginity to Brendon. It was the one thing, no matter what, that Desmond could never have.

“A poor artist?”
He looked Brendon up and down. “Pathetic.” Desmond was smaller, much, yet he was cruel in a way Brendon could never be. The closer he got, the harder her heart slammed against her chest. She would not let Brendon give his life for her.

Desmond paused a few feet away and held out his hand. “Come, Clara. Come now, and no one will be hurt.”

Objection roared in her ears. Her body began to tremble for she knew what she had to do, with Brendon’s consent or not. She would give herself to the demon. She’d had one night of heaven, and she would cling to the memories of that one night for the rest of her life.

“Don’t come, and your pathetic friend and his man servant will die.”

She rested her hand on Brendon’s back, his muscles stiff under her touch. “Please, Brendon, let me go.”

Once again, he didn’t bother to look at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Irritation momentarily replaced her fear. She narrowed her eyes and frowned up at him. Damn it, didn’t he understand she had no choice? “I’m not ridiculous, I’m being practical!”

He snorted.
Snorted, for God’s sake.

She stomped her bare foot. “I am!”

“Enough!” Desmond roared, his pale face flaring an unflattering shade of red.

The man was losing control, the monster slowly being released and Brendon merely stood there as if they were watching some odd animal in a curiosity shop. Panic welled. She swallowed hard the lump of tears that clogged her throat. “Please, Brendon, let me go.”

He didn’t bother to turn. “I can’t.”

Such a simple response.
He
couldn’t
. Why?
Guilt?
Because she was Elizabeth’s friend?
Didn’t he realize he could die because of her? Perhaps he wanted to die, wanted to follow his wife to the afterlife. Well she wasn’t going to allow it!

She stood on tiptoe, the side of her face pressing to his neck. He felt so wonderful, so incredibly wonderful. How badly she wanted to wrap her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed in his scent.

“You have no choice,” she whispered next to his ear.

“Behind you, in the drawer, my pistol.
Get it,” he murmured so softly that for a moment she thought she’d misheard him.

Desmond slapped his gloves against an open palm, the sound like a gunshot through the room. “Come now, I tire of waiting.”

Clara shuddered, her bare toes curling into the floorboards. What if she couldn’t reach the pistol in time? She closed her eyes briefly and prayed, prayed that just this once everything would work out the way it should. And then he touched her. Brendon took her hand, briefly squeezing her fingers in his.

She knew she had no choice but to try. Slowly, she lowered herself to the heels of her feet. Hidden behind Brendon’s wide shoulders, she took a brief moment to calm her harsh breathing. Reaching behind, she fumbled across the smooth tabletop until she felt the cool porcelain of a knob. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and slowly opened the drawer.

“And what will you do if she doesn’t leave?” Brendon mocked. “Shoot us?”

“If I have to.
That’s completely up to you.”

Clara ignored their conversation, ignored the way her heart leapt at their words. The drawer squeaked open. She froze, cringing. But the opening was just large enough that she could slip her hand inside.
Paper, pencils, an inkwell.
She leaned back, fumbling further. Brendon crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers resting against his side, so close, so temptingly close. “And you think the death of a famous artist will go unnoticed?”

“Famous?” Desmond chuckled. “You live in nothing more than a shack.”

Thank God she couldn’t see her fiancé’s face or she just might lose her nerve. He thought he had the upper hand, perhaps he did. Brendon’s fingers drummed against his side, his expression bored. “You shouldn’t judge by looks alone, you know.”

Where was that damn pistol? Frustrated, Clara shoved her hand right. Her fingertips hit cool metal. Relief sank into her gut. She wrapped her hand around the handle and pulled the pistol free. The weapon was smaller than she’d expected, the silver gun fitting in the palm of her hand.