Entwined (Darkest London)

by Kristen Callihan

  Lu’s dark eyes narrowed, and small flags of color pinked her cheeks. “An obscure, ancient Greek word for sixteen dishes? Really, Eamon, that was low of you. Though I will admit, quite inspired.”

  Despite the panic and terror, his lip twitched. “Yes, well.” He took a great breath. “You knew.”

  She sat so very calm and composed, her expression giving nothing away. “Only just today.”

  One domed platter sat at her side. She lifted the cover. Her letters to him, tied up with twine, lay upon the plate. Mocking him. She’d done a fine job of searching his room, that was certain.

  Next to the bundle was another stack of letters wrapped in a violet silk ribbon. His letters to her.

  “It occurred to me,” she said lightly, “that the man I fell in love with, the man in these letters”—her voice grew sharp as she pointed at the evidence—“could not possibly be the Aidan I met last week. Oh, no.” She laughed shortly. “No. What became even more glaringly obvious was that the man I was falling in love with this week was exactly like the man in my letters. My E.”

  At this, she threw her hands up in exasperation. “ ‘Would you be so kind as to humor your affianced and refer to me as E?’ And fool me thought you were referring to Evernight. How could I have been so bloody blind?”

  Eamon tried to formulate a reply but his mind was stuck on one particular. “You’re falling in love with me?”

  Her glare was a ferocious thing, and he might have recoiled, but his heart was growing bigger and bigger within his chest. He feared it might soon burst free.

  “Have care, Eamon Hollis Evernight. I am in a temper, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  He ran his fingers along the back of his neck and tried to look contrite. He failed. But then he caught her gaze. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. That was enough to bring him back. He moved to go to her when she raised a hand. “Don’t.”

  Eamon tensed for a moment then sat back with a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Lu. For all of it.”

  With a shaking hand, Lu picked up another paper upon the tray, a crumpled bit of parchment. He knew what was on it: She is yours now.

  “Aidan truly cannot read or write, can he?” she asked.

  “He never could. No matter what the tutors attempted.” Eamon squeezed the back of his neck tightly. “We didn’t mean to deceive you. Aidan simply didn’t want you to cry off of the marriage, but he could hardly reply to your first letter. So he begged me to do it. I’d been hiding his secret for so long, Bit, I couldn’t deny him.”

  Her pert nose wrinkled. “If he wanted me to marry him, why did you respond with such… sass?” At that, the corners of her lips pulled tight as if she were fighting a smile.

  He fought one too, remembering her letters and how much he loved that girl. “Because he didn’t want to marry, he merely wanted to please our father. So I thought…”

  “That you’d put me off further by being an ass?”

  “It wasn’t the best of plans, I’ll grant you.” He laughed, but it was a pained sound, his chest being too heavy to bear at the moment. “I didn’t count on you becoming my dearest friend, Lu.” He rose then, slowly so she wouldn’t bolt. “I didn’t count on falling in love with you.”

  She watched him come, her face pale and her shoulders shaking. “And you didn’t know how to confess, did you?”

  “I was a coward.”

  He crouched before her, taking her cold hand in his shaking one. “Ah, Lu love, it slashes my heart that I deceived you. When Aidan left and you were hurting, I wanted to die from shame.”

  She nodded as though in complete understanding. Eamon ran his thumb over her fingers. “I shouldn’t have married you in deceit. I should have told you, told you that I loved you and have wanted you for my own for so long that I couldn’t think straight.”

  A sob broke from her, and he gathered her up then, lifting her from the chair and holding her close against his chest. “Lu, please don’t cry.” His hand stroked her hair, destroying the coiffure, setting her silky tresses free. “I love you. I just didn’t love me enough.”

  She sobbed again and clutched his lapels. “Oh, Eamon. What a fine pair we are.”

  He didn’t quite know what she meant by that. He was the liar. And the coward. So he simply kissed her temple and told her again. “I love you. With every day, I love you more.”

  But she pushed back. And he let her go, for he wouldn’t force his love on her. He didn’t deserve her.

  “I am not Lu,” she cried.

  Eamon stilled, his hands loosely holding her wrists. “I don’t—”

  She broke completely free of him. “I lied to you too.”

  His stomach hollowed out, and he swayed. “What do you…” He swallowed against the taste of bile. “What are you saying?”

  Tears ran down her face now. “Luella is dead. I am Lucinda.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She fled. She couldn’t bear the sight of Eamon’s horrified expression or the way he’d recoiled from her as if slapped. It wasn’t fair of her not to give an explanation. Hadn’t she waited patiently for his? Given him a chance? For once her shock had died down, she’d understood his motives for deceiving her. They’d both lied for good reasons. Not that it made things right. In truth, it made them worse. How could they possibly build a life on such a flimsy house of cards?

  Years of deception. Years of playing the part of Luella left her confused and soul sick. She didn’t even know who she was anymore. Lucinda had faded into nothing, a mere jumble of old memories. And Luella? She was the constant ache in her heart. She missed Luella still. Every day. She hated pretending to be Luella. And yet she clung to the part, as if it kept a piece of her sister alive. And from the moment Eamon had decided to call her Lu, that was how she thought of herself. Even if she was merely poor and illegitimate Lucinda Jones.

  A snort escaped her, echoing in the cold night air. She was a complete mess. And how did she end up outside? Lucinda paused. She was next to the smithy and halfway to the stables, and she was breathing far too fast. A ride. That was what she needed. Escape. She could leave here. Go somewhere new. America. No one would know her, no one would care.

  But she did not take another step.

  “Eamon,” she whispered. She couldn’t leave him. He was her heart. Over the years, she had fallen in love with the man expressing himself on paper, and she’d fallen in love with the man of flesh and bone practically on sight. He’d had the right of it long ago; he was her waking breath and sleeping sigh. And she had to face him, come what may.

  Lucinda turned on her heel, back toward the house, and promptly collided with a solid frame. Her hands grabbed thick arms to steady herself. “Eamon.” She breathed out a sigh of relief. “I was just…” Her words trailed off as she realized with a lurch that she was not in Eamon’s familiar embrace.

  “Just going to confess?” said the man.

  He was an older man, greying at the temples, with great, bushy sideburns that whipped along his cheeks and ended at the corners of his mouth. It gave him the appearance of having a maniacal grin. He reeked of gin, and his clothing, while good quality, was just this side of shabby. Fallen on hard times, then. And he appeared familiar.

  “Who are you?” she asked, trying to back away. He wouldn’t let her go.

  “Look again, child. Surely, I have not changed so much.” His thumbs caressed the exposed skin just below her sleeves, and she flinched, her insides turning as he let his gaze wander over her. “Though I cannot say the same for you. Quite lovely, Miss Lucinda.”

  Lucinda stilled, making herself appear as innocuous as possible as she studied him again. Recognition hit. “Dr. Arnold.” Dread sucked at her chest. Her father’s doctor, the one who had tended to Luella. And the one man left alive who could recognize her. He’d been there the day Luella died. He’d been the architect behind Father’s mad scheme. Lucinda had heard he’d died. She’d clearly been misinformed.

  His oily smile said as much, and that he
knew precisely what she was thinking. “I admire your gumption, child. Going ahead with the plan even after your father passed. However, you forgot one small thing.” He gripped her hard and brought her in close where she could see the veins upon his nose and cheek even in the blue moonlight. “I was promised half.”

  “I don’t have any money,” she said. “My-bride price no longer played into account once my father died.”

  “Not true, sweet. Ten thousand pounds were deposited in the Bank of London under your name on the day of your nuptials.”

  Lucinda wasn’t surprised. At the time, she’d been too distraught over Aidan’s apparent defection, but she understood that Eamon was a man of honor and would keep the Evernights’ promise to her family.

  “I know,” Arnold went on with a sneer, “because I work there now. As a lowly clerk when I once was a sought-after doctor. A stunning fall from grace after your father hired thugs to kill me so he wouldn’t have to share the wealth. Yes,” he said when Lucinda gaped up at him. “I had to hide away, pretending to be another man for years. Ballyloch, while poor, was also an earl and too powerful to fight. Only now the bastard is dead, and we, my dear, are alive and free.”

  Part of Lucinda felt a degree of sympathy for the doctor. Yet his greed had put them both in this stew.

  “All right,” she said, ignoring his hold. “I’ll give you your half.” Anything to be rid of him.

  A low chuckle rumbled from him. “Oh, no, sweet child, I do believe I want a bit more, now that I’ve had time to contemplate.” His gaze slithered down her bodice. “After all, I am the only one alive who can identify you.”

  Quick as a lash, he tugged down the left side of her bodice, exposing her breast right up to the crest of her nipple. Lucinda yelped, thrashing back, but he held her tight with one hand as he poked her breast. “Lady Luella carried a small birthmark here.”

  Lucinda kick at his shin with her slippered toe and hurt herself for her efforts. “And how did you know that?”

  He smiled again. “Perhaps I conducted a little inspection for just such an eventuality.”

  Saliva filled her mouth, and it was all she could do not to spit in his face.

  “Get. Your. Bloody. Hands. Off. My wife.”

  They both spun at the sound of Eamon’s deep, cold voice. He stood a few feet off, his broad shoulders and sharp features bathed in the moonlight, and his eyes glittering with rage as he focused on Arnold.

  “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Evernight,” Arnold said to him, “but this is not your wife. Your marriage contract states the name Luella Jane Moran, not Lucinda Jones, bastard and simple maid.” He tugged Lucinda closer, putting a hand around her throat. And then she felt the sharp point pressing into the place where her pulse thrummed. It felt like a claw but cool and unyielding like metal.

  “A little insurance,” he said when Eamon took a hard step forward, his eyes wild. “Why bother with a knife when this simple thumb claw works just a well. One good push at her artery here and she’ll bleed out in moments.”

  Without breaking his attention from Eamon, Arnold slowly backed up to the smithy. “Shall we discuss things civilly?”

  “A bit late for civilities,” Eamon bit out. “When you’re threatening my wife.”

  “You don’t even know who you are trying to protect. She isn’t Luella.”

  Lucinda knew Eamon did not care. She could see it in his eyes, though he’d yet to look at her.

  “I know who she is,” he said, “and make no mistake, chancer, she is mine.”

  Arnold made a sound of amusement. “All right, ginger. I won’t argue with you. I simply want what’s mine. Ballyloch was relying on his daughter’s marriage to young Master Evernight to save his dwindling funds.” Arnold’s gin-laden breath caressed her cheek. “Unfortunately Lady Luella died a few weeks after he received his first payment. When I pointed out that Miss Jones here looked very much like Luella, it was a simple thing to convince her father to let the chit take her sister’s place. So you see, the bride-price really ought to be mine.”

  “Rather twisted logic you have there,” Eamon said sedately. “But I won’t argue with you. Just let her go.”

  Arnold reached for the smithy door and pushed it open, still holding on to Lucinda. “Let’s settle this where there’s more light.”

  The coals in the forge were banked but still held a bit of a glow, one that roared to full flame when Arnold worked the bellows with the foot pump. A few lengths of iron lay close to the edge of the forge, and Arnold nudged them farther in.

  Eamon eyed the move, and a smile pulled at his mouth. It was not friendly but chilling. “You plan to use one of those against me?”

  “Perhaps. I’ve hit you before,” Arnold answered. “A hot iron through the flesh ought to finish the job.”

  “Trust me, friend. You do not want to fight me. After all, I’m the devil’s get. Forged in hell.” Eamon’s blue eyes went dead cold. “Isn’t that what they told you?”

  “All the more reason to kill you,” Arnold said.

  Eamon didn’t even blink. “You want the bride-price, I can give it to you. But you’re going to have to let Mrs. Evernight go first.”

  “Do not give him a dime,” Lucinda snapped. “He was the attending physician at Luella’s death. If anyone would appear guilty, it will be him—”

  Bloody. Hell. She abruptly shut her mouth and cursed again. She could have kicked herself for speaking up. And by the looks of Eamon’s reproachful glare, he was having somewhat similar thoughts, but his tone was calm and reasonable as he spoke. “Look, it’s clear that you didn’t think this out properly. End this now before someone gets hurt.” His expression hardened. “I can assure you, if harm comes to my wife, you will not walk out of here alive.”

  Arnold’s thumb dug into her neck enough to prick the skin. He talked into her ear as he stared at Eamon. “Do you really believe that I would approach without a proper plan? You are correct, Miss Lucinda. I have more to lose than gain should the truth of your origins come out. Something I realized on the long trip here. So I reassessed. I’ve been watching, waiting.” He angled his chin toward the cellar door. “Quite the interesting collection of body parts you have down there, Evernight.”

  Eamon merely looked at Arnold.

  “Not a soul in the village trusts you. And should the strange, unfortunate Eamon Evernight be killed, say in a fire in his smithy, no one will mourn him. Especially after they find what you’ve been hiding.”

  As he drew near, the tip of Arnold’s cold nose touched Lucinda’s cheek, and his voice dropped low and disgustingly intimate. “I’m sure I can persuade the widow to marry again.”

  Rage boiled up within her. For years she’d done as bidden. For years, Eamon had been told he was someone unworthy of love or affection. And this horrid man thought he would destroy the fragile happiness they’d just found.

  Lucinda exploded into action, bring her elbow swiftly back into Arnold’s ribs as she turned and jammed her knuckles into his throat.

  He gagged, falling back a pace, but his hand dug into her hair before she could pull away. The claw scraped along her scalp, drawing tears to her eyes.

  Eamon charged. Arnold threw her down and grabbed the heated iron, brandishing it like a club. Sparks flew from the forge, and the glowing iron swung in an orange arch and went straight to Eamon’s chest.

  “Eamon!” Lucinda screamed.

  Arnold’s body blocked her view but she saw Eamon stagger then fall down. A red haze fell over her eyes as she surged upward, her body vibrating with anger. It was as if she became another person, feral and intent.

  Her hand wrapped around a length of iron. The heavy weight seemed insubstantial as she smashed it down upon Arnold’s back. Arnold bellowed and turned. “Bitch!”

  Her world slowed as Arnold grabbed the wooden handle of the crucible that hung over the forge. The cauldron, full of bubbling, molten metal pitched toward her, and she could only duck down with a cry, holding h
er arms up for protection. But then Eamon was there, his big body covering hers as the metal poured down upon his back.

  Hot metal snapped and popped as it hit Eamon and the floor, and Lucinda screamed. She looked into Eamon’s eyes and saw not pain but rage.

  Their gazes held for one moment, his roaming over her face as if to assess her injuries, and hers in utter shock for he was not writhing in agony.

  “Eamon,” she breathed, but he did not flinch. Nor did he burn.

  He pivoted, rising up like a cresting wave. She could only gape as the molten metal began to swarm off Eamon’s back, beading and gathering in brilliant orange pools as if it were alive. The moving mass of metal crawled along Eamon’s flesh and down his arm as he grabbed Arnold about the neck with one hand and wrenched him away from Lucinda.

  Arnold thrashed and fought to get free of Eamon’s hold. But he could not. And as if it were attacking, the metal flowed over Arnold, invading his neck and face, and an agonized scream tore from him. Smoke rose from his skin as he shook. He was burning.

  The screams grew, the scent of roasting flesh filling the air.

  “Lu!” Eamon snapped, not looking at her. “Go. Now!”

  Somehow she found her feet and ran.

  * * *

  Lucinda didn’t know how long Eamon had remained in that hellish room; from the moment she’d fled, time had gone hazy. She was curled up on the grass, shivering and ill to her stomach, when Eamon found her. His steps were slow as he approached. When she didn’t move, he crouched down beside her.

  “Lucinda?” he whispered. “That’s your name, then?” He made a soft sound, bittersweet in the night. “I always thought you couldn’t be a Luella. Lucinda suits you better, a beautiful light in the darkness of my life.”

  A wobbly smile pulled at her lips as she blinked down at the grass. But it ebbed.

  “I was born Lucinda Jones,” she said, not raising her head, “the bastard child of my father and his housemaid Ann. She died at birth, and though it surprised the staff, my father let me stay. I was a kitchen girl by age five, and by age thirteen, I became my sister Luella’s companion and lady’s maid.”