Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  The collection had turned out to be very valuable, and a delightful mix of classical reference books in Latin and Greek, French and German history texts, and even a few Russian books on horse breeding and training. The subjects were a mash of science and art, with a few bits of rare poetry and practical home guides tossed in. Whatever cataloging system the deceased collector had used was a mystery, and so even now, Darius took delight in making discoveries on an upper shelf or uncovering a first-edition collection of John Donne tucked into a pile of penny novels.

  The door opened and Mrs. McFadden stood in the archway, her thin face pinched in concern. “You’re late! It’s nearly dark and I was sure Hamish had overturned that carriage and killed you both!”

  “He’s as safe as a church mouse,” Hamish protested before climbing back up into the driver’s seat. “And mind you’re the one jawing away and keeping him in the cold! You’ll freeze your precious Englishman to death complaining about my driving, witch.”

  Darius ignored them both, tucking his gloves back into his pockets as he kicked the worst of the mud off his boots. Their bickering was all flash and no substance, and he’d come to appreciate the subtle affections between the pair. His widowed housekeeper preferred to openly despise his driver, but he knew better. Hamish MacQueen never went hungry, had his clothes repaired, his socks darned, and his laundry fresh and folded—all without a single word. And Mrs. McFadden never had to lift anything heavier than a pot of stew, had fresh flowers for her table, was chauffeured on all her shopping trips, and was never without a certain Scotsman nearby to allow her to fuss to her heart’s content. They were a match.

  “How is she?” Darius asked without preamble.

  “Better off than you! Come in, then!” Her cheeks stained pink in uneven patches as she held the door open a little wider to allow him to pass. “That’s kind of you to keep the muck out but that idiot’s got the right of it. We should have you in by the fire, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McFadden. Did she rest, then, today?” He handed his hat, coat, and scarf over to her.

  “When I looked in on her last, she was still abed, sir. I’ve got a good poultice recipe that’s nearly ready and was going to see to her back once she’s awake.” Mrs. McFadden’s hands fisted at her waist. “There’s naught for you to do, except stand there and catch a chill. To the library with you!”

  Darius’s intense desire to see his guest again was temporarily overridden by his housekeeper’s practicality. He retreated to his favorite room if only to give Mrs. McFadden time to prepare her poultices and see to the lady’s comfort before he stopped in to finish their conversation.

  As promised, the fire in the library was already blazing merrily, awaiting his arrival, and the papers spread out over his desk remained just as he’d left them. Darius returned to his chair and surveyed the texts, settling in out of habit and almost immediately taking up the thread of his thoughts from the previous day. The afternoon with Warren had refreshed him and he was pleased to rediscover the lines of his logic in the middle of chaotic piles.

  As the sun set and the winter storm gained strength, Thorne’s mind took him away to the stifling heat of an Indian summer. He disappeared into the labyrinth of spice-scented market stalls on his way to the mapmaker’s, retracing his steps and seeking the moment where random exploration gave way to fate’s marked path.

  The best puzzles are the ones that look wretchedly complicated but turn out to have a singularly simple solution. Which means I’m either overthinking it or I’m not even looking at the correct pieces. . . .

  Or the answer is right in front of me and I don’t want to see it. Because we may not have the sacred treasure the villain’s after—and how do you bargain with something you don’t have?

  “Mr. Thorne!” Mrs. McFadden hailed him from the doorway. “Please come! I think something’s terribly wrong with her!”

  For the second time in so many days, Darius found himself vaulting around his desk and praying that he would reach her in time.

  Chapter

  3

  She’d been looking out the bedroom window over the desolate, icy garden in its wintry, neglected tangle and watching the clouds dampen the last weak light of the day. Isabel had marveled at how raw and bleak it all looked when the memory of another garden view had seized her.

  Another garden. Another window. Another season.

  A spring day when she’d looked out through glass panes and imagined that every happiness was ahead of her. Isabel had been a bride awaiting her husband’s arrival. Their courtship had been a whirlwind of tender gestures and romantic persuasion, a fairy tale that had left her breathless with the giddy speed of it.

  The last of the guests had finally left and a quiet had descended when she’d stopped to take in the view from her new bedroom window and absorb the immense change she’d undergone. Isabel hadn’t even pulled the flowers from her hair.

  From girl to wife.

  At any moment, Richard would arrive to take her into his arms, at last. He would soothe her fears and remove her nervous apprehension of what might be involved with what her mother had alluded to as “the price of marital contentment.” From what few chaste kisses and sweet lines of poetry he’d offered her, Isabel longed for his arrival. They would be truly alone for the first time, and her beloved Richard would set aside her childish fears and kiss away the icy flutter that had settled against her ribs.

  Isabel had looked out over the blooming flowers in the garden of her new home, and for a few minutes, she’d been nothing more than a nervous, happy young bride.

  And then he’d been behind her.

  Before she could turn to greet him, he’d whispered an obscenity in her ear, the warm hiss of it against the shell of her ear like a whip across her psyche, the smile on her face freezing in shock—because the dear, sweet man who’d said he would worship her for all her days would never say such a thing. He would never use such language—never—would never even have known those words.

  And then he’d said it again.

  She’d gasped and started to turn to him in protest and he’d gripped the back of her neck so hard she’d thought she might faint. He’d pressed her against the window, transforming from a romantic hero into some obscene monster at her back.

  “How dare you think to look at me, you stupid cunt! You’ll submit and stand there as I please. I am your husband and your master now. You’ll stand there with that pert little pig nose of yours pressed against the glass until that empty space between your ears has determined that defiance and stupidity are no way to start out a marriage, Isabel.”

  “B-but I . . .” she whispered, but he’d cut her off with a squeeze of his fingers. The pain was unfathomable to her and she’d cried out against it.

  “You shut up, cow!” he growled behind her, the horrifying misery of his hold increasing as he ground his fingers against the tender base of her skull. “You shut that mewling! I am your husband, you stupid, stupid slit! Shut up!”

  She’d forced herself to be quiet and she’d stood.

  She’d stood in her wedding finery and watched as her view of the world shattered and shifted. She’d stood while the monster she’d married just hours before whispered vile and unthinkable profane curses into her ears.

  She’d stood for what felt like hours.

  Until her knees ached and she was shaking so badly she wasn’t sure she could prevent herself from falling—and when finally she started to break from the pain and the strange onslaught of his venomous insults, Isabel had tried to lean back against him for relief. But his viselike hold on her neck began to tighten and she’d panicked.

  She’d struggled uselessly until he had demonstrated his mastery over her. He’d released her only to slap her hard across the face, then wheeled her about to face the window again.

  “Why? Why, Isabel? Why must you make me punish you? You’ve done this. All I ever wanted was to begin properly. Is that so much to ask? A small gesture of submission fo
r you to demonstrate your love and your obedience, but you defy me from the start, Isabel. Is this how you intend to begin, you worthless, ungrateful, useless slit?”

  She shook her head, crying silently.

  “You are unschooled when it comes to pleasing a husband, Isabel. But I’m going to give you the lessons you so desperately need. And you will learn, my dear. And when you’ve proven yourself a proper wife and shown me that you can be obedient, we shall get along beautifully, you and I. You will be the envy of every woman in England, Isabel.” Richard’s hand returned to the back of her neck. “But for now, we must get your punishment out of the way, mustn’t we? You must get what you deserve for sniveling and trying to strike me, my darling.”

  Her knees began to buckle, but his grip and the pressure of his body behind her kept her upright. With his free hand, he began a new assault that she simply wasn’t prepared for. The endearment my darling was followed by a brutality Isabel hadn’t imagined in her sheltered existence. He’d lifted her skirts, bunching up the fabric to push apart her thighs, and raped her.

  He’d raped her, pressed against a window overlooking a beautiful spring garden.

  Isabel experienced humiliation that had nearly undone her sanity. To be so exposed in full view as her senses were assaulted so completely at the strange invasion and violation of her husband’s body and the burning agony it invoked—it was unreal. Isabel was trapped in a cascade of bruising pain, but she’d been too weak to scream.

  At last, he’d let out a strangled crow of triumph behind her, and as he’d slipped out of her body, Isabel’s thighs were splashed with the warm slime of his climax. Richard had laughed at her. “There. That’s a good wife. You stay right there until I return.”

  And he was gone.

  She’d sagged against the drapes and stood there, too frightened to move, sure that at any moment he would return and punish her for her disobedience if she crawled across the floor to her bed. Terror and shock gripped her so tightly that she lost control of her bladder, and Isabel accepted the ultimate in shame as she remained in her place.

  Ruined. Soiled. Destroyed.

  “—ice, dear!”

  Isabel couldn’t move. She recognized the woman’s voice behind her as it finally penetrated the waking nightmare that was robbing her of will.

  “Madam?” Mrs. McFadden spoke again, her voice fraught with caution and concern.

  But Isabel was afraid to move from the window. It made no sense. Richard wasn’t there. It was all just a memory, but her knees were locked in place and her hands were shaking.

  The housekeeper retreated without another word, her footsteps banging down the stairs. All Isabel could do was try to use the solitude to quickly recover her wits before the woman brought the rest of the house into her bedroom.

  This is ridiculous. It’s a different window and a dead garden.

  “It’s been months since that day,” she whispered, and the glass fogged from her breath. “Please.” I should be numb from all of it and Richard isn’t lurking behind the door to—

  The sound of heavier male footsteps running up the stairwell and down the hall unnerved her. A logical part of her knew that it would simply be the groomsman or even Mr. Thorne, but logic held no power against the panic that gripped her.

  She waited, either for the worst to be over and for the specter of her husband to round the corner, or for Mr. Thorne to begin to pose all the well-meant questions she couldn’t answer. Her horror was complete—because no one’s compassion extended far enough to harbor a madwoman who clung to windows without explanation.

  No one.

  “Samson misses you.” Darius’s voice was level and calm as he took a seat on the end of her bed. “For a destrier, he’s very docile.”

  The topic was unexpected and Isabel’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Although his appetite is very worthy of a warhorse, at least once he was coaxed to eat,” Darius continued as if it were as ordinary as rain to speak of horses with a woman clutching window frames. “He was too worried about you.”

  “S-Samson said as much, did he?”

  “According to Hamish, it was practically a conversation. I don’t think he has any complaints about the accommodations, but Hamish swore he was pouting this morning. I can only guess it’s because he fears for your safety.”

  “Or he’s craving his treats.” Isabel nodded, aware that she’d managed to let go of the windowsill.

  “Mrs. McFadden sacrificed a jar of molasses to mix in with his oats since Hamish guessed he might have a weakness for sweets,” Darius said. “The only thing he’s craving now is his mistress’s company.”

  Slowly and carefully, she turned to face him, her face flushed with mortified embarrassment. “I’m not insane, Mr. Thorne. I . . .”

  “No one thinks you are. Mrs. McFadden was merely concerned and—you look to me like a woman who was just lost in thought.”

  It was all she could do to hold her place without bursting into tears. “Yes, I was . . . lost.”

  “When you’re ready, perhaps in a day or two, you can come down to the stables.” Darius’s gaze was steady and without reproach. “But I have a favor to ask first.”

  “A favor?” Instantly, anxiety lapped at the edges of her control. “What sort of favor?”

  “You must let me give you a name, even if it is temporary and foolish. It would be a favor to me, because I’m afraid my social skills are rusty enough as it is.” Darius sighed. “But referring to you with pronouns and improvised terms is bound to get me into trouble sooner or later.”

  “Oh.” Isabel smiled. The man continued to surprise her. “Please do then.”

  “I’m going to call you . . .” He tipped his head to one side. “Helen.”

  “Helen?” she asked.

  “Because I think you’re as beautiful as Helen of Troy must have been and it suits you.” He stood slowly. “Is that all right?”

  She unconsciously stepped away from the window, slipping from the grip of her memories at the distraction of his smiles. “I like Helen very much.”

  “Then Helen it is.” He stooped to retrieve the knitted shawl she’d dropped and held it out to her. “I’ll ring Mrs. McFadden if you’d like. I’m sure she has a dinner at the ready.”

  Isabel took the soft knit from him and started to throw it over her own shoulders, only to wince as her bruised back protested.

  “Here, allow me.” He helped her to draw it over her back and then stepped back. “There, that looks warmer.”

  “I am not frail.” She faced him again. She wanted to reassure him but also herself. She’d survived this long and had just started to wonder what her choices would cost her. “I . . . I am stronger than I appear.”

  “Of course you are. The hovering and fuss is for our benefit more than yours.”

  “And how do you benefit?” she asked.

  “Well, for one, Mrs. McFadden’s attentions are almost entirely centered on you, which leaves me free to do as I wish. I can wear mismatched socks, leave windows open, or dine sitting on the floor in relative quiet.”

  Isabel laughed. “You desire to do those things?”

  “What man doesn’t?” he countered, the mischief in his eyes contagious.

  “And Mrs. McFadden’s boon?”

  “A guest always makes life more interesting. So, there you have it!” he said, clapping his hands together.

  Isabel started, stepping back defensively at the sound—instantly upset that she was acting more like a rabbit than a woman. Her fear was palpable and Darius froze in place.

  “That was stupid of me,” he said softly, his stance wary like a woodsman confronting a fawn. “I’m sorry, Helen.”

  “No, of course not!” Isabel deliberately lifted her shoulders. “I’m the one who’s . . . being difficult. It was nothing and I . . . It was nothing!”

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Thorne,” she said as she crossed her arms. “I would very much like to get out, for a
meal or a walk.”

  “Then you will,” he answered. “Whenever you wish, but for my sake, please wait until the morning. You’re not a prisoner, Helen, but it was just yesterday that you came to us and it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

  “No, not a prisoner.” She repeated the phrase and savored the words.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work downstairs in the library and I really should leave before—”

  Mrs. McFadden’s voice was rusted nails in a pan. “What’s this? I’ve a poultice ready for madam’s back and it’s not doing her any good at all so long as I’m standing out here in this drafty hall!”

  Isabel found herself smiling as Darius gave every impression of a schoolboy caught off bounds.

  “I was just leaving,” Darius said as he retreated.

  The housekeeper swept in with her tray. “As you should. How can I do anything with you constantly underfoot?”

  Darius gave Isabel a wink and then bowed before leaving.

  She sighed at his departure. “Mrs. McFadden, please be kind to him.”

  Mrs. McFadden’s cheeks reddened. “I snap too much. He’s as gentle a man as any I’ve seen and as thoughtful as a poet, even if he does have to be reminded to wear a coat in a snowstorm. But that’s not our concern! Let’s see to your back. . . .”

  Isabel submitted as stoically as she could to Mrs. McFadden’s care, grateful for the poultice’s numbing effects on her bruises—but it was Darius’s face she couldn’t get out of her mind, or his assurance of her freedom.

  I’m free . . . until my husband finds me.

  ***

  Darius retreated as quickly as he could to the library and sat down to put his forehead onto the cool surface of his desk. A groan of frustration escaped his lips.

  Helen was as vulnerable a soul as any he’d encountered, but there was so much more to her than her circumstances. The flash of spirit in her eyes and the brief demonstrations of her good humor made her all the more appealing.