Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  Just get there, Thorne.

  Prove to the woman that not all men fail to keep their word and that you’re a true gentleman—and pray that she isn’t regretting those kisses.

  ***

  “My God, you look horrible!”

  “I’m sending for Dr. Abernethy!” Mrs. McFadden announced, her lips pressed together so tightly they nearly disappeared.

  “You’re not,” Darius countered firmly. “There was a fire in London and I . . . took in a bit of smoke. I need rest. I’m fine. I hurried back because I didn’t want you to worry but—I’ll admit that wasn’t the soundest decision I’ve ever made.”

  “Ye coulda sent a note!” Mrs. McFadden screeched. “Why are men as dense as boards when it comes to—”

  “Mrs. McFadden.” Helen stepped forward, taking his arm. “Hot mint tea, please. I’ll help Mr. Thorne upstairs. Get Hamish to carry up the tub and then draw a hot bath, and we’ll get him settled as quickly as possible.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened in astonishment as the meekest of houseguests suddenly took charge with the calm authority of a true lady. “Y-yes, madam.”

  Darius smiled at the change and allowed Isabel to help him up the stairs.

  Within minutes, the house was bustling at her command and the copper tub had been set up in the dressing room off his bedroom, awaiting the buckets of steaming-hot water that Hamish would bring up later. Darius tried to catch his breath, sitting in a chair by his bedroom window, and watched Helen confidently move about the room, pulling back the bedding and unpacking his things.

  “You’re enjoying this.”

  She blushed. “Perhaps. I’ve—never been one to give out orders and it was—thrilling to be obeyed so sweetly.”

  “I don’t believe . . . you’ve never done it.”

  “Well, then, let us say I was out of practice,” she amended, adjusting some cushions behind him. “The fire. Does that mean you didn’t reach your friends in time? Did they give up the object without realizing it?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing exchanged hands. But the fire . . . I have to believe it was an agent of the prophecy . . . seeking to stop us from making that mistake.” His speech was halting as he fought off a coughing fit that would alarm her. He’d been spitting up gray bile for the last two days of his trip and feared he might never take a deep breath again.

  “Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “Well, we can talk of it later. I tried to study all that I could on the questions we’d uncovered before you left and—there is time enough for all of it when you’re better.”

  He leaned back against the cushions and his relief at finally being home and in her presence again washed over him like a warm wall of fatigue, and then something on the table beside his bed caught his eye. She’d set out a single chess piece.

  The black king.

  She continued softly, “When you feel up to it, the rest of the board awaits you. I can bring it up if you’d like. . . .”

  The idea of sitting across from the White Queen on his bed and attempting to keep his mind on the strategic frames and gambits of chess transformed into thoughts of a far more physical contest, where Helen ruled the game—and him.

  “I would like that very much.” He closed his eyes for a moment, intending to compose a better answer, but instead drifted off to sleep without another word.

  ***

  Isabel smiled and quietly walked to the dressing room door to wave to Hamish. “He’s fallen asleep so we’ll delay the bath for a time, if you don’t mind, Mr. MacQueen.”

  Hamish ducked his head after dropping the linens that the housekeeper had ordered him to bring up and left through the opposite door into the hallway, leaving Isabel to attend to him as best she could.

  She retrieved a knitted blanket from the bed and draped it over his shoulders and then added a piece of wood to the small fire in the corner fireplace. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the scene and found herself simply admiring the sight of him.

  She agreed with Mrs. McFadden. His eyes had gray smudges of illness beneath them and he’d lost weight. His voice had been roughened by the smoke of a fire, and Isabel bit her lower lip to fight off the tears that accompanied the rush of terror that swept through her at the idea of her beloved Darius facing flames.

  But he is here and whole and we’ll make him well! And as soon as he is himself again, I’m going to kneel next to his bed and beg him to let me tell him how much I love him!

  It was a romantic and foolish notion that banished tears.

  I’m a giddy schoolgirl again, mooning over him and sighing at the sound of his breathing.

  She turned on her heels and headed downstairs to the kitchens to find Mrs. McFadden and her nemesis sharing a cup of tea.

  “He is resting,” Isabel announced as she came in to sit next to Hamish. “Poor thing!”

  Hamish shook his head. “He must’ve flown on the heels of the devil from London! At best, I didn’t expect him for another three or four days!”

  “I fear he’s made himself ill in his rush to return to—us.” Isabel caught herself almost saying to me but knew from Mrs. McFadden’s look that the woman hadn’t missed it.

  “Poor lamb!” Mrs. McFadden brushed her hands off on her apron. “I’m tempted to send for the doctor in any case.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing,” Hamish said. “The man told ye no and he’ll not thank you for interfering, woman.”

  “He’d be alive to argue the matter and I’d say that’s better than—”

  Isabel cleared her throat. “We must respect Mr. Thorne’s wishes in this matter. We cannot overrule him unless he is truly deathly ill.”

  “He looks wretched,” Mrs. McFadden said, her lips pressed into a tight line.

  “He looks tired,” Isabel amended. “And sleep is exactly what he needs.”

  “And the mint tea?” the housekeeper asked archly.

  “I’ll take it in the library, Mrs. McFadden,” Isabel said, then lost her battle not to smile. “I’m so . . . relieved he’s home!”

  The housekeeper beamed back at her. “And so quickly!”

  “He didn’t race back with a lungful of soot for a hot bath, that’s for certain!” Hamish growled as he stood to stretch his back. “Man’s daft for her, but if you think he’s killed himself to hurry back for another go at chess, ye’re both mad!”

  “Hamish MacQueen!” Mrs. McFadden squealed. “You’ve not a brain in your head, you bull of a man! Get out of my kitchen!”

  He smiled, apparently used to being tossed from the house. “I’m going, woman. I, for one, am just glad not to be hauling buckets up those stairs!”

  “What a coldhearted beast!” The housekeeper threw a wooden spoon at him, but Hamish caught it out of the air without a blink and set it on the table before he retreated with a wink.

  Once the door closed behind him, Mrs. McFadden sighed and turned back to Isabel. “Rude creature, isn’t he? He’s just lucky I didn’t have a skillet handy or he’d have suffered a real clouting this time.”

  Isabel hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. She thought of the white chess piece tied to a ribbon lying against her heart and the king she’d set by his bed. It was a bold move, but if she’d learned anything from his lessons, it was to play with honesty.

  ***

  The first few days and nights were rough, and Darius’s hopes of hiding the worst of his infirmity from the women of the house ended quickly. He slept endlessly and lost hours until he finally awoke in the dark, unsure of how much time he’d lost. Every muscle ached from too many days of travel on cushionless benches and drafty compartments that did nothing to shield him from every rut and rock in the road, and Darius’s ribs burned from the effort of drawing breath, but the pneumonia that he’d feared had never materialized.

  He could hear the clock in the downstairs hall chime three and lay still, letting the quiet of the house soothe his soul.

  Home.

  I bought a house without seeing it,
outside the city because I’d always secretly dreamt of a quiet living.

  I’m such a simple man with my papers and books. Didn’t Ashe laugh when I once told him that I was sure that the smell of a leather binding and fresh parchment was far more potent than any woman’s perfume?

  His opinions had changed. So much had changed with Helen’s arrival in his life.

  His academic ambitions seemed paltry now next to his need to see her safe.

  In fevered dreams and the agony of his journey back to Scotland, Darius had clung to a new revelation about what a simple man was capable of doing when it came to love. True love doesn’t look for balance; it doesn’t ask for rewards or happy endings. I can love her without hope. I can save her if I can keep my own selfish desires out of it.

  He tried to sit up, swallowing a groan.

  As soon as his strength returned, he planned on telling her the truth about himself, certain that Helen would withhold her kisses and retreat from his affection.

  And then he could act without distraction and dedicate himself to extracting her from her violent marriage and see to her financial and physical future, independent of any man’s control.

  And when we’ve waved her off in a carriage or delivered her to her new home, then I can return here and indulge in sitting in mud puddles and weep for as long as I like.

  But I’ll have earned my misery and there’s a strange consolation in that.

  For I’ll have done the honorable thing and been honest with her.

  Chapter

  14

  In the morning, he ignored his housekeeper’s protests and announced that he would spend his days in his library and not staring at his bedroom ceiling. “Despite the appeal of cracked plaster, I can rest better reading in my study and in Helen’s good company, if she’ll bestow it. . . .”

  “She will,” Helen said firmly from the doorway.

  Mrs. McFadden rolled her eyes. “Who am I to stop a man from killing himself?”

  Darius smiled. “That’s the spirit, Mrs. McFadden. May I have some more of that wonderful mint tea? I swear it works miracles in making my chest feel better.”

  The older woman’s cheeks flushed and she crossed her arms, openly flustered. “I’ll—fetch a pot, but the only miracle I can see is how you’re still standing! Don’t go flashing that soulful look at me and think I’ll go soft!”

  She marched off before he could thank her and it was Helen’s laughter that completed the scene.

  “You should be more careful!” Helen chided him gently. “She’ll put more than mint in that tea to teach you a lesson.”

  “I know.” He sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace and pulled the king from his pocket. “She was worried, I think. Barking makes her feel better. And this . . .” Darius held up the dark, crowned figure. “Thank you for the gesture. It was unexpected and I’ll never forget it.”

  He set it on the board as she took her place across from him.

  “Nor I yours,” she replied, lifting the queen up from the ribbon at her throat and untying it. “I never took it off.”

  She added the white queen onto the field, and Darius had to clear his throat at the lump that formed at the sight of their armies back in place.

  “Our talismans kept us safe,” he noted.

  “Are you revealing a superstitious nature, sir?” she teased him.

  Darius shook his head. “Not at all. In all my studies, the only thing I seem to return to is a resounding belief that humanity is essentially the same, no matter where it is found. Palaces or mud huts, I think we are all more alike than we know.”

  She frowned. “But there are so many differences in the cultures we’ve encountered.”

  He shook his head. “On the surface, perhaps. But underneath, I think we all want the same things. Happiness, abundance, security, and family.”

  “It sounds like paradise. But all the harm and conflict—”

  “Stem from our universal capacity for good or evil, depending on how we apply ourselves,” he interrupted her, then leaned back in his chair. “No worse or better. Maybe it’s the flavor of the local religion that colors our views. In India, Josiah thought the Hindu religion had its finer points.”

  “I don’t like the religion of that region, Mr. Thorne.” She shuddered. “That Code of Manu in particular was . . .”

  “It was?” he pressed gently.

  “Unfair to women!” she blurted out.

  “Some if it but it’s not all bad. There’s a fair bit in there on self-reliance and telling the truth,” he offered with a sad smile. “I had a long time to think about what I might say, if I saw you again.”

  “If?” she asked.

  “Well, between spitting up my lungs somewhere outside York and the notion that you wouldn’t wish to wait for my return—I had my doubts.” He shrugged. “I’m only human, Helen.”

  “Before you say anything,” she said, nervously smoothing out her skirts, “I have to know. Mr. Thorne. When you left for London, you . . . kissed me.”

  “I did.”

  “But you haven’t since your return. You’ve been ill and asked for Mrs. McFadden to attend you. I would have gladly—seen to your comfort but . . . I didn’t feel bold enough to push my way in. You’re recovering and . . .” She looked at him directly, her pale blue eyes flashing with emotion. “Have your—feelings changed?”

  “Not at all. If anything, I’m more sure of them where you are concerned.”

  “Oh! So how is it that we are sitting so formally, Mr. Thorne, with a chessboard between us . . . ?”

  “Because I want to confess something—for there to be nothing I’ve hidden from you. I want you never to be able to accuse me of being less than truthful.”

  “Yes.”

  “You asked if I’d ever been in love, do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never was. I never permitted anything in my sphere that threatened my inner sense of self-discipline, and love was not something I’d ever allowed myself.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “My father . . .” Darius stopped himself, then squared his shoulders like a man about to face a firing squad. “I am the second son of a dockworker and a fishmonger’s daughter. I suspect I am as far beneath you as a grass field to the moon.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Is love a question of the status imparted at birth? Is that what you’re saying? That the second son of a dockworker and a fishmonger’s daughter cannot love?”

  He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it in shock, before he composed a response. Of all the reactions he’d braced himself to hear, this was nothing he’d anticipated. “No. I’m telling you because I thought it might alter your . . . perception of me.”

  She crossed her arms. “Are you a different man than the one who raced off to save his friends and nearly sacrificed his life to return to me quickly so that I wouldn’t be alone?”

  He shook his head, speechless.

  “Then my perception is unchanged. Tell me why a man who is so noble and steadfast in his promises is not ‘allowed’ to love.”

  “I’m . . . It isn’t just that my father was . . . rustic.”

  “No?”

  “It isn’t just that. It’s because of the man I feared I might become.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “My father was . . .” Darius tried again, finding it easier if he looked into the fire in the fireplace and not at her beautiful face. “He was a horrible man, the worst sort of man. When he wasn’t beating my mother or looking for an excuse to beat his children, he was drinking until he couldn’t walk. He was an ignorant creature and so sadistic I remember thinking that Satan must have sat at his feet in awe and admiration.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “I overheard my mother crying to a friend that she couldn’t leave my father because she loved him.” Darius closed his eyes at the memory. “I hated her for it. I didn’t understand how he could have such a hold on her that she would be willing to sacrifice so much—hers
elf and her children—for love.”

  Isabel couldn’t think of a single thing to say to comfort him.

  Darius continued, looking back at her with clear eyes. “I’m an intelligent man and I’ll forgive her her choices. But I am still faced with the legacy of that man’s blood coursing through my veins.”

  “But you are nothing like him!”

  “No. I’ve dedicated my life to being nothing like him. He sent me into an apprenticeship when I was six and it was my salvation. It was a printing shop and the owner recognized that I was quick, and from there—I still don’t know how I deserved the miraculous chain of events that led to my education and elevation from that murky, hopeless start.”

  “My goodness! You poor thing!” Helen reached out to put her hand on his arm.

  “I’m not some character in a Dickens novel.” He shook his head. “Volumes have been written about the question of the inheritance of character, Helen. Blood will tell, isn’t that the saying? My father is long dead, but he haunts my every step. It’s why I said marriage is for better men. I vowed never to marry because I didn’t trust myself. What if I am doomed to repeat history? What if I’m no better than the monster you’ve escaped? You’ve run from a monster, Helen. But what if I am cut from the same cloth?”

  “You aren’t and you could never be that kind of man.”

  “You sound so sure. But Helen, of all the women in the world, I would rather die than ever hurt you. And after what you’ve survived, you don’t need—you don’t deserve any more ugliness. But here I am. So in love with you that I’m not sure how I’m still standing from the weight of it. I’m . . . a man with nothing but ugliness at his back, nothing but tragedy in his wake. You are a lady of fine quality and I am a product of an impoverished dockworker and the daughter of a fishmonger. How is it even remotely possible that you aren’t repelled?”

  “Wh-what?” she asked.

  Darius’s heart froze in his chest. Fearing a thing and experiencing it were two different things, and the strange expression on her face made it clear that he’d not really been ready to lose her. “It isn’t possible then.”