If only.
“Not this time, wildcat,” he said. And he let go of me, stepping back.
No. No, that couldn’t be it. We’d always shared our bodies with each other, sharing pleasure, giving and taking, our skin whispering what our words could not. And he was saying no? Even as the hard length of his cock was so erect, I could almost trace the veins through his trousers?
“No,” he said again, reading the horror on my face. And then he said nothing else, scooping up his jacket and leaving me kneeling, weeping, among the bluebells and the rustling grass.
I don’t know how long I knelt there, slumped and sobbing, my heart rending itself into pieces. But the blue sky had silvered itself gray and the breeze had turned chilly and sharp by the time my tears finally subsided. I tried to stand¸ but my muscles screamed in protest—cramped from kneeling for so long—and I half fell over instead, curling onto my side and staring at the sky listlessly until I felt the muscles loosen and relax.
But even then, it was hard to find the motivation to stand. I would stand up and walk back to…to what? To Mr. Markham, angry and cold? Or to an empty house, bereft of his presence? Certainly, it would be to an empty bed, and I couldn’t stand that. Not when I needed him more than ever.
I stood shakily, wondering when the independent and free-willed Ivy Leavold had become this wreck of a girl who could barely walk. When had I traded my reason for madness? Because it could only be madness, this feeling that drove me toward Julian Markham. Despite what Silas had said, the police and the county were convinced that Mr. Markham had killed my cousin. What’s more, he had expressly forbidden me from asking about her death. All the evidence—the testimony of others and his own behavior—pointed to his guilt.
So why did I continue to pine for him? My body craved him, yes, but it was my mind and my soul that ached and thrashed the most without him. I hated myself for hurting him, for making him leave, yet I hated him too for leaving, for giving me no other choice, no other way. If only he’d confided in me from the beginning, I wished vehemently, then stopped. It didn’t do any good now. He’d done everything he could to keep Violet’s death shrouded in mystery and that was why we were here now.
Alone.
Apart.
Furious with each other.
As I walked, my anger gained greater and greater strength. How dare he act as if he is the victim? As if I am the one acting egregiously? He was the one suspected of murder, the one keeping secrets. How could he expect me to stand by and absorb his darkness without reacting to it?
He wanted me to be like Arabella. But I couldn’t. I could only be Ivy.
I wandered through the woods until the rain started, a drizzle that brought with it an early dusk, and by the time I made it to the house, my dress was wet and muddy and my hair was plastered to my head in tangled strands. It didn’t signify; there was no one waiting up indoors, not even a servant. They’d all retired early, I supposed, not one of them thinking to save a supper for me…or to even come looking for me.
I barely existed here. I was a ghost before I was even dead.
I peeled off my dress in my room, not bothering to change into anything else, and went to Mr. Markham’s chambers. I knew he wasn’t there—from the moment I’d stepped in the house, I’d recognized that empty stillness that was characteristic of his absence—but my chest still ached when I saw the empty room, bedspread pulled taut as if the rumples and wrinkles from our morning lovemaking had never happened.
There was no fire, and a chill was seeping in through the windows and walls, so I slid under the covers of his bed, tears burning anew at the scent of the soap he had sent up from London. That smell, more than anything else, reawakened the heavy pulsing in my sex, a pulsing made all the worse for the tangled emotions surrounding it.
I knew it was no substitute, but it was mindless need more than anything that drove my hand in between my legs. I ran my fingertips over the soft folds, imagining it was Julian doing it with hungry eyes and an even hungrier mouth. I breathed in the fresh male scent that clung to the sheets and began circling my clit, hard and fast, thinking of him thrusting into me in this very bed. Thinking of the way his cufflinks had gleamed in the restaurant as he fucked my cunt with his fingers. Of the way he’d owned me today in the field, of the arresting way he took control of my body and used it against me.
I buried my face in the pillow as I came, crying out from the all-too-brief flash of pleasure and also from the concurrent ache of emptiness that came with it. It didn’t matter how roughly I touched myself or how many orgasms I created—it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t him.
And what if it never was again?
I slept late. Deep and late, with no dreams, but the keen awareness of loss welcomed me the moment that the opiate of sleep wore off. I was alone in my future husband’s bed, with no way of knowing if he would still consent to be my husband. I had been afraid that he was going to kill me, but the morning brought an even clearer realization—I was afraid of losing him more than I was afraid of him hurting me. Perfect love casts out all fear, I recalled my childhood curate saying—and my love was far from perfect. But it was still trying valiantly, a bird beating the air with broken wings.
I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t want to dress. Instead, I left the bed to curl up on an armchair near the window so I could watch the wet world outside and think.
I wanted Julian. I wanted to fuck him and fight him, and I wanted to nestle by his side at night. I wanted more nights like two nights ago—where he’d woken me by whispering poetry in my ear, chanting Keats and Shelley and Blake as he wrenched climax after climax out of my body. I wanted more days like our last day in York, where we had held hands in the street and argued over which restaurant to eat at for supper.
But I couldn’t have Julian the way I wanted with Violet’s grave between us. One way or another, I would have to find out the truth. No more shoving the worrisome suspicions to the back of my mind, no more avoiding the topic as if her name alone would burn our lips. I would have to either torture him or coax him into telling me about whatever happened that night that tormented him so, and if it was that he had killed his wife in a moment of heat and violent rage…then I would face that problem once I got to it. For now, I needed to focus on how to extract the truth to begin with.
But how? Mr. Markham was impenetrable, a fastness of determination and silence. There was no way I could tug the truth loose from him, not if all the policemen and dark whispers in the county couldn’t.
I worried at my lower lip while I thought, trying to ignore the voice that whispered or you could run. But the voice grew louder and louder, until I jumped to my feet and started pacing, my feet digging into the plush rug as I walked.
Run.
Run.
Run.
You don’t need to pry the truth from him, the voice said. You only need to protect yourself. I could leave, now, perhaps apply to Solicitor Wickes in London to help me find a position someplace...
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay here, in this haunted medieval manor, with the equally haunted owner. I wanted to be his wife. I wanted to be his.
Run, the voice said, brooking no argument, and exhausted from the war between my two selves—the one that belonged to Mr. Markham and the one that listened to reason—I ran.
It took only a moment to dress, to pull on my old boots and find my purse. I had no plan—not even a direction—but somehow I knew I needed to leave. Not forever and maybe not even for the entire day, but for a few hours at least. I couldn’t think clearly while I was here, couldn’t order my thoughts before a thousand memories had them spinning off into frantic circles again. Had it only been three months that I’d been resident here? And yet how pregnant with recollection was every corner, every tread in the staircase, every chair that had once held the sprawling, powerful form of Mr. Markham.
I told myself I wasn’t leaving for good, but I dressed in one of my old dresses and left any and all trinkets in m
y room—including Julian’s ring, my engagement ring—which felt heavy and wrong on my slender fingers, knowing I wouldn’t be able to decide anything while I was so materially connected to him. I put no thought to money, no thought to travel, only to fleeing, for however long it took for me to think.
Guilt flashed through me as I shut the bedroom door, hiding the gleaming ring from sight. What if Mr. Markham came back and found me gone? What if I hurt him even more?
No, I thought in response to the thought. He doesn’t have that right. Why should I be the one to stay, when he’d already left? Why should I be the one to bridge the gap, to hold fast to our promises, when he hadn’t shown any inclination to do it himself?
And why should any reasonable person want to woo a suspected murderer back into her bed?
I passed no one on my way to the front door, and the front courtyard was empty of horses and people, nothing but wet flagstones and a weather that was somewhere between drizzle and mist. I plunged into the fog, grateful to be swallowed up and grateful to see that Markham Hall had been swallowed up behind me. But the tightness in my chest didn’t ease and my mind didn’t clear. I could only think ahead to my next footfall, to my next breath.
Run, that voice urged. Run until you can’t any longer.
I walked still, finding it impossible to gauge distance or time in the fog, worried I’d missed the fork in the road that went to the village and had instead taken the road deeper into the forest.
Hooves pounded the road behind me, and I whirled around, seeing nothing but fog and grasping tree branches. Then the gray mist parted to reveal Mr. Markham and Raven, the former with a loosely knotted cravat and tousled hair.
Run! the voice screamed. Run while you can!
And I did step warily back as Mr. Markham dismounted his horse and walked toward me, slowly, his hands out as if he were approaching a wild animal. “Where are you going?” he asked, and there was palpable pain in his words. “Are you leaving here? Leaving me?”
His eyes dropped down to my hand—my now naked hand—and something inside of him seemed to shred itself apart, flay itself open. He met my eyes again and that look was enough to make me weep. “You are leaving,” he whispered.
I half shook my head, but I took another step back as I did. “I don’t know,” I answered, also in a whisper. Our voices hung in the air like the mist: too light to fall, too heavy to float.
Resolve steeled in his eyes and in a handful of steps, he crossed to me, too fast for me to evade. One arm was around me and then the other between us, his hand gripping my jaw and forcing me to look up at him.
“I just came from the house. I searched every room for you. And you know what I found?”
I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
“You slept in my bed last night,” he breathed. “Tell me, Ivy, were you naked when you slept in my bed? Did you touch yourself? Did you make yourself come?”
Almost against my will, I nodded. I couldn’t resist the pull of those viciously hungry eyes.
He groaned at my response. “Tell me,” he said, shoving his hips against mine. “Tell me what you did.”
“I could smell you,” I said. “I could smell you on the bed. I couldn’t stop myself, I had to come. I rubbed myself thinking of you.”
“Thinking of my cock? Or my tongue? Or my fingers?”
“Yes. All of it. All of you.”
He buried his face in my neck and breathed me in, his arm tightening around me. “Why are you trying to leave?” he asked, words muffled. “What can I do to make you stay?”
His arms were so strong around me, his voice so rough and husky, and I knew if I looked at his face, I would see those lightly scruffed cheeks and those piercing green eyes. My body and soul longed to submit to him, to be subsumed by this male, this force of nature that could light my skin on fire with a single touch. But my mind—my mind remained crouched and wary, prey darting around a trap. And that’s why I could tell him, “I’ll only stay if I know I will be safe.”
“Safe,” he repeated. “Safe.” I expected his hold on me to loosen, for him to either be offended or suspicious or even angry, but instead, he held me closer, one hand deftly pulling up my skirts. “What does that really mean, wildcat? Safe from me? Or safe from your own fears?”
I’d dressed so hastily that I hadn’t bothered with drawers and so his fingers found my cunt easily.
“You’re wet,” he remarked, lifting his head from my neck to speak into my ear. “Tell me, are you wet because you feel safe with me right now? When you make yourself come in my bed, are you thinking about how safe I make you feel?”
God, I was wet. And I was growing wetter, my nipples hardening into painful points beneath my dress. His fingers flicked gently across my swelling bud, tracing delicate curves along my sex.
“So what is it, Ivy? What kind of safety do you so desire that you are running away from me?”
I was breathing harder and faster now, arching my hips into his hand. “I don’t want you to hurt me.”
He bit my neck—hard—and I cried out, bucking my pelvis even more as the pain sizzled into a fresh wave of arousal. “I think you like being hurt.”
My mind was slipping away from me, burdened by my undeniable need and my insatiable longing for this man with his hand up my skirt.
But I managed to say it. Bluntly. “I’m afraid you’ll kill me.”
That did make him loosen his grip. “Kill you?” he demanded, seizing me tightly again, his thumb now pressing hard against my clitoris. “You are the most beautiful, the most perfect thing that’s ever happened to me. I would slice my own throat before I hurt you.”
My cunt—still achingly deprived from yesterday—swelled and pulled under the expert ministrations of his fingers. I spread my legs, trying to ride his hand, not caring that we were in the middle of the road to Stokeleigh and that anyone could happen by. “But Violet,” I managed. “You hurt Violet.”
All at once, the hand was gone. I made a noise of protest, but he stepped away, now standing out of reach. I could see his formidable cock tenting his pants, but he ignored whatever discomfort it gave him, his gaze steady against mine.
“Ivy, I am only going to say this once, because the night Violet died, I did something terrible—something so outside of my own character and the character of a gentleman that it gives me pain to recall. And it would give you pain to know, personally and also on behalf of your relation. But I need to say this, and you need to hear it: I did not cut that saddle. I had nothing to do with it, directly or indirectly.”
His defense was so specific, so targeted to that one thing—the saddle—that it did almost nothing to allay my fears. I took a moment to phrase my next question, trying to ignore the pounding pulse of my clitoris as my pussy begged for release. “Did you have anything to do with her death, Julian? Anything at all?”
Julian. As soon as I uttered his name, I saw the chink in his armor, as if it were a weapon he could not resist. He hung his head. “Yes,” he said after a long moment. “I won’t lie to you. I had something to do with it. But I didn’t cut her saddle.”
I exhaled. Part of me wanted to use his honesty as evidence of his innocence—if he was willing to admit that he had played a part in her death, then surely he’d have admitted to cutting the saddle if he’d done it. But the other part of me recognized evasion and equivocation when I saw it; Mr. Markham may not be lying, but he was omitting key details of that night and at the same time, forestalling any future conversation about it.
“I don’t know if that’s good enough,” I told him. “I need to know everything. I need to know exactly how you are guilty.”
He stepped forward again, looking frustrated. He turned away and took a few paces, running his hands through his thick hair. He turned back to me. “How about this: you stay with me here at Markham Hall. You share my bed and my soul and my money and anything else I happen to own. And if I push you too far, if I frighten you beyond what you can bear, then you
are free to leave, with as much money and security as you would need to live sumptuously the rest of your days.”
“I don’t want to live sumptuously. I want to know the truth.”
He shook his head. “You think you do. But once you learn it, there’s no unlearning it. There’s no going back. I can live with you fearing me. But I can’t live with you despising me.”
“If I stay…” The idea was growing easier and easier to consider. “Will I ever get to know the truth?”
He took a deep breath, glancing down at the fog swirling around his feet. “Yes,” he said. There was palpable reluctance in his tone, reluctance and resignation. “After we return from our honeymoon. I want to show you exactly how I will treat you as my own wife, my own soul, before you discover the blackest mark on my record.”
“And I will still be able to leave, if what I learn is too much?”
His jaw tensed, but he nodded. “Yes. You will be free to leave at any point. Whether it is after our honeymoon or thirty years from now.” His eyes softened. “I cannot cage you. I see that now. You may let me leash you and spoil you, use you and please you, but the moment you feel the cage coming down, you will startle and flee. That is your limit, Ivy. And I wish I would have known it sooner.”
I was falling forward into his words, dizzy with the rush of relief and longing that swept through me. He would let me leave at any time. He would tell me the truth, and relatively soon. And finally, I could relent to the keening cry of my heart to be next to him. Because I loved him. Because I was made to be with him. And if I ever had to leave him, it would rend me into pieces.
“Do we have an agreement?”
I didn’t hesitate. I was done running from him.
For now, at least.
“Yes,” I said. “We have an agreement.”
“Perhaps it would be helpful if we arranged a signal between us, something that would alert me to your need to stop or to leave.” He came closer, and he pulled my hands into his. “That way, if the time ever comes, you won’t have to think of what to say and you won’t have to say anything more.”
The Education of Ivy Leavold Page 8
