She lifted her chin and said the phrase repeated so often through her childhood. “Our bodies are temples, not to be violated.”
His lips twisted into a wicked grin, and then he laughed, a booming rumble. “My sweet Saint Margaret. What you have missed.”
“Sir, you’ve nothing to teach me except how to lose oneself.”
“You know there are a few pleasant things in losing oneself.”
He was a demon demanding she dance to his seductive tune. Tempting her down his wicked path . . . and she wished to marry him? Oh, the machinations of fate could be cruel. “And look where it has got you,” she countered.
“Maggie, my dear, you don’t have to lose yourself wholly. Just for a moment or two. I promise it won’t drive you mad. Now, kiss me and I’ll consider your proposal.”
No one had ever invoked such emotions in her. She didn’t react; she acted. But with this madman, and his ridiculous nickname Maggie, Margaret’s breast heaved with anger. For he twisted up her insides and threw her own life in her face. How dare he judge her? How dare he insinuate that she needed to lose herself?
Everything about this world had taught her how important it was to take the correct path, to live rightly, and to never allow one’s self to be ruled by emotion.
He’d lost himself and was buckled to a bed awaiting his next injection. And yet . . .
The scent of him. Strong man and determination combated against the depressing defeat that lurked in this place. Even in his semi-drug-induced state, his eyes were two shards of speculative daring. Daring her to risk everything to get what she claimed she wanted. And his mouth. His mouth was the tempting gate to hell.
She wouldn’t like the feel of his lips. And with the straps, it wasn’t as if he could clasp her to him and force her into his embrace. She’d be able to control their kiss.
She studied his soft mouth.
So much lay in this kiss. His freedom, which despite his aggravating ways, she wished for him. And for his father. Her own ability to live out a good life’s work. To save her brother’s life.
What could it cost her? Just a touch of the lips?
Slowly, perfunctorily, she placed her palms on either side of his broad shoulders, her palms flat on the rough mattress. The movement left her breasts feeling oddly exposed, despite the layers of undergarments and her high-cut bodice. She found as she leaned down that she could not kiss him without her torso meeting his.
In small tugs of fabric, her firm bodice caught against his shirt. Wicked heat seared from his flesh through the layers of her gown and underthings. Her breath suddenly caught against her throat as her breasts pressed into his hardness. Not the hardness of any man she’d ever met, but that of a god tossed down to earth for his sins.
She lingered above him, considering. Considering how different his body was from hers. And then she lowered her mouth to his.
She was quite ready to slip a quick kiss, but as her lips met his, she gasped. Soft and rough at once, his kiss stole her into some wild, beautiful place.
It was as if the mere touch of his lips could capture her entirely. Gentle, undemanding, giving, his mouth worked slowly below hers, and suddenly she found herself doing the unthinkable. She was kissing him back.
Delight bloomed deep within her, burning her skin into some sort of enlightened state, and she opened her mouth in shock.
And then there was the touch of his velvet tongue teasing the corner of her mouth. Urging her, easing her into a world she’d never imagined existed. Certainly not between them.
Then very slowly, he turned his head and kissed her cheek and feathered more kisses along her jaw.
She couldn’t move, but rather remained suspended above him, lulled by his hypnotic skill.
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice a dark rumble against her throat. “I will marry you.”
Chapter 6
The doctors were not pleased. She could sense it in their cold, masculine stares, which suggested no woman could ever be as intelligent or capable as they. Their sneering words trailed through her head. Highly inadvisable. Unlikely to recover. Unwise. A woman’s hysterical impulse.
She’d listened to it all with the earl at her side and weathered every last insult . . . as had done his lordship. Neither of them had yielded, resulting in her present transport of Powers from his cell to the offices so that he might be discharged. If Powers hadn’t been a lord or hadn’t had the powerful protection of his father, she had little doubt he wouldn’t have been released at all.
A familiar sense of anxiety crept through her. It had been there all her life, but she’d learned to tamp it down. To temper it so no one could see she was concerned or that anything had shaken her.
Despite this, as she and two keepers escorted James down the dank halls, his hands bound before him, she felt a growing concern. Would the doctors truly let him go? They had to. No choice. For even if they outright declared him insane, with his father’s title, Powers could be taken into private keeping. So there was no need for her present feelings. It was just the recesses of a childish concern that filtered up through her from time to time, and she could never let anyone see it. No. She had to be seen as calm and sure, lest others think her an emotional woman.
“Eh, lass.”
She cringed. She was used to the disrespect paid to her in such situations. It seemed men hated women in any sort of authority. And to give attention to it only worsened it.
“Pick up your sodding pace. Or are you saying your prayers like a typical mad Catholic?” The keeper to the left laughed.
The other chortled. “It’s her woman’s mind. Can’t keep pace with her feet.”
Suddenly, the keeper was up against the wall. James’s bindings pressed against his throat, his blond hair framing his face as he hissed, “Lady Margaret.”
“W-whot?” the keeper gurgled, and his face swelled at the abrupt pressure to his esophagus.
The other guard attempted to grab Powers, but the earl’s foot shot out and drove into the keeper’s knee, dropping the man to the ground. Powers shoved his bindings harder against the fleshy throat of the man against the wall. “Her name is Lady Margaret. Not lass. She is a lady, and Catholic or no, you are a damn sight lower than she.”
Margaret stepped up to Powers, not touching him. Not willing to chance his anger could be spilled out further, but she couldn’t let him go on, not if he ever wished to leave. “My lord, I thank you for protecting my honor.”
He didn’t respond to her, but rather fixed his attention on the other man and said with a terrifying coldness, “What is her name?”
The keeper shook slightly, his eyes darting to his fellow worker still moaning on the floor. “L-lady Margaret.”
Powers nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s right. And are you beneath her?”
The keeper nodded.
She reached out one hand, tempted to touch him. “My lord—”
“Say it,” Powers snapped, ignoring her attempt to placate him.
“Y-esss,” the keeper wheezed. “I am beneath her.”
Powers shoved him away, then smoothed his hair back from his face, both hands coming up. A strange, almost animal-like gesture, due to the cords at his hands. There was no wildness in his icy eyes. Just calm. Collection. Control. Not one move of his had been uncalculated. “You are staring. Most impolite.”
Her mouth opened slightly. “I—” She had no idea what to say. Should she thank him for defending her when so many men simply let such behavior pass as course for a woman—and worse, an Irishwoman—attempting to make her way outside the home? Or should she castigate him for behavior that would only aid the doctors’ estimation of his madness.
“You realize over the years I have heard far worse,” she said softly.
His gaze turned steely. “I don’t care if you have. In my presence, people will treat you with th
e respect you deserve.”
Carefully, she surveyed him, then said, “Thank you. The methods were a bit jarring, but I greatly appreciate the sentiment.”
For a single breath, it seemed as if his face softened, that the real James emerged through his hard exterior. He looked down at her, his voice even and sure. “You’re welcome.”
As the keepers lumbered up from the floor, staggering a bit, she began to feel something in her heart that she didn’t like at all. Despite all reason, she liked this thorny man who hid behind his wits and opium. Because deep down inside, there was a man who had been hurt irrevocably . . . just as she had been.
The keeper who’d been kicked got to his feet and squared his shoulders, swinging his elbow and punching Powers on the cheek. The lord’s head snapped back, and though his eyes glazed with hate, he did nothing.
Her insides twisted, though she wasn’t shocked. “Cease!”
The keeper’s thick face twisted. “He’s a mad dog and gets what he deserves.”
And the other keeper threw a punch into Powers’s abdomen.
Though he buckled slightly, the viscount didn’t go down or groan. Nor did he struggle.
It didn’t matter that he was a lord. In the eyes of the keepers, he was little more than an animal, and here they had the authority.
For her . . . For a few disrespectful words, he had thrown a keeper against the wall, knowing the consequences. And for this he did nothing.
Her heart suddenly twisted at the dichotomy. How did such a man as Powers love? Wholly. Wholly and beyond. Which was why he had lost himself. For all he loved had vanished from this world.
Viscount Powers was not a man easily understood. But soon she would have all the time in the world to understand him. And understand him, she would.
• • •
“You can’t do this! He’s the enemy.” Matthew stared at his sister’s calm face, wondering how his dreams had so entirely shattered.
“Ah, Matthew, that he’s not.” Margaret lifted her hand to her face, rubbing her temple. “You need help. This will help.”
Her words rang, traitorous, in his skull. He’d spent the day in her lodging, hiding, dreaming of how he would soon meet up with the others in secret, thinking Maggie might join them. Now? “This will destroy us.”
She shook her head. “No. You and the foolish actions taken on by your friends will destroy us.”
“Mag Pie,” Matthew declared, “he’s one of them.”
There had never been anything clearer in all his life than the difference between the Irish who were truly loyal and the English Irish who pretended to be like those from England, looking down their noses and wishing the real inhabitants of Eire dead.
“He is not.” Her eyes sparked with fire. “He helped the Irish.”
Matthew flinched, hardly believing the madness coming out of his sister’s mouth. “He sent money. Money? What does that mean?”
“A great deal,” she retorted, her cheeks red with fury. “Without money, what can be done?”
“Judas took his money too.”
She stood silently for a long moment. “If that is how you see it, then yes, I am a Judas. I will take my silver and save you.”
Matthew bit back a cry of what felt like pure agony as his sister so clearly chose to leave him. God, he’d rather face a firing squad than see her take this path. “And you recall what happened to Judas?”
“He hanged himself,” she said softly.
“Aye. And is that what you want? Betrayal on your conscience?”
“You’re a fool, Matthew Cassidy.”
“Oh no. I’m the only one who sees sense. We can never be free if we take their help.”
“And do you equate freedom with death? Because as I see it, that’s the road you’re on.”
“If my death will help my people—”
“My God, Matthew!” She shoved a hand over her red curls. “Do you hear yourself? You came to me for help. You’re on the run. A price on your head. And you talk of helping your people? Your actions have ensured you can do naught for them!”
He stopped. It was the first time in years he could recall Margaret losing her temper so fiercely. Once she’d been crack and fire, fury on her lips, quick to rise. He gloried to see it upon her, but not for this. Not fury at him and the cause. “This was not supposed to be how you helped me.”
“And how was I to help?”
“You were to join me.”
She paled. “I’ll not have blood on my hands.”
“The tree of liberty must be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants,” Matthew countered.
She pressed her lips together. “Thomas Jefferson.”
“That’s right. A great man. A great thinker. And haven’t you admiration for such as he?”
“I have no admiration for a man who urges blood as the answer.”
“Liberty arises from blood,” Matthew replied. “You’re too afraid to see it. You’re afraid of your own power, Margaret.”
“I’m afraid of how it will end,” she whispered. “Of all who will be dead.”
“It’s going to happen. The war.” Matthew’s heart hammered in his ears. How had this happened? How was this conversation even taking place? He drew in a sharp breath and continued. “And the question is, what side will you be on? That of the patriots or the tyrants?”
“You can’t see the world in such black and white.”
“I can and I do. There’s us and there’s them.”
“I’m going to marry him,” she said evenly.
“Tyrant.”
Her eyes narrowed. “This tyrant is going to save your life.”
“I’d rather be dead.”
Margaret’s eyes glossed with tears, but her face remained hard. “You say that with the folly of a child.”
“With innocence and purity, you mean.” He longed to grab her, to make her see. But he didn’t. If Margaret had made up her mind . . . He choked back a cry.
“Purity?” A dry, broken laugh came from her. “You’ve done murder, Matthew.”
“And you still wish to help me. What does that make you?”
“Your sister.”
He swallowed, terrified of the words he had to say. “If you marry him, you’re dead to me.”
“You say that now, Matthew. But when you’re lost, alone in a dark corner, and your lads have abandoned you, you will need this tyrant.”
“Not now,” he said softly.
“Do you know how many people I can help with the Carlyle fortune? I can stop the death! The starvation! The ignorance.”
“Aw. Now who is the innocent one, sister mine?”
“I’m doing the right thing.”
He shook his head. “You’re doing the easy thing.”
“Easy?” she echoed, her voice hollow. “To marry a man I don’t love.”
“For money,” Matthew added. “And do you know what that makes you?”
“It makes me your savior.”
His heart sank, his chest so heavy he could barely speak, but he had to. “You feel righteous, don’t you, Margaret? Sacrificing yourself to an Englishman? You’ve been striving for that righteousness ever since Da died. But you remember what happened to him? He played by their rules. He placated them. He begged them. Why will you be different than he?”
She blanched.
“They will crush you under their English privilege. That is what they do.”
“You’re wrong.”
His shoulders slumped. “Right then. Marry him. Save us all. Your martyrdom will go down in the annals of Ireland’s fight, no doubt.”
A resigned pain darkened her eyes. “You’ve become a cruel man.”
“I have been forged in the coals of our country’s suffering.”
“It must be won
derful,” she said softly, “to be so certain.”
“It is wonderful,” he replied easily. “And I wish to God you’d join me, Mag Pie.”
“No. I’ll not be party to leading boys to their death.”
“Thousands of boys have already died. Died in the fields. Died with no hope. No respect. At least now they’ll be dying for something.”
“I won’t argue any longer.” She smoothed her hands over her skirts and took a step toward her door. She looked back over her shoulder. “I’m doing this for you. For Ireland.”
“No.” Matthew lowered himself to the small bed. “You’re doing this for yourself, so you can imagine you’ve clean hands, even as the English torture our land.”
“When you need me, Matthew, I’ll be there. With my English money and my English power. And we’ll see who has chosen the best path.”
And with that she slipped out the door, away from him, away from all he’d ever hoped for.
Chapter 7
James fingered the miniature of Sophia in his palm, clenching his white-gloved fist around it. He’d promised himself he would never remarry. But now, standing under the portico of one of Christopher Wrens’s ivory-spired churches, he knew he would have done anything to escape from that asylum, which leached the soul from men.
In the end, it was a small price to pay.
He’d seen asylums before. He’d helped rescue his friend’s wife from one. His own experiences had likely been heaven compared with the prisoners in the place Mary had been, but still. He’d felt himself slowly slipping away, with no control over his own daily activities. Daily activities? He fingered the gold-rimmed portrait. He’d not been allowed to wash himself, and the doctors had studied the color of his piss and excrement.
Only the Irishwoman had seen that he truly didn’t belong there.
Even so. This was no mission of charity she was performing. She was hiding something from him, some very personal reason for this union, and he would discover it. Eventually. Margaret Cassidy was a fool if she thought she could control him. No one could ever take his life from him again; nor would she be able to manipulate him.
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