Forbidden Fire

by Heather Graham

  Lawrence Whalen thanked him and accepted the brandy. Ian offered him a sweeping smile and said, “Can’t join you in brandy, no, I think not. I’ll have a whiskey. No, maybe I’ll just have the bottle.”

  He was pouring a drink when she entered the room. She was in white, beautiful, eyelet white, a dress with a high collar and sleek lines, a straight skirt except for the very small bustle at her rear. Her hair was drawn up with just a few ringlets to curl by the side of her face. Her eyes, those fascinating emerald eyes with their curious blazes and flames, were on him. Wide, interested, innocent. So damned innocent, his wife.

  But was she his wife? He wasn’t even sure about that anymore. What the hell was legal and what wasn’t?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was that his hands were still shaking. It felt as if the whole of his body was on fire. The witch. Entering his life so completely. Listening to his dreams. Wedging her way into the hearts of the orphans. Captivating his employees. Stealing his heart, making him think he could live again.

  He’d been better off with whores.

  He smiled icily. “Hello, dear.”

  “Ian, what—”

  And then she saw Lawrence Whalen, and it was apparent that she must have realized that the gleam in Ian’s gaze was absolute fury. She fell silent for a moment, then she quietly greeted Whalen.

  “Mr. Whalen. What—what has brought you all the long way to America?”

  “It’s your uncle, Marissa. I’ve explained to your husband.”

  “Oh, my God!” The color drained from her face. If anything could be said to her credit, she loved this uncle. That much was true. “Mr. Whalen, is he all right? Has something happened? Oh, dear Lord—”

  “Now, now, don’t distress yourself, Miss Ayers. I’m sorry, Mrs. Tremayne. Marissa.” Lawrence Whalen was on his feet, patting her hand. She was going to fall, so it appeared.

  But then she was such a wonderful actress.

  Ian used a foot to drag a chair up behind her. “Sit, my love. Do take a chair. Mr. Whalen will explain.” She stared at him for a moment, aware of the edge to his voice even if Mr. Whalen was not. She had to be wondering just what course he would take now that her deception was discovered.

  He didn’t blink. He wanted her to worry.

  And at the moment, he didn’t have the least idea of what he wanted to do. All he knew was that he was more furious than he could remember being in all his life.

  And hurt.

  Damn, but why hadn’t she told him?

  Because everything between them had been a lie, from the very beginning to the bitter end.

  And he was so damned angry because he was so damned hurt. He wanted to reach out and shake her. He wanted to hear her cry, just as he wanted to cry out even as he stood there, staring at her.

  She tore her eyes from his at last and gave her attention to her guest, and she seemed to understand a great deal more than he about what was going on.

  “Please, Mr. Whalen, what happened? Uncle Theo was not supposed to be working! I left him plenty of money—”

  “I’m sure you did,” Ian commented dryly. He saw her color, but she did not look at him.

  “It was a matter of his friends, Mrs. Tremayne,” Whalen told her quietly. “They were striking against conditions. Theo joined them. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s one of their leaders, always has been, working or not. You know your uncle. That Mr. Lacey had been terribly hard on the miners, you see. He cut the wages. Well, you know what those wages were to begin with!”

  “But what did Uncle Theo do?” she asked. She sounded like a lost girl, Ian thought. She could so easily have drawn his sympathy. He stiffened. No, she had done that already.

  “Lacey had brought in men, and there was a scuffle, and some of the men were killed. He wants to charge Theo with murder.” He was quiet for a minute. “And ask for the death penalty.”

  “No!” Marissa cried.

  And Ian almost reached out to her. Almost.

  “The vicar went to Lacey, Mrs. Tremayne. And Lacey will drop the charges if you’ll just come for Theo—and swear that he’ll not set foot in England again.”

  “But he couldn’t have been guilty. Uncle Theo is not a murderer—”

  “Mrs. Tremayne!” Whalen interrupted very softly. “You’ve been gone awhile now. But have you forgotten the power Lacey wields?”

  She stood, clenching her fingers into fists at her side. “There is no problem, Mr. Whalen. I’ll come for my uncle immediately. Mr. Lacey has nothing to fear from us,” she added bitterly.

  “No,” Ian said flatly, leaning against the cherrywood liquor cabinet. “You won’t be going anywhere.”

  She stared at him, startled, her eyes growing very wide. He could almost see the desperation washing over her. “Ian, I’ll do anything. I’ll—I’ll do anything,” she repeated. It must have been very hard to talk with Mr. Whalen there. “I must go for my uncle.”

  “I repeat, my love,” he said with an edge. “You’ll not be going anywhere. I—”

  “Ian, for the love of God, please!”

  “Well!” Mr. Whalen said, nervously twisting his hat with his fingers. “I can see you need some time alone. Mr. Tremayne, I can leave—”

  “You’ve been invited to dinner, Mr. Whalen, and you must not leave. However, my wife and I do have a few matters to discuss. If you’ll excuse us …?”

  “Of course!” Whalen said.

  Ian looked at Marissa, then indicated the door to the foyer and the stairway. She stared at him blankly for a moment, refusing to accept the fact that he was going to force them into an immediate confrontation.

  “Ian—”

  “Marissa, if you will, please?” The last was not a request in any way, but a sharp command. She swallowed sharply, lifted her chin and excused herself to Whalen. Ian smiled to the man. “Please, make yourself at home. Have another drink—there’s a daily paper in the rack by the door. This discussion just might take some time,” he said pleasantly. Then he followed Marissa as she hurried through the foyer.

  “That was very good, Marissa,” he commented as they reached the stairs.

  “What was good?” she hissed.

  “Your manner with Whalen. You’re beginning to believe that you were born a lady yourself, aren’t you?”

  She swung around, a hand raised. He caught it before she could begin to strike. “Aren’t you worried about Uncle Theo?” he queried her sharply.

  A deep blush colored her cheek and she wrenched her hand free and hurried up the stairs. She stood still in the hall, and he shoved open her door. She didn’t move, and he pushed her through the doorway none too gently. She almost stumbled, straightened, and took a seat regally at the foot of her bed, staring straight ahead.

  He leaned against the door for several moments, then exploded. “My God, don’t you have anything to say to me yet?”

  She stared at him. “No! No, you’re not going to believe or understand anything I have to say anyway!”

  “Try me.”

  She leaped up, staring at him. “Don’t you see? There was no other way. We had to lie to you, Mary and I. There was no other choice.”

  “Because you had to have the money.”

  “Yes! Oh, God, how can you be so angry? You always knew I married you for the money.”

  “Yes,” he said softly, deceptively softly. “But before, it was your money!”

  “It’s Mary’s money.”

  “No, no, it’s not!” he exploded. “You made me a party to fraud! She’s married to James O’Brien, and I’m married to you. Hell, am I? I don’t even known if we’re legally married or not!”

  Marissa lowered her head suddenly and walked to the turret window. “It’s legal,” she muttered.

  “What?” he thundered.

  “It’s—it’s legal.” He was staring at her, and she looked at him at last. “The squire had seen to it that you had a license, but there was nothing filled in on it. I signed my own name.”

/>   He swore and hit the wooden door. “Thank you, madam! You have made me as guilty in this little scheme as you are yourself. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “You wouldn’t have married me!” she exclaimed.

  He leaned against the door, hands crossed over his chest. “You’re the maid,” he commented suddenly. “The maid with the tea tray and the burning eyes. How in God’s name did I miss that?”

  She swung around on him. “Because I was a maid! Just a maid! No one for the rich and wonderful American Ian Tremayne to bother about!”

  He started to laugh, a dry, humorless sound. And the laughter was directed against himself. “And you weren’t just the maid, were you? Oh, no! Had I begun to imagine such a deceit, I’d have known so easily. Ah, yes! You knew all about the hardships in the coal mines! You were the little girl all dressed in white who fell into the mud. There are no other eyes like yours, none other in the world. You’ve known me for a long, long time—”

  “I’m amazed that even now you could associate the coal rat with your wife!” she cried out.

  He shook his head, earnest, still furious. “Madam, the prejudice has been yours, not mine! I couldn’t care in the least where you came from. Coal dust washes away. But lies and deceit do not!”

  Marissa barely heard what he said. She heard only the condemnation in his voice. “I had no choice!” she cried.

  Ian continued to stare at her, the depth of his fury evident in the coldness of his eyes. “So you knew me, you knew me all along. And you knew why you looked so familiar to me!” He started walking into the room, closing in on her. He could see the fury of her pulse beating against the beautiful flesh of her throat. “You knew all along. And you never, never said a word to me.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Yes, damn you, you could!” he thundered. “You had chance after chance.”

  “No! You don’t understand!”

  He had reached her. Maybe if he hadn’t been stricken anew by her beauty he wouldn’t have been quite so angry. He reached for her arm, pulling her against him. Her eyes rose to his. Her emerald eyes. Dazzling, green, damp and appealing even now. He wanted to throw her from him. He had longed so desperately to believe in her.

  “You scheming little liar! My God, did you use me!”

  She tried to wrench free from him. “No! Let me go, Ian. I couldn’t—”

  And then he did push her away, with a force that sent her flying onto the bed. Stunned, she stared at him. Her eyes were damp. He gritted his teeth, trembling, and he strode to the door, anxious to leave her.

  “Ian!” She cried out his name and rose. “Ian, I know you hate me. And I know you want me gone, and I know I owe you a fortune. But please, please—”

  “Please what?” he snapped, spinning around.

  “You—you have to let me go for my uncle!” she told him. “He’s not guilty of any of this. You must let me go—”

  “No.”

  “Ian!” She raced to him. He caught her wrists. Her hair was tumbling free, falling down her back. He wanted to run his fingers through it, bury his face in the red-gold cascade and breathe in the fragrance. “Ian, please! I’ll do anything.”

  “Anything? You do sell out easily,” he told her coolly.

  “Bastard!” she whispered, and the tears were hovering on her lashes. He could see her grit her teeth. “Anything!” she snapped again.

  The tension between them sizzled. He didn’t know when the fury and the hatred had turned to desire, he only knew that he would have sold his own soul at that moment. And she was repeating the word to him.

  “Anything …”

  He drew her hard and tight against him, and he gave his fingers free rein to thread through the hair at her nape. He tilted her head to his and found her lips. Angry, he ground his mouth to hers. Still furious, he forced her lips apart, and kissed her.

  She started to protest, but he lifted his mouth from hers briefly and stared into the glistening green inferno of her eyes. “Anything!” he repeated.

  She inhaled sharply and stepped away from him, those hypnotic green eyes were still upon his. She tossed back her head, pulling a pin and freeing her hair. And she loosened the pearl button at her throat. And then another, another, watching him with a heated defiance all the while. With elegance, with grace, she dropped the white gown. It fell to her feet in a swathe of innocence. With dignity still, with mesmerizing grace and beauty, she dropped her chemise upon the dress, her petticoats, her silk drawers. And she stood before him, challenging him, taunting him. She was like some goddess as she stared at him then, her eyes liquid and emerald and undauntable, the shimmering sweep of her hair evocative as it curled over the marble rise of her breasts.

  “Anything,” she murmured.

  He smiled slowly and removed his coat, tore at his tie and ripped buttons from his shirt. Shoes and trousers were quickly abandoned and he set his hands upon his hips. Her gaze flicked just once, and he laughed aloud.

  “Anything,” he agreed, and he swept her off her feet and carried her to her bed. And then his mouth found hers again, found it with hunger and need and fury …

  From somewhere deep within, he tried to control the tumult rising with the rush of his blood, the heat of his body. But it suddenly seemed that there was no need, for she was meeting his kiss with a fury and passion of her own. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips sought his. Her hands moved down the length of his naked back, light, delicate, haunting, over his spine, kneading his buttocks, soft as a whisper as they stroked his flesh. He deserted her lips to press his mouth against her throat, and he left that soft white column to caress her breasts with the heat and moisture of his lips and tongue. She arched to his touch, cradling his head to her. He drew soft, fascinating trails down the soft flesh of her abdomen, and he stroked her thighs with his fingertips, whispering against her flesh.

  He loved her, he knew then. He loved her still, no matter what she had done. He couldn’t sweep away the anger, but he loved her. Loved the beauty of her flesh, the fragrance of her. Loved the spirit, and loved the taste of her kiss. Loved the way she moved against him.

  And her eyes, open, clear when she made love to him. Challenging and innocent. Framed by the magic sunburst of her hair. He caught her gaze and moved lower against her, bringing his body against her, bringing his kiss intimately upon her.

  Sweet cries escaped her, and she touched him in her turn, her fingers closing upon the hardness of his desire. Molten, hot, trembling, they came together. He made love with a rhythm that was fast and furious still, the culmination of all the love and hatred and anger simmering between them.

  The end came quickly, explosively. He shuddered fiercely, felt the heat and fury and passion seep from him in a little shower of his seed, deep into her body. And he felt her trembling beneath him, and he knew that she, too, had found a physical release, even if there was nothing that could bridge the gulf that stood between them now.

  He eased his weight from hers and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. Then he rose and padded silently to the turret windows. The fog was rolling in, thick, rich. He felt as if his thinking processes were rolling with that fog. He still loved her. He was still furious. He could feel his muscles knotting anew with the tension.

  Watching him, Marissa bit softly upon her lower lip, wishing that she dared rise and walk to him. She wanted to whisper that she loved him, but it was probably too late. She pulled the sheets to her breast and fought tears. His anger was so great she had felt it in his touch. And yet she had been glad. She had wanted him with an equal desperation. It had been all she had to hold on to.

  His shoulders squared, straightened, fell. “Well, it seems that I must say that I’m sorry again,” he muttered, his back still to her.

  He had told her that once before. And it hurt more deeply now.

  “You needn’t be sorry,” she whispered.

  “Indeed, I must,” he said coolly.

  “Ian, damn you!” she crie
d, and she hesitated and added softly, “I love you!”

  He swung around, naked, masculine, and suddenly very terrible in his anger. “You, madam, needn’t conjure up such a pathetic lie. It doesn’t become you.”

  She gasped, feeling as if she had been slapped. “Oh, you—bastard!” she hissed. She was going to burst into tears. She had dared to bare her heart, and it meant nothing to him at all. She had to hold on to something.

  “Is that a way to talk when you still want something from me?” he demanded sharply.

  She tossed back her hair, hating him very much at that moment. “I’m going for my uncle. If I beg on the streets or steal, I’m going—”

  “You are not!”

  “Dear God, they’ll kill him! How can you be so cruel?” she demanded. He couldn’t mean it. He had to let her go.

  “No one is going to kill him.”

  “Don’t you understand? I have to—”

  “You’re not leaving San Francisco. I’ll go for your uncle.”

  “But your work—”

  “You’re not leaving. God knows where you might wind up, and for the moment, you’re still my wife. If you want to help your uncle, you can follow a few simple rules until I get back. You don’t leave this house alone. Ever. Lee or John must be with you. You are limited to the store, the carriage house, and an occasional social function in my absence. Is that understood?”

  He was going for Theo. That was all that she could allow to matter. But the cold way he spoke to her cut into her heart, and she was still afraid that she would break down if he did not leave her soon.

  And she wouldn’t even mind burying the very last vestiges of her pride, except that it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to believe anything she had to say to him.

  “Yes, I understand,” she said flatly, staring at the sheet.

  “Then get dressed. Mr. Whalen will surely miss us soon enough. And I intend to leave with him on the evening train. I want this done.”

  “Tonight? You’re leaving tonight?”