Preshea was fracturing again, spinning out and around. Not quite so far as the first, but still there, still flying.
She lost the rhythm, collapsing down. He grabbed her hips to keep the pace, slow but steady.
It still felt good.
“Preshea, lass,” his eyes begged, voice quivering, “May I?”
She hated to say it, him having given so much, but it was a truth that needed saying. “Children would complicate matters.”
“I understand.”
He bucked under her then, holding her hips to keep her against him. Guiding her but even now, not too rough, careful of his strength. Not clumsy with it. He was never clumsy. She enjoyed watching him lose control beneath her. The tingles started again, although she hadn’t the energy to pursue them, and she did not think he had the will to hold out long enough for her to try. Although, knowing him, he’d do his damnedest if she asked.
He lifted her off him at the last, seating her back onto his thighs. Care for her safety even as, face contorted, he spilled onto his own stomach and chest.
It was incredibly erotic to watch and left him looking utterly vulnerable.
I could kill him so easily right now, Preshea thought.
He was boneless under her, entirely at her mercy. She felt it, too (the profound relief after pleasure) but she was also energized.
“You do realize I could end you now with so little effort?”
“Are you certain you’ve had full use of me, lass? You wouldna wish to waste resources.”
“Quite right. Maybe later.”
“I’d as lief you dinna.”
Preshea found she’d rather not either.
Which really was a concern. Always, there was a tiny part of her that wanted to kill any man she knew. On principle. With Gavin, as easy as it would be to accomplish, she had not the slightest inclination. That terrified her.
In Preshea’s world, the man she didn’t want to kill was as near to a man she might love as made no difference.
CHAPTER NINE
The Deadlier of the Species
Her absence woke him.
He had not been sleeping, only dozing, but the weight of her against him was such a comfort that the lack caused him to sit up.
Preshea was standing at the window, naked. The fire still blazed (he had made certain to build it up), so she likely felt no cold.
She looked ethereal and bereft.
“It’s all right to have enjoyed yourself, lass.” He tried to fix the loneliness in her stance with words.
She turned to face him, her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. Was she guarding herself from him or from her own thoughts? Her face, for once, was mobile with confusion and not at all haughty.
He did not approach and take her in his arms, although he ached to do so. It wouldn’t work. It wasn’t the right tactic. He wondered if she guessed that one of his roles within the Coldsteam Guards had been that of master tactician.
He said, very softly, “Who did this to you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Nay, lass. Who made you so wary of men?”
“My father.” Her faced stilled, no confusion there.
“Was he violent?”
“Not really. He was proud of my beauty, in a strange way. He didn’t want to damage the goods.” Her tone was very flat, her words chosen with exacting care.
“So, just cruel?”
“Yes, just that. He liked to wound with words. Taught me to do the same, I suppose. He was particularly adept at unfounded accusations. I sometimes think it might have been easier if he had yelled at me for being what I already was. He wasn’t one to identify a weakness and play upon it. That would require too much effort, learning about another person.”
She paused, formulating her words so as not to wound, he supposed. She had to think carefully when speaking truth, his lass. “There was a footman. He was older, kind to me, fatherly. Used to carry me piggyback about the house.”
Gavin’s skin prickled and he focused on making himself calm, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. Not easy in a man his size. Although nudity helped.
“What happened?” He needed some reality of her life, of her past, that was nothing to do with the artificial aristocrat she presented to society. Yet his need was hurting her, and that was nigh unbearable. Perhaps he should let her slide back into truncated words and false expressions.
But she was gracious, gave him more of her ugliness. “Father accused him, accused us, of all manner of things. Sexual things. I was ten. I understood little except that it was not true, and disgusting. Father explained it all to me in detail. Then I understood too much. I vomited in Father’s best slippers. The footman was horsewhipped and dismissed without a character. All because he was kind to me.”
“So, you learned kindness as weakness.”
“Is it not? Well” —she gave a tiny smile— “perhaps not for you.”
He would not let her be distracted. “What happened after?”
“He sent me to finishing school. Not the normal kind. We were taught other things. Etiquette, of course. But there are spaces in between the done thing and the right phrase. Spaces where a lady may hide information or death.”
“And your father?”
“I remember returning home that first Christmas. Already, I knew what I could achieve. He sent me away to learn espionage and assassination, to become a weapon for his use. He never once considered that I would have my own plans.”
“Did you kill him, Preshea?”
“No. But I did poison him. Not enough. A little cyanide here and there. Every time I was home. Once, I put foxglove in his minced veal simply to watch his heart race away from him, there at the dinner table. Then, the final year, I let him catch me at it.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “His face was so shocked, demanding an explanation. As if, by right of blood, I was the betrayer for knowing he was against me. I reminded him that he had sent me to that school. He knew the curriculum.”
Gavin stayed frozen, waiting.
She spoke, each word an arrow aimed to hit a mark. “I told him that when I was home, he would never be safe. I reminded him of how many household items are deadly, and that I knew them all.” She moved to the fireplace, looking into the flames instead of at him. Her face, in profile, was marble. “Did you know that even wood ash from a fire, mixed with water, can be poison?”
Gavin shook his head.
She gave a tiny grimace, fracturing the marble. “I can’t forget his face. He was very handsome. But he wasn’t at that moment. He was so scared. I” —her voice splintered— “I enjoyed that. So, I told him about phossy jaw. Did you know radium is disfiguring and difficult to detect? My father’s greatest fear, I think – ugliness. I gave him two options. He could have me committed to an insane asylum or he could marry me off. The first would be embarrassing, the second lucrative. Of course, he chose marriage. Although I did say I could not guarantee my husband’s safety. I advised him to choose wisely. You see, I’m not a kind person.”
Gavin shifted to sit more upright, careful with his movements. She didn’t want his kindness; the best he could give her right now was his attention. “Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Choose wisely?”
Preshea slumped, sinking down into a chair. Still graceful, but she looked not so much ethereal as frail. He ached to go to her. Not yet.
“Not really. My first husband could be quite brutal. Especially in his cups.” She gestured to her body. “It was a good change. Well, not good exactly, but at least different after seventeen years.”
Gavin felt his gut coil and surge with bile. He couldn’t stand the thought of her hurting, not the tiniest bit of it. Not his Preshea, not this pristine weapon of a woman.
She kept talking as if driven by his disgust. “I believe that he, too, was proud of my looks. Never touched my face. Mostly pinching – upper arms, ribs. Did you know that if you twist your fingers just so,
the bruise is heart-shaped? He died, one dose for each heart he gave me.”
Gavin felt almost as though he could taste her revenge, feel it for her. He wanted more than that.
She saw the question in his face. “He died.” Her tone was final. “Please don’t ask me how exactly. The others died too. Naturally, not so naturally, what does it matter? They were all arranged for me. My father might think he chose, but he did not. I did my duty under the terms of my indenture. You’re a soldier, you know what it is to follow orders, to do what you are told.”
“Aye, lass, I do at that. Even the unpleasant stuff.” Gavin was not feeling so casual as he appeared. In fact, he was finding it difficult to breathe, listening to her speak of the men who had come before him.
“And the next one?” If she were in a forthcoming mood, he wouldn’t stop her. Even if it kept her across the room, half a mile away. Gavin didn’t know why he wanted to know about the infamous husbands of Lady Preshea Villentia so badly. Perhaps because it was insight into her.
Slowly, carefully, then faster, she began to tell him about the others. The second: “Not particularly capable, and resentful of me because of it. Liked to yell a lot, he did, spilled all his secrets that way.”
She talked of them flatly, her words ice crystals of clear, perfect misery. It was the voice she used when she wanted nothing to show. Each phrase assassinated by its own punctuation.
“He did nothing to me physically, nothing at all. Turns out he had... other preferences.”
Gavin tried for sympathy. “Men?”
“Children.”
Gavin could not hide his repulsion.
“Exactly.” She noted his expression with approval. “Hard to regret, that one.” A pause. “Richard was third. He was fine, a tradesman. Liked me as a status symbol. Left me to myself and wasn’t mean with my allowance. We rattled along well enough. He kept out of my business. I kept out of his. In fact, after a single unsatisfying bedroom encounter, he ignored me. Perhaps that’s worse?”
Gavin felt nothing but anger for these husbands of hers. He was not jealous at all, just sad, and sorry for her, and ashamed of himself and his sex.
“What happened to him, then, if you weren’t… If he wasn’t intended…” Gavin struggled for the correct words. He was a forthright man, a soldier; espionage was not a comfortable place.
“Died in a carriage accident with his mistress. Six months after our wedding.”
He blinked, surprised at the blatancy of the statement.
“Oh” —she grinned— “it wasn’t a secret. It also wasn’t my doing. Not my style. I suspect it was arranged, though. Pity about the girl.”
She paused, frowning. Remembering to feel concern for someone she never knew, or simply gathering her thoughts?
“Last was Alfred – Viscount Villentia.” She gestured to herself as if to say as you see me now. “I was twenty-four when we married. He was seventy-six.”
“God’s breath!” Gavin couldn’t stop the exclamation.
“I actually liked him. He didn’t want anything from me. He was too old and not all there up top, you see? Utterly harmless. I treated him the best I knew how.”
She glared at him then, as if accusing him of wrecking something. As if his offering her anything, even the pleasure of one glorious night together, were an insult. To what? That last sham of a marriage? The shams of all her previous marriages?
“Lass, I dinna kiss you to stop you from talking. I dinna need to smother you to prove anything to myself or any man.”
She stood and came back towards him, but she was different now. Poised.
He felt a wrenching ache. She was closing herself off, slipping away, not telling him something important.
She stopped next to the bed. It was exactly the right height for her to look down on him.
“My life is what I wanted, don’t you see? I used to brag about it in school. How wonderful to be a widow. Widows have autonomy. Widows with money and a title have lots of autonomy. I got scandal and fear alongside. So, I am free. Well, free enough.”
She held herself perfectly still, as one will in bathwater that is too hot, for any movement might cause pain. It was the way some of his youngest officers held themselves after battle. The ones who should never have gone to war, the ones who were too young, or too kind, or too romantic for all the blood. The ones who would return home broken.
“Who are you, Gavin Ruthven, to dare try and take that from me?”
Her focused stillness was that of some fractured vase held together with wax. Gavin felt a profound pity, and he knew she would hate him for it. So, he held himself equally still, afraid to say anything. Afraid to touch her, although she was within reach, for she might shatter as easily as she might melt against him.
Her eyes were hard. Eyes he knew were madder blue, although, in the half-light, he couldn’t see the color.
“Why should you try to change what I have become? What I have arranged for myself? It’s enough. It’s what I want. It’s what I have always wanted.”
“Lass, I dinna want you changed. I only want you here. Come back to bed.” He judged it safe to ask – her wistful loneliness had turned to anger. She was focused on him now and not the past.
Too focused, as it turned out.
“It’s too much. You’re too much. This” —her gesture encompassed the room, the well used sheets, and him— “it isn’t for me. Find some lass who isn’t shaped to be deadly. I’ve nothing left for you. He already took it.”
She might be referring to her father, or her husbands, or the mysterious patron who once held her indenture.
She gathered up her clothing – careful to leave nothing behind. She departed his room with equal care, still naked but for her stockings.
Gavin did not worry for her. She knew full well how to move around a house without being seen. He worried for himself. What strategy now? He would not force her into anything. Could not.
He sank into the warmth of the big bed and ached for her small form next to his. He hurt for her, because he suspected she could not. For what she had chosen to do and what had been done to her. All the men who had come before him had molded her with touches that even his big hands, and all the kindness behind them, couldn’t wipe away. Was it possible to give her enough to fill the void left by what others had taken?
* * *
The next day, the rain returned. Preshea felt it suited her mood admirably.
Gavin watched her, and though she hated herself for it, she watched Gavin.
She had done the correct thing. Did it have to hurt this much? Other necessary actions hadn’t hurt; why should this one be so painful?
The rain brought with it a house-wide melancholy. The party sat about the drawing room, slumped under grey light.
Preshea wasn’t certain what drove her to do it, but she revealed some of her inner turmoil to Miss Pagril and Lady Flo.
Lady Flo embroidered while Miss Pagril flipped through a book of fashion, pausing to comment on some outrageous dress or another.
“Even I,” said Preshea at one, “would look bilious in that monstrosity.”
“Goodness, everyone seems out of temper today. Even you, Lady Villentia.” Miss Pagril was disposed to be less harsh about the gown in question.
“Do I? I had better keep sterner control of my expressions.”
“Must you always be so reserved?” Miss Pagril was genuinely curious.
“It is better, I find, to give few openings to others.”
“Not even to the good captain?”
Preshea turned to where the other girl gestured.
Gavin was looking at them while Mr Jackson took his turn at cards.
“His focus is on you, Lady Villentia, not us. In case you were in any doubt.” Miss Pagril attempted a tease.
Before last night, Preshea might have bristled, but now she knew the truth. Firstly, that the full force of the captain’s attention, and affection, was indeed on her. Secondly, that Miss Pagril wou
ld not welcome his courtship, should he try.
Still, the young girl’s comment was a tad familiar for Preshea’s taste, so she made her tone short. “I did not wonder.”
Lady Flo’s face fell, but she did not stop embroidering. “You do not welcome his interest?”
“No more than you or Miss Pagril might. Although” —she paused significantly— “for different reasons.”
Lady Flo gasped.
Miss Pagril turned a piercing look on Preshea. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are implying.”
Preshea was moved to be cruel; no one bare-faced her into verbal surrender. “Oh, I think you do. Next time you relocate late at night, may I suggest you leave the candle behind?”
“Oh!” Lady Flo dropped her tambour and put a hand to her mouth, crimson with humiliation.
Miss Pagril’s eyes narrowed. “What do you intend to do?”
Preshea sighed. She had always known she was bad at female friendships. She seemed unable to stop herself from sabotaging them. “Do? Nothing.”
“What do you want from us to keep silent?” Miss Pagril’s tone was forcibly casual, her implication insulting.
Preshea’s lip curled. “I’m not interested in blackmailing children. You’ve nothing to offer me that I could possibly want. You mistake my meaning. I merely wish to encourage caution. If you insist on reckless behavior, don’t be stupid about it.”
“How kind.” Miss Pagril’s voice was icy.
Lady Flo picked up her embroidery, face now white. “Jane, don’t.”
“I take it you approve, then?” Miss Pagril was made of sterner stuff.
The girl was asking for Preshea’s thoughts on aberrant sexual choices. Preshea, to be honest, had none. She’d never been asked to use her wiles on another woman, and did not feel the inclination herself. Since the matter had no bearing on her, personally or professionally, she’d given it no thought at all. But she refused to sanction the bumbling of an amateur sneak, so she willfully misinterpreted the question.
“Certainly not. Your form is terrible. Your execution atrocious. I could hear your footfalls before I even topped the stairs.”
Lady Blingchester joined them at that moment. “To what are you referring, Lady Villentia? Is that criticism I hear?”
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