by Cheryl Holt
She snuggled herself to him, letting him feel her lush torso, and for a moment, she thought she was getting through to him. He smiled at her; then the smile became a scoff.
"You're crazier than I suspected," he charged. "With
every word you utter, I'm more convinced that I made the appropriate decision by keeping you here."
He started out, and she screamed, "Jamie! What is wrong with you? I'm not mad."
"Anne might have an alternate opinion. Shall we ask her? Or how about Sarah? What would she say about you?"
Ophelia gnashed her teeth. Anne and Sarah. Anne and Sarah. Who gave a rat's ass about them? After she sneaked to Gladstone and murdered Jamie, they'd be next!
"I was simply trying to help Percy regain his heritage," she grumbled. "Why is that a crime?"
Weary of dealing with her, Jamie sighed. "I keep talking to you, Ophelia, but you don't listen. So I'll say this one last time. Pay attention. You will stay here until—"
Like a spoiled toddler, Ophelia clamped her hands over her ears, and he grabbed her wrists and pulled them away.
"You will stay here," he began again, "until I'm persuaded that you've reformed sufficiently to be released. Should that day ever arrive—and I admit I'm dubious that it will—you will be transported to Australia on the first available prison ship."
"And Edith and Percy will remain in England as if they played no part in events?"
"Yes."
"But I can't bear being trapped with them. I'll end up killing them."
"You'll do nothing to Edith," he warned. "She will be safe around you, and should she so much as trip on the garden path, I'll come after you."
"And what about Percy? I suppose if he croaks, that will be my fault, too."
"Yes, but I won't care so much. He tried to rape Anne, so he shouldn't expect any mercy from me. Then again, a man who loses his privates to a deranged, gun-toting female has suffered plenty."
"So you won't mind if I finish him off?"
"It's your neck, Ophelia"—he smirked, looking evil and resolute—"and the hangman's noose is very tight. You might wish to consider the consequences before you act."
"Bastard!" she hurled.
"I'm many things, but I'm not a bastard. Our father married my mother, remember? That's why you're in this fix." He knocked for the guard. "I'll check on you in six months."
"As if I need a nanny, you contemptible lout."
She was so angry that she picked a figurine off the table and threw it at him, but as with so much of what she'd done lately, she missed. The figurine thudded into the wall and tumbled to the floor, but it hadn't the decency to break, so she didn't even receive the satisfaction of a loud crash.
"By the way," he mentioned as the door swung open, "I've provided Edith with several boxes of stationery. She's to write me once a week to inform me how you're behaving."
"She can sod off. You can, too."
"Have you ever been to Australia? The climate is very hot—sort of like Hell is purported to be. I don't imagine you'd like it there."
He marched out, the guard quickly securing the lock. With so many barricades in place, she couldn't follow Jamie, but that didn't prevent her from pounding and pounding on the door. She screeched his name till she was hoarse, sounding every bit like the demented shrew he insisted she was.
Finally, worn and exhausted, she slumped to the rug. Footsteps echoed behind her, and she peered over to see Edith watching her. Her mother's expression was much more lucid and clear than Ophelia could ever recollect it being.
"Go away, you crazy loon," Ophelia hissed.
"No, you little sinner," Edith responded. "I've organized a Bible study group, and you'll be required to attend every meeting. Class is about to start. Come."
"I won't participate in any stupid Bible reading with you."
Edith grinned a nasty, malevolent grin. "It appears I'll be using Jamie's stationery much earlier than I thought."
She spun and walked away.
Twenty-Four
Anne tarried in the woods, listening to the quiet. Snow was falling, huge flakes drifting down. Off in the distance, the manor beckoned, the windows twinkling in the dim light, smoke curling from the chimneys. It was such a pretty picture, like a scene in a painting, a fantasy spot that no humans inhabited, and often that's precisely how it felt. Everyone had left her.
Sarah had gone to London to find Jamie but had found Jack and Tim, instead. She'd stayed on to marry; then the three of them had moved to the other side of England to build a new life. Anne had no idea when she'd see her sister again.
Edith, Percy, and Ophelia had been whisked away to a private hospital, but with the local surgeon having originally tended Percy's wounds, there was no keeping the type of damage a secret. The injury—and the means by which he'd received it—was so shocking that the rumors never ceased.
What with the furtive, reproving looks of both servants and neighbors, Anne could barely leave her room,
and she definitely wouldn't brave a trip to the village. She wished the entire episode would fade away, but the scandal was too delicious, and the gossipmongers couldn't be silenced. They were having too much fun.
Jamie's disappearance bothered her most of all.
She hadn't had a chance to ask him what had brought him home on that fateful night. By the time Sarah had traveled to London, he'd vanished, so it wasn't Sarah's plea that had spurred him to Gladstone.
So why had he come? Had he missed Anne? Had he hoped to make amends and start over? The likely answers had her abuzz with constant speculation.
After he'd rescued Anne from Percy's clutches, he'd spent several days at the estate, but he'd been distant and excruciatingly polite. Then he'd departed— abruptly and without a good-bye.
She understood that he'd been busy resolving matters with Ophelia and Percy, but would it have killed Jamie to keep in touch? Would it have been too much trouble to inform her of where he was or what he was doing?
As usual, she was left to wonder if he'd ever return, if they'd ever be together again.
In one brief interview, he'd pressed her for the particulars of Percy's attack, and she'd shared every squalid detail, but what if Jamie hadn't believed her? He probably assumed she'd been raped. If so, he'd be disgusted and would never come back, and she was incensed to suppose that she was being condemned for something that hadn't happened.
She sighed, pondering what to do, how it would all play out, and she told herself—as she had a thousand occasions prior—that she was glad he was gone.
Who needed an overbearing lunatic for a husband anyway? Not her! From the moment he'd arrived, there'd been nothing but upheaval and disaster, when she simply wanted peace and quiet. She was better off alone.
She'd reached the stone bridge where she'd first stumbled on Jamieson Merrick all those months ago. It had been such a bright, warm summer afternoon. As she'd watched him survey his property, she'd had such an alarming sense of impending destiny that she'd tried to run from it. At the memory of how she'd tumbled into the stream, how he'd rescued her, she smiled, when she didn't know why she would.
Any fond reminiscence was complete proof that he'd finally driven her crazy. She wouldn't regret his decision to stay away. It was for the best!
Movement caught her attention, and she stood very still, thinking it might be a deer in the trees. She focused in, and to her utter surprise, it wasn't an animal, but her magnificent, horrible, delectable, impossible husband.
He was up on the ridge where he'd initially been, peering out across the fallow fields, and she suffered the worst deja vu—as if Doom was about to chase her down all over again. Her heart pounded, with both joy and dread, and she'd just eased away, anxious to escape undetected, when he spun to face her.
Snow dusted his hair and shoulders, his cheeks rosy from the cold, and—evidence of his improved status— he wore a heavy wool coat and fur-lined boots. In the stark, gray surroundings, his eyes were bluer than ever, and
they held her transfixed until he grinned his devil's grin and headed toward her. She knew that look well. It was desire, mixed with some of the false affection he was so adept at exhibiting, and a wave of banked fury washed over her.
How dare he come home after all this time! How dare he absent himself—week after week—without sending word! How dare he blithely show up and expect to be welcomed!
The man was a menace. He shouldn't be allowed to inflict himself on sane, rational people.
"Hello, Anne," he said casually as he approached.
"Hello, Lord Gladstone."
He laughed. The swine!
"Are you still angry with me?"
"I'd have to care about you to be angry."
"But you only call me Gladstone when you're spitting mad."
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I live here."
"No, you don't."
"We'll see."
She didn't like the enigmatic retort. It conjured all sorts of happy endings that were an illusion. Did he mean he planned to remain forever? Or merely until he grew bored?
She'd been down too many devastating roads with him, and she was in no mood to hold on for dear life through another tumultuous ride.
He neared, causing her to ripple with panic. If he got too close, she was lost. She had no defense against him. She loved him, she hated him, and she swirled with every emotion in between the two extremes.
"Stay right where you are," she commanded.
"No."
He stopped a few feet away, studying her intently, his torrid gaze roving over her, burning like a brand all the way down.
"I don't want you here," she insisted.
"You're as uppity as you were the first day I met you." "And you're still a horse's ass." He laughed again. "Ah, it's just like old times." "Not quite."
She wasn't the foolish, sheltered spinster she'd been. He'd seen to that, and she wanted no part of whatever new twist he might insert into her staid, solitary existence.
She was fine without him. Fine!
Pushing past him, she ran for the manor, her cloak billowing out, her breath swirling around her like a cloud. She raced in the rear entrance and up the stairs to her room. With trembling fingers, she slammed the door and spun the key in the lock. She dawdled, steadying herself, listening to hear how rapidly he'd follow. Shortly, he sauntered down the hall and halted directly outside.
"Open up," he cajoled.
"No. I'm pretending you're a bad dream. If I hide in here long enough, maybe I'll wake up and you'll be gone."
"Is that any way for a loving wife to behave?"
"At the moment, I'm not feeling very loving, and I'm barely your wife—as you've worked hard to ensure. Go away."
"Don't you want to know where I've been and what I've been doing?"
Her curiosity soared. "No."
"If you let me in, I'll tell you."
His voice was low and seductive, as if he had a secret he could share with her and nobody else.
"Go away," she said again, which made him sigh.
"I guess I should buy more locks. The ones I own keep getting ruined."
He kicked at the wood, and as it bowed with the force of the blow, she jumped with fright.
She should have simply let him in and avoided all the drama, but she couldn't. There was too much at stake. He'd tarry at Gladstone for a week or two, then he'd depart, and her poor heart couldn't survive another rebuff.
She grabbed the dresser and shoved it over as an extra barrier, but it provided scant fortification and only protracted the wreckage through a few extra jolts. The door gave, the dresser tumbled out of the way, and he marched in.
He took a step toward her, and she stepped back. He took another, and so did she, the two of them gliding across the floor like a pair of dancers until she was at the wall and could go no farther.
He advanced till he was so near that his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. He'd shed his winter coat, and she could smell the cold air on his skin, the laundered scent of his clothes, the essence of him as a man, and she yearned to reach out and hug him, or to rest her palm on his cheek. He looked so inviting, and she was lured to him like a magnet to metal, but he was lethal to her well-being and, rigid with resolve, she kept her arms pinned to her sides.
After all he'd done—and not done—why couldn't she resist him? What was the matter with her? Had she no shame? No sense?
She flattened herself to the plaster, wishing she could be subsumed by the wall and vanish.
"You get prettier every time I see you," he absurdly said, the comment like a warning shot across her bow.
Buck up! she scolded. She wouldn't be sucked in by a few obsequious words from a maniac.
"Really?" She glared at the wrecked door. "You haven't changed a whit."
"Oh, I have. A little." A corner of his mouth quirked up in that fiendish smile that made him so enticing. "Do you want me to tell you how?"
"No."
"I'm going to anyway." "Why am I not surprised?" Stunning her, he dropped to one knee and clasped her hand in his own. "I'm sorry."
It was the very last remark she'd expected, and she frowned. "You're ... sorry? What for?"
"When I married you, I swore that I'd always protect you, that you'd always be safe here at Gladstone, and you weren't. Can you forgive me?"
He appeared so young, so torn, and she couldn't bear to see him prostrate and begging for absolution. If he was repentant, it would be so difficult to keep him at bay.
"Yes, yes," she hurriedly declared, "you're forgiven, so if that's all you came to say, you can leave now." 'There's a tad more." "What is it?"
He kissed her knuckles, and at the feel of his delicious lips on her skin, she lurched away and went to the window. She peered out across the park, watching the snow trickle down.
Behind her, she heard him rise, heard him approach, and she stiffened as if bracing for an attack. Didn't he understand that each touch was painful? His presence was a petty torment that was deadly in its intensity.
He placed his hands on her hips, and he snuggled himself to her backside.
"You didn't let me finish," he complained. "That's because you've already said more than enough."
He chuckled and nibbled her nape, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
"Let's have sex," he suggested. "Are you insane?"
"No. I want to make love to my wife. It's been ages."
Inundated by fury, she whipped around, eager to do battle, but on seeing the odd, tender expression on his face, she was flummoxed.
"I don't plan to lie down with you ever again," she asserted. "I can't believe you had the gall to ask."
"So who's asking?"
He picked her up and spun them so that they bounced onto the mattress. In an instant, she was trapped beneath him, which was precisely where she didn't wish to be.
"Let me up."
"No."
"Let me—"
He leaned in and kissed her, just a soft brush of his mouth to hers, and he was very tentative, as if he was afraid of being pushed away. Could it be? Could big, bad Jamie Merrick be worried that she no longer desired him? It was ludicrous to think so, but nevertheless, she experienced a vain thrill.
The arrogant prig! Although he had no heart, so he couldn't possibly feel any distress, she yearned to hope that he'd suffered as she'd been suffering.
"I missed you," he contended.
"I didn't miss you."
"Yes, you did. Quit lying. You're terrible at it. Now about what I've been doing ..."
"I said I don't want to hear it!"
From how he was gazing at her, it was obvious that he was about to announce some perfectly charming gesture destined to placate and enchant, and she refused to be tempted with incentives to like him. She hadn't the wherewithal to deflect them.
"I sold my ship."
"You what?"
"I sold it, and I have to admit, it was deuced difficult to let it go." "
But... why?"
"I didn't need it anymore. I have the town house for sale, too." He frowned. "You didn't want to ever spend time in London, did you?"
"No, I hated it there."
"So did I. I didn't suppose we should keep a house we'd never use."
What was he saying? He seemed to imply that he'd come home for good, but she'd never trust that he was sincere. He'd tricked and hurt her too often to count, and they were far beyond the day when he could spew any story she'd deem credible.
"We've dispensed with the preliminaries," he continued, "so let's get down to business."
He started kissing her again, and she shoved at his shoulders till he drew away.
"Stop it!"
"Stop what?" he queried, appearing confused. "You've been gone for months!" "Yes, I have."
"You can't just waltz in here and expect that we'll take up where we left off." "Why not?"
"How many reasons do you need? How about your cavorting with strumpets?" She was amazed that she'd mention the humiliating fact aloud, and tears flooded her eyes. "It shamed me."
"Oh, Anne." He kissed one moist eyelid, then the other. "What would you say if I told you I haven't had a lover since I fled Gladstone?"
"I'd call you a bald-faced liar."
"There's been only you and no other. I won't claim I didn't have many chances to misbehave, but why do you assume I came home? I couldn't abide the frivolous coquettes I met in London, and I've been dying for female companionship!"
Could it be true? She had no idea, but she stupidly, desperately wanted it to be. She was struggling to remain firm, but the foundations of her anger slipped a little.
"I can't begin again," she moaned. "You've exhausted me. I can't keep on as we have been."
"But I relinquished my ship for you. It was like cutting off my arm. I need wifely sympathy to get over the loss. Aren't you going to give me any?"
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she was draped across his torso. His hand was on her bottom, her loins pressed to his, and he rooted to her bosom and nestled at her breast through the fabric of her dress.
At feeling him so close to where she wanted him to be, she hissed with agony. He knew how to entice her, how to wear her down, and she was rapidly capitulating.
