by Lois Greiman
He shook his head, not understanding, then stopped, remembering as he felt the heat of the amulet on his skin. “You knew I was wounded. Knew and took steps to heal me.”
“Yes. But—”
“So ’twas your powers the crone felt on me,” he rumbled.
She raised her gaze to his, questioning.
“An old herbalist I visited at the carnival,” he said. “She looked to be the very essence of a witch. Like—”
“How do witches look?” she asked, searching his eyes, and he remained silent. Thinking.
“You are…gifted,” he said, the truth of the words finally seeping into his consciousness.
“’Tis no gift,” she whispered.
He wanted to disagree, to argue, for surely every part of her was as precious as a gemstone, but she would not believe it. Not now.
“Or perhaps it could be.” Her voice broke, and she shook her head, lowered her eyes. He felt a muscle tic in her cheek. “I told Tenning of Langley’s indiscretions.”
Rogan could see the picture in his mind, for he knew the workings of evil. “And he told others.”
She shook her head. “He but threatened,” she whispered. “He would not have followed through. Not if Langley had continued to pay.”
“Blackmail.”
“There had been others.” Her voice was little more than a wisp of pain in the crackling darkness. “Others who were broken. Others whose lives I tore apart, but none who took their own lives.” She pulled in a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t do it again.”
“You told him so.”
“I said I didn’t care what he did to me.” She shivered again. He tugged the blankets over them, though his own flesh was overheated. “Didn’t care what Lucifer did.”
“Lucifer.” Dread leaned hard against his soul, but she no longer heard him.
“I lied.” Her voice was almost inaudible now. Little more than a whisper of terror against his chest. “If I had not cared, I would have let him beat me.”
“No, lass,” he breathed, and felt rage and fear and horror flow through him like a swelling river. “No.”
“I could have run,” she whispered. “Lucifer was not fast. Not…” Her words failed. “There is no such thing as demons in human form.” The words were no more than a breath. “Just men.”
Rogan kept himself still. “I would know it all, lass, if you can tell me.”
Her nod was short, jerky. “We lived on a country estate. Alone but for the servants. I was not allowed to venture outside the house for fear of…molestation.”
“From whom?”
“Tenning said Lucifer waited outside.” She shook her head. “Maybe he was a field hand. Maybe…I don’t know. I’ll never know. But he was real. I’m certain of that.”
“So you remained confined.”
“Usually.” The word was little more than a breath. “Sometimes I would convince myself to run. I would shimmy through the window or slip through an open door. But in the end I would always falter.”
Rogan waited.
“Until the day I began to…” She swallowed. “I knew next to nothing of the ways of nature. I was confused, disoriented.”
He scowled, but the meaning of her words dawned on him in a moment. “When you became a woman.”
“There was a good deal of blood.”
“And you were frightened by it.”
“Yes. But there was more. Things were changing. My gifts were out of control. Things moved without…” She shook her head. “I was embarrassed. Frightened. Frightening. I needed to escape. To leave before Tenning returned but…” Her words fell away. “Lucifer. He was so big,” she whispered, and Rogan felt his own size like an open wound. “I hid. In the woods. In a log.” She was breathing hard. “But someone loosed the hounds.”
“Tenning.”
“He kept a lock on the kennels. None other had a key.”
Rogan kept himself very still, muscles rigid, mind fuming. He would kill them both. Slowly. Patiently. And on their dying breath, they would know why.
“He pulled me out by my feet. I was too scared to fight.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and hard.
“He raped you,” Rogan said.
Tears again, hot and steady. “There were no lovers, Rogan. Only the Devil.”
His arms ached to do damage, but he remained very still, waiting for the rest.
“Tenning found us immediately after. Or so I thought. But he was there the whole while. Waiting. Watching. Yet he was so gentle when he treated my wounds.” A sob broke from her. “There were tears in his eyes. Like a father who—”
“Do not say those words to me, lass.”
“He was only trying to protect me, he said. To show me the error of my ways.”
So the bastard had told his giant to keep her there whatever the cost. Had insisted that he punish her if she tried to escape. And all the while he’d pretended to be her doting protector. Anger mixed with venom in his gut. “How old were you?” he asked.
“Ten-and-four perhaps.”
Rage boiled anew. “This Tenning, where does he live?”
She shook her head. Perhaps she could see the killing lust in his eyes though he tried to hide it.
“I would but speak to him,” he said. It was the first time he had lied in some years. It would not be the last if that is what it took to obtain vengeance.
“You cannot,” she whispered.
“You did not deserve to be hurt, lass,” he said, and tried to keep his tone level, his muscles unclenched.
“Yes I did.”
“Nay,” he said, and felt rage soar anew. “You were but—”
“I killed him,” she whispered.
The breath stopped in his throat. “What?”
She was holding his wrist in a desperate grip though he had no idea when she had taken hold of him. Her eyes searched his. “My mother would have been ashamed. She had the power, too. Father knew it, tried to keep it quiet. Thought it…” She was breathing hard, speaking fast. “But she was not evil. I know it. She told me to use it for good, but Father…I think he was happy to be rid of me. And Unc—Tenning, he was just as happy to have me, and I wanted to please him, but…” She drew a deep breath, shuddered. “The last time he ordered me to assist him, I…
“I’m not very strong. He always told me as much. I didn’t mean to hurt him. Just drive him back. Keep him away. But he tripped and fell. There was an armoire behind him, and his head struck…” Her voice broke.
“So he’s already dead,” Rogan said, and felt the disappointment burn through him like a flame out of control.
She had ceased breathing. Her eyes were huge, devouring him as she nodded.
“And the man called Lucifer?”
“He did not find me. Lord Gallo did.”
“Lord Gallo.” He nodded, feeling his heart unclench the tiniest degree.
“I was broken,” she said. “Hiding. Waiting to be found. Waiting to die.”
“’Twas he what brought you to Lavender House.”
“He saved my life. Gave me family.”
“The others then,” he said, deducing carefully. “They are…” What were they? What was she? “…injured also?”
“More than I. Ella is perhaps the most gifted. But she was also the most…I am a terrible coward by comparison.”
“A coward!” he said, and croaked a laugh. “You killed him, lass. Took his life.” His fists tightened in her hair, but he forced himself to relax. “If…” Memories assailed him. Memories of a tiny girl with haunted eyes. “Justice.” Justice tortured him. He gritted his teeth. “I, too, have killed. Pointless battles. Unjust duels.” He winced as the ghosts of the past brushed him. “’Tis fortunate for me I suppose that Winden had none like you to avenge his death. None but wee Cat to mourn—” He stopped, drew a hard breath.
“What are you talking about?”
He glanced down. She was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. He brought himself ba
ck to the present with a start.
“You’d best be getting home, lass,” he rumbled. “Connelly is sure to be returning soon.”
Tugging the blanket over her breasts, she sat up. “I know it was wrong,” she said.
He watched her, seeing her as a child, as an innocent. Scared, broken, abused. He could not bear to look.
“What I did. All of it. I know it was wrong,” she said, and though everything in him longed to pull her close, he could not, for he would never deserve her.
“You’d best be dressed,” he said, and, rising from the bed, left the room.
Chapter 27
What had happened? Faye’s head spun with uncertainty. Originally, she had sought Rogan out to dredge up his carefully protected truths. But instead, she had spilled her own, dropped them like precious droplets of blood. Had said things she should have kept to herself until her dying breath. And why? Because he had plied her with sex? Hardly that. Indeed, in the end she had all but begged for his touch. What kind of earthy magic did he possess? Some kind she could not understand surely. Could not resist.
Not in all of her years had she admitted the truth of her past…of her powers. Though the lies had pounded her brain like the beat of wild hooves, she had used them like weapons, stabbing them forth whenever necessary.
Until now. Until him.
Now she had endangered the coven. The sisters of her heart. And since their time together, he had not spoken to her, had not contacted her in any way. She had bared her questionable soul, and he had turned aside. Why? What was he planning?
She had spent the day shut up in her chambers. A full day followed by a sleepless night during which she had reviewed every moment of their hours together. Not that she had to try to recall how his hands felt against her skin, for that perfect torture was indelibly etched in her mind. As was his expression as he had all but tossed her from his home.
She had tried to remember the conversations she’d shared with him. Indeed, she had combed through every word spoken and after a seeming lifetime, had recalled the name Winden.
She had paced the length of her bedchamber until her feet throbbed in time with her head, but she knew what she must do. It had taken all her quivering courage to take her news to Lord Gallo. And he, in turn, had gone to the committee.
They had learned what they could in record time. Had, in fact, found the location of Winden’s widow. But she was no longer known under that name. She was Lady Mullen, second-time widow and noted philanthropist.
Mild as Mullen.
Faye had prepared nothing to dredge the truth from her. What would be the purpose? The woman was known to London as all but a saint. Besides, Faye’s powers were growing stronger, surer. Despite the headaches that had plagued her since leaving McBain’s town house, she would learn the truth.
She stood now on the stoop of a well-groomed home in a good section of Bloomsbury. Not a whisper of breeze disturbed the topiary that surrounded the house. In a moment, Faye was admitted inside. The high hallways echoed as she was escorted to a sitting room, and in a matter of minutes, a lady joined her. She was tall and slim and lovely. Some might have said frail, but she held herself erect as she crossed the hardwood floor, heels rapping.
“Mrs. Nettles?” she asked, and Faye stood, nerves jumping like scalded cats.
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me without notice.”
“Certainly,” she said, then, pausing momentarily, motioned in a servant who stood in the doorway, already bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. He was a handsome man, straight-backed even when he poured the steaming liquid into two fragile cups. Without a glance at his mistress, he disappeared, closing the double doors quietly behind him. “But tell me…” she began, and, handing over a cup, waved elegantly toward the settee. Faye forced herself to take the tea, to sit, to act as if all was well. “Are we acquainted?”
“No,” Faye said. “But I believe we may have a mutual…” What did she call him? An acquaintance? A lover? The man who held her soul? Her hands trembled slightly. “Friend.”
“Oh?” The lady’s lips quirked up the slightest degree as she lifted her cup. “And who might that be?”
No use delaying. No hope of skirting the issue. “Rogan McBain,” she said.
For a moment the woman froze, then the cup trembled from her hand, falling to the floor like a felled dove. “How could you be so cruel?” Lady Mullen whispered, and sat back, ignoring the spilled beverage, face as pale as ash.
Faye’s heart quivered in her chest, but she would know. Would learn the truth. “So you are acquainted with him?” The question fell drunkenly from her lips, for she had hoped against hope that that would not be the case.
“Know him!” Lady Mullen exhaled a breathy laugh, devoid of humor, of tone. “He is my husband’s murderer.”
The world stopped. “What?”
“Are you…” She paused, winced, hands atremble even as she clasped them together in her lap, ignoring the tea that soaked the carpet beneath her feet. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Faye shook her head. It was all she could manage, for her mind was roiling.
“But of course you are.” Her eyes were sad. “He is, after all, a master seducer.”
The world felt strange. Off kilter. “You must be thinking of another,” she said, but in a manner of speaking Rogan had seduced her. Had broken through her well-fortified barriers as none other. So seemingly innocent. Almost shy.
Lady Mullen rose rapidly to her feet, body stiff, movements jerky. “So he’s done it again.”
“Done…” Faye shook her head. The movement made it throb. Had she been duped by a man yet again? Had she believed in the goodness of his soul merely because she had wished to?
“Made another believe his toxic lies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but she lied, for she knew she had been weak. Had been willing to believe for the sake of his touch.
“I was wrong. I’ll admit that. I was young and unhappy.” She twisted her hands. “My first husband…he was more interested in his club than in me, and Rogan made me feel…” Her words ran aground, but she found the current and cleared her throat. “He must have known how I longed for love, for…” She shrugged stiffly. “When he looked at me, it was as if I were the only woman in the room. In all of the world. It became so that I could think of nothing but him. How his fingers felt against my skin. How his…” Her hands trembled as she sat again and brushed an imaginary fold from her skirt. “I did not want my husband dead. I swear I did not.”
“You must be thinking of another—”
“They did not call it murder,” she said, and laughed. “’Twas a duel, they said. But Gregor…” She shook her head. Tears brimmed in her wide, expressive eyes. “He was no match for Rogan. Not with a sword. Not with anything. But he had a heart,” she said, and clasped a loose fist to the center of her chest.
“Surely you’re mistaken,” Faye whispered, but the other only gave her a sad glance.
“Rogan McBain,” she murmured. “A man to make you forget all others.”
“No. He’s gentle, kind…”
“So you’ve slept with him.”
Faye felt her cheeks flame. Felt her tongue tie and her wits scramble.
“Tell me, Mrs. Nettles…” Lady Mullen began, and raised her chin as if facing the world. “Are you wealthy?”
“I don’t think…” Words failed her. She had already spilled too much truth and dare not do more damage.
“Neither did I,” she said, and smiled ruefully. “Not until after Catherine’s disappearance.”
Faye felt her heart clench, felt the world shudder. “Catherine?” The name was little more than a breath on her lips.
A single tear spilled from an azure eye. “She was little more than an infant then. Two years of age. As bright as a butterfly. As sweet as a rose.”
“What happened?” Faye could barely manage to push out the question, for every fiber of her
being ached with the misery of her failure, of her foolishness.
“A portion of my husband’s fortune would have passed to her after his death.”
“Are you saying—”
“But if she and my husband were dead, Rogan would have had only me to contend with.”
“But he would know you would not condone murder.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Nettles, have you not lain in his arms and found yourself willing to say anything, to do anything to remain there? To feel his strength. To know his love?
“There is no need to answer,” Lady Mullen said. “I can see the truth in your face. And I cannot blame you. For perhaps he would be living off my husband’s fortune even now.” She closed her eyes for an instant. “But for Catherine.”
“What happened to her?” Faye could barely force out the words.
“She disappeared. Two days after Gregor’s death, she vanished.”
“Surely you cannot think Rogan had a hand in this,” Faye said, but how many years had she believed Tenning’s lies?
Lady Mullen smiled grimly. “He murdered my husband, Mrs. Nettles. There is no reason to believe he would not do the same with a child. Indeed, that is why I do what I can for the Foundling Hospital. To atone for my part in her death.”
“I’m certain you’re wrong,” Faye breathed.
Mullen looked sad, forsaken. “He has duped you completely. And now you come to me. The only question that remains, is why.”
Faye’s lips felt numb, but she forced out the dreaded words. “There has been a death.”
Lady Mullen clasped her hands tightly, squeezing until her knuckles went absolutely white. “So he’s killed again,” she said, and Faye trembled, shaken by the depth of her own weakness.
Chapter 28
Faye spent the remainder of the day in agony. She had fled Lady Mullen’s house as soon as she could marshal her senses and escape. Shame and confusion plagued her. Pain pounded her head. She was supposed to be strong. Wise. Gifted. But instead she’d been weak and needy, wanting so desperately to believe herself worthy of a man’s love that she would risk not only her heart but her sisters. And he had used her. Indeed, he most probably planned to use her again, to exploit her gifts to gain his own ends as Tenning had done.
