Echoes in the Darkness

by Jane Godman

  Chapter Five

  His eyelids flicker as a bloody dream (not a memory, no, not that) surfaces. The moon gives no gift of light and the night is filled with silent screams. Malignant madness creeps into his mind, unhinging it with grief. But still he must assuage the demon of anger that feasts on his soul. His master, that darkly beautiful monster, leads and guides him like a parent with a child.

  When he sees her, his blood stirs, his pulse quickens, his eyelids droop and his lips draw back over white teeth in a smiling snarl. His blade knows no mercy. It bites deep, inflaming him further. Her eyes roll white. When the first rush of blood warms his hands, he wears another’s face. A mask of ancient evil.

  * * *

  November drear gave way to December ice. Summer was a sweet memory, like the first touch of a lover’s hand. The sky was hung with pale grey drapery, and a low, heavy mist made mountains out of hills. The coastline glowed with pearly light that would set the poet scurrying for his pen, and the artist yearning for his palette. Waves boomed against the cliffs like distant gunfire while winter touched my face with her cold, wet hands. As my strength started to return, I insisted on taking a walk each day, despite the weather. I was glad to escape the claustrophobic confines of my room. Eleanor often escorted me on my afternoon stroll about the grounds. During one of these perambulations, I was surprised to hear a commotion from the gatehouse. The windows in the upper floor were open, and the sound of voices drifted out to us as we passed beneath the arch that spanned the drive.

  A feminine laugh, high pitched and excited, rang out. It was followed by a man’s growled command. “For God’s sake, take that bloody thing off.”

  “And what if I won’t? How will you make me, sir?” Her voice was low and provocative. Almost immediately her tone changed and an outraged cry of protest drifted out on the wintry air. “A knife? Ah, no! Please, I will do as you wish. I beg you, do not…”

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” I whispered to Eleanor in consternation. Before she could answer, however, a blue silk corset, its laces slit neatly down the middle, flew out of the window and landed at our feet.

  “I’ll buy you a dozen others. Now come here.” It seemed that the only mutilation we had overheard was that of an item of underwear. I smiled at Eleanor in weak relief and she shrugged, apparently unperturbed by the whole incident. The woman’s shrieks became soft, contented sighs and, minutes later, the unmistakable sounds of passionate lovemaking drifted out to us.

  “Cad is home again,” Eleanor informed me, quite unnecessarily. “I believe he is planning to stay for rather longer this time. I don’t think he and Eddie quite hit it off as work colleagues. I heard my father telling Cad that it might be better to let Eddie sink or swim on his own.” Linking my arm, she steered our footsteps back toward the castle. A thrill of mingled dread and excitement coursed through my veins. I was going to meet the dangerous younger brother at last.

  * * *

  I had heard so much about Cad Jago that my stomach knotted with anticipation and anxiety as I made my way down the stairs just before dinner. I dressed with even more care than usual. My dress of indigo-blue moire silk had a lustrous sheen that highlighted the violet shade of my eyes. Tiny pearl buttons adorned the front, and wide, pagoda-shaped sleeves added an elegant touch. My waist was cinched by a tight-fitting bodice that dipped into a low V before widening to skirts that were spread over a bell-like, hooped petticoat. In spite of the prevailing fashion for a neat chignon, I wore my hair in my favourite style. My gleaming chestnut locks were piled on my head in a loose bun, with one or two curls left framing my face. I wore my mother’s pearl earrings and a single matching strand of the lustrous milky globes around my neck. Although I still looked pale, I felt fully restored to health, and ready—or so I believed—to face the notorious Cad Jago.

  There was only one person in the parlour when I entered. A tall, broad-shouldered man who stood with his back to the door, prodding the fire with the gleaming toe of one shoe. Nothing could have prepared me for the tremor of shock that thrilled through me as he turned with a look of enquiry as I entered the room. My stomach tightened and then plummeted. Everything around me became achingly clear and bright, like vertigo in reverse. I could tell he was experiencing a similar sense of surprise and disbelief. The world ceased to exist as I stared at the man I had schooled myself to believe I would never see again.

  I closed my eyes, hoping that my imagination was suffering the lingering, delirium-inducing effects of the flu. When I opened them again, he had started impulsively toward me, his hand held out. The smile I remembered so vividly curved his lips. His eyes blazed with the same passion that haunted my dreams with remembered longing. Then, as if recalled to our surroundings, he stopped. The light in his eyes changed and abruptly told me a different story. How could the honeyed fire in their depths burn suddenly cold?

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, bouche.” The endearment sent a memory of lust pounding through my bloodstream. My mind took a soaring, sensuous journey back to the rainy Parisian night I had spent in his bed. Softly, as footsteps echoed in the hall outside, he added, “I must admit, I had hoped that when I finally caught up with you again, it would not be so that I could call you ‘sister.’” As Lucy entered the room, he said formally, “I have heard much about the beauty of my new sister-in-law. I’m pleased to learn that rumour did not lie.”

  He appeared to have recovered from the debilitating shock that still tried to hold me frozen in its grip. If anything, he seemed mildly amused to see me again in these circumstances. Well, if he could regain his composure so quickly, perhaps I could, too. “And you, sir, are everything I have been led to believe you would be.” I strived for a measure of hauteur in my tone. I may even have succeeded. It would not do for him to see how profoundly I was affected by his nearness. “Perhaps more.”

  The familiar laugh was infectious, “Oh, bouche,” he said, dropping his voice again for my ears alone. “With me, as you have already discovered, there is always more.”

  Eleanor and Tynan arrived then, and I was able to regain a modicum of composure in the general bustle of conversation. I watched Cad from beneath my lashes. Even in this room full of handsome people, his magnetism set him apart. It was as if every speck of available light had flown into those amber eyes, lighting and warming their depths. Even the lilacs so artfully arranged in bowls about the room seemed to lean toward him. I would defy anyone to look elsewhere when Cad Jago was present. But, because I loved him, I may have been biased.

  “I must tell you that Paris was buzzing with news of your departure,” he said, sliding a hand under my elbow to steer me to the dining room. I noticed, with a little start of surprise, that the others had preceded us and were already seated. “Word was out within a day or two that Eddie had used the promise of his title to lure the perfect muse away from his artistic competitors.”

  I bit my lip. “I suppose it would be useless to tell you that I didn’t know who he was until we came to England?” I asked.

  “Why waste your time telling me anything of the kind?” he enquired, shaking out a serviette and placing it on his lap. “After all, it doesn’t matter a jot to me how you managed to trap my brother into this engagement. Although, having been on the receiving end of your charms myself, I can well imagine the methods you employed.”

  “But I didn’t!” I protested in a furious undertone. Lucy glanced sharply in our direction, and I subsided into blushing silence.

  He threw a wicked grin at me, before turning to give his full attention to the footman who was hovering nearby. When he looked my way again, I was still quivering with outrage. “You should get angry more often,” he remarked casually, pouring wine into my glass. “Your beauty doesn’t need any embellishment, of course. The fact that temper brightens your eyes and adds a becoming touch of rose to your cheeks is irrelevant. But, when you draw in that harsh, little breath—yes, just like that—” he nodded approvingly, dropping his voice “—it reminds me o
f the sound you made when I was fucking you, and you were just about to come.”

  Oddly enough, it was the dispassionate way he could speak of it, rather than the crudeness of his words, that singed my emotions. He flashed that coldly charming smile again, secure in the knowledge that I was remembering every detail of the night we had spent together. With calculated casualness, he began a conversation with his father about the acquisition of a new mill. The identity of the man to whom I had given my body—and, yes, my heart—with such desperate abandon, was no longer a mystery. For the remainder of the meal my mind insistently took me back, with a combination of embarrassment and pleasure, to that delirious afternoon, soon after my arrival in Paris.

  “How did you know Paris was ‘buzzing’ about my engagement to Eddie?” I asked him later, when we were sipping tea in the parlour. Tynan, still weakened by his illness, had already retired to bed. Lucy and Eleanor were seated at a table in a corner of the room, poring over a magazine. Cad and I sat on opposite sides of the hearth watching the leaping ballet of the firelight. The very normality of the scene added to the surreal sensations I was experiencing.

  “I was there.”

  I started in surprise. “You were in Paris at the same time as your brother, but you didn’t come to see him?” This was the strangest family I had ever known.

  “I got the distinct feeling he didn’t wish to be seen,” he replied. “Not by me, anyway. In fact, Eddie has become quite skilled over the years at evading me.” He laughed at my puzzled expression. “I have made several trips to Paris during the past few years, the purpose of which has been to apprise Eddie of certain aspects of the business that he needs to be aware of. He has managed to successfully avoid me every time.” He smiled into my eyes. “Of course, some of my visits to Paris have been more memorable than others.”

  * * *

  Twelve months earlier

  I lay back on the velvet chaise longue while two men stood to one side of me, discussing my nipples. The conversation had been going on for some time and my left calf was cramping painfully. When I attempted to stretch my foot out, however, Maurice squealed in outrage. “Cherie! S’il vous plaît. Please, the pose you strike now is perfection, do not, I beg you, ruin it!”

  I subsided, surreptitiously wiggling my toes when he wasn’t looking. He was, after all, paying me double my usual hourly rate for this private sitting, so it wouldn’t do to upset him.

  “The colour and texture are quite divine, reminiscent of perfectly placed rose petals on cream silk,” Claude said pompously, regarding my errant breasts thoughtfully. “But the nipples should stand proud, and they will not stay that way.” He stuck his lower lip out sulkily and regarded me with an accusing stare.

  “It’s too warm in here,” I pointed out for the third or fourth time. My head was thrown back over the curve of the chaise so that the heavy mass of my hair tumbled almost to the floor. Maurice had piled cushions behind me so that my back was arched, emphasising the contrast between the slenderness of my waist and the full curves of my breasts. I held two feathered fans, one shielding my face so that only my eyes showed above it, and the other teasingly positioned so that it didn’t quite cover my pubic bone.

  The third man had not spoken since he entered the room. He stood in the shadows beyond the light of the open window, and all I had was the impression of height and a faint aroma of expensive cologne. Maurice and Claude had greeted him with fawning sycophancy, so I assumed he was a wealthy patron.

  I heard the stranger move across the room. Whatever he was doing now, he was out of my vision, but, after some clattering around in Claude’s tiny kitchen area, he approached me. My boredom vanished instantly. I had heard men described as “beautiful” and dismissed the phrase as overly poetic. Suddenly, I knew exactly what it meant. This man’s masculinity was so perfect—so pure—that my breath caught in my throat just to look at him. His smile was as devastating as the first ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. I knew, beyond rational thought or reason, that this was a defining moment, a point from which there was to be no return. This man was going to change my life. Was it as simple as love at first sight? The cynic in me dismissed the notion. And I had more cause than most to be cynical about men. Nevertheless, I was severely jolted.

  He came and sat on the edge of the chaise, his hip pressed into the curve of my waist. I had never seen eyes so unambiguously gold. The contrast of their brightness against the raven-wing darkness of his hair and tawny tint of his skin was stunning.

  “This could hurt a little. But I think you might also quite like it.” He held up his hand to show me a glass full of ice, which he placed on the floor. The piece he held in his other hand was already starting to melt in the cloying heat of the Parisian afternoon.

  I returned his stare challengingly over the top of my fan, and the grin deepened appreciatively. Cupping my left breast with a warm hand, he ran his thumb lightly over my nipple. It hardened instantly.

  “Mais oui! But yes!” Claude cried out exultantly. “That is what I wanted! Exactement.”

  The stranger was concentrating on caressing my breast and did not reply. His eyes remained locked on mine as, very gently, he lifted the piece of ice and used it to draw a circle around my already sensitised nipple. My back arched and I bit my lip as a maddeningly wonderful bolt of pain shot through me.

  He moved his hand to my right breast and repeated the process. I wanted to scream. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream at him to stop, or because I never wanted the velvet torture of his touch to end. “It’s funny,” he observed casually. “I thought from a distance that, because your eyes are so dark, they must be brown. But now I see they are the exact shade of the heart of a purple pansy. And,” he added, leaning closer so that Claude and Maurice couldn’t hear, “now you are aroused, there are thunderclouds of passion looming just below the surface.” His French was perfect, but there was a faint trace of an accent.

  He rose abruptly, brushing back the lock of hair that flopped forward to caress his brow. “Just use the ice when you need to,” he instructed me, indicating the glass next to the chaise. “That should keep Claude here quiet while he gets his masterpiece started.” He began to walk away toward the door and I lay back, unable to speak. I was completely stunned by the effect he had on me. My nipples were throbbing painfully, a sensation that had nothing whatsoever to do with the ice. Pausing with his hand on the door handle, he flashed that incredible smile my way once more. But his words were directed at Claude, “Do tell our mutual friend I was looking for him. And that he can’t hide forever. I will find him.” Then he was gone.

  Throughout the remainder of that sultry, cloud-dulled afternoon, my whole body thrummed with longing. Even Claude’s posturing and Maurice’s rattling, self-absorbed conversation could not pierce the bubble of my anticipation. A drizzling rain had begun to fall by the time I left the tiny attic apartment and stepped into a darkening evening. Sure enough, my golden-eyed stranger was lounging against a gatepost across the street. Just as I knew he would be. His hands were dug deep in his coat pockets, and a brooding, haunted look lowered his brow. I went and stood before him, so close that, when we both breathed out at the same time, our bodies touched. The spicy undertones of his cologne made my nostrils twitch appreciatively. He cupped my face in his hands, studying me intently.

  “My God,” he said in English. “You are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.”

  “Finish what you started,” I whispered, also in English. And, obligingly, he pulled me to him, crushing me against his chest and bruising my lips with the intensity of his kiss. Dragging me along with him by the hand, he propelled us with long, urgent strides down the narrow, cobbled street. Because we had to stop to kiss under every streetlamp, by the time we reached his apartment, I was soaked to the skin and half-crazy with lust.

  There were twelve stairs leading to his door. I know because he stopped to remove a piece of my wet clothing on every stair. By the time we crashed throug
h the door of his two-room apartment, I was clad only in my underwear. Without removing his lips from mine, he slammed the door closed with one hand and shoved me hard against the wall. In one swift movement, he hauled my petticoat skirts up around my waist and dragged my bloomers down. I fumbled desperately with the buttons on his trousers and, as soon as I had freed him, taut and throbbing, from the restraining cloth, he lifted me so that could I wrap my legs around his waist. My shoulders slammed repeatedly against the wall as, buttocks pumping in a relentless rhythm, he drove himself hard into me. We rocked frantically together and, within seconds, I was gasping as wave upon wave of ecstasy shuddered through me. He jerked violently and groaned as his own orgasm tore him apart, pressing his face into the curve of my neck and muttering something appreciative, but unintelligible.

  When our mutual trembling had subsided slightly, he carried me, with my legs still wound around his waist, into the bedroom and tumbled us both onto the bed.

  “Where are you from?” he asked later, when, having removed what was left of our clothing, we lay wrapped in each other’s arms. He slid an admiring hand down the curve of my waist and over my naked buttocks as he spoke.

  I paused. Had I really almost blurted out the truth? I had to be careful not to allow this burning attraction to cause me to lower my guard. “I came here from Austria.” The words came out on a sigh as his long fingers parted my legs and slid inside me.

  “You accent does not sound Austrian,” he stated, the distant politeness of his tone contrasting with the relentless pressure of his thumb on my clitoris.