Ironically. Meaning that even as she’d lost her family, she’d given him back his life—only to have him hunt her down years later in a calculated attempt to destroy what she had made of hers.
Ian stared at her for several long, intense moments, as surprised by her candor as he was astonished at his own sudden feelings of remorse and compassion for her plight. He’d known that her sister had been sentenced to the western penal colony, and that her mother had died soon after the trial, yet he’d never before thought about these family hardships from anyone’s perspective but his own. And maybe that had been wrong of him. Viola had no family alive to confide in, and as her husband had died, she truly had nobody who cared for her, who needed her, except her child, whom she obviously protected at all costs. Most remarkably, at this moment, and for the first time since he’d forced himself back into her life, he didn’t suspect her of lying.
“What happened between us, Viola?” he asked quietly, subdued. “I need to know.”
One side of her mouth tipped up fractionally. “Are you going to ravish me?”
He blinked, uncertain if he should find irritation or humor in that unanticipated question. With a sly smile, he replied, “Ravish is a harsh word, is it not?”
“That’s not an answer.”
He leaned forward on one hand, watching her eyes widen in surprise as he closed in on her. Huskily, he said, “Until you tell me the truth about us, I will do to you exactly what I believe you did to me. And until I hear otherwise, what I know is that you and your sisters violated me, Viola. You stripped me naked, touched me intimately—”
“We did no such thing,” she cut in, light amusement turning to frustration as she placed her half-filled mug on the floor again and fairly jumped to her feet. She moved quickly across the room, then turned to face him, crossing her arms over her breasts protectively. “Nobody abused you like that, Ian, least of all me.”
“No?” He stood to meet her gaze, his anger simmering once more. “So if I remember being touched and aroused, but you insist nobody molested me, are you then suggesting that you and I made slow, passionate love by mutual consent? As I lay chained and drugged in a dungeon? Tell me, Viola, which is easier to believe?”
“What do you remember?” she shot back defensively. “You said you’ve had dreams of me; did they include water and soap? Passionate bathing perhaps? Because that’s what I did, I took care of you.”
Irritated, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re missing the point. Despite the bathing, I was either raped for a sinister purpose or seduced for some reason that isn’t clear to me. Which was it?”
“You were nursed.”
“Simple nursing is not typically how one gets pregnant with child, Viola.”
“He is not your child,” she insisted, her tone lowered, threatening.
Slowly, his patience nearly gone, Ian crossed the room to stand in front of her, taking note of her disheveled appearance, her pinkened cheeks and shining eyes, her wrinkled evening gown splattered with dried drops of sherry, her once perfectly coiffed hair, though still pinned, now an unruly mess. She regarded him as courageously as possible despite her predicament, and the sudden urge to kiss her, to try a different tactic and coax the truth from her lips with his, became nearly overwhelming. And yet the utter futility he felt at her continued denial and avoidance made him furious. She provoked the oddest combination of emotions in him, not all of them negative, though every one acute.
“Perhaps I need to make this clearer, Viola,” he murmured in a husky timbre. “My dreams of my time in the dungeon may be dark, erotic, and confusing, but make no mistake: you are there as part of them. I remember your shadowed face next to mine, your soft voice in my ear, your warm body—”
“Your dreams are muddled, Ian,” she cut in, shifting from one foot to the other as her anxiousness grew. “Desi and I looked very much alike then, and I’m sure you had difficulty telling us apart in the darkness, in your distress. You don’t know what you remember.”
With those words she’d been caught in her own contradiction, and he relished it.
“Are you now suggesting the woman in the painting you auctioned last night was your sister?”
That notion clearly flustered her. Her eyes widened, and she licked her lips with an embarrassment she couldn’t hide if she tried. “That—that portrait—”
“Was of you, and you know it,” he finished for her, suddenly feeling smug, and far more convinced that it was she alone who’d embedded herself so deeply in his memory. “You’ve already denied the fact that your sisters violated me. If that’s true, it means it was you who touched me intimately. It means my dreams are memories of your breasts on my chest and your warm, caressing hands on my body—”
“No—”
“It was you who aroused me, stroked me, lay with me—”
“Stop it,” she cut in, cringing. “This is disgusting.”
“It’s only disgusting if I was forced.”
She shoved a palm against his chest, attempting to push him away. He quickly grabbed her wrist with one hand, wrapped his free arm around her waist, and yanked her against him.
“Every time I’m with you, I remember more,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion as he gazed down to her flushed and startled face only inches from his. “And in spite of the softness and warmth, in spite of my desire for you now and the confusion that continues to plague my dreams without clarity or peace, it’s the thought that I might have been purposely aroused and stroked to climax that sickens me—”
“Stop it, Ian!” she whispered through clenched teeth, squeezing her eyes shut.
He shook her once in his arms, feeling a relentless need to push her to confession. “It’s the thought that I might have been held captive and fondled until you could mount me, that you rode me until I left my seed inside you for your own selfish reasons, that torments me.”
Tears beaded on her lashes as she shook her head vehemently.
“I was at your mercy, Viola,” he whispered in a harsh breath of urgency, “and you became pregnant with my child. I saw his portrait, I know how a babe is conceived, and now I need you to tell me why you did it. I need you to tell me how it happened.”
“No . . . ,” she whispered in anguish. “Let it go, Ian. Please. Let it go. Let me go and leave me alone. I’ll never bother you again. I swear it on my son’s life.”
Her unrelenting passion to hide the truth both riled and haunted him. She defied him more than he could ever understand, more than any woman ever had. He held her tightly, felt the heat of her body, her breasts crushed against his chest, ashamed and angry at himself for wanting her even now. He should despise her for every reason imaginable, and yet the most intense emotion, the most powerful urge he experienced at that moment in time, was to show her the agony and let her feel it for herself.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice tight, daring.
For seconds she didn’t respond. Then she raised her lashes, revealing tear-stained eyes filled with not only worry and grief but also fierce defiance. And that was all it took to convince him she would never give in to mere pleading alone. He would be forced to use extraordinary measures to get to the truth.
“Please . . . ,” she whispered. “Ian . . .”
Very slowly, with meticulous intent, he whispered, “I will never let it go. . . .”
Then contrary to what she wanted, expected, contrary to what his body craved so desperately, instead of capturing her mouth for a searing kiss, lifting her and carrying her to the cot, he abruptly released her and stepped back.
She stumbled on wobbly legs, nearly crumpling to the floor before catching herself on the shelf beside the stove and pulling herself upright with both hands.
“What—” She swallowed, glancing around her, confused. “Why did you do that?”
Ian drew in a very deep breath, taking a moment for his pounding heart to still, his fired nerves to settle. Finally, in a voice thick with irony, he replied, “You were expecting to be ravished?”
Immediately, she blinked, stood upright, and wiped her palms down the waistline of her wrinkled gown. “I wasn’t expecting to be dropped, your grace.”
The side of his mouth tipped up a fraction. “And I wasn’t expecting to be given more evasiveness and prevarication after opening myself to you as I did.”
A cloud of guilt crossed her features, then quickly disappeared, replaced by obstinance and a measure of anger. “That’s only your opinion. I thought I was rather forthcoming.”
He couldn’t believe she said that, or for that matter believed it. In a dark tone of warning, he murmured, “If that’s your idea of forthcoming, then it’s clear you need more time to consider your own memories, Viola.”
That remark positively confounded her. Her forehead creased deeply; perspiration beaded on her upper lip as she looked him up and down. “What are you saying?”
He ran the fingers of both hands roughly through his hair, then offered her a vague smile. “You need more time alone, Viola. To consider why I brought you here—”
“We know exactly why you brought me here, your grace, and yet at the very moment you seemed to want to take me into a”—she waved a palm at him—“a passionate . . . embrace, you instead—you—you—”
She didn’t want to say that he’d surprised her by his non-seduction when she’d expected it, nearly begged for it. For his part, he had no intention of explaining himself. Instead, Ian crossed his arms over his chest and continued to gaze into her eyes until she became so unbearably uncomfortable that she flushed bright red, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and eventually glanced away.
Sighing, he moved away from her and strode to the bag of supplies he’d carried with him from the house. “I brought a few small items with me that I thought you might need for the night.”
“The night?”
“Would you like me to help you undress? I’m very good with a corset.”
She said nothing, either too furious or too shocked to do so.
“Very well, then.” He dropped the bag on the cot, then turned and walked to the door. “I’ll return at a later time, Viola. Sweet dreams.”
Her eyes suddenly grew wide with panic. “No. Wait—”
Ian stepped outside, closing and bolting the door behind him, though he wouldn’t have been able to hide the grin from his face if he’d tried.
Two hours. He’d give her two hours to wash up, change into one of Ivy’s old nightgowns, slip beneath the covers, relax, and consider the night ahead. . . .
It would be the longest two hours of his life.
Chapter Sixteen
He touched me in places I have never been touched before, places on my body that I have never touched myself. I had always thought it shameful to do so, and yet he shared the pleasures of what married life is surely supposed to be. I know I am damned eternally in hell for committing so grave a sin in his arms, but I will surely go there happily, willingly, knowing that I have shared these sins with a man I’ve grown to love. . . .
Viola stared at the ceiling, somewhat restless and not at all sleepy after napping nearly half the day. After he’d left, she’d found a lamp on a corner shelf, though she’d decided not to light it since she hadn’t a book to read or needlepoint to craft, and absolutely nothing with which to sketch or draw. He really was trying to re-create his time in the dungeon for her, leaving her with nothing but her thoughts, though to his credit, at least the mattress was clean and soft, and the cabin comfortably warm.
Still, the silence droned. After living for several years in the city, she’d grown accustomed to hearing street noise and traffic nearly all hours of the day, and without it the peacefulness of the country seemed almost deafening. Actually, in some strange manner, Ian might have been blessed by being drugged much of the time while in captivity. At least he hadn’t had to contend with boredom; the passage of time had likely meant little to him when he couldn’t possibly have comprehended it.
She’d paced for several minutes after his unexpected and rather speedy departure earlier this evening. Then, having decided it would do no good to chew her nails to the quick from continuous worry and frustration with her inability to convince him to just let the past be what it was and move on, she’d cleaned up the remnants of their meal, added water from the bucket to reheat a full kettle, portioning some for a second cup of tea while saving the rest to wash her face, neck, and intimate areas when it had cooled a little, and finally rummaged through the pouch of supplies he’d left for her on the cot. There hadn’t been much, at least not what she’d expect or need as a lady, but at least he’d thought of the basic necessities.
She’d found a small bar of plain soap, a small towel and washing cloth, a toothbrush—no powder, though better than nothing, she’d supposed—a hairbrush, and a low-necked, short-sleeved, linen nightdress in pale pink that had to have belonged to his sister. It was a summer nightgown, elegant, pretty, simple of design, and looked not only soft and feminine but also comfortable. At this point, her ribs felt as if they’d been braced by a tight wrapping of wooden planks for a month.
She’d changed quickly, thankful she’d worn an evening gown that had allowed her to reach most of the buttons and wiggle out of easily enough, and a corset with front clasps. Then, after removing her petticoats, stockings, and shoes, she’d cleaned herself as best as she’d been able with her minimal toiletries, brushed her hair and teeth, pulled the nightgown over her head, and slipped beneath the covers on the cot.
Now, after lying alone with nothing but her thoughts for more than an hour, his parting words still gnawed at her. She had no need at all to consider her own memories. Her memories were far better than his, for heaven’s sake, a fact that couldn’t possibly have escaped him.
God, she’d nearly fainted for the first time in her life when he’d announced that he’d seen John Henry’s portrait and recognized him. She’d realized they looked like father and son almost at his birth and had accepted at once that they could never, ever be allowed to meet face-to-face. She’d deal with the House of Lords later, since a possible confrontation between them as adults remained a problem years into the future. But an unexpected encounter in his childhood was something she’d considered on occasion, for which she’d taken a necessary precaution or two, and one reason she had immediately sent her son to the country when she’d learned that Ian had returned to the city and had come in search of her. But she hadn’t prepared herself for recognition to happen now, and never because of a painting. And there could only be so much denying it on her part. The man certainly wasn’t stupid; he could see his reflection in a portrait and recognize it. But he was being stubborn, selfish, and unthinking if he thought she’d simply admit to giving birth to his bastard child.
She wished she could tell him everything, wished she could explain her actions of so long ago, but even with her silence, even with the obvious fact that her son looked just like him, he should know why she didn’t, why she couldn’t. He should know, after all: the Duke of Chatwin was a bastard—his father was not the Earl of Stamford. His mother had lain with a man not her husband, resulting in the conception of Ian and his twin sister Ivy. Only a handful of people were aware of the indiscretion, including her, the former Viola Bennington-Jones—because she had heard every jumbled detail come from his tortured lips as he’d lain semiconscious in her arms all those years ago and she had put the details together, including the revelation that learning the truth in his twenties, at his mother’s deathbed, had nearly destroyed him as a man bound by honor.
While it might have been possible that he didn’t remember telling her anything of importance during his time in the dungeon, or have any notion that she would be aware of his great
est secret as a titled gentleman, the fact that he knew he was a bastard should have been enough to convince him that she would never want a soul to know her son could be one as well. He should know this. If she told Ian everything and offered him details—as much as she wanted to, simply to relieve her own guilt and give him a measure of comfort in learning he hadn’t been violated as he feared—there remained the tiniest possibility that he would still use the information against her, perhaps even try to take her son away from her or have her arrested for some sort of attempted fraud or extortion. He’d threatened as much before. Honestly, she had no idea if he had legal grounds to do any such thing without the ability to prove parentage, but she couldn’t possibly go to Mr. Duncan, broach the issue, and ask for his advice. The subject went beyond delicate to deceit and perhaps even criminal action. In the end, all would simply be best for everyone, especially her and John Henry, if Ian would just leave the past alone. Even if he cared nothing for her child, which she didn’t expect and would never demand, at the very least he should have some sympathy for the difficulties of a bastard should anyone among the peerage learn the truth. Society could be very cruel, and she could only hope to God that if she continued to deny his being John Henry’s father, he would eventually let it go. He would simply have to accept it.
Viola snuggled down deeper into the blankets as dusk finally gave way to nightfall and darkness filled the cabin. Strangely, she didn’t feel a trace of fear. Maybe it was the bolt on the door and the sturdiness of the shelter itself, or the fact that she simply felt secure on Ian’s land, but even without him in the room, it comforted her to know he remained close by and at least wasn’t going to let her starve. And if he wasn’t going to let her starve, and had been attentive enough to bring her a nightgown and hairbrush, he probably thought she was safe.
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