Dark Fires

by Brenda Joyce

  “My God,” she said, touching her chest, and then she started to smile.

  His frown became a scowl. “Who is the father, Jane?”

  “I am not pregnant,” she told him. “It’s an impossibility—unless the child is yours.”

  “You seem pregnant to me, and you wouldn’t have this morning sickness so quickly from my seed!”

  “You ninny!” she cried. “I told you, it’s impossible that this is morning sickness. There has been no one but you, Nicholas. I have a flu, that’s all.”

  His heart clenched. He gripped her shoulders. “What are you saying!”

  She touched his face. “There’s been no one but you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve never been with another man, Nicholas, ever.”

  He stared, swallowing hard, stunned.

  She smiled beautifully, touching his face again. “If I am pregnant, darling, it’s from the past few days or that time in the library. It’s that simple.”

  “God.” Nick groaned. “Jane, this is the truth?” He was hoarse, barely able to function.

  “Yes.”

  She had never been with anyone but him. Never given herself to anyone but him. Had been loyal to him. He swept her into his arms and held her fiercely, rocking her, while hot tears stung his eyes. I love you, he thought. God, I love you!

  But he could not say the words.

  And then he wondered if she loved him. His heart beat painfully, exuberantly. She must! Why else would she have been faithful to him all these years? God, she must!

  And suddenly he was no longer damned, but blessed.

  Nick buried his face in Jane’s hair, clinging to her.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered, her hands roving his back. “What is it?”

  He couldn’t speak. So he just held her.

  Two evenings later, the earl made his way backstage to his wife’s dressing room. Once again he had sat in the nearly empty theater through her entire performance, unable to take his eyes off her. She mesmerized him as she performed, and he knew he was sorely infatuated with her.

  A dark man with spectacles was just leaving her room as Nick entered. He was the Criterion’s manager, and he nodded abruptly at him. Gordon was with Jane, looking somber, but the earl had eyes only for his wife. She sat on the sofa, pale and taut, surrounded by hundreds of white roses, which filled the dressing room. His white roses, and he smiled at the thought.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Gordon said. “Good night, Jane, Shelton.”

  “Nicholas,” she cried intensely after he’d gone.

  Instantly he came to her, took her hands, kissed them. “Darling, what is it?”

  “You won’t have to send me any more flowers,” she said simply.

  “You’re closing?”

  She nodded, her eyes large and luminous.

  He hugged her, and she rested in his embrace, eyes closed. “There’ll be other shows, Jane. And you were wonderful. I can personally vouch for that.”

  She sighed. “I think you’re not exactly objective.” The brief smile faded. “It’s just so sad when the show closes. It’s almost as if someone has died.”

  He stroked the hair at her temple. He had wanted nothing more than to take her and their children to Dragmore, but now he changed his mind. “We will stay in London,” he said. “We won’t go to Dragmore.”

  “What!”

  He smiled gently. “I’m realizing how much acting means to you. Find another show. It’s all right. Forget that lousy agreement we made. You’re as wonderful a mother as you are an actress, and you’ve certainly proved you can be both at once.”

  Tears filled her eyes. She clung to him and started to cry.

  “Jane.” He was numb. What had he done? He’d only wanted to make her happy. “Darling, if I’ve done something wrong …”

  She shook her head, sniffing, nose red now. “You are an angel, Nicholas,” she said softly. “Your offer is superb. You are superb.”

  He tried to hide his pleasure at the compliment, and failed. “Well.” He shrugged, but he was smiling.

  “I happen to want to go to Dragmore,” Jane announced, stroking her finger along his jaw. “I want some time alone with you and the children. Do you mind?”

  “Mind?” He nearly shouted. He laughed, swept her against him. “Jane,” he said, low. “No one’s ever called me an angel before!”

  46

  Jane stood in front of the dressing table in her bedroom, a dreamy smile on her face, as Molly helped her button up the back of her dress. She had overslept, sinfully. Yet she hadn’t gone to bed until dawn. Her smile increased. She was remembering last night.

  The earl had taken her for an intimate, elegant dinner at one of London’s finest restaurants. From there they had gone dancing at the Regency, then strolled along the Thames, hand in hand, and after …

  Jane briefly closed her eyes. Just thinking about his lovemaking brought an instant tension and need to her body.

  “There you go, mum,” Molly said. “My, ain’t you a sight this morning! A stunner if ever you were one, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  Jane smiled, regarding herself openly. Her eyes were a dazzling blue, sparkling boldly, her cheeks flushed naturally, and, indeed, she was striking this day. “I don’t mind,” she said softly, while inside her soul was singing. She reached for her pearl-inlaid hairbrush, then paused, noticing a small wrapped, beribboned jeweler’s box next to it, with a card.

  Molly saw it too. “Another one!” She gasped.

  Jane tried to frown, and failed. She opened the gilt-edged card. As had all the others, it said simply “To my wife, Jane, from Nicholas.” She shook her head. Inside the box was a choker of diamonds that must have cost thousands of pounds. Molly gasped.

  In the past week, since their reconciliation, he had given her a stunning sapphire ensemble, a breathtaking bracelet of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, an exquisite rope of pearls. Not to mention all the white roses. And now this, worth a king’s ransom. He was surely out of his mind!

  “He must love you very much,” Molly breathed, awed. “Ain’t you gonna try it on?”

  Jane did not exactly have to be coerced, and Molly helped her don the necklace. It consisted of three tiers and a large teardrop point. It was much too much—where would she wear it?

  “Where is the earl?”

  “He’s still in the dining room.” Molly grinned. “He slept late too.”

  Jane blushed. She hurried downstairs, her heart tripping, and trying to control it.

  As usual, the sight of him stole her breath. His dark head was bent over something he was reading. He was utterly magnificent, bronze and ebony, and when he looked up, his eyes flashed silver. Then he saw the necklace and he smiled. “Good morning,” he said, his tone intimate and sexy, conjuring up memories of their many shared moments of heated passion.

  “Nicholas,” she tried to chide.

  He was standing, coming to her, taking her shoulders and giving her a quite improper kiss. Jane lost her head, of course, and returned it, and it was he who set her apart as she clung to him. “Maybe we should go back upstairs,” he said, teasing.

  Incredibly, had he been serious, she would have needed no persuasion! “Nicholas, you must not give me any more gifts!”

  “You don’t like it?” he asked, hurt.

  “I love it,” she cried. “But this is insane! I don’t need so much jewelry, and if you keep this up you’ll be bankrupt!”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Let me worry about our finances, Jane. Dragmore is quite in the black, thank you.”

  “Please,” she said, as he seated her. “Please, no more gifts.”

  “I cannot give you my word,” he said, his grin mischievous, and Jane knew she had lost. She wondered if Molly was right. If he loved her.

  As he poured her coffee, automatically adding cream, she saw he was reading a letter. “Who is it from, Nicholas?”

  She felt th
e easy carefree attitude evaporate. Seriously he replied, “It’s from my parents. In Texas.”

  Jane sensed something amiss and did not understand. “How wonderful. What news?”

  He smiled then, slightly. “It seems my roguish brother has finally been snared—by a suffragette, no less. He got married this spring.”

  Jane knew a little bit about Nick’s younger brother, Rathe. She had been told that he was charming, handsome, and a very successful businessman, as well as an unrepenting ladies’ man. But, apparently, his womanizing days were over. “It must be a romantic story,” she said, a touch wistfully. “He doesn’t sound like the type to have fallen for one of those Bloomer girls!”

  Nick’s smile was wry. “No, he doesn’t, does he.” Then he growled, “The little bastard! He must be in love—not to write me himself!”

  “You love him very much,” Jane said softly.

  High up on his cheekbones, the earl reddened. “He’s my brother,” he said gruffly.

  “And your sister? The one in San Francisco? Storm?”

  “Happily married, two kids, just moved into another mansion.” Nick smiled. “Probably still making Brett crazy with her wild ways.”

  “She’s wild?”

  He softened. “She was quite the tomboy, Jane, and totally stubborn. How she ever became the lady she is today is quite beyond me.”

  “You miss them.”

  He avoided her gaze.

  “Let’s go visit.”

  The earl looked at her, saying nothing, but Jane saw something dark and disturbed in his eyes; worse, she felt it. “Shouldn’t Chad meet his aunt and uncle, his cousins, his grandparents?”

  The earl toyed with his knife, eyes upon the table. “Yes.”

  Jane said nothing. What was amiss? She didn’t want to pry, not yet, their relationship was too fragile, yet she sensed his need and desperation— that there was something deep and malignant which needed healing.

  The earl sighed, the sound heavy. “I’ve been thinking about taking Chad to Texas. It’s his heritage as much as Dragmore.” His gaze, pain-filled, touched Jane’s. “It’s where I was born and raised.”

  Jane said nothing.

  “It’s been a long time,” the earl said thickly, and Jane knew he was talking about himself and the last time he’d been to his parents’.

  “Are your parents well?”

  “Yes.” He managed a rough smile. “They want me to come home. They’ve been begging me to make a trip west for years.”

  “It sounds like they miss you very much,” Jane said. “Do you want to go?”

  He hesitated, turned to look out the window at the immaculate lawn. “Yes. No.”

  Jane touched his hand, covering it with her own. “Whenever you want to go, I will be ready.”

  His gaze held hers, filled with relief and gratitude. “Thank you.”

  47

  Later that night, the earl paused in the threshold of his wife’s room. She sat reading in bed, a vision in diaphanous white French lace, her long platinum hair cascading about her. She had left one lamp on, so the room was dimly illuminated. She was Beauty Incarnate, and he loved her.

  Sensing his presence, she looked up and smiled, laying aside her novel.

  He did not smile back. He could not. Nor did he come forward. He stared at her. And inside, his nerves were so taut he thought he must vomit immediately.

  “Nicholas?” Worry edged her voice. “What is it?”

  He had to know. He had to know if she would reject him as Patricia had. He dared to hope that she would not when she learned he was partly Indian. Yet he would never forget Patricia’s horror and hysteria. He had loved Patricia then, yet it was nothing compared to what he felt for Jane. If Jane was repulsed, as a part of him was sure she would be, he did not know what he would do. He could not find any armor against the scorn and revulsion he was afraid would surely come when she learned this part of the truth. He would not reveal more than this, he could not. And even now he wished he could turn and walk away, without testing her. But he had to know.

  “Nicholas!” Jane was sitting up straight, her face pale. “What’s wrong! You’re frightening me!”

  He came forward slowly, like a somnambulist, pausing by the post at the foot of her bed. He stared at her. Would she reject him?

  “What is it?” Jane begged.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” he said flatly, no emotion or turmoil in his tone.

  “What?”

  “My father is a half-breed,” he said, waiting for her reaction.

  She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “My father,” he said, raising his voice. “Derek Bragg. He is a half-breed, half Indian, half white man.”

  Jane’s eyes grew wide.

  “That makes me,” he said roughly, “one-quarter breed. Do you understand?” Wide-eyed, she stared.

  He waited, unable to breathe, the urge to vomit intense, for the rejection, the scorn, the revulsion.

  Suddenly she smiled, then bit it back. “Oh, I had a funny thought, but now is not the time to be amusing. Nicholas, come here.”

  “What was your thought?” he said stiffly, ignoring her summons. She would make fun of him now. This he hadn’t counted on.

  Her lips curved up. “So that is why you’re so dark!”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  She got up and came to him, placing her hands inside his robe and sliding them over the bronze skin of his chest. “Why you’re so dark.” She lifted her gaze and grinned wickedly. “I think I like dark men.”

  His heart began to hammer loudly. “You’re not disgusted?”

  “Of course not,” she said softly, touching his face. “Why should I be?”

  He could barely believe it, and was stunned.

  With a smile, she slid her hand down his torso, around to his hip, and then clasped his hard buttock. “I definitely like dark men!”

  He growled, lifting her up into his arms. “You had better like only this dark man,” he said fiercely, and then he kissed her, hard, voraciously, raping her with his mouth. She clung.

  He carried her to the bed, pushing her down, coming down on top of her. He was shaking with need—and relief.

  Jane managed to tear her mouth free of his rampaging one, stroking his thick arms. “Nicholas, it’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right.”

  He pressed her into the mattress, burying his face in her neck, and he groaned, the sound long and low and a release of deep inner torment. She stroked his hair as he trembled on top of her, his body hard and rigid and searing. Then he lifted up. “Let me love you,” he whispered harshly. “Let me love you, Jane,” he begged.

  She caught his face and kissed him fiercely back, wondering at the dampness there.

  The earl lay on his back, looking up at the canopy tenting them. Jane was on her side, snuggled against him. They had been talking about leaving for Dragmore early the next week.

  “Jane,” the earl said, turning his head. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay and work in London?”

  She kissed his shoulder. “You are a dear. No, I am determined to go to Dragmore.” She grinned. “And you know how stubborn I am.”

  He smiled, his gaze fond. “Are you stubborn?”

  “Since I was a child,” she said. “When I decide to do something, I do it.”

  “Like haunting the village bully? What was his name?”

  “Timothy Smith,” Jane said. “He deserved it! But that was nothing! Do you know that once I won a hundred pounds at the men’s club, Boodle’s?”

  “What?”

  Jane laughed. “It was a dare—that I could not get into Boodle’s. I was fourteen, it was just before I left the acting company to live with Matilda and Fred at the parsonage. A few young actors thought they’d really got me with this dare. Of course, I won.” She wrinkled up her nose with disdain.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I did. I disguised myself as a boy and went in
with two old lords with a reputation for liking young boys. They thought I was their entertainment for the night and they were just thrilled. They never guessed I was a girl. Nobody bothered to stop me from gambling at the tables—I think everyone found a young lad trying his luck quite amusing.”

  The earl groaned. “And after? How did you escape your lecherous benefactors?”

  “By running away,” she said simply.

  A silence ensued. Jane cuddled closer, caressing the earl’s flat, iron-hard belly. He stared up at the canopy. “I have a story,” he finally said quietly.

  Jane glanced at him to see that his eyes were closed.

  “There was a young woman, newly wed and newly widowed. She was ravishingly beautiful but very delicate—more so than you. In fact, she had been raised in a convent in France.” He paused.

  Jane gazed at him curiously, wondering what kind of story he was telling her, and why. He still had not opened his eyes.

  “She lived on the frontier in Texas. While traveling there from France, overland in Mississippi, she had accidentally met a man. A Comanchero. He was stricken with her beauty and he wanted her. In fact, he succeeded in kidnapping her before her first marriage, but a Texas Ranger rescued her before she was harmed.” He paused again.

  Jane shifted. She wanted to ask if he knew this woman, and was certain he did—but did not dare interrupt. His tone was so flat, so devoid of emotion, that it frightened her.

  “Her first husband died—was killed actually, in a typical brawl. The frontier was full of violence back then. She married again—to the Ranger who had rescued her—immediately. It was not unusual, because a woman could not survive alone in the wilderness. One day, when he was on duty with his regiment, their home was attacked by Comanches, and she was taken prisoner.

  “The leader of the attack was the same Comanchero Chavez.”

  Jane could not refrain from speaking. “Oh, God. What happened?”

  “He raped her,” the earl said flatly.

  “Did—did he kill her?”

  “No. Fortunately, weeks later, the Rangers found their camp and destroyed it, rescuing her. The Ranger who was her husband killed the Comanchero, mutilating him first.”