Dark Fires

by Brenda Joyce

  Jane shuddered. “This is an awful story. Nicholas?”

  He opened his eyes, to stare up at the canopy. “She had a child nine months later. It was not the Ranger’s. It was his.”

  Jane pressed close, sensing his need, and stroked his hip. “And?”

  He shrugged. “That’s all. It’s just a typical frontier story.”

  Jane was confused. Why had he told her this terrible tale? “What happened to the child?”

  The earl hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  She nuzzled his shoulder. “Why did you tell me this?”

  He turned to her, his gaze dark and unreadable. “I grew up in this frontier where violence rules and only the strong survive. This is where I come from.”

  Jane shuddered. She touched him. “Is it still so savage?”

  “No. Somewhat untamed, but not like what I’ve just described.”

  “Do you know the woman?”

  His gaze moved over her features. It was a long time before he answered. “Yes.”

  “That poor woman,” Jane said, suddenly inexplicably moved. “Did—did it destroy her marriage? To the Ranger?”

  He shook his head. “No. He loved her, still loves her, more than life itself, I think. And she feels the same way about him.”

  Tears came to Jane’s eyes. “How romantic! Love triumphs after all.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  Jane shook her head. “It’s a terrible story, but even more beautiful too because of the tragedy they overcame.”

  The earl said nothing, just stared at her. Then he leaned forward, wiping away her tears with his big, calloused thumb. Surprised, Jane saw that his eyes were glistening. “Nich—”

  “Sshh,” he said, claiming her mouth with barely leashed power, and then he claimed her body as well.

  48

  Summer had come to London in all its first glory. It was a beautiful day, red robins singing high in the elm trees, the sky blue and cloudless, the day warm enough to go with the thinnest of garments and no coats or wraps. The bold Dragmore carriage rolled through Hyde Park, pulled by its team of magnificent bays. The earl and Jane sat side by side, their bodies touching from shoulder to hip to knee. Nicole was in her mother’s arms, unusually quiet, and Chad sat on the seat facing them, waving to all those they passed and remarking excitedly upon any and everything.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Jane said to Nick, her gaze lingering upon his handsome face. She was sure her love for him was easy to read and quite obvious to everyone.

  “Governess Randall wasn’t exactly pleased,” the earl said. He had taken Chad from his studies.

  “To hell with her,” Jane returned, her manner prim.

  The earl laughed and took her hand, squeezing it. “Sshh, not in front of the children.”

  Jane made a stricken face, and the earl laughed again. He did not release her hand. Jane settled more comfortably against him. They both ignored the many gaping, gossiping riders and coach passengers whom they passed.

  “Papa,” Chad cried excitedly. “Can we go for a ride in a boat?”

  They were approaching the lake, and a few rowboats were evident, ladies lounging amid the lace of their dresses and parasols, the men in striped shirtsleeves rolled casually up, rowing steadily.

  “I don’t see why not,” the earl replied. He turned to Jane. “It’s up to your mother.”

  Jane held his gaze. His words thrilled her, and she impulsively leaned forward to plant a light kiss on his mouth. “Of course it’s all right.”

  The earl blushed, looking quite pleased. “Jane,” he said a few moments later, as the carriage stopped in front of the green, shingled boathouse, “do you remember that story I told you last night?”

  Jane glanced at him curiously. “Of course I do.”

  Chad interrupted, asking if he could go look at the boats. The earl nodded and his son rushed from the carriage. The earl and Jane made no move to follow. He stared at her. “That woman, Jane,” he said. “She is my mother.”

  Jane gasped.

  “I am the boy.”

  Jane stared, her thoughts racing, her grip on his hand tightening instinctively. “Oh, Nicholas, what an awful cross to bear!”

  He stared at her.

  “Darling,” she cried, using the endearment for the first time, “have you been punishing yourself all these years for something you were not responsible for?” She touched his face.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” he asked thickly.

  “It hurts me to see you hurt,” she cried. “How could they have told you this terrible story!” She was suddenly furious, as all the implications settled in. This was the dark torment burning in his soul that she had sensed and seen signs of so often.

  “They didn’t tell me,” Nick said quietly. “I found out just before I left for the war. They don’t even realize that I know the truth. My father”— and he hesitated—“Derek, I mean, he doesn’t know I found out the truth. That he is not my father, that Chavez is.”

  Jane clutched his hand. The hurt in his tone was there, thick and palpable. “Darling, I’m sure he loves you like a son. You are his son! He raised you your entire life.”

  “He is a great man,” the earl said.

  Jane suddenly, intuitively, understood. “He is your father, Nicholas,” she said stubbornly. “You are the man you are today because of him. You must see him,” she cried. “This is awful, surely he senses something amiss. You must tell him you know!”

  “Jane,” the earl said. “You don’t think I am like him?”

  Jane knew who “he” was—the Comanchero. “You are kind and good. Don’t you ever say such a thing again!”

  “I almost raped you,” he said, very low. “And, God, when you were only seventeen and just a schoolgirl, I wanted you. It was all I could think of. It was depraved.”

  She covered his mouth with her palm. “We wanted each other, like men and women do who share the attraction we have for each other. It wasn’t depraved, Nicholas, it was destiny. Our destiny.”

  He pulled her into his embrace. “God,” he cried, his face against hers, “what did I do to deserve you?”

  “No, Nicholas,” Jane said, threading her fingers through his hair. “It’s the other way around. What did I do to deserve you?”

  Their gazes met. His was glistening, but so was hers.

  The earl took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, coughing. “Shall we?”

  The footman was waiting at a discreet distance. The earl signaled him and let Jane precede him from the carriage. They caught up with Chad and Nick tousled his hair. “Come on, son, you can help me choose a boat.”

  “I can?” Chad shouted, thrilled. He ran to the boats, the earl following. He paused to glance back. “Wait here, Jane.” His words were innocuous but his look was not. It was shimmering with deep, deep emotion. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Jane nodded. As the earl went to make arrangements, her mind was whirling with the significance of what she had found out. And with it came the determination to cleanse him forever of his guilt at being Chavez’s son and to help him learn, and believe, that he was the magnificent man he truly was. And, equally important, she would bring father and son back together again.

  Jane was happy. It was the beginning for them all, the first day of the rest of their glorious life together. They would leave the dark past behind. Now was the present, shimmering with love and passion, and awaiting them was the future, its promise even more glorious.

  The afternoon upon the lake passed too quickly amid much laughter and affection and camaraderie. As the Dragmore carriage sped home, Jane found herself imitating Chad, who had fallen asleep on the earl’s left, his head upon his father’s shoulder. Her own cheek pressed his other shoulder, and her lids were so very heavy. The earl’s palm stroked her arm, and she started to doze.

  “We’re home, darling,” the earl said in her ear. “Chad, wake up, son.”

  A sleepy entourage emerged from the ca
rriage, Nicole starting to howl and squirm in Jane’s arms, Chad holding the earl’s hand. Thomas greeted them at the door with Molly, who rushed forward to take Nicole. The butler was as white as death itself.

  “Thomas, what’s wrong?” the earl said sharply.

  Jane became fully awake, to see that Thomas was in a rare frenzy, eyes popping as if he’d seen a ghost. “My lord,” he cried. “It’s your wife!”

  “My wife?” the earl said, glancing at Jane. Jane suddenly pressed closer to the earl, sensing danger.

  “Not the lady Jane.” Thomas gasped. “The other one.”

  The earl stared, then his eyes narrowed. “You are making no sense, Thomas,” he warned.

  “It’s Lady Patricia,” Thomas cried. “She is here!”

  “What?”

  “She is here, in the parlor, alive—not dead!”

  And then a stunning blond woman appeared from behind Thomas, her bearing regal and disdainful. With a glance, she took them all in, Chad, Jane, Nicole and Molly, the earl. “Hello, my lord,” she said coolly.

  “My God,” Nick said softly, stunned.

  Jane stared at the beautiful woman—his wife. And then the ground came rushing up to meet her and, blessedly, she knew no more.

  49

  Before sweeping Jane up in his arms and rushing with her into the house, the earl directed a searing look of disbelief and hatred at Patricia. “Thomas,” he shouted, “bring tea and whiskey, cool cloths and smelling salts.”

  He pounded into the study. He lay Jane down upon the sofa as if she were made of fragile china, smoothing hair away from her forehead. “Jane,” he said, low, soft. “Jane, wake up.”

  And then, although there was no sound, he felt her animosity and contempt and he turned to see his first wife standing in the doorway, staring at them. “How quaint,” she said.

  “You bitch,” he bit out, and turned back to Jane.

  “Papa!” Chad came running in, white-faced, Governess Randall on his heels. “What’s happened to Jane? Is she dead?” He started to cry, although manfully trying to hold back the tears.

  “She’s only had a little faint,” the earl told him. “Chad, be a good man and go upstairs with Randall . Jane will be up shortly and you’ll see she is fine. You’ve missed enough studies as it is today.”

  Although reluctant, Chad allowed the governess to take his hand. He followed her out, with many backward glances at Jane. Jane moaned. The earl touched her face, coaxing her back to consciousness. “Wake up, darling,” he murmured. “Jane, wake up.”

  Thomas entered with the damp cloths and liquor. “The tea will be just a moment more,” he said, handing the earl a whiskey. He ignored Patricia quite royally.

  Jane eyes fluttered open.

  The earl propped her up. “You’ve had a shock,” he said grimly. “We all have. Here, sip this,” he said, guiding the glass to her mouth.

  Jane took a draft, coughed, turned away protesting and saw Patricia. She froze.

  The earl whipped his head around furiously. “You may await my summons in the parlor,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Her eyes blazed, but she was also afraid, and with a negligent shrug she exited.

  “Oh, God!” Jane cried, sinking back down and covering her face with her hands.

  “We’ll work it out, Jane,” the earl promised, but there was a note of desperation in his voice.

  She sat up. “I want to go to my room,” she managed. Her face was stark white, and she turned her agonized blue gaze upon him. “How can she be alive? How?” she cried. “And why has she come back now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said tautly. “I don’t know.”

  The earl closed the parlor door behind him, leaning against it. Hatred blazed from his eyes.

  Seated like a queen in the center of the couch, still every bit the beauty, dressed richly in gold silk and brocade, Patricia Weston met his stare steadily, a tiny smile of superiority turning up the corners of her mouth.

  “This is unbelievable,” the earl said. “Have the past six years been amusing, Patricia?”

  She made a moue. “Apparently they have been quite amusing for you.”

  He clenched his fists. “Why have you come back? And where the hell have you been?”

  “I’ve been in America, mostly,” she said, as if discussing a two-week holiday. “And I came back for what’s mine.” Her green eyes hardened.

  “You mean Clarendon?” The earl laughed. “Clarendon is Chad’s. And I have a wife.”

  “Do you? You don’t mean that little tart? I am your wife, she is merely a mistress. Legally speaking, that is.”

  “You goddamn bitch. You think to take your place as my wife in my home, in my life? Well, think again!”

  “We can find a mutually satisfactory arrangement, Nick.” Patricia smoothed her skirts. “I will reside elsewhere, of course. Our paths need never cross. You must only furnish me with a reasonable allowance and my inheritance, which I left behind in my haste to flee you six years ago.”

  “I will gladly give you the ten thousand pounds that is your estate,” the earl spat. “I have no need of it.” The enormity of the dilemma facing him confronted him squarely, painfully. “God!” he cried, realizing with anguish that his wife was Patricia, not Jane.

  “Don’t worry, you may keep her. It suits me, in fact. But of course you cannot live with her,” Patricia said. “It would be too indiscreet.”

  He whirled. He wanted to strangle her. “Maybe I should do what everyone accused me of doing all those years back,” he growled. “Maybe I should kill you!”

  Patricia paled.

  “Don’t,” the earl warned, pacing forward. “Don’t you dare to give me ultimatums.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, eyeing him with fear.

  “Did you know I was tried for your murder?” He was shaking with fury. He saw the flash of fear again in her eyes. “You were in hiding, pretending to be dead—while I was almost convicted!”

  “I didn’t know.”

  He was sure she was lying, he saw it in her eyes. “You unbelievably selfish, self-centered bitch. Am I to assume you were with Boltham? He left for America after the trial, did he not?” Again, he did not need her answer. “You didn’t shed one tear over your son, did you?” he snarled.

  “Chad is yours,” she said, shoulders squared, head held high. Distaste twisted her lips. “Every bit yours.”

  He compared her to Jane, beautiful, big-hearted Jane, and could not believe he had ever loved her. “Who died in the fire?” the earl shot.

  “My maid, the Irish girl.” Patricia shrugged. “The silly twit fell in her haste to flee and hit her head. I had to leave her behind.”

  “Did you start the fire, Patricia?”

  “No.”

  The earl knew it was a lie.

  She shrugged. “You cannot prove anything.”

  “You would go to such extremes to escape me? And you feel not a jot of guilt for that poor girl who died?”

  “I hate you,” Patricia suddenly hissed. “I’ve always hated you, from the moment we met! I did what I had to! I would do it again!”

  The earl had a sudden idea. “Who has seen you? Other than the servants? Who knows you are still alive?”

  “No one who knows me,” Patricia said. “Except Boltham, of course.”

  “I will give you more money than you can possibly spend,” the earl said vehemently. “But I want you to get out of this country and never come back. Do you understand?”

  Patricia smiled. “So you can live with your new wife as if I am really dead? Forget it! I am tired of America. Boltham bores me. And he is penniless too. I want my place back in Society. I am not leaving. I am tired of being an anonymous English noblewoman!”

  “You selfish bitch,” the earl said.

  It was over, wasn’t it? It was over before it had really begun. Their life together. His wife, his first love, was back, to claim her rightful place at his side. Why else would she appear? Jan
e hugged her pillow and wept.

  Fate was so cruel, to bring her and Nicholas together then wrench them apart. How, how would she survive?

  And they weren’t even married. His wife was Patricia, she was just his paramour in the eyes of God and the law. Jane sobbed harder.

  Did he still love Patricia?

  And now what?

  “Jane,” the earl said, entering without knocking.

  “No,” she managed, clutching the pillow even tighter. She lay curled in a ball on the bed. “Not now.”

  “We have to talk,” the earl said.

  “Go away, go to her! Go to your real wife!” Jane cried hysterically.

  He sat beside her, the mattress dipping, and pulled her against him. She fought him. “I don’t want to go to her,” he said thickly. “Jane, we must be calm. We must talk.”

  She did not release the pillow. Her ears were ringing, her temple throbbing, and everything was so unreal. She was so afraid. “I don’t want to talk. Not now,” Did he still love her? Why was he so calm?

  “Jane, don’t let her tear you up like this. It will be all right,” he vowed. “You will see. We shall work it out.”

  It was impossible and she knew it. There was nothing to work out. Patricia was his wife and she was not. Patricia had come back because she was his wife. Hadn’t she?

  “What does she want?” she heard herself say, her voice sounding strange and far away. Although she knew the answer, she prayed, she hoped, to hear something else.

  For a long moment he did not speak, and she caught a glimpse of something like desperation in his eyes. But then there was only firm, steel resolve, and she knew she had imagined seeing any other emotion. “Please, Jane,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself. Trust me. You know I will always take care of you and Nicole. Always. We will find a solution. I promise.”

  Jane almost laughed, hysterically. She had known it, sensed it, the moment she first saw Patricia. There was only one solution. Obviously Patricia had come back from the dead to resume her role as his wife. That left one role for Jane—as mistress. Nicholas would “take care” of her. Jane knew she could not relinquish Nicholas to another woman, especially not to his first love. She could not, would not, be his mistress, after being his wife. She balled up her fists. And just when he was starting to love her a little!