by Lisa Bingham
In many ways, his death had been a release for Chelsea, ceasing once and for all the cruel lash of his tongue and his harsh code of behavior. However, she couldn’t help thinking she was to blame for his passing somehow because she’d wanted to be free to follow her own will. She’d envisioned a thousand times what she would do once she left Paddy O’Rourke and Ireland behind.
But in all of her fantasies, she had never imagined that her father would die. She wasn’t ready to be on her own. She was only a girl of thirteen. Terrified of what the future would bring, she’d shivered against the cruel bite of the sea breeze and swallowed back her alarm. What would she do? She had no family. No friends. Her home and all its furnishings would be sold to pay Paddy’s debts, and she would be left without a farthing—she had no family to rely on. No real friends who could help her.
Staring into that hole, she’d felt a pang of frustration, then a wave of anger. Furious at the hand life had dealt her and the injustices of fate, she’d lifted her head, glaring at the sparse gathering of acquaintances, then looking up, up, up.
There he’d been, on the top of the hill. Mounted on an ink-black steed, Nigel, Lord Sutherland, had cut an impressive figure against the cobalt-blue sky. He’d sat so still, but somehow she’d sensed that he had been watching her for some time, noting the flash of emotions crossing her face. The anger, the frustration, the yearnings. She’d seen him before in town. In fact, she’d thought he might have followed her a time or two. So much so, she was sure that he knew where she lived.
She’d been so young, so innocent, so stupid. Returning from the graveside services, she’d opened the door to her father’s cottage, a house that would soon be sold beneath her, and she’d wanted more.
“I took you away from all that, Gelsey.”
The voice melted not from the past but from a point just behind her. Real. Chilling. Chelsea froze, sure that she had imagined the words, the subtle, silken tone, the proper Oxfordian accent.
No. No. No.
A shadow washed over her body, and she sensed his presence like the weight of doom settling over her wool-clad figure.
“My sweet, sweet child, why do you seem so surprised? I could always read you. I knew every thought that crossed your mind, every dream before you dared to dream it.”
A warm, masculine hand curved over her shoulder, and Chelsea fought the immediate wave of revulsion that tumbled through her veins. Prickles of ice needled her skin, and the years melted away as if they’d never been. All the education, polish, and poise withered into cold ashes that fell to her feet, leaving her a naive, trembling adolescent girl afraid of what the future might bring.
She remembered how she’d foolishly allowed him to take her home from the funeral. She’d listened as he told her about the business that had brought him to Ireland. Impressed by his title and his responsibilities, she’d offered him a cup of tea and asked him to sit and stay for a while.
After that, she was never able to escape him completely.
“Gelsey, Gelsey,” he crooned, the words little more than a whisper.
“Lord Sutherland.” The acknowledgment was a bare whisper of sound, but he heard her, she knew he did. She could feel him edging closer, could feel the greedy sweep of his gaze.
He made a tsking sound and tightened his hold, not cruelly, not yet, but allowing no refusal to his command. “Come now. There’s no need for formalities. Not between us.” Exerting a subtle pressure, he forced her to turn, forced her to acknowledge the one face she had hoped to avoid seeing in a London crowd or a seaside retreat.
He was still handsome. Tall, lean, incredibly fit Well into his fifties, his hair had grown grayer, and lines creased his face. But those qualities only seemed to enhance his latent sensuality. Chelsea had seen females cross the street just to brush elbows with him as he passed. She had witnessed staid, proper gentlewomen fawn upon him at social gatherings. Ladies of the highest moral caliber had been known to proposition him. Yet Chelsea knew that in the past thirty years, there had been only two women who had ever truly tempted him. His wife, Estella … and a thirteen-year-old-girl.
His keen eyes slipped from the top of her head to the smooth sweep of her hair, her mouth, her chin. Then his scrutiny dropped with a slow, unnerving thoroughness. By the time he reached the tips of her shoes, Chelsea felt as if he had stripped her bare, leaving her naked and shivering, while behind her a young idealistic artist sought to capture the moment on canvas.
“I still have the painting,” Nigel murmured.
Chelsea didn’t comment upon how easily he’d read her mind. It was a phenomenon that had occurred too many times for her to be startled by it now.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I’ll always find you. Just as I’ll always care.”
His broad shape crowded her, cutting off her supply of air. “My sweet little Gelsey.” He wrapped one arm around her waist and dipped his head to nuzzle her ear. “Why have you stayed away for so very long?”
Chelsea gripped his waist to push him away, then found she couldn’t. Trapped in a vortex of time, she struggled to thrust back the shadow of a shivering, intimidated young girl. Her lashes squeezed closed, and she was swamped with the smells she had fought so hard to forget, cigar smoke and Tammany cologne.
Just as it had so long ago, his overwhelming personality sucked her back into a whirlpool of indecision and pain. In a flashing series of time-fuzzed pictures, she saw the first day she’d stepped from Lord Sutherland’s conveyance onto the carriage block of Lindon Manor. She saw the bedchamber with its white damask counterpanes and cherub-painted ceilings. She saw the ballroom where the dance master had showed her how to waltz. The back lawn where the fencing master had taught her to fight.
The master bedroom, where a courtesan had instructed her in the art of seducing a man.
A scalding tear seeped from her lashes and bled down her cheek. “No,” she groaned. Then more strongly, “No!” Wrenching free, she strode past Nigel, then whirled to confront him. “I won’t let you do this to me again. I won’t!”
Far from being upset, Nigel merely smiled at her reaction, as if he’d anticipated each syllable she’d uttered.
“You disgust me, do you understand that?” she continued. “I was only thirteen years old!”
“Age has little bearing on what occurs between a man and a woman.”
“I wasn’t a woman. I was only a child.”
“I respected that fact, if you’ll remember.”
She snorted in disgust.
“I gave you a home.”
“You made it a prison.”
“I supplied you with rich foods and beautiful clothes.”
“You tried to buy my affection.”
He advanced. “I hired the finest of instructors, who showed you how to speak like a lady and think like a scholar.”
Her chin lifted to a proud angle. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “And act like a whore.”
His lips lifted in a slow, self-satisfied smile. “Come now, my dear. Of all the things I’d expected to happen over the past few years, I never thought you would become a prude.”
Memories she’d shoved deeply into her mind strained to be free. “You had no right.”
“I had every right. I saved you from a life of poverty and despair. If I hadn’t come along, you would have sold your body on the streets.”
“I suppose you think it was better for me to have bartered it with you?”
“You never wanted for anything. You had only to think of something and it appeared. I treated you like a princess. I gave you all I had to give—including my affection. But I never tasted the fruits of my labors,” he reminded her, stalking closer. “If you will remember, I went to great trouble and expense to have you trained. I saw to it that you were quite well versed in the arts of seduction, that you knew how to please a man and take pleasure yourself. Then you disappeared.”
Chelsea h
ad the sudden urge to strike him, to wipe the complacency from his face and mete out a measure of the pain he’d inflicted so long ago.
“I never wanted that kind of life. You lied to me when you said you wanted only to be my guardian, my friend.”
He shrugged. “You would not have come with me otherwise.” When she continued to step away from him, he stopped. “But you will come back to me, my dear. Of your own free will. Soon.”
“Never.”
“Ahhh, you think not.” His voice became silky, dangerous. “Then consider this.” Pursing his lips, he thought for a moment and said, “I am quite aware of the man you’ve attempted to hide in Biddy’s little cottage and exactly what you intend to do with him.”
A brittle expectancy settled over Chelsea. She hadn’t expected Richard’s arrival to remain a secret. The night she’d found the rose, she’d known his whereabouts had already been compromised. But she had thought—hoped—that Nigel would not dare to touch him. Not when Chelsea knew so much about him, not when she could reveal so many of his secrets. At present, she wasn’t so sure. Nigel’s eyes held a fierce sheen of determination, one she had seen before and come to avoid.
He noted the dawning comprehension registered on her face. “Yes, my dear, I know all about your endeavors to bring the true Sutherland heir back to England. I know how you have pampered him, coddled him, and bullied him into submitting to your plans. But I’m sure you must understand my position when I state that I will not allow you to continue with such an escapade. I will not let you disturb my well-ordered life with that impostor.”
He sniffed and peered up at the wisps of clouds as if in thought, but Chelsea knew he was merely relishing his power over her. She shivered at the velvety shards of malice embedded in his tone.
“I sense that you and the mysterious Sutherland heir have developed a … tendre, if you’ll pardon my turn of the phrase.” His voice dropped, becoming harsh. “You really should be more careful to draw the draperies when you … entertain your students in Biddy’s studio.”
Chelsea experienced a stab of unease, a shudder of fright, wondering if he knew the extent of their embraces, if he had peered into the nursery windows as well. But Nigel continued before she could manage to think clearly.
“Get rid of him, Gelsey,” Nigel warned. “Get rid of him now. Send him back to his horrid little island, and hide him as far away from me as you possibly can.” His threats became chilling, deadly. “For if you don’t, I shall have to take matters into my own hands. Just as I did with that ill-fated artist so long ago.”
After issuing that final parting remark, Nigel leaned down to kiss her, softly, gently, briefly, as if to whet his appetite for things to come. Then, after touching her cheek, he crossed to his mount, swinging into the saddle. Throwing her a mock salute, he tapped the animal’s flanks and cantered away, leaving a shattering silence.
Chelsea stared at the spot where he’d been and tried to dam the rising terror. She wiped the taste of him from her lips in disgust. Her chin crumpled. What was she going to do? Dear sweet heaven, what was she going to do?
Whirling, she hurried across the moors, not really seeing where she went, not really caring. Nigel’s threats lingered in the air like the acrid scent of lime and decay. Alarm tainted her tongue. She had no doubts that he would see each horrible promise through. Nigel had always been fanatically possessive. He wouldn’t take kindly to the thought of another man reaping the rewards of his careful tutelage. Just as he hadn’t taken kindly to the discovery that Chelsea had once, regrettably, allowed herself to care for another man.
Jaime. Jaime. The name alone brought a swirling vision of that ill-fated artist to the fore. Tall, thin, eccentric. How he’d flattered and teased her. From the moment he’d breezed into Lindon Manor, her life had never been the same. She’d been enthralled by his devilish smile and quick wit.
Nigel had commissioned Jaime MacDonough to paint her portrait one fall. It was to have been a present, proof of rite of passage into womanhood upon her sixteenth birthday. Lord Sutherland had interviewed a dozen men, finally selecting a Scottish gentleman whose talent he considered bordered upon genius at recreating on canvas what was found in life. Returning to London to take care of sudden business, he had eagerly awaited the outcome of his newest venture. But what Lord Sutherland hadn’t bargained on was that in the intervening weeks, she and Jaime would become friends.
From the first, Jaime had intrigued her. He’d taught her to smile again, to laugh. After three years of being told what to do and how to do it, Jaime was the first person who asked her what she wanted from life.
The answer had been so simple back then. She’d wanted to be loved.
Jaime had loved her. For three weeks, they’d been inseparable. Nigel had left her with a host of chaperones, but under the guise of making preliminary sketches, Jaime had followed her through the routine of her days. They’d talked and laughed, eventually kissed and embraced.
Chelsea had been reluctant to let him touch her at first. She hadn’t wanted to see his ardor die when he discovered how comprehensive her education had been. But from the very beginning, Jaime had swept away her misgivings, assuring her that he found her unusual talents to be delightful. He’d even painted her that way, upon the bed, draped only in a sheet. It was to have been a private gift. Another more respectable portrait was to have been made for Nigel.
She shouldn’t have agreed to pose in such a compromising position. Chelsea had known from the very beginning that it was foolish to agree to such a dangerous plan. Slipping secretly into his room each night, she’d known that one careless mistake could reveal her betrayal.
She’d been so young. She’d wanted to do something for Jaime—something no one else had ever done. She’d wanted to arouse him and entice him. She’d hoped to shake Jaime’s last foothold of gentlemanly reserve so that he would worship her not just with his heart and soul … but with his body as well.
She’d known Nigel would be furious if he ever discovered the extent of their burgeoning relationship. Still, she hadn’t demurred from posing so intimately in front of the man she’d adored. She’d been so sure that his love would conquer all. When the right time presented itself, she and Jaime would run away together—hadn’t they said that very thing to themselves often enough? No one could shatter their hopes and dreams.
Chelsea shivered, hugging her arms even tighter to her torso. No one but Nigel.
Years later, she still couldn’t block the phantom screams from her memory. The unearthly animalistic cries of the one man who had dared to accept her heart and had paid dearly.
The cries had awakened her from the dead of night. Chilled to the bone, she’d swept aside the covers and run down the pink marble halls. She’d barely felt the cold stone against her bare feet as she flung open the door to find a horror like none she could ever have imagined.
Nigel stood facing the newly finished painting. A knife glinted in one hand, something dripping from its tip. Dripping.
At her soft cry, he’d turned, his face harshly illuminated by the pale moonlight streaming through the windows. “So nice of you to join us, my sweet,” he murmured, “It seems the painting is finished.”
He walked toward her, his movements slow and calculated, like a cat creeping up on a sparrow. “Judging by the … unusual pose, I can see that the two of you have been hard at work. Although it’s not exactly what I asked for, I’m pleased with the results. Quite pleased.”
He cupped her cheek, and she recoiled from a sticky wetness that clung to his skin. The faint, sickly odor of blood assaulted her nostrils, and she started, her back pressing against the jamb in her haste to escape, searching the obsidian and gray shadows for the artist in question.
She finally found his figure lying unconscious amidst a tangle of crimson-streaked sheets. Vaguely, she absorbed the hulking shapes of Nigel’s men lurking near the bedstead, saw the way they hovered like death’s angels, their expressions
grim.
“Shh, shh,” Nigel soothed when she gulped in horror and ground her fist against her mouth to press back the rising nausea. “Don’t fret. Hush. I’ve taken care of things once and for all.”
She managed to choke out, “You killed him.”
Nigel regarded her in much the same way a parent might have if forced to explain a difficult fact to a disobedient child. “Nonsense. I haven’t killed him. I merely took the proper precautions necessary to protect you from his advances.”
Blood. So much blood.
“What—”
“Gelded, my dear. He won’t be bothering you again.”
Ten years later, Chelsea still couldn’t forget the over-whelming guilt, the self-recrimination. That night, she’d realized how well and truly caught she was in Nigel Sutherland’s web. By keeping Jaime alive, he’d trapped her so securely there could be no escape. She couldn’t abandon Jaime. Not like this. She kept telling herself that once he was well again, they would find a way to leave. Together. Somehow.
That day had never come. Three weeks later, in a fit of delirium, Jaime MacDonough committed suicide. His only crime had been to love her. For that, Chelsea had consigned him to death as surely as if she had held the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.
Chelsea’s chest ached unbearably, a stinging pricked at the back of her eyes, but she refused to give in to it, refused to cry for a man who had been dead for over a decade. A man who had teased her. A man who had cherished her. A man who had taught her that fear had no place in a woman’s heart when she rested safely in a man’s arms.
Safe.
How long had it been since she’d experienced such an emotion?
Cherished.
How long had it been?
Last night.
Chelsea hesitated on the edge of the promontory, gazing down upon the rolling hills of the Lindon estates. Beneath the gloom of the approaching storm clouds sat the elegant pink marble manor house. So beautiful, so innocent, so fairy-tale perfect. Who would have guessed that in its walls were trapped such untold secrets and violent emotions?
