Darkness In The Flames (36 page)

Sensations that awoke something long silent within him.

Nick’s world shifted—changed—in the silence that followed. That which had been darkness now held the possibility of light. The woman beneath him had crossed his path by accident, yet there might be a purpose to their meetings.

For she had offered Nick the one thing he’d thought gone from his life forever—
hope
.

Chapter Six

Verity woke with a tiny jump, immediately alert and conscious—knowing she was somewhere she should not be.

Her body ached—pleasantly, but ached all the same—and she was smothered by warm sheets and blankets. A weight pulled the mattress down beside her and she gulped, remembering the night before and whose body slumbered silently there.

Cautiously moving her head she saw him, a still form beneath the quilt, face calm and peaceful in his repose.

Her heart lurched, she fought the urge to touch him, to wake him and love him once more. She simply could not. The risk was too great. Already she had gone beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior with him. She had let her suppressed passion free and look where it had gotten her—in bed with her employer’s guest.

Now she truly
would
merit the title “whore” if anybody found out.

The room was dark, heavy drapes pulled across the windows with deliberate care. It must have been past dawn, but no light entered the room from outside, only the glow from the dying fire lit the shadows and made it possible to pick out details.

Fearing to breathe lest she wake Nick, Verity crept from their bed and gathered the remnants of her clothes. She could not wear them, that was certain, so she reached for the guest robe a servant had left on a nearby chair. It would have to suffice.

Heart fluttering at every sound she made, Verity left her lover sound asleep. Thank heavens he was so deep in the arms of Morpheus—had he awoken, Verity would have been faced with a conversation she’d much rather not have. She did not want to reminisce with him if he’d recalled their meeting years ago. She did not want to discuss her role within this household, how she came to be the Dowager’s companion and most of all she did not want to discuss her “other” life as the corseted, whip-wielding wench at Isolde’s beck and call.

From now on, she would have to avoid Nick Blaine at all costs. He was too dangerous for her peace of mind, along with being a potential threat to the only job that kept her from the workhouse.

She had memories now, memories of what passion was really like. How it felt to have a man’s hand touching her the way she’d always wanted to be touched. How it felt to be fucked by a master who understood everything she desired without her having to put anything into words. Those memories would have to suffice.

The door creaked and groaned as she opened it and peered out into the still-dark hallway. It would seem that her internal clock had functioned well for a change and woken her before the rest of the house arose.

Still nervous, Verity tiptoed through silent corridors, terrified that a creak of a stair or the groan of a floorboard would bring people running. Her heart thundered as she picked her way past closed doors where servants slept and finally reached the haven of her tiny room.

Never had it seemed so welcoming.

Nor had it ever seemed so empty.

As she stripped and washed with cold water from the pitcher and cracked ewer on the dresser, Verity shivered. She was cold—cold to her soul.

For the rest of her life she would remember the fire Nick had lit within her body and for the rest of her life she would have to make do with that memory. There would be no others to add to it or replace it.

Light began to filter into her room, a sign that a new day was dawning. Verity had duties to attend to before the Dowager awoke. There was her breakfast to prepare and set on the proper tray. Only Verity could make tea the way the Dowager liked it. Only Verity knew which cup the cantankerous old woman preferred.

Only Verity, with her slightly elevated status within the household, could listen to the daily recital of bitter complaints that comprised the Dowager’s morning ritual. It was a burden that sat uncomfortably on her slender shoulders, but Verity bore it—she had no other choice.

This was her life. The result of twists and turns, betrayals and tragedies, joys and sorrows. Much like anybody else’s, she supposed. Although there probably weren’t too many women who were as skilled with a whip, nor led bands of highwaymen.

And few who had been loved by Nick Blaine the way Verity had been last night.

He would forever remain in her heart, she knew. He’d been there—her image of him as a youth—for years. The affections she’d felt for him paled into insignificance however, when compared to the feelings he’d aroused last night.

Years ago she’d experienced the longings of a young girl for a handsome lad. Last night she’d been a woman grown with adult desires—desires that went beyond the norm into what some would call deviance.

But Nick had known and not thought her wanton or perverted. Nick had satisfied those desires with a response calculated to fire every part of her body and her soul. She’d not meet his like again, not in this lifetime.

It was a depressing thought and Verity sighed as she tucked her fichu into her dull grey gown and made sure her hair was neatly schooled into its customary bun. Her duties for the Dowager would likely keep her occupied most of the day, so she wouldn’t have to face Nick at least until the evening.

If she pleaded a headache, she might even be able to escape dinner although she’d have to go without food if she did. It didn’t matter much. She couldn’t find her appetite when exposed to the FitzAdams family
en masse
anyway. Gawain was too unstable, Isolde too intense and lurking over the entire meal was always the unspoken threat of “later”.

Opening her door, Verity looked out and down the hallway toward the only window on the floor. The sun was shining.

An omen perhaps? Or just a pleasant respite from recent rains. She shrugged. What did it matter? She was alive. She had a place to sleep, a very meager income, a small cache of private funds and a position with an elderly member of the aristocracy.

She had a private life that would have shocked many, but that was her secret. Everybody had secrets. Nick probably had secrets too.

Although she would have loved nothing more than a few hours nap and the leisure to explore her memories of last night, Verity knew the day would not wait. She quietly made her way to the kitchen and nodded her usual greeting to the cook and the several kitchen servants who were already up and about. Falling into her routine, she set about preparing the tray for the Dowager when she awoke. In the way of the elderly, Verity’s mistress had a tendency to rise at erratic hours, but with the sunshine of this day it was likely to be sooner rather than later.

Automatically she put water in the large kettle and stoked the fire. The last of yesterday’s bread would be sliced and toasted, to be accompanied by the FitzAdams marmalade and freshly churned butter. The milk would be coming in shortly from the dairy.

It was a touch of comfortable normalcy that calmed Verity. By following her routine activities as she had for months now, her mind was able to settle, to sort itself out into
things to do
and
things to think about—later
.

Surviving this day was top of the first list along with avoiding Nick at all costs.

Thinking about making love with Nick—that was top of the second.

As Verity polished the heavy silver tray a thought popped into her head and she paused, staring absently at the cloth in her hand. It was a thought that had brushed her mind briefly when they’d first met at the inn. Now it returned full force.

Nick Blaine’s smile had captivated her when she was young. His mouth was ripe and smiling, his hair always mussed and soft. And his eyes—the bright blue of a cloudless summer sky.

This
Nick Blaine—
his eyes were black
.

*~*~*~*

“Must you leave us?” Isolde’s tone was soft with a decided undercurrent that could have been described as a whine.

Nick acknowledged her question with a sober nod. “I’m afraid so. I’m on my way south. There is someone I’m on my way to visit in Hampshire and my trip will not wait.”

He’d risen as the sun set to find himself alone and was still trying to decide whether that was a relief or not. At least he’d been spared the necessity of explaining his odd sleeping habits to Verity.

But he’d also been denied the pleasure of waking next to her warmth. Her fragrance had lingered in his bed, a reminder of their lovemaking. It hadn’t taken Nick long to come to terms with the situation.

Verity was a woman he could not have.

Ever
.

He wanted her more than he’d imagined he could ever want anybody. But to
have
her, he would have to tell her what he was. What he had become so long ago. His self-disgust would not permit such a confession.

He could not bear the thought that the expression of heat in her gaze might turn to one of distaste or worse—fear.

He’d been prey to a variety of emotions while he’d dressed and prepared to leave the FitzAdams household, all of which had surprised him. Nick had made the discovery that his heart was not dead as he had supposed, but still able to react to passion. Verity’s passion.

This knowledge was both a boon and a curse.

A boon, since it had reawakened the man inside Nick—the scientist, the intelligent questioner who sought enlightenment from the universe. It was crucial now that he find answers to some mysteries and possibly his own situation. The whys and hows of what he had become seemed more important on this new day.

And yet the curse of his existence would prove to be an insurmountable barrier between him and Verity. The woman who had crept beneath his firmly established armor and knocked at the door to his soul.

Trying his best to consider the situation dispassionately, Nick knew he had only one course of action. He had to leave.

To turn his back on Verity and what might have been. He had nothing left to offer her, no estates anymore, no identity—scarcely any money at all. At least she had a roof over her head, which was more than Nick had at this moment.

And she did not know what he was. He would leave her, secure that she was unaware of the evil thing he’d become.

She might revile him for his actions—though she’d surrendered most willingly—and yet he could survive with that anger. He couldn’t stand the thought of her
horror
should his truth ever be revealed.

No, this was definitely the wisest course, even though Isolde hadn’t agreed when he’d come downstairs with his small bag and somewhat unwillingly accepted the offer of a drink before leaving.

“But not even dinner, Nicky? How can you recommence your journey on an empty stomach?”

Nick smiled politely and touched the glass of sherry to his lips. He barely sipped, having little taste for the foods he used to enjoy. He did not need them to survive anymore—a warm neck and a strong pulse was all he required.

“I find I make better progress if not weighed down by a full belly.” He shrugged. “Your hospitality has been…most pleasant, Isolde. I am very grateful to you and Gawain.”

Isolde sighed. “I liked having you here Nicky, even for just one night. I’ll be blunt and tell you I had even greater hopes for tonight.” A little moue of frustration puckered her lips. “Which you’ve just totally shattered.”

Nick put down his glass. “I’m sorry, Isolde. Really. Last night was—
interesting
. But not something I’m willing to experience on a regular basis.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to answer. “What you and Gawain do is entirely your business. Not a word about what goes on here will ever come from me. I think you know you can trust me or you wouldn’t have asked me to join you.”

She subsided and nodded in agreement.

“But I cannot stay. I cannot continue to be a part of your—revels. I must away to my own affairs and leave you to yours.” Nick found he could not resist mentioning one certain name. “You have Miss Chandler. A rare find indeed and skilled with a whip.”

Isolde tossed her head. “A lucky coincidence, no more.”

“Really? Such a coincidence gives
luck
a new name in my opinion…” Nick raised one eyebrow in question.

Isolde sighed and sat delicately on the edge of a chair, settling her gown around her knees. “
Bellemère
knew Chandler’s family. There was a brother who was killed in Europe just before the father shot himself over some gambling debts.”

Nick swallowed down a pang of sorrow. This was sad news indeed. “And Miss Chandler came here?”

“Oh no.” Isolde shook her head. “She took a position with another family near her home, only to lose it when she was caught in bed with one of the sons.” A sneer crossed Isolde’s face. “They threw her out of course. She ended up here by the slimmest chance.”

“Ah.” Nick watched Isolde. “And you gave her a home…”

“She fainted in front of
Bellemère
. Can you believe that? Some faradiddle about being hungry. Well,
Bellemère
needed a companion, so the event worked out to be quite fortuitous although stupidly dramatic.”

“Ah.” Nick’s guts clenched. How hungry Verity must have been to collapse in public. And how desperate to accept this position. And what on earth had happened in that first house she’d served in?

There were questions on top of questions, none of which Nick could ask Isolde and none of which he was prepared to ask Verity.

Isolde’s face twisted into a heated look of sensuality. “Of course, when she accidentally discovered what Gawain and I—
prefer
, shall we say—there was a price to pay. I wanted to give her to Gawain and his servants to play with, but she suggested the whip. And I will admit she’s good with it.” Isolde shivered delicately. “She never leaves a mark.”