Devil's Desire (29 page)

"What has he to do with this?" Elysia asked startled

"He is our spy."

"Oh, no!”

"You have met him?" Ian asked sharply with interest kindled in his eyes, his left one beginning to close from the swelling.

"Yes I have," Elysia answered sadly. "I cannot believe that he is implicated. I know he is French, but he hates Napoleon. Why, his estates were confiscated, and he is now penniless because of Napoleon. How could he possibly be an agent?"

"He is; Ian replied sternly. "He has secret governmental papers right now which he stole from the Ministry. He will try to get them to France. We've proof of his allegiance to Napoleon. He was lying when he said his estates had been confiscated, if indeed he ever had any estates–probably isn't even a Count. And if he really is what he says, which I doubt seriously, then he is like many of his compatriots who seek to regain their estates by doing Napoleon's bidding."

Elysia sighed heavily. Was no one what they seemed? Were they all playing at deceit–a continuous, never ending game of charades? Even she hid her true feelings from others. How easy it had become for lies to leave her lips.

"The Count has carefully hidden the documents–should you see or hear anything, you must tell Jims, and he will let me know. We have ships watching for the crossing from France, but we cannot allow them to spot us and flee. We have reason to believe they are waiting for a French war ship to transport them-this information is of that great a significance. It will occur within the next few days. Saturday is the first night without a IIl00n, and they could not risk the crossing during the past few nights with it being clear and bright under a full moon."

Ian pulled himself up, and bringing Elysia to her feet gave her an affectionate hug. "You will confine yourself to listening and watching–no snooping. I do not want you to put yourself into any danger. Jims will keep me informed on your recovery–"

"But I am practically fully recovered now, Ian," Elysia interrupted.

"You are still weak and III take no risks with your safety, but I know your hot-bloodedness at times, so I caution you, Elysia," Ian warned her, "this is no game we are about. These people are dangerous, and they would not hesitate to remove you from their path should you stand in their way. That is why Jims will know of all that you do, and you shall report everything to him–do you understand me, Elysia?"

"Yes, Ian," Elysia promised reluctantly. "I shall be careful."

Ian seemed satisfied by her answer, but cautioned, "Now you understand why, more than ever, that my identity must remain a secret. No one must know of me, or my mission, for we do not know for sure who are our friends. Now you must go before catching your death of cold. I feel dreadful about your having even the slightest knowledge of this affair–God only knows how much I wish you were back up north, and clear of this situation," Ian added worriedly.

"Do not worry about me, Ian. I shall be fine, for you've far too many thoughts to trouble your mind without adding the worry of my safety to it," Elysia said confidently. "Besides, they wouldn't dare to harm a Marchioness. I shall be quite safe. But what about Louisa?" she added softly. "I have come to like her a great deal, and I am sure she is not involved."

"Of course she isn't–why, she is as innocent as a babe!” Ian looked despondent. "I am worried about her too, but what can I do?" He shook his head with defeat. "She will get hurt no matter what, for there is only one outcome to this, and her name will be blackened, by it all." Ian glanced at Elysia as she stood quietly beside him. "Look after her, will you? She will need someone to turn to, to shelter her, and. . . " he stopped, unable to continue, despising the role he would have to play, “ . . . she will not desire my presence."

"I shall look after her, Ian, but I think you wrong Louisa. She will understand when she knows the whole truth–she will not hate you,"

"Go now, my dear," Ian whispered, resigned to the course he must follow, unable to believe Elysia's words of comfort.

She kissed him quickly, and pulling up her hood, silently left the stables with Jims insisting upon accompanying her safely back to the house.

"Jims," Elysia implored him as they stood before the small door set into the side of the house, "watch out for him. He will need your help more than I will."

"Now, Miss Elysia. Here ye are a-askin' me to be a-watchin' Master Ian, and he's a-askin'me to be awatchin' ye, and ye both be a-knowin' that ye never do what I tells ye anyway. Ye always go and do what ye· wants to-hardheaded ye both be, and nothin' I'm a goin'to do is goin' to be a-stoppin' ye,· he complained.

"Poor Jims, we've always been a trial to you, haven't we?" Elysia asked contritely.

"Well now, I can't rightly deny that." Jims grinned, having wished it no other way. "Ye know I can't abide them tame dispirited un's–like 'em sassy and full o' the devil, that I do."

"Hard as it may be, Jims, do keep an eye on Ian, will you?" she whispered before disappearing behind the narrow door.

Elysia shivered and pulled off her cloak, flinging it upon the bed, and moved to stand before the fire, seeking its warmth, the light silhouetting her slender body beneath the thin, cambric nightgown as she stood rubbing her cold hands together.

Annie had let her in at her knock, with ill-concealed joy at the sight of Elysia–her face pale and eyes round as moons from her solitary vigil· in the darkness of the corridor. Annie scurried away gladly to her own bed after hanging onto Elysia's arms with a vise-like grip, as they silently made their way back.

Elysia hugged herself trying to stop her shivers, more from nervousness than from the cold, she suspected, as she stared ruminatively into the flames. She really could not see how she would be of any help to Ian. She did not even know where to begin–or what to watch and listen for. Now that she knew the truth, every action, no matter how innocent, would seem suspicious to her. And what of Louisa? How would she fare after Ian's disclosures? She did not like to think that Ian was correct in his assumption that she would despise him, and turn from their friendship. If only . . .

Elysia turned, startled from her thoughts by the sound of a creaking chair. Alex was sitting quietly in the darkened corner of her room unobserved by her when she had entered it moments before. How
             
long had he been there?
 

"Where have you been?" he finally asked, in a deadly quiet voice that was menacing in its intensity.

She could not speak. Her voice felt frozen in her throat, and she could not turn her gaze from the golden eyes that seemed to be burning into her mind–reading her thoughts.

"Well, have you no glib tale to tell me? I do believe that I've some small right to know–after all, I am your husband. Or have you already forgotten that? Maybe you do not believe I've the right to know where my wife sneaks off to, in the middle of the night–a rendezvous of such import, that she braves a cold wind, half-dragging herself to keep her clandestine appointment."

He stood up and came slowly toward her, panther-like–as if stalking his prey. Elysia could feel the barely-restrained violence of his body as he halted before her, blocking any avenue of escape she could have planned, and stared down at her with contempt.

"Was it worth the effort?" he sneered, his lip curling with distaste as his eyes ran over her figure insultingly, mistaking the color in her cheeks from the heat of the fire, and the brightness of her eyes from surprise, as passion. "Did your lover fold you close into his arms and warm your shivering body with the heat from his own?"

He turned from her violently, as if he could not stand the sight of her, pacing back and forth in front of the blazing fire that seemed to feed his anger. Alex paused and looked at Elysia. "Well? Have you no plausible excuses, no honeyed lies to try and deceive me with?" he demanded. "Or are you going to stand there and brazenly admit you have met your lover? Well?"

"I've no lies, or excuses. I've nothing to say. You may believe what you will–although I would caution you that appearances can be deceiving–and what appears to be the truth is not always so," Elysia said quietly, unable to defend herself with the truth without breaking her solemn promise to Ian. Alex would either have to find it in himself to
trust
her–or believe her unfaithful.

"You caution me?" he asked in disbelief. "Well, you do speak the truth, Madame–for you are not as you would have I people believer–the innocent young maiden–sweet and gentle, and so honorable." He laughed cruelly. "You were wearied by Eve herself, Deception and intrigue comes naturally to you.

"You are like all women–craving the excitement of stolen kisses–and stolen husbands. You make a mockery of all decent feelings. Your falseness and shamming almost blinded my eyes to your true colors, Madame." He turned from her, a look of self loathing on his face at his own duplicity, and then abruptly flung a thin sheet of paper at her. "I do not believe I know this lan–one of your lovers from the North, perhaps–or were you really going to London to meet with him, this story about a wicked and cruel aunt and your seeking a job just another of your lies? Maybe you were even in on Sir Jason's plan,
 
was I that easy a pigeon to trap? I must congratulate you, Madame, for you play the part of the innocent maiden as if born to it."

"You should know better than anyone that you were the first and
only
man that I have ever been intimate with," Elysia finally said in her defense.

Alex's hands clenched, and a muscle twitched in the side of his cheek as if he could no longer control the burning anger inside him. He turned away from Elysia as she stood there with her green eyes accusihg
him
of some crime. The cords in his neck were standing out tautly as he glanced about the room, coming face to face with the small porcelain-faced doll that sat taunting him with its painted smile, reminding him of the feminine wiles and treachery that he should never have forgotten. He wanted to smash it into nothingness. His hand reached out, and despite the despair-ridden shriek behind him, grabbed the little figure personi-fying all that he had come to loathe. He threw it from the table onto the floor where it lay broken–the face shattered.

Elysia pushed past him and sank down upon her knees, oblivious to the sharp pieces of porcelain as she bent over her doll and picked up a piece of the head–she held a blonde curl, odd pieces of face dangling forlornly from the crushed skull. She sank further onto the floor, her body shielding the broken doll in a protective manner, as if from further destruction, sobs of anguish coming from deep within her, shaking her body uncontrollably.

Alex stood dazed, stunned by his own loss of control, until the sounds of Elysia's weeping awakened him from his immobility. He stared bemusedly down at the crumpled figure that shook with each heart-rending sob. Reaching down he placed his hands on her shoulders to lift her up, but she jerked away from his touch as if burned, cowering away from him like a beaten dog.

Alex cursed softly before determinedly placing his arms about her and lifting her from the floor, holding her firmly, even as she struggled to escape him.

"Be still, Elysia. My God, I'll not beat you. You've no reason to pull away from me,"

Elysia gave up then, going limp in the arms that still held her tightly to his chest. He put her down gently on the satin coverlet, smoothing back her hair with oddly stiff fingers.

"Elysia, look at me," he commanded, but her eyes stared into space–seeing nothing but her own tortured thoughts. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes red and swollen from her weeping as he reached down and pried loose from her death-like grip a piece of the broken doll.

"I hate you," Elysia finally whispered in an emotionless little voice, as he bathed the scratches on her hands with his handkerchief, moistened from a carafe of water on the bedside table.

Alex stood up when he had finished and said coldly, "The feeling is returned, Madame." With that he left her room. Elysia heard the door close between their rooms–a door that closed off more than just their adjacent bedchambers. She pulled herself up into a half-reclining position, propped up by her elbows and stared down at the mess on the floor. Lying there, broken by an imperious hand, were all of her hopes and dreams, all illusions–beliefs callously destroyed in a second of white-hot anger.

What did she care? If she were honest with
herself
she would admit that she'll already felt an erosion and corroding of those ideals–she had just not wanted to admit it to herself–possibly because that was all she had left to hold onto. Even false beliefs die hard. All she wanted was to be cherished and loved, wanted and protected, her family about her. If she lost faith in those dreams, then what indeed, was there left for her? She would rather die than have her dreams shattered.

What had she done that was so damning that she should deserve this cruel blow? Elysia gave a choked little laugh of despair. To have fallen in love with that devil–she deserved whatever fate had dealt out to her.

Latet anguis in herba.

  
A snake lurks in the grass!

                                  
Virgil

Chapter 13

E
lysia ran her fingers over the finely-tooled leather of the book she held in her lap, the intricate engravings feeling rough to her touch. Alex was out again–out somewhere riding with Lady Woodley. It was no secret–for Alex let her know exactly where he was going, and with whom, almost relishing in doing it. Apparently, he was unaffected by her cold silences and non-responses to his blatant baiting of her.

She wondered how many times he met with the widow? Did they rendezvous secretly in some secluded spot of their own? He had gone back to her–just as Lady Woodley had predicted. Elysia could not bear to think of the triumphant smile which the widow must be wearing as she gazed seductively up into Alex's golden eyes. Well, she could have him–she despised and loathed Alex for what he had done. No, that was a lie. She could not deceive herself. She was still entrapped by him. Against her better judgment, she was in love with Alex–more than ever, until she burned with desire. It hurt unbearably to be looked at with contempt and loathing by the man she loved–treated with less respect than the lowest scullery maid.

But could she really blame Alex? The evidence had not been in her favor–in fact, it had been damning. However, what could she have done? She had given her word of honor, and could not break it. It was a promise that could have far-reaching and tragic effects upon everyone, if broken–especially Ian.

No, her problem would have to work itself out on its own, and maybe . . . one day . . . Alex would know the truth about that night. But until then, it was out of her hands. Still, the agony and suspense of waiting through the endless days that followed, seemed almost unendurable. Nothing seemed to be happening that could possibly clear up the misunderstanding that existed between them, and Elysia could only watch helplessly as the gulf between Alex and she widened.

If only something would happen! But all her alert watching and listening gleaned little information for Jims to pass on to Ian. The Squire sought no private meetings with the Count, at least not while she was there. They kept up a cordial, yet casual, relationship with each other, while in company.

Elysia found it hard to believe that the Squire was a smuggler–and a traitor–as she watched him entertain his guests with amusing stories, smiling benignly like a benevolent saint. And the Count–how easily she had fallen for his flattery and sad tale of woe. He continued to seek her out, pressing his attentions upon her more ardently than ever, with Alex's obvious attentions to Lady Woodley keeping the guests gossiping, while he turned a deaf ear and blind eye to the Frenchman's flirting.

They were all living on the edge of a precipice, she thought one evening in particular, as the laughter rang out around the Banqueting Hall, at one of the many stories the Squire regaled them with. His laughter drowned out the other voices. It seemed to Elysia's somewhat cynical gaze, like the last days of Pompeii–the unsuspecting awaiting their ultimate destruction. Only she was aware of their forthcoming doom.

And what would be the end result, the final act in this charade before the curtain fell? The Squire and Count tried for treason, Louisa and Mrs. Blackmore disgraced–what would they do? Where could they possibly go where the notoriety had not spread?

Mrs. Blackmore. How could she possibly survive such a blow? It was obvious for all to see how heavily she leaned upon the Squire–hanging onto his every word and gesture. She sat in her comer of the opulent salon like a meek little mouse in a room full of sleek cats, peering shyly at everyone, her shawl wrapped tightly about her thin shoulders. Try as she would, Elysia could not engage her in conversation, or even the most casual of pleasantries–but then, neither could anyone else. So after awhile they ignored her, her very existence forgotten.

It seemed prophetic that a storm was brewing, Elysia thought as she watched the angry black clouds gathering to the west. There had been clear skies and calm seas for the past couple of days–an uneasy calm had hung in the air like an axe above their heads.

"Devil of a storm brewing," Peter commented laconically, coming up behind Elysia. A distant roll of thunder rumbled a warning as they stood silent for a moment watching the heavy, rain-laden clouds looming larger with their black lacy edges.

"This is why I prefer London during the winter months," Peter said, jumping, as a bolt of lightning Bashed ominously in the distance. "Be awhile yet before it opens up, though. Of course," he added glancing at Elysia's set face, "that storm hasn't a ghost of a chance to beat the one that's been brewing in here. Could cut the air with a knife, it's so thick. What the devil did you do to Alex to put his back up? Never seen him quite so rude and put-offish."

"We had a misunderstanding–a difference of opinion," Elysia answered off-handedly, with little concern in her voice.

"Some difference! I'd hate to be around when you two had a real falling out, if this is an example of a 'difference of opinion:" Peter expostulated disbelievingly. "When you enter a room that he's in, it's like waving a red flag at a raging bull. Alex has been going around with a look as black as thunder. I'm afraid to blink when he's with me–or he'll snap my head off. And you–you've been as aloof and estranged from the world as if you were a nun in a convent. It's none of my business, of course," he continued, despite the uncompromising look on Elysia's face, "and I'm not about to bring a hornet's nest down about my ears by asking Alex–but what happened to put you two at each other's throats?"

"A misunderstanding," Elysia repeated, almost as if talking to herself. "One that I am not at liberty to explain–and until I am, then there is no hope of a reconciliation," Elysia explained in a tight voice.

Peter put his arm about her shoulders and smiled sympathetically. This was indeed a new role for him–playing the learned and wise advisor. Why, he felt suddenly a lifetime older than Elysia, and he was only two years her senior, he thought in dismay, as he said encouragingly, "Alex is a proud devil–too proud by half, but proud as Lucifer he is . . . used to getting his own way, too–always has the last word–and certainly not accustomed to being crossed by a female," he laughed. "You've been giving him back word for word. He's so strong-willed and set in his ways that it must go against his grain to have to accept your independence. Why, I couldn't believe my eyes at some of the things that you've pulled
off!”

"I am used to having my own way too–and do not take kindly, or give in meekly, to–his arrogant, self-imposed authority."

"Well, you've managed to get away with more than I ever could! And I've certainly had more than my share of run-ins with big brother, and that may well be the problem. He is so used to playing the role of big brother to me, and being mother and father to me, that he naturally assumes command of everything, and everyone. He's got a little of the dictator in him, and that is why I'm so astounded by what you've been getting away with. Why, he'd have boxed my ears but good!”

"That is because he doesn't seem to care anymore what I do–if indeed, he ever did. More than likely it was just his ego that had been bruised by my willfulness, not concern for my safety or wellbeing," Elysia struggled to say calmly as a tear spilled down her. cheek.

"Doesn't care!” Peter exclaimed incredulously. "That's absurd. He is mad about you. He's got a fiery nature, and in some way you've managed–as no other woman ever has–to strike a spark off it. And believe me, it's kindled into something big. The fire is there, Elysia, smouldering beneath that cold exterior. He didn't acquire his reputation of being a . . . " he paused delicately, a blush spreading over his high cheek bones, ". . . a demon lover for being a cold fish."

"If he is
burning,
then
it is for Lady Woodley, not for me."

"Hell!” Peter swore.

"I beg your pardon?" Elysia looked surprised.

“I
said Hell, and I meant exactly that," Peter answered unrepentantly, "and you are not offended–I know you better than to think you'd swoon at ungentlemanly language–within reason of course," he added sheepishly.

"And why do you believe Alex doesn't pine after the widow? He has spent enough time with her these last few days."

"Ruse. Just to make you jealous. Doing it out of pique, that's all. Alex can't stand the Blackmores, or that palace they call a Hall. He's just going over there to avoid being alone with you–too mad, I suppose, to trust himself with you. And he is just using Mariana. If he'd have wanted her for a wife he'd have married her back in London–had plenty of opportunity. And he was glad to finish with her too–doesn't like it when they become too possessive, you know."

"Maybe he has changed his mind–realized he has made a mistake by marrying me," Elysia speculated, knowing why he felt the way he did about her–and knowing it was untrue.

"Nope, impossible. Alex doesn't make mistakes like that. Knows his own mind," Peter said with assurance. "Anyway, how could anyone think they'd made a mistake when they look at you? Have to be thick-skulled to believe that.”

"All good Trevegne marriages are stormy ones, it's the Arab in us, or so they say," he added devilishly, knowing he'd attracted her attention.

"The Arab? Are you funning me, Peter? An Englishman with Arab blood in his veins?" Elysia asked skeptically. "And admitting to it? I would have imagined it to be the family secret–something to be whispered about–the skeleton in the closet. Most families have one or two hidden away. Of course, I realize that it is desirable to be able to trace one's ancestry back hundreds of years, but hardly advantageous to trace it back to an Arab–no matter how civilized that ancient race may be when in London it is considered heathenish by proper society. In fact, any foreigner is
outré
nowadays."

"Ah, but you forget how society loves mystery and romance. We've already, or at least Alex has, become infamous and rather talked about Can't you imagine how spicy the rumor of an ancestress who was an Arabian princess would shock and delight their fancy?"

"And is it merely rumor?" Elysia inquired, caught by Peter's intriguing story.

"No, as it so happens, it is indeed the truth; and that, my dear sister-in-law, would really shake the
ton
if they knew it was true–they like it because it adds to the Trevegne legend. It would scare them speechless–which might not be such a bad idea-if they knew all the history of our somewhat adventurous family."

"Well, now that you have succeeded in teasing my interest, it is only fair that you should tell me the story.
After
all, I can be trusted, since I am a Trevegne, can't I?"

"Ummm, I suppose so, but you're honor-bound now not to breathe a word of our tainted bloodline," a he whispered.

"I promise," Elysia said solemnly, a twinkle of humor replacing the tears that had been in her eyes.

Peter smiled with approval and led her over to a chair and settled her comfortably, while sitting down on the rug before the fire, stretching out his long legs to the warmth, and grinned engagingly up at her. "We've quite an unsavory past, you know."

"Yes, I've heard of the freebooter."

"Oh yes, quite a character that," Peter said proudly. "Wouldn't mind going back to those days of adventure-full of swordplay and daring rescues of M'Ladies fair," he dreamed aloud, picturing himself with a cutlass and tri-cornered hat. "Now, this ancestor of ours was quite an adventurer. Must've sailed around the world several times in his travels–set the pattern for generations to follow."

"Including the freebooter who decorated the Great Hall with his loot?" Elysia teased.

"Set a fine example, eh?"

"A fine example for what, one might wonder?"

"Well, one could say that he opened up new horizons, encouraged expanding our knowledge of other people by traveling to "far off and distant lands," Peter continued dramatically, enjoying his role as storyteller. "So, back to the first Alexander, my brother's namesake, of course,” he grinned.

"Of course. I would have expected nothing less," Elysia agreed.

"He was out exploring when he was engaged in a battle with an Arabian slave ship, riding low with the proceeds from the sale of those poor devils–and with one very special passenger, as yet to have been bargained for–and a very valuable cargo, too–the daughter of a sheik from one of those unbelievably wealthy desert kingdoms. I've heard tell that they live like kings in those tents–put the Prince of Wales to shame it would, what with all their gold and jewels draped about them. These slavers had kidnapped the daughter of one of the desert kings, and was to be ransomed off, and then sold to the highest bidder at auction, no doubt. I'm afraid her fate had been sealed, until my swashbuckling ancestor came long, and claimed her, becoming so enslaved by her dusky hair and golden, desert eyes that he brought her home with him as his bride. That is how we account for the gold eyes which show up every other generation," Peter concluded with satisfaction, feeling like a court storyteller in ancient Baghdad.

"That is quite a story, Peter, yet I doubt in reality that it was as romantic as you have made it sound. Your ancestor was a pirate who took what he wanted, regardless of that poor girl's feelings–she was probably frightened half out of her mind. First, being kidnapped by slavers, and then, by an. English pirate from a land she had undoubtedly never heard of, doomed never to see her family again."