Forbidden Fire (18 page)

Marissa was startled by the sudden question. He hadn't seemed to notice her words downstairs. Apparently he had chosen to ignore them until now. And while it had been easy enough to set little barbs into conversation downstairs, she was annoyed to discover herself at a loss up here.

“As I said before, it was a very long journey—”

“Therefore I suggest you talk quickly,” he said politely, only a hint of warning to his words.

She walked over to the Art Nouveau dresser, studying her image as she unpinned her hat and set it down. Her hair was coming loose in wild strands and tendrils, and she suddenly wished she'd left the hat alone. Then she saw Ian's face in the mirror behind her, his handsome features taut, his eyes dark and demanding upon hers. A lock of black hair hung loose over his forehead as he, too, removed his hat, tossing it on the bed. “I've all evening,” he told her.

“Ian,” she said, speaking to his mirrored image, “if you'd be so kind—”

“Well, I wouldn't be. We've gone through this before. I'm an American, crude, no gentleman. So let's finish this.”

She swung around furiously. “Yes, indeed, let's. You poor dear thing! You're mourning your wife, your one and only real wife. And so you want your complete freedom to play with your whores. We agreed to that. I just thought that perhaps you might have better manners than to bring them to the station on the night you were to meet me!”

She had never imagined a man could go so white, or that every muscle within him might tauten and flick with such violence and fury. He took a sudden swift step toward her, his hand raised as if to strike her. Marissa cried out, suddenly and regretfully aware that she had gone a step too far. She had wanted to wound him. She had done so. Swiftly, precisely and well.

“No!” she gasped, ducking low, feeling the blood drain from her own face.

He paused. His hand fell. She saw the long, deadly fingers close into fists, and she tried to run past him.

He caught her, and his fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her to him. She cried out in pain, her eyes stinging with tears. Caught against him, she looked into his eyes that seemed obsidian, and though he hadn't said a word, she found herself apologizing. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean—”

“Don't ever, ever mention my past again!”

“Let me go! I didn't mean to mention your past! It's your present I find offensive!”

His eyes narrowed sharply. His fingers, entwined in her hair, tightened upon her upper arms. “Why, you little witch! I told you from the very beginning—”

“Let go!” she insisted, pounding against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, and his heat. The situation was becoming all too reminiscent of an earlier one. She didn't want to be so close to him as a man. It evoked new hatreds and furies, and longings.

“I told you—”

She tossed her head, meeting his gaze with flashing eyes. “Who do you think you are! Don't you think that anyone else has ever been hurt before? I'm sorry about your wife. I'm damned sorry about your wife. But you with your grand house and your store and your building and your disgusting money, you don't begin to understand what real hurting can be. You—”

He shook her suddenly, and she broke off, horribly aware of everything she had been saying.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded heatedly. “What hardship have you ever known? Threatened with a world in which you would have to survive on your own, you married me for money. So don't you ever—”

“I'll not spend my life tiptoeing—”

“What are you talking about!” he thundered.

“I lost my father!” she snapped. “And I—” Again she broke off, not because he touched her harshly or with violence, but because his gaze was so very probing, because it felt as if the room were stifling hot. Pressed so close to his chest, she felt each slam of his heart against her breast. She couldn't breathe, and she wanted more than anything to escape him. But he was staring at her so intently that she thought he could see through the sham of her elegant clothing, that he knew everything that lay beneath. Had she given herself away?

“Tell me!” he thundered. “Tell me what the hell gives you the right to judge me. What hardship have you ever known?”

He no longer accused her of having a lover; the truth of that had been given to him on that night in London. But in her anger she had given much more away, and she was still doing so. “I've seen—I've seen Mary's life. I've seen the miners where she lived cough away their lives, and I've seen their children dressed in rags, starving, no more than skin and bone and wide eyes. I've seen children so covered in mud and smut that they were unrecognizable!”

Oh, Lord! She had to pray, and pray fervently, that she had been unrecognizable. He didn't remember her as the muddied waif in the village, did he? He would never, never associate his wife with that poor creature! Or would he?

She was shaking, her teeth chattering, and her eyes fell from his. “You're not the only one who has ever been hurt!” she repeated.

He didn't move. He was silent, staring at her for so long that she began to feel the pain of his knotted grip upon her.

Finally he released her, but she cried out as he turned away, for tendrils of her hair were still entangled about his fingers. To her surprise he did not jerk free from her, but paused to carefully untangle every last hair. Then he strode toward the door opposite the dressing room and bath. When he spoke, his voice was level and flat, curiously detached.

“John will soon bring your belongings,” he said, “and Lee will bring you something to eat. There's a tub with hot and cold running water in the bathroom. If there's anything you need, you've only to ask Lee or John. There's other help in during the day, but only the Kwans live in the house. They've an apartment on the third floor should you need them at any time.”

“I'm usually quite self-sufficient, thank you,” Marissa said. She watched as he walked to the door and opened it. She could just see a large room past it, completely different from her own. There was a huge bed within it, covered in dark black and crimson pattern. The floor there, too, was hardwood, and covered with a beautiful Oriental rug in lighter shades to ease the darkness of the bed and draperies. The fixtures were in brass, and a very heavy long oak desk stood before one window.

“My God!” she gasped suddenly. “That's your room.”

He paused, turning to her. “It is.”

“There's a lock on the door, I assume.”

His lip curled with taunting humor. “My dear Mrs. Tremayne, I thought you were distressed because of my, er, friends. Yet knowing that I have those friends would seem to keep your private quarters quite safe from unwanted visits. And if I do recall correctly, just this evening you invited one certain friend into this house!”

“I don't mind your friends,” she assured him.

“Then just what is your difficulty?”

“That you—” she began, then paused, inhaling deeply. “I mind that you had that woman at the station.”

“I didn't have her there. It is a free world, remember?”

“Will you please just get out so I can lock the door?”

He smiled pleasantly. “Yes, by all means, lock the door. But remember, Marissa, it seems that you are fond of attacking me and my life. You say that it is my present that disturbs you, but you felt it right to comment on my past. So bear in mind that this is my home. My door, my lock. And if for any reason I felt the need, I would shatter the wood from the door to enter any room in this place.”

“That wasn't the agreement—”

“No!” he snapped, dispassion gone. “I made no agreements, and no promises. Bear that in mind, lady, and if you would have your precious privacy, then I warn you most strenuously—stay away from me, and keep your judgments and opinions to yourself!”

He stared at her one moment longer, then turned.

The door slammed in his wake, so hard that it seemed the wood already shattered.

She stared at the closed door, swore softly, then sank down on the foot of her bed, alarmed as she felt the threat of tears sting her eyes.

This was a new world, her new world. She already loved the city, and she would have respectability here, for she was the wife of a very rich man. She had so much here.

And she wasn't going to let him ruin it!

She blinked furiously and hurried through the door to her bath and dressing rooms. Each was as elegant as the bedroom. The huge bathroom offered a large white porcelain tub with lions' claw feet, racks of snowy white towels, lovely Dutch tiles on the walls. She opened a cabinet to find soaps and lotions and a large pink bottle of French bubble bath. She closed the cabinet and leaned against it. She couldn't wait for her bags to arrive, for total privacy, to sink into the tub.

She hurried on to explore the next room—her study, library, sitting room, whatever she chose it to be.

She pushed open the connecting door and stared blankly.

My God, she could house half of the miners and their families in these few rooms! If only Mary were with her here!

But Mary wasn't with her. And she wouldn't even be at the caretakers' cottage for long. She and Jimmy would be moving on to their own household.

She was alone here. With Ian too close and too far away all in one. And with John Kwan and the beautiful Lee, who already stared at her with hostility.

Did the exotic Chinese girl offer her master more than domestic services?

As she taunted herself, Marissa felt her face burn. She pressed her hands against her cheeks. She didn't want to know, she told herself.

But she did. With a dread fascination, she wanted to know everything about Ian. Even the things that seemed to pierce so sharply into her heart.

Impatient with herself, she went into the room. It was set up as a library, and she thought that she liked it very much that way. There was a desk with a swivel chair, and there were two leather armchairs set before the fireplace. In the far corner, by a set of bookshelves, was a beautiful day bed, covered in a blue damask set off by the dark brown leather of the armchairs. It was a handsome room with the rows of books, and in a far corner, another turret set with a comfortable blue armchair and needlepoint footrest. The windows took the upper portion of the wall and were etched and set with brass. She imagined that in the day the light would pour in, and that it would be a wonderful place to curl up with a book. And if it rained, and if the wind blew, and the weather turned cold, there was always the fire to come in to.

She had curled into one of the leather chairs when she felt a presence behind her. Holding back a scream, she turned to see that the woman, Lee Kwan, was standing still and silent behind her.

“I startled you, madam. I am sorry.”

Marissa leaped up. “You might have knocked,” she said, unnerved by the woman's appearance.

“The doors were open. I just wished to let you know that John has brought your things, and I have left you a covered tray. Shall I unpack for you?”

She shook her head, then realized that she did not want to be enemies with Lee Kwan. Not until she knew more about her home, at least.

“Uh, no, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I prefer to unpack myself.”

Lee Kwan's inscrutable dark eyes lowered as she bowed to Marissa. “As you wish.”

She was going to turn and leave, Marissa knew, and she was startled when she called the woman back. “Thank you for bringing the tray,” she said quickly. The woman nodded, offering Marissa nothing more. “Have you and your husband been with Mr. Tremayne long?” she asked.

“My husband?” Lee asked.

“Yes, John.”

“Oh.” Lee's lashes flicked over her dark eyes. “He is not my husband. He is my brother. Is there anything else that I can do for you, Mrs. Tremayne? May I draw you a bath?”

“No, thank you.” She wanted a bath but she wanted Lee Kwan gone more. “I'll take care of myself this evening, thank you.”

“It was a long journey for you,” Lee offered.

“Very.”

Lee bowed again and turned to leave. Marissa did not call her back.

And when the woman was gone, Marissa followed her to the bedroom, locking the double doors to the hallway. She did not want to be surprised again. It would probably be a long night. As tired and travel worn as she was, she would probably never be able to fall asleep here tonight. In his house.

She stretched out on the bed, running her fingers over the beautiful gold and cream spread. It was such a wonderful house. Or it could be, she thought, if it could be brought to life.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what ian's first wife would have been like. Maybe a very delicate blonde, with no hints of red within her hair. And her eyes would have been a soft blue, and she would have been really beautiful, a lady in every sense of the word. And they would have reigned here together with love and laughter, and then the house would have been truly alive.

She sighed softly. Life would be good here for Jimmy and Mary. Jimmy would flourish at lan's emporium. He was smart, he could work tirelessly, and he loved Mary with all his heart. Mary would be happy.

It was her own life that would be so very empty.

She wouldn't allow it to be, she told herself. She was going to wallow in the luxury. And write long letters to Uncle Theo, and to the vicar, and she was going to be certain that everything went well with her school.

Uncle Theo and the school were across a continent and an ocean. And life stretched out long before her here.

She was exhausted, she thought. That was why she continually felt the hotness of tears behind her eyelids. She was going to start with luxury, an endless bath with sweet-smelling bubbles in the huge porcelain tub. Then she could put her things away, her beautiful new things, and it would begin to feel like home.