Mary Jo Putney (52 page)

As much as she hated to admit it, she could no longer deny that she
had
wanted to hurt him, just a little. Then, after he had shown proper remorse, she would have graciously forgiven him and they could have lived happily ever after in their love. She would have the added satisfaction of knowing how generous she had been.

Instead, because there were already deep wounds in his soul, she had injured him far more profoundly than she had intended, and that injury had rebounded on her. She wished she hadn't come here, had not opened this Pandora's box of dark and twisted motives. But too much had been said to retreat; she could only go forward. The past and present were unbearable. Only the future held hope, and that meant driving away all the dark shadows.

With sudden insight, she knew what must be done. Quietly she asked, "What is the truth that lies at the bottom of your well, Gervase? Who convinced you that you were unworthy of being loved, who made it easier to believe that I was a liar than that I could love you?"

She stood and stepped toward him, remembering what Francis had told her the day before. "Was it your father, who neglected you and considered you an inferior heir? Or was it your mother? You never speak of her." Her voice catching, she continued, "My mother killed herself, and I felt betrayed. What did your mother do that wounded you so deeply you cannot trust another woman?"

She raised one hand tentatively, then dropped it, afraid to touch him. "Why are you so terrified that you will send me away rather than risk love?"

"My God, you
are
a witch." He twisted away from her, his long muscles rigid with anguish. "Before I met you, my mother was the only woman I had ever loved, and it meant nothing to her. Less than nothing.
 
I only wish that she
had
killed herself! It would have been a blessing by comparison."

"What did she do to you?" Diana pursued him implacably, stopping so close to his chair that the soft folds of her gown brushed his leg. "As you yourself have just shown me, wounds that are hidden from the light of day turn poisonous."

He gasped for breath as if he had been running, his voice ragged behind his hands. "You don't want to know. I swear before God, Diana,
you... do... not... want... to... know
!"

Diana placed her hands on his and gently pulled them from his face. As he flinched from her touch, she was shocked to see tears, his features distorted by unbearable memories. He was a grown man, but his expression was that of a devastated child. Softly she asked, "What did she do to you, Gervase, that you are letting it destroy your whole life?"

"You really want to know, mistress mine?" He knocked her hands aside, using fury to disguise his agony. "I warned you, but you insist on knowing the darkest secret of my soul, so I will make you a gift of it." Hoarsely, painfully, his eyes not meeting hers, he spat out, "
The first woman I ever lay with was my mother!
"

Diana stared at him in horror. Nothing had prepared her for this, and she was shocked to the depths of her being.

He could not stop, his words pouring out with chaotic power. "Do you think only women can be raped? You are wrong. My mother raped me, though not with force. She did it casually, because it amused her at that moment. Because she was unhappy about the loss of a lover. Because she had drunk too much wine. Because it never occurred to her to deny her impulses."

He shook his head violently, as if to dislodge the memories. "I was thirteen years old. At first I didn't understand, then I didn't believe, and finally I could not stop my body from responding even though I knew how unspeakably wrong it was."

He stood abruptly and she jerked back, uncertain of what he meant to do. Grasping the brandy decanter, in one smooth, furious motion Gervase hurled it across the room to shatter against the wall.

As crystal shards spun across the polished hardwood floor and the sharp tang of brandy filled the room, he cried out, "Is that ugly enough for you? Is that a powerful enough reason to doubt that women can be trusted?"

He had been avoiding her eyes, but now he turned to face her, all vestige of control vanished. "It repulses you, doesn't it, knowing that your husband is a man who committed incest with his own mother? Incest is the vilest, the most forbidden of crimes. Oedipus was hurled down from his throne, blinded, and cast out into the wilderness for it."

Half-wild with devastation, he finished in a hoarse whisper, "It is more than a crime, it is an abomination, a sin against God. There is nothing, nothing at all, that can absolve that."

His agony was a fiery, tangible thing, and it struck Diana to the heart. She didn't want to believe that any mother could do such a thing to her son, that the man she loved had lived most of his life with such grief and shame, but the intolerable truth was written in every tortured line of his face.

With instinctive desire to offer comfort, she cried out, "It wasn't your fault! She was a woman grown and you were scarcely more than a child. It is horrible that any woman could abuse her child so, but you are not horrible for having been a victim of her. Don't let your guilt destroy you."

Then, with fierce entreaty, she begged, "And don't punish me for your mother's sin."

His raw gaze met hers. He stood a bare foot away, the fevered warmth of his lean body palpable. "I may have been more sinned against than sinning at thirteen, but I can't escape the knowledge that I am far more her child than my father's."

His mouth twisted. "My father was as dry and unfeeling as dust. It is my mother's passionate, wanton nature I inherited, and I am no better than she was. You of all women know what I am capable of. I have tried to control myself, to spend passion where it will do no harm, to expiate my sins by working for goals greater than myself."

His shoulders lifted in a gesture of despair. "I have tried to believe that I am no worse than other men, but in spite of all I have done, I have been unable to escape the truth. I am flawed beyond redemption."

"No one is beyond redemption! You are no more flawed than any other mortal man." In her fierce desire to defend him from himself, she grasped his upper arms, trying to break through his guilt and self-hatred.

She knew instantly that she had made a disastrous error. Her touch dissolved the fragile control that held Gervase's violent emotions in check, and his taut muscles spasmed under her hands. He pulled her into a fierce, painful embrace, his mouth devouring, his arms crushing her against his hard body. She felt nothing of love and tenderness, only anguish and a bitter desire to strike mindlessly at the darkness within him.

In two steps he had dragged her to the bed and thrown her onto it, trapping her body beneath him, bruising her lips as he invaded her mouth. Wrenching the neckline of her silk robe, he exposed her breasts to his hungry grasp.

Diana fought him, trying to get enough leverage with arms and knees to free herself, but he was too strong, too lost in his own private hell, for her to escape. If he had wanted her in any other way she would have given herself gladly, but not like this, not in an act of violence that would sear them both beyond the possibility of healing.

He half-lifted himself to get a better grip on her robe, and she used his shift in weight to reach down to the knife sheath on her leg. Lost in darkness beyond thought, Gervase didn't even see the bright flash of blade as she raised her knife and slashed it across his left forearm.

Pain penetrated his madness as words could not have done. As blood dripped onto her bare breasts, Gervase rolled away, his features contorted with horror at what he had almost done. His rigid body was an eloquent reflection of his despair as he buried his face, his hands clenching the heavy quilt. Even though his assault on his wife had been unsuccessful, the attempt was bitter confirmation of his own worst beliefs about his nature.

Trembling with shock, Diana laid the bloodstained knife on the bed and used one hand to pull her robe together as she struggled to draw breath into her lungs. The room seethed with the force of the emotions that had been unleashed, and she wondered helplessly how a man and woman who had loved could hurt each other so profoundly.

After an endless time Gervase spoke, his voice dead, devoid even of pain. "Don't speak to me of redemption, Diana. Some souls are beyond forgiveness. Surely even you will admit that now."

When language failed in the past she had always used touch to convey what words could not, but when she laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder he twisted violently away from her. "Don't touch me.
In the name of God, don't touch me!"

Shocked, she jerked back, huddling on the edge of the bed, her arms clenching across her. Trying to be matter-of-fact, to bring this nightmare scene back to normal, she said, "Your arm needs bandaging."

He had rolled onto his back, his good arm screening the upper half of his face. Utterly hopeless, he said, "Not by you. Get out, Diana. Just get out."

She stood, clutching her torn robe around her as she gazed down at him. She had never been more aware of his strength than now, when he was on the verge of breaking. She had known more than her share of suffering, but she had also known love, from her mother, even from her father when she was very young. Later, Edith and Geoffrey and Madeline had warmed her life. In spite of receiving so much love, she saw now that she had not fully recovered from her experiences.

Gervase had had no one, ever. A father who wasn't there, a mother who abused him in the most unpredictable and poisonous ways. Yet even so, he had not succumbed to cruelty. He had the wealth and power and intelligence to cause great evil, yet he was fair and honorable to those who depended on him. As a lover, he had been more than fair; he had been generous and kind, even tender. Repeatedly he had risked his life for the greater good, both in the army and in the mysterious, thankless work he did now.

Never having known real warmth and love, no wonder he feared accepting it, feared the power she might gain over him. As starved as he was for intimacy, no wonder he had been desperately jealous and possessive, unable to believe in her constancy. No wonder he had been shattered by her apparent betrayal. It wasn't just that he believed her to be treacherous. Her actions had released the dark trauma that lay at the very roots of his soul.

She had never loved him more than now, when she was aware of the full dimensions of his valor. It wasn't hard to be good when circumstances encourage it. How incredibly more difficult it must have been for Gervase, who had been raised by the examples of selfishness and neglect. Yet he had done it, become a far better man than his upbringing had decreed. If not happy, he had been content, had known his place in the world and was living an honorable life.

And in her heedless self-righteousness, her unacknowledged desire to exact a subtle payment for what he had done, she had brought him to this. She remembered the words Madeline had spoken long ago in a sunlit garden:
Some people... can be brought to their knees, with all their pride and honor broken by the ones they love.

Diana was bitterly ashamed for having played on Gervase's uncertainties. To feed her own desire for power, she had refused to promise fidelity when he had so desperately craved it. Yes, she had been injured by him, but she had been in a position to know better than to injure him in return, and she had failed.

Diana sensed that he was now in some black place beyond light or hope, and feared that nothing she could do or say would make any difference at all. But she could do no less than try.

Her voice shaking, she said softly, "No matter what you have done, or how much you hate yourself, I love you, because you are worthy of being loved. I think it was fate that drew us together. We have both been wounded, but together, if we try, we can heal each other. You are part of me, and I will love you as long as I live, and beyond."

She could see a quick, convulsive tightening in the part of his face that was visible, but his harsh breathing was his only reply. The abyss between them was too wide to be bridged, and she feared that the damage was beyond repairing. There was nothing more to be said, so she lifted her candle, now burned low and guttering.

She also took her knife. If he wanted to destroy himself rather than live in his pain, she knew he could find a way, but she would not make it easy for him.

Only the knowledge that her presence was hurting him made it possible for her to leave.

Chapter 23