When Angels Fall (34 page)

The snow was high in the bailey and the only path was cut from the sleighs leaving the front doors. Looking around, she noticed a pony cart by the kitchen door, no doubt left by one of the townsfolk who was now probably in the kitchens tippling gin with the help.

She would return it in the morning, she vowed, trudging through the snow, unmindful of her wet, ruined hem. Her slippers were also ruined, but she made it to the cart and took the reins of the little snowy Shetland. With her palm, she wiped the tears off her cheek, wishing fervently that they would just freeze there. There was no time for further indulgence, however, for Ivan was again right behind her. So she flicked the reins and forced the pony forward. When the little Shetland found the sleigh path, it broke into a trot.

“Damn it, Lissa! I said stop!” she heard Ivan call out, but she paid him no heed. She urged the pony on and soon she was beyond the gatehouse. The only thing that followed her after that was Ivan’s curses.

Beyond Powerscourt, the snow fell swift and silent. Her pony’s breath came in silvery puffs as it left the sleigh path to town and turned toward Violet Croft. A merciless opaque sky left them in darkness and they struggled to stay on the road, which was now blanketed in virgin white. The Shetland went a respectable distance, but quickly the snow grew too deep. Soon the cart became hopelessly bogged down in the drifts, and, in her disappointment, her tears began anew.

She cried for a moment, then descended the cart and went to the pony. Her mantle slipped from her shoulders when she pulled on the Shetland’s bridle, but she was unmindful of the cold. All she wanted was to get home and forget the entire evening. To her joy, the pony took another step or two with her help, and she climbed into the cart, relieved to continue. But again the sensible pony refused to go farther.

She felt she would go mad from frustration when a tall, shadowy horseman appeared behind her. She feared the rider was Ivan and she expected him to bear down on her, yet the dark figure paused, as if, somehow, he found her a fetching sight: a girl in a pony cart, her hair and gown iced with snow, the flakes glittering like the crystals in her hair, the night a velvety backdrop to her portrait. The rider seemed almost enchanted by her, but soon the spell was broken and he purposefully urged his steed closer until the falling snow no longer blurred his image.

She frowned and eyed the horseman with unveiled dislike. It was Ivan after all, and her anger only increased when she realized she was trembling before him.

“It’s the height of impropriety for the host to leave his ball, my lord. Or hasn’t your posh London lifestyle taught you that yet?” She flicked the pony’s reins in a futile attempt to get it to move.

Without a word, he dismounted. His silence was ominous as he walked to where her mantle lay in the snow. He
picked it up and tossed it to her. It fell wet and heavy into her lap.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously when he began unharnessing the pony.

“We’re going back.”

Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Indeed
we
are not. I’m going to Violet Croft.”

He didn’t even bother to debate the issue. His anger was all too clear as he tied the Shetland to the back of his Thoroughbred. Acting as if she were a child, he walked up to the cart and held out his hand, waiting for her to comply.

She refused.

“I’m returning to Violet Croft, Ivan. So take the pony back with you. I shall walk the rest of the way, if I have to.”

He laughed, dashing all her bravado. “I believe you would,
alainn,
but you’ve not just the snow to contend with now. You’ve got me. So get down from that cart before I drag you from it.” He held out his hand again.

But again she refused it. He was just about to climb onto the cart when she knew she had to do something. She clambered down the other side, barely pausing to don her mantle, and ran toward her cottage. Yet as she waded through the snow, with her ungainly satin skirts tripping her up more than the drifts did, Ivan had little trouble reaching her.

“I won’t go back with you, Ivan! I won’t!” she cried when he lifted her into his arms. She was thrown against his chest and though she wanted to fight him, the warmth of his body was almost welcome in the frigid night air. Still she knew this was madness, so she pushed against his chest with all her strength.

He merely laughed, seeming to enjoy the fight. Only when she had quieted did she know how much.

His desire was all too apparent when she was crushed against him in an intimate embrace. His arms were locked
around her and he had lifted her completely clear of the snow. Though there were many layers of silk and wool between them, she could feel his hard, muscular body pressing against hers. The familiarity made her face flame. “Ivan, let me down,” she demanded.

“Shall you come with me back to the castle then?”

“I want to go home—”

She felt his hand move to her bottom. He squeezed her fondly. Her eyes opened wide in shock.

“Back to the castle?” he asked, lifting one of his jet eyebrows.

“Yes!” she blurted out hastily, willing to say anything so that he would release her. But even so he took his time letting her go.

Once released, however, she was not quite ready to admit defeat. This time, she gathered her cumbersome skirts in her hands and plunged through the snow toward Violet Croft. With every step, she was sure she could make out her cottage’s outline in the snowy night. But Violet Croft never quite appeared before Ivan seized her and they plummeted into the snow.

She gasped as he fell on top of her. His tall, well-conditioned frame seemed like a prison, and though she knew she should try to get away, now it was impossible. She’d let herself become hopelessly vulnerable. She should have never gone to the ball; she should have never run away. She should have remained by Evvie’s side and refused any waltzes. Then Ivan wouldn’t have been able to torment her; then she never would have been hurt by Letitia’s cruel comment.

Yet even that hurt dimmed beside the pain that Ivan had caused. She pushed on his implacable chest. Her desire for him was becoming a torture she could no longer endure.

Warily she met his gaze, then promptly lost another battle. In his eyes, she glimpsed something she had never seen before—something that was sacred yet dangerous. It
was as dark and beautiful as the midnight sky, and just as unreachable. It promised both heaven and hell; and she knew that in order to get one, she would have to chance the other.

“Come back to the castle, love. Don’t fight me any more,” he whispered to her.

She shook her head and smiled bitterly. “Ivan, we’ll destroy each other.”

He reached for her cold little hand and brought it to his mouth. He placed a burning kiss into her palm, then achingly brought her hand to his scar.

“So let’s destroy each other,” he answered in a husky voice.

A soft moan escaped her lips and his mouth came down on hers in a soul-stealing kiss. His lips grew impossibly demanding until he would accept nothing less than her full participation. He forced her to kiss him with equal ferocity and when she did, there was nothing in the universe but Ivan and her passion for him, which she had held in check for so long.

She prayed that as the phoenix could rise from its ashes, so could they, but when he brought her to her feet, her fears overwhelmed her. They were both covered with snow but neither of them seemed to notice. Without a word, without a glance, he took her hand and tried to lead her to his steed. But she pulled back, frightened.

“I can’t, Ivan. I won’t,” she told him.

He turned and faced her. His hand gently brushed the snow from her hair. “I’ve thought about this night for five years, Lissa. Don’t deny me it now.”

“You’ve thought about it for revenge and only revenge. I’m not so foolish—”

“Foolish! Foolish!” he snapped. “It’s I who has played the fool! I’ve been through this torment so many times, I can’t see straight any more. Let’s be done with it, Lissa. Tonight I’ll rid you from my soul and you can do likewise!” With that, he lifted her into his arms and onto
his saddle. She gasped her protests and tried to dismount, but he stopped her. He mounted also and soon they were heading back to the castle.

The snow was falling more heavily now, but somehow Ivan seemed to know just where to go. They arrived in Powerscourt’s bailey within minutes. The steed and the pony were promptly taken to the stables by the grooms, and though Lissa pleaded with him to take her back to the ball, he refused.

He pulled her across the snowy bailey and ducked them into a covered servants’ door just as another crowd was leaving in their sleighs. Unseen by the guests, Ivan pulled her to his chest and cupped her face with his hands. His palms were callused, yet their rough texture was almost pleasing. When she next looked up, his expression took her breath away. Intense and impatient, he then kissed her, devouring her with his mouth, and she knew without a doubt there was no turning back. He was not to be denied now. From the look on his face, an army of men couldn’t stop him.

Before she could catch her breath they’d gone through the servants’ door and were in the keep. There wasn’t a soul around as he took her by the hand and forced her through the back maze of passages that led to the lord’s apartments. She tried to comprehend what they were about to do but her emotions clouded her ability to think. She was afraid yet exhilarated. Deep down inside, she knew she wanted him, but what would tomorrow bring? Nothing but heartache. He would once more begin his notorious pursuit of other women and she would be left behind, forgotten like an old toy.

Terrified, she stood still on the stone floor of the passage. She had to stop him. If she didn’t, then what Letitia had said about her might become all too true.

“Ivan, no—” she began, but he was in no mood for words. Seeing her reluctance, he lifted her up like a bag of horse feed and carried her to his apartments. When they
were finally in his bedchamber, he laid her trembling body down before the great fire that burned in the hearth. Before her stood Ivan’s stately Elizabethan bed, massively carved in oak, heavily draped in Bargello needlework. Above her the pinnacled ceiling and ogee arches glimmered in the firelight. The room was dark and masculine, redolent with Romanticism and medieval Gothic. Though it had been Ivan’s father’s room and his father’s before that, it was only another irony that it suited the present lord perfectly.

She started when she felt his hands upon her. He slid her wet mantle off her shoulders and it landed heavily behind her. She was cold. Whatever hair wasn’t in her snood now hung in damp tendrils about her face and neck, and her hem was frigid with clinging, melting snow. But she shivered even more as she watched Ivan move about the room, a wicked expression on his face. He went to a massive bog oak chest and poured something amber from a decanter. He brought a glass to her and put it in her chilled hand.

“Drink this,
alainn.
”

Alainn,
she thought, and took the liquor in one fiery gulp. The name reminded her of all that was terrible in their relationship.

“More?”

She shook her head. Mutely she allowed him to take the glass from her hand.

He eased himself down on the hearth next to her. She looked at the unnatural light in his eyes, and suddenly she knew without a doubt that the only way to stop him now was to kill him. He had her and he was not about to let her go. She trembled. He was so close she could smell his breath laced with the essence of brandy. His jaw bore the shadow of a beard, and when he bent to kiss her cheek, her nose, her throat, she felt his rough skin. She inhaled and he filled her to bursting. If colors were fragrance, his scent would be a dark, sparkling burgundy,
warm and rich. Soon a shiver ran down her spine as she felt his fingers on the back of her bodice. Instinctively she drew away, but there was nowhere to go. It was another exquisite torture, but one by one the silk lacings holding her gown together were undone.

His gaze never wavered from her own. He stared at her for a long time, taking in all of her appearance. The gown, or rather how she looked in it, seemed to captivate him. The way the gleaming rose satin hung from her shoulders, barely on, yet barely off, lit a possessive spark in his eyes. The snood pleased him also, but, unexpectedly, it was the next thing to go. He tore it off her hair and the crystals dropped to the stone floor like hail. Her tresses fell free in a silver-gilt cascade, and that seemed to be what pleased him most of all. He picked up a silky curl from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. The color seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Finally he murmured, “I’ll never be rid of you, Lissa. You’ll haunt me forever.”

His words offered her no solace. The scar on his face, that cruel, white scar, was cast in the firelight. Suddenly his statement seemed absurd. Of course, Ivan would never be rid of her. Not as long as he could look into a mirror.

He wrapped his hand in her hair and pulled her to him for another kiss. He wouldn’t accept any holding back, and all too quickly her tongue met traitorously, deliciously with his. She felt him work at the ribbons on her corset cover and she was jerked by the force of his pull. Still his lips wouldn’t release her.

The task was done in an astoundingly short amount of time and she was dragged to his bed. There, he left her holding her loosened dress and corset to her bosom while he walked to the fire. His cutaway came off first, then his waistcoat. He dispensed with his collar and bowtie. Finally he ripped off his shirt, revealing a magnificent, well-muscled chest.

She trembled for she knew it well. Hardly a summer
day had gone by when she hadn’t watched him from her room while he toiled shirtless in the Alcester stable yard. Now as she looked at him though, she felt a great jolt of emotion that had barely stirred within her years before. Desire coursed through her veins like an opiate. It made her belly tighten and her legs grow weak. Her palms curled around the heavy Genoa silk of the counterpane as she watched him walk to the bed.

“Take off your gown,” he told her in a rich, low voice.