Chapter Twenty
There’s truth in fiction…
Socially awkward, few friends, bad-tempered and haughty.
Yes, thought Aideen as she sat in bed reading, there were more than a few striking similarities between her husband and Mr D, but unlike Miss Elizabeth, she’d had to marry the man before violent love had been proclaimed.
She plonked her well-thumbed volume on the bedside table and instead picked up the letter she had received earlier today. It was from an ecstatic Cordelia. An ecstatic Cordelia, who at the time of writing had been passing the night at an inn near Northampton with Lord Oakdean.
My dearest friend,
I apologise profusely for not bidding you farewell, but this past day has been somewhat of a rush as James and I have decided to marry at Gretna Green!
I have always wanted to visit Scotland, but Aunty warned me it was full of barbarians. James assures me, however, this is not the case.
We are at an inn. ALONE.
Why did you not warn me, dear friend, that nightcaps would be the least of my concerns? It was quite a shock, I can tell you, but oh what a rapturous one!
James and I still have much to learn about each other, but our deepest emotion is the same – Love.
I do so hope you can find this with the duke, as I have beheld your anguish when you think no one is looking. I know he feels equally for you as his gaze possesses that same anguish when it catches in your direction – which is A LOT.
I had better end my letter there, dearest friend. James has got that look in his eye again.
All my love,
Cordy.
Obviously, Mrs Greenwood had succeeded in subduing the news that her pristine daughter had eloped to Gretna Green, as nothing had reached the papers or been gossiped about at tea.
She was happy for Cordelia, for the excitement and love her friend had found, but she also couldn’t help feeling bitterly, wickedly jealous.
It was awful to bear such an emotion but so it was. She could pretend otherwise but there was no point lying to oneself – or maybe there was. Maybe if one repeated something enough it would come true.
Aideen took a deep breath. “I am not jealous as my husband will enter through that door at any moment and declare undying love.”
The adjoining door opened. “Aideen, are you awake?”
Well, one out of three wasn’t bad.
“Yes.”
Alex strode in – as if he ever walked in any other way – and then stood by the fire, even though it was unlit. He wore that black banyan again and she couldn’t help the tremble as she remembered pushing it from his shoulders, kissing that odd tattoo. The curl had returned, draping its way across his forehead in defiance of its strict regime.
Why was he here?
A glass of brandy sat cradled in his palm, but he placed it on the mantel and swiped a hand over his face. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was nervous.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing important, darling husband.” She twiddled with her plait, unsure about continuing with the sweet act as her fists ached from all the clenching…as did her jaw.
A smile surfaced. “You do tell fibs, don’t you, my mavourneen?”
Now there was an agreeable endearment, Irish and loving. “Only trivial ones.”
After crossing to the bed, he sat on the very edge and expressed…nerves again. It was infectious. Had he come to give her bad news? Was he leaving for the Continent on a mission?
Rakecombe pushed his hair back, although that ridiculous curl he’d never been able to get rid of slipped down again. Thorn had once suggested egg white as a remedy – never again.
Walking home with Winterbourne – when he’d been able to get a thought in edgeways – he’d decided to talk to Aideen this very night. He couldn’t bear it any longer.
Attempting to stay away from her resulted in failure and frustration, so he’d have to do the complete opposite. But in order to keep her safe, and far from the danger he brought to those close, he needed Aideen to understand a few matters, comply with a few…instructions.
So, whilst eating supper, he’d written a list with twenty-three… He hesitated to say rules, more like codes of procedure which must be followed.
Compliance with instructions, he knew, wasn’t an Aideen trait but surely if she understood the reasoning behind his list, all would be well.
But where to start? She looked so young and innocent with her hair plaited into submission, hands folded saintly, although the gossamer night-rail belied her true colours. Black, of course – the wicked wench.
“I told a falsehood,” he confessed.
She didn’t reply, scarcely raised a brow, and he realised his wife wasn’t going to make this easy for him. But then again, it was exactly that prickliness he adored.
He coughed. “I stated that I married you for an heir. Gave the impression I was forced because of that kiss at the Beckfords’. But you were right, I could have bundled you off somewhere, and if I wanted an heir so desperately, I would have married some horse-faced debutante with excellent bloodlines.”
Silence met his confession. Was she really not going to help at all?
Obviously not.
“However, I was extremely worried about my vocation affecting your safety, so decided we should live…separate lives.”
He waited.
Silence. She pursed her lips and…
But no, they rested again. Mute.
Damnation, this was more painful than being tattooed.
Clearing his throat, he continued, “I have realised since our wedding that this is not feasible. Our attraction is too great, and we are both…discontented, are we not?”
Surely, she would have to answer a question?
She merely nodded.
Bugger.
“So, I hope to…begin our marriage again. Start anew. Spend evenings together. Read. Dine. The theatre and so forth.” He fiddled with his signet ring and then hastily thought better of it – fidgeting and fiddling were a sign of worry, and he wasn’t…at all. In any way.
A horrible thought occurred.
What if she didn’t wish to start anew? He didn’t mean to sound arrogant but he naturally assumed she would be amenable. But her silence was speaking a thousand words and none of them were “that sounds lovely, Alexander, get into bed”.
“Erm, to facilitate your safety, however, I have come up with a list of–”
“What do you feel for me, Alex?” she interrupted at last.
“Feel?” He frowned. What did that have to do with anything? “Er…”
“Is this attraction you speak of purely lust which will diminish with time?”
God, no. He adored her smiles and kindness, her vibrant eyes, and he liked simply watching her restless energy. He also adored it when she got annoyed and waved her arms around like a mad windmill. But telling Aideen that was a bit like stuffing your hand in an escaped bear’s mouth and expecting a lick.
“Not at all. I very much enjoy your company.” There, that sounded good. He also relished and craved it, but steady on.
“Hmm,” she replied.
He tried again. “I have a list, Aideen, which I hope–”
“Why did you pretend to be a Welsh seducer? And please be aware only one answer is correct.” She flipped the plait over her shoulder and crossed her arms.
Blast. Why had he done that?
“I was jealous?”
She unfolded her arms and smiled. Phew.
“Absurd but correct.”
Good. Now… “Aideen, I have a list–”
“What happened to Gwen?”
Although she had been rather uncommunicative so far, Rakecombe had felt he was at last getting somewhere until that question. Just the name on her lips caused his throat to dry and blood to chill.
“Gwen?” he stalled.
“Gwen,” she repeated.
“She was my sister. She died.” Don’t ask, his heart rapped out. Please don’t ask.
“How did she die?”
“I do not wish to discuss the matter,” he replied, using the tone that petrified worldly matrons and made young cubs wet themselves.
“But I do,” Aideen said, “because I have a feeling she taints everything you do, everything you say.”
Glaring at the rust coverlet, he considered leaving, but a supple hand swept his face, pushed that bloody curl back and then slipped down his neck.
He’d never told anyone – not properly. His mother had been given the barest of details to spare her the pain, and his leader at that time had received a report devoid of emotion. Kelmarsh knew the most but the words had been garbled out with anger and pain.
“I can’t…” But he couldn’t leave either because fingers delicately caressed his nape and he craved more.
“Join me in bed, Alexander,” she whispered, and he knew. He knew he’d reveal all if she continued to whisper in his ear, that beautiful Irish lilt soothing his soul.
She brought him vexation and worry and barbed words, but she also brought peace and contentment and gentleness. Such a dichotomy. He had to protect it, treasure it.
Throwing his banyan to the floor, he clambered into bed as she shifted over to make room, but he didn’t want that, and pulling her back to the centre, he laid his head on her breast – so soft but with a heart thundering his presence like cannon fire.
A sigh reverberated through her and then those fingers returned, brushing his hair, nails lightly scratching.
“Mother said Gwen was daring from the moment she was born. Always getting into scrapes, crawling where she shouldn’t and generally twisting everyone around her plump little fingers. She was utterly spoiled by us all.”
“What was the difference in age?” she asked, now stroking his shoulder blades.
“Four years but we were close. We went rambling in the woods, fishing. I treated her as a brother, which maybe was a mistake.”
“No regrets, Alex. If she enjoyed it, then it was her nature. It all sounds idyllic and I wish I’d had siblings.”
“Your father has never remarried?” He played with the black velvet ribbon of her bodice.
“No. I thought he loved my mother too much to remarry, but now I believe it to have been a jealous love. He buried any feelings with her, including those for me, his own daughter. Da would make another wife miserable as sin.”
From the little Mr Beckford had told him, Aideen’s father was a loud-mouthed bully. A daughter might have wilted under such treatment, but his Aideen had grown strong and fearless.
“So, then what happened?” she whispered.
“Whilst in the final year of Oxford, an elder peer approached me. After the French revolt, they required men from the aristocracy to assist. Intelligence work is not normally undertaken by dukes, you realise, but there were whisperings of revolution and treason here within the haut ton, especially with the King’s supposed lunacy, so they asked certain people to…”
“Spy?”
“Yes, in a word. I… I wanted to warn those closest to me, to let them know I was undertaking potentially dangerous work. Father was pleased as he’d always worried I would fall foul of the Rakecombe gambling trait and he thought it would keep me from trouble. Mother was anxious, as all mothers are, and Gwen…” He swallowed. He should have known. But he’d been so deuced young and naive.
“Hmm?” Fingers stroked his forehead, encouraging and sensitive.
“Gwen was excited. She considered it a thrilling adventure. Of secret codes and misty nights. She’d badger me night and day about missions, and I’d try to instil a note of caution but… She always liked to be the boldest and the fiercest and it became worse after Father died. She was the one to ride the largest horse in the stable, the one to rescue the weak pup from the tormenting lads, and I loved that bravery, that verve for life.”
“I think I would have liked her,” Aideen said quietly.
“There was a mission that winter, involving a group of revolutionists. Information came about a meeting in a Seven Dials tavern, and I inveigled myself an invite. Fairly standard job. Keep my mouth shut, eyes open and ears flapping.”
He closed his lids, remembered his jaunty pride. “She pestered me that morning. Beaming and prodding for details, so I thought what the hell and told her about the mission, about the meeting. Where was the harm? She would never encounter these men or repeat my words. In retrospect, maybe I enjoyed playing the hero, swaggering in youthful pride.”
Aideen’s hand brushed his cheek. “To want to share is natural, especially with someone so close as a sister. There is a difference between vanity and candour, my Alex.”
Burying closer, he nodded. “Perhaps. But…another spy came to the house. I was not at home and so he left a note – stupid bastard – as he’d found out more about the group concerned. I didn’t return that day and so my sister read it and…”
He could imagine her excitement, Gwen’s fervent anticipation at aiding her elder brother. There would have been no hesitation on her part. “I believe she thought me in danger. Thought I needed the information, so she sneaked out to waylay me on the way to the tavern and hand me the note.”
“Did she take a weapon?”
“A…a walking stick. One of my old ones. Ordinary.”
Fingers drifted down his back, caressing his skin, then holding tight, and he realised that, although hideously painful to talk of Gwen, he needed Aideen to know, to share his burden, to listen.
“I was almost at the tavern when I heard my name half-spoken, half-whispered. I looked back and…and there was my baby sister standing in the middle of that vile Tower Street, in an expensive velvet cloak and fur-trimmed bonnet. I have never felt so bloody angry and was about to vent my fury when a man grabbed her from behind.”
The image overwhelmed him, and he had a sudden compulsion to flee, to escape this bed and the calming touch he didn’t deserve. An embrace crushed him to soft skin, and fingers laced through his hair, but still he envisaged sweet Gwen’s face as the whoreson held her, skin pallid, her excited eyes shifting to horror, walking stick clattering to the filthy cobbles.
Why did it still damn well hurt so much? He’d seen many a man and comrade die since then.
“He…he was crazed. I could see it in his slack face. Gin or opium, I know not. He held a blade to her throat. I could see it pressing against her skin, indenting under the bright moon. All I had was a short sword under my cloak, no pistol, and I was inexperienced, and this was supposed to have been a simple mission. I didn’t…”
Arms squeezed, and he buried his face in Aideen’s chest, aware the material of her night-rail was wet. “He screamed for money, and I scrabbled with my signet ring and fob watch, pushing them into his greedy fist. I would have given him my shirt but a shout from down the street distracted him and… I still do not know if he meant to do it, but his hand tightened… I saw blood and then he drew his arm away, the knife slitting her throat.”
Abruptly, he rolled onto his back, dragging Aideen tight to his chest, unyielding.
“She fell like a doll. A puppet let loose of its strings, her face falling in the dirt. The whoreson ran, but I didn’t care.” His gaze flitted to the bed canopy, red, awash with blood. “The sound, Aideen, Christ. She struggled for breath, and I couldn’t…do anything. A prostitute came to my aid, tearing her skirts for linen, even though that was all she had to her name, and we tried. God, we tried…”
He veiled his eyes in Aideen’s hair, aware tears fell but unable to release her to wipe them away.
“One last awful breath and she left me…alone.”
Wetness seeped over his chest as he felt Aideen’s own tears fall against his bare skin. They clasped each other close, unmoving, the sheer futility of a lost life encasing them in silence.
At length, Aideen pulled from his clasp, kissed his lips, his cheeks, hands pushing back his hair and brushing her mouth over his forehead. And although the memories would always remain, he felt some of his hurt dissipated by her compassionate touch. “Alex, my poor Alex. To see your sister die in such a way, I have not the words. I am so very sorry.”
Staring into her wet sable eyes, he continued, “I carried her home with Mary Lane, the prostitute who’d aided me. It felt like forever and yet no time at all, carrying her through the frozen streets. I felt numb. And since then, I’ve always felt so numb. So cold.”
“And the madman that killed her?” she asked, hovering over him and pressing lips to his hair, violets teasing his mind from the raw horror.
“I asked Kelmarsh to find him for me. I was in no state and my hands were full with Mother’s grief and the funeral. A day later, Kelmarsh said he’d found the bastard dead in his hovel, brought me back my signet ring. I often wonder if Kelmarsh…” He shook his head. “It matters not. I didn’t feel vengeance or satisfaction. I felt…nothing.”
She placed her face next to his, so close he could feel her warm breath. “My dear Alex, you have no need to blame yourself for her death.”
“Everyone denies my culpability but I cannot.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand – such fragile skin. “Kelmarsh had chosen to keep silent with those close to him, nearly lost Sophie over it, as you know, but I’d blabbed. If I had never told Gwen about my vocation or about that mission, she never would have come after me.”
“Or she might have gone searching anyway,” Aideen whispered. “Or followed you one night in suspicion. It is a shocking waste and loss of a brave young girl’s life, Alex, but the blame lies with the man who carried out the needless deed. It is he that is the culprit. You were and are a loving brother.”
He began untwisting the tight plait, watched her hair unfurl. “I have heard it all, Aideen. From Mother, from Kelmarsh, and my mind heeds their words, but my heart – that believes something else entirely.” He finally freed the knotted mass. “I could not bear it if you came to harm due to my own selfish need to have you a part of my life.” He pulled her close, kissing her, a delicate brush of lips. “I have already hurt you.” And he stroked the fading dark-red mark on her neck.
“Only my feelings, and if you’d kept your bog mouth shut, all would have been well. But I knew, Alex. I knew you were pushing me away for a reason.”
“Is that why you were smothering me with sweetness?”
“Mayhap. Did you like it?”
He fingered the ribbons on her bodice. Exhaustion blanketed him, emotions a deluge, and yet he needed Aideen to banish the shadows and ghosts that haunted him. To clear the blood from his vision. He needed her so very much and in every way.
“I did, but perhaps, after the other night, I should show you gentleness. How desperately slow I can love.”
“I enjoyed the corridor,” she whispered, stretching to his touch.
He thought about the list he’d meant to talk to her about, but that could wait until tomorrow, as for now he needed the peace that only Aideen could provide.
And he began to show his wife how very sweet he himself could be.