Samantha James (18 page)

His mouth twisted. “How else should I feel?”

“You did your duty, Aidan. Defended—”

“I did not defend those men. I failed them. All but three.” It was a brittle denunciation. He sat up, a sinewed arm stretched out, staring broodingly into the fire. One fist clenched unknowingly.

He felt the muscles in his throat go tight. “My men depended on me to lead them,” he said, his voice gritty with emotion. “They looked to me to protect them. Of course I’d sent soldiers into battle before, and yes, some died. But this was different. I wasn’t concise and deliberate, as I should have been, as I had
always
been. I was reckless and arrogant and I was
greedy
. It wasn’t
duty
that compelled my decision. A part of me wanted what no one else had been able to achieve. So yes, I failed them.”

“What about Rajul? Was he killed?” Fionna sat
up as well, tugging the coverlet around her nakedness.

Aidan’s lip curled in a sneer. “Escaped. Yet again. And I knew he was somewhere out there laughing at me because he’d made a fool of me. But do you know the Crown’s reaction to my attempt to capture Rajul? Another medal. Another promotion for Colonel Aidan McBride. They hailed it a glorious victory since more than half the rebel forces were killed. But it wasn’t pride I felt. I was ashamed. Ashamed for having been careless when I should have been cautious. It was a mistake, Fionna. Going after Rajul was a huge mistake. I rarely made mistakes, and this was one I simply couldn’t live with. And so I resigned my commission. Gave up my career. But I didn’t leave India. At least…not right away.”

Fionna sucked in a breath. “You went after him, didn’t you? You went after Rajul.”

Aidan nodded, the lines of his face stone-hard.

“For six months I tracked him. Dogged him as he had dogged me. And when I found him, I put a bullet in his head. He was laughing.
Laughing.
Because he knew he’d gotten the best of me.” At last he looked at her. “Does that disgust you? Make you sick inside? Knowing you’ve just lain with a murderer?”

Her lips parted. He shook his head, stopping the protest he knew was coming.

“Yes, Fionna, it was murder. It wasn’t justice I wanted. It was revenge. And—I thought it
would be enough, knowing Rajul was dead. That I killed him. But it wasn’t. I still had the blood of all those men on my hands. I still
do.
I tried running from it. Hiding. It took another six months before I could face my family. To this day, Alec—and now you—are the only ones who know my shame. My guilt.”

He sucked in a breath and glanced away. “I’ll never forget that night in the Punjab. I’ll live with it forever. But I learned something. I thought I was infallible. But I learned that no one ever is. I learned that life’s lessons are never-ending. I was angry, so very angry! But I was afraid, too. Afraid of dying like so many of my men. And that makes me a coward as well, doesn’t it?”

“No. No! You’re no coward, Aidan McBride. What happened was—” Her shoulders lifted helplessly. “I don’t know what to call it. Simply part of war, I think.”

Very slowly she knelt before him. The coverlet pooled around her knees. Gazing directly into his eyes, she framed his face with her hands.

“No,” she whispered again. “No coward here. All I see is a man brave enough to look inside and see himself so clearly.” There was the merest pause. “A man who has punished himself far too long already, a man who is
still
punishing himself.” She shook her head. Very gently she smoothed the lines scored beside his mouth. “It’s time to stop, Aidan. It’s time to let yourself heal.”

He moved suddenly, snaring her close and tight. “Then help me, sweet.” The words were a hot, muttered plea against her lips. “Help me heal. Help me
now.
”

Falling back, he pulled her beside him, anchoring her between his thighs. His kiss was fiercely devouring, but her lips opened beneath his, as ardent as his.

Her hair streamed over her back and shoulders. Aidan dragged it aside and pressed his mouth on her nape. A purely masculine pride shot through him as she shivered with delight.

She was beautiful. So beautiful he was consumed by desire as fiercely as before, overcome with the urge to plunge inside her again and again. The second time they’d made love, he was afraid she would be tender and sore—thrice was a dire certainty. But he couldn’t stop himself, the passion throbbing in every part of him. His feelings for her were too intense, too wild. His hand on her nape, he captured her mouth once more. An arm about her back, he guided his rod between soft, silken thighs, rubbing her cleft, letting her feel the rigidness of his erection. Her eyes widened; it was as if he could see her heart stop.

Her legs went wide. Aidan groaned and clamped her against him. He was shaking with need. God help him, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stave off his desire. Not now. Not yet. And when he plunged deep, her silken heat and
warmth surrounded him, sending him to a place where nothing existed but the two of them.

A short time later they finally rose, searching about for their clothing. Aidan laughed a little when they found it halfway across the room. Fionna picked up her slippers, dangling them from her fingertips while Aidan sought to find her drawers for her.

The night was bitterly cold. They hurriedly walked the short distance from his home to hers. A freezing wind eddied around them. Snow was falling. With the wind blasting, it was like needles of ice against their faces.

“Good heavens,” Aidan muttered. “This must surely be the coldest night of the year.”

Fionna didn’t answer. She couldn’t; her teeth were chattering too much.

At the rear of the shop, she turned to him.

“Let me see you inside, love.”

“No,” she said, chuckling a little. “You know what will happen if you do.”

“Yes, that’s precisely what I was hoping.” He allowed a slow, wicked grin to crease his lips.

Fionna gave him a little push. “I’ll be fine. Hurry home before someone sees you.”

“No one will see me. It’ll be dark for more than an hour yet.”

Fionna wrinkled her nose. “Off with you, you scoundrel!”

Aidan dragged her into his arms for a long,
rapturous kiss, then drew back. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he started to say, then stopped. “No, wait. Today. I’ll see you later today. Dinner?”

She nodded over her shoulder, key in hand, anxious to be inside.

Aidan waited until the door was closed, then walked away. Crossing the street, he paused.

One last look, he thought, glancing up.

Upstairs in her apartments, the glow of a lamp flared brighter. Through the frosted pane, he glimpsed the shadowy outline of her form as she started past.

He frowned.

All at once she halted, then spun slowly toward the window…

In that indefinable instant when Fionna turned the key in the lock upstairs, something inside her clanged a warning. An eerie prickling skittered over every inch of her body. Before she had shivered from delight.

Now it was in dread.

The door was unlocked.

She sifted back through the last hours. Had she locked it when she and Aidan had left last night? She couldn’t remember. But she was a creature of habit, a woman of routine.

This was ridiculous. She quelled the rise of panic. So what if she’d forgotten to lock it? Aidan had been with her. His presence was distraction in the extreme!

Trying to act as normal as possible, she stepped inside her parlor. She glanced around. Nothing was amiss. Faith, what an idiot she was!

But she’d left the lovely, lace curtains ajar. How stupid of her, and on such a frigid night! She started to close them.

It was then she saw the words.

Never forget you belong to me
,
my love.

It drummed slowly through her mind, echoing inside.

In some faraway corner of her brain, she recalled the window had been wet and steamy when she left; she’d noticed it just before Aidan arrived.

Never forget you belong to me
,
my love.

Now the words were frozen, icy crystals scrawled across the pane.

In blood.

Never forget you belong to me
,
my love.

She touched it. Cold penetrated clear to her soul. As if there were ice in her blood.

A sickening fear twisted through her. A quickening fear.

A vague sense of unreality descended. Hardly aware of what she did, she rushed for a cloth from the kitchen, darting back into the parlor. She scrubbed and scrubbed, rasping, ragged sounds tearing from her throat. It was no use. Finally, she flung the cloth aside. The thunder of her heart jolted her entire body.

In a frenzy she scratched and clawed, digging
into the words, the ice. Her nails ripped. Her fingertips hurt. And dry sobs ripped from her lungs as she grabbed the cloth and wiped and rubbed until there was no trace of the words.

Her strength sapped. She sank helplessly to the floor. Curling into a little ball, she wept.

She was wholly unaware of the door crashing from its hinges downstairs. She didn’t hear Aidan’s feet pounding up the stairs.

“Fionna! What the devil? What’s wrong?” Sinking down, he hauled her into his arms. “Was someone here?”

She cringed, pointing toward the curtains. “The window,” she managed. “Look at it.”

“Sweetheart, I am looking at it. I don’t see anything. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“It was there, I tell you!” she screamed. “It was there! Someone was here! Someone wrote on the window!”

“Fionna, I don’t understand.”

Fionna stared over at the window. There was no blood. There was nothing.

A horrified inevitability clutched at her insides. She clutched at Aidan’s jacket.

Oh, God, what had she done?

What a fool she’d been. She had erased it all.

She began to scream uncontrollably.

Her thoughts were a wild jumble in her brain. Disjointed. Frantic. No one had seen. No one but her. Only she had seen the dead flowers. Seen the
writing. No one had
ever
seen anything, heard footsteps in the dark behind her, no one but her.

She thought of her mother. Had her mother’s infirmity of the mind passed on to her? Had she imagined everything? The feeling of being followed. The footsteps. The book of spells being misplaced in the bookshop, the dead flowers, the writing on the window. She wrote of demons and murder. Perhaps she had culled it—all of it—from the darkest corners of her mind.

Somewhere in the distance, someone still screamed. Shrill and stark.

“Fionna, stop! Have you gone mad?”

No wonder Aidan called her mad. Perhaps she was.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t call me that!” She slapped him, hard. “Don’t you ever call me that!”

Hard hands closed over her shoulders. He shook her. “Fionna!” he shouted.

Her head slid back. Her scream caught halfway up her throat. She stared at him numbly. The bruised hurt in her eyes made a band tighten around his chest. Her state alarmed him.

Stung to the core, Aidan closed his arms around her and rocked her against him. She was shaking so violently she felt she would surely break apart.

“Calm yourself,” he murmured, over and over. “It’s all right.”

At length he drew back, sponging the tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Perhaps a physician should be summoned,” he said quietly.

She clutched at his shirt. “No. Aidan,
no.
I don’t need one. I swear I don’t need one.”

His eyes searched hers. “Then tell me what this is,” he said very quietly. He pulled her up onto the sofa.

Fionna stared at her hand, engulfed within his, so warm and strong, perched on his thigh.

“The door was open. I thought I’d locked it, Aidan. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn’t.”

She could feel his gaze, settled on her face. She wasn’t aware he was thinking how easy it would have been for someone to gain entry. The right tool and the tumbler and spring would twist as easily as oil. This he kept to himself, though.

“I went to pull the curtains shut. I thought I’d closed those as well—no, I
know
I closed them. But there was writing on the window. Blood on the window. It was written in blood. Frozen.”

“Good heavens,” he said curtly, “it sounds like something out of one of your novels.”

Hearing him say it made her cringe.

“What did it say, Fionna?”

“‘Never forget you belong to me, my love.’” Her tone was very low. She could barely stand to repeat it.

Aidan said nothing.

There was a protracted silence. His gaze had
narrowed on her. His expression gave away nothing.

Fionna’s lips quivered. Her throat grew hot. She battled the threat of tears. Inwardly, she berated herself. Why was she so weak? Raven was never weak. F.J. Sparrow’s characters were exposed to all manner of events that were frightening and intense and evil. And yes, they were afraid, but in the end they always triumphed, they always won.

Only this was real, and this was
her
…and wasn’t about imaginary characters and imaginary demons. It was not a game. Yes, she wrote of all things sinister, of danger lurking about every corner. She reveled in creating it.

But she did not want to
live
it.

“It was there, Aidan. I swear it was—”

Two fingers against her lips stemmed the protest. “You don’t have to convince me, Fionna.”

She blinked. “You believe me?”

He slanted her a faint smile. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

A rush of guilt swept over her as she thought of Mama.

“The night we met you thought someone was following you, Fionna. Another time as well. What else has happened? Anything else out of the ordinary?”

A shiver shot through her. “I think so,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t be sure until tonight.” She told him of other times she’d felt the eerie sen
sation of being followed. Watched. “Remember the day at the shop? The book of spells was not where it should have been.”

“That could be a bit questionable, love.”