Susan Carroll (39 page)

She attempted to confront the worst of her
fears, picturing Armande's face distorted with the fury to kill,
his strong, supple fingers replacing that fist of tarnished iron,
grasping the mace. Her heart rebelled, refusing to allow such an
image to linger even in the darkest recesses of her thoughts.

"So you have returned at last."

The familiar silken voice sliced at Phaedra
out of the darkness, terrifying her with its sudden proximity. She
cried out, whirling to look behind her, stumbling and clattering
against the armor. The candle dropped from her hand and rolled
across the floor, sending wild arcs of light through the chamber.
She caught a glimpse of the hard angles of Armande's face set
beneath his thick mane of dark hair, his eyes like blue flame, his
shadow falling across her as the candle spun away.

She cowered against the suit of armor, unable
to speak. Miraculously the candle did not snuff itself out, but
came to rest against the wall, dripping wax upon the stone
floor.

Armande turned aside long enough to retrieve
it. He held the taper so that the light fell fully across her face.
She flung her hand before her eyes in a defensive gesture.

"I am sorry if I frightened you," he said.
"You needn't tremble so. There are no windows here."

His sarcastic reference to her suspicions
regarding Hester's death did nothing to calm Phaedra's racing
heart. Armande's lips curved in a bitter half-smile, his frozen
look not quite concealing some darker emotion that raged within
him. His wintry eyes never left her face as he snuffed out the
candle, the smoke curling in wisps between them, the hall entombed
in darkness except for the glow of the oil lamp by the door.

Phaedra inched away from the lamplight toward
the marble stairway, the concealing blackness of the landing above
them. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be awake," she said.

With one deft stride, Armande placed himself
in front of her.

He made no move to touch her, but the breadth
of his shoulders formed an impassable barrier between her and the
stairs.

"I looked into your room this morning, but
you were gone," he said. "I have been watching for your return all
day. I believe you have something that belongs to me."

The accusation was couched in the softest of
accents, yet Phaedra detected the anger beneath. Unable to meet his
stare, she lowered her eyes to the cravat knotted with precision
about his neck, the lace-trimmed linen concealing that familiar
small scar.

She moistened her lips. "I-I don't
understand."

He took a step closer, the movement rife with
an impatience barely held in check. "The figurine is missing from
the wooden chest in my room. It was taken either by your hand or
your cousin's. I don't care who took it. I want it returned."

Phaedra's hands fluttered to the joining of
her cloak, but she abandoned any further attempt to deceive him.
Fumbling beneath the mantle's dark folds, she produced the small
parcel from one of the voluminous pockets. Silently she handed
Armande the shepherd without unwrapping it. He pocketed it, his
mouth pinching into a tight white line. After a moment's
hesitation, Phaedra drew forth the shepherdess. Slowly she peeled
away the cotton batting. She raised the diminutive statue so that
it was outlined by the lamp's glow.

She heard the quick intake of Armande's
breath. He stared for a long moment. In a constricted tone he
asked, "And how did you come by that?"

"I found it a long time ago in my garret. I
didn't know the significance of it until I saw yours." Rather
clumsily she held out the statue. "Take it. By rights it belongs to
you."

He made no move to accept it, his gaze raking
her, the lean planes of his face flushing dark with suspicion and
uncertainty.

She retreated a step, essaying a shaky laugh
that was but a whisper away from a sob. "You were right about me
all along. I never know when to stop asking questions. Today I
asked one too many." She swallowed. "I-I went to see a doctor named
Glencoe."

The name seemed to thud between them with all
the force of a hammer's blow. When she fell silent, Armande prodded
harshly, "And? What then?"

"I know everything, Armande," she said. "Or
perhaps I should call you James."

"You may call me anything you damn well
please!"

The release of his anger caused Phaedra to
shrink back further. Yet she pleaded, clinging desperately to one
last hope. "If you told me that none of it was true, even now I
would believe you."

"Would you?" .He laughed savagely. "I won't
put your faith in me to such a strain." He advanced upon her, his
fine-chiseled features twisting into a sneer. "That is exactly who
I am, my dear. Old Lethe, the legendary murderer of Blackheath
Hall. A walking corpse with bloodstained hands. I wonder you dare
to be down here alone with me."

With each step he took, Phaedra stumbled
backward until she was pinned against the cold, rough stone of the
wall.

"Except that you don't dare, do you?" he bit
out. "You've been waiting for your chance to escape up those
stairs, terrified that I mean to throttle you at any moment."

She shook her head, her breath coming out in
a frightened sob.

"Damn you, Phaedra. It is you who are killing
me." He yanked her into his arms, trapping her ruthlessly against
the hardness of his body so that she could scarcely breathe or cry
out. The shepherdess, still clutched in her hand, all but broke
apart between her gripping fingers as she struggled to be free.

James pressed hot, savage kisses along the
column of her throat, his words choked with the embittered fury of
despair. "How oft have I held you in my arms, loved you in a way I
never have loved any other, and still you could think that I
would-"

Scarcely thinking what she did, Phaedra drove
her foot hard against his instep. In that brief second he relaxed
his grip enough for her to claw her way out of his arms. Tears
streaming down her cheeks, she backed away toward the stairs.

"Phaedra!" He raged her name, sending it
echoing off the rafters. He stretched his hand toward her in a
gesture that was half a demand, half a plea.

Looking into his tormented eyes, she could
see how her fears tore him apart, and she hated herself. She sensed
that he was deliberately seeking to terrorize her-daring her,
begging her, to fight back, to do anything but shrink from him.

But she could not give him the reassurance he
sought with such desperation. Instead of her hand, she placed the
shepherdess in his open palm. "Please, Armande ... James. Let me
go. Tomorrow when it is light, we can-“

She broke off, flinching away from him as he
uttered a vicious oath and hurled the figurine against the opposite
wall. The sound of the delicate china shattering into a myriad of
pieces destroyed what remained of Phaedra's control.

She spun about and hurled herself up the
darkness of the stairs, stumbling on the hem of her gown, nearly
pitching forward onto her face. She expected at any moment to feel
James's hands close upon her, dragging her back.

She was halfway up the long, curving stair
before she realized he was not coming after her. She slowed, taking
one more uncertain step. The hall had resumed its unnatural
silence, the only sound her ragged breathing.

Phaedra turned, risking one glance back at
the chamber below her. By the spot where the figurine had
shattered, James stood frozen, a lonely silhouette in the soft glow
pooling from the lamp. She watched the last vestiges of anger drain
from him. His hands balled into fists, and he buried his eyes
against them, sinking down until he knelt amidst the glistening
fragments of china.

Phaedra's fear vanished, a dull ache settling
over her heart. Cursing herself for a fool, she rushed back down
the stairs and crossed the hall to his side. His powerful frame was
wracked with such tremors that she hesitated to touch him. Such
grief in a man of James's iron control seemed too private a thing
to be witnessed even by her eyes.

She caressed his bowed head, her fingers
snagging in the strands of dark hair. She felt him stiffen, then he
lowered his hands, to look up at her. He wrapped his arms about her
waist, burying his face in the softness beneath her breasts.
Phaedra clasped her hands behind his neck, her tears glistening
upon his hair as she kissed the top of his head. She held him thus
for a long time, offering him wordless comfort. When at last she
could speak, the only words she could utter were "I'm sorry." How
foolish, how inadequate, that sounded in the face of all that he
had suffered.

He pulled away from her. Resting one hand
heavily upon her shoulder, he struggled to his feet, gathering his
strength and pride as he rose.

“It is I who should apologize to you," he
said. "You have now seen the worst of James Lethington's infamous
temper. A condition I thought I had cured in myself long ago."

Although he brushed aside the last traces of
her tears, his eyes clouded with bitterness. "When I was young ..."
He spoke as though that had been many, many ages ago. "I was nearly
consumed with ambition. I was going to make my mark upon the world,
leave behind a name to echo through time."

He laughed softly, the sound lacking in all
mirth. "Little did I realize the name of James Lethington would be
used to terrify little girls."

His fingers trailed along her skin, tracing
the curve of her cheek, his gaze softened with tenderness. She
caught his hand and pressed her lips against the warm hollow of his
palm.

"This particular little girl is a fool," she
whispered. "Can you ever forgive me?" She tried to find the words
to explain to him, that even loving him as she did, she could still
be afraid. "It is only that I felt so stunned. In all my wildest
imaginings about your past, I never thought that-that-"

"The dead could return to walk the earth?" He
meant the words to sound mocking, but his voice cracked.

"My feelings for Ewan betrayed me once, made
me a victim," she continued. "But what I felt for him was mere
infatuation, not one particle of the love I bear for you. I have
never been so vulnerable in my life as I have been with you. I
think that is, more than anything, why I was so terrified of you.
You have always been so strong, so self-contained. I daresay you do
not understand what it is to be afraid."

"Aye, but I do. There is one fear that is my
constant torment. The dread of losing you."

He gathered her up in his arms, straining her
close. "Phaedra," he murmured against her hair. "I should have told
you the truth long ago, but that fear kept me silent. I was
terrified that once you had heard my real name, once you knew I was
a condemned murderer, that you would flee from me in horror. Is it
too late for me to explain? Will you listen to me now?"

Before she had the chance to assent, they
were both startled by the creak of a door, the sound of a footfall
behind them. They drew quickly apart. Phaedra turned as the footman
Peter straggled belatedly into the hall, bearing a candlestick in
his upraised hand. Although he appeared somewhat surprised to see
Phaedra and her houseguest standing alone in the dimly lit chamber,
the young man appeared far more anxious to cover up his own
dereliction of duty. His features flushed as he sought furtively to
redo the uppermost button of his breeches.

"Lady Phaedra. My lord," he stammered. "I am
sorry. I was away from my post for but a moment. Then I thought I
heard a noise."

"I dropped a piece of china." James's voice
was wooden as he described the destruction of a most cherished
treasure. Whatever self-reproach he felt, he concealed it beneath a
gruff command to Peter to see that the fragments were swept away.
He took the candlestick from the footman, saying, "I will see her
ladyship safely upstairs."

Leaving the abashed footman still trying to
offer excuses for his absence, Phaedra followed James silently up
the stairs. At the second-floor landing, he turned to her, saying,
"You never gave me your answer, my lady. May the accused be
permitted to speak in his own defense?"

Although he attempted to make the question
sound light, she sensed with what anxiety he awaited her answer.
Silently, she slipped her hand into his.

James set the candlestick down upon the
windowsill in his bedchamber, the flame reflected back in the
night-darkened panes. The moon was hidden behind the clouds,
rendering the sky a sea of blackness. It was the lonliest part of
night, when darkness threatened to stretch on forever, the
rose-gold of dawn never to come again.

While Phaedra settled herself into a
stiff-backed chair, James paced before her, as though he were a
prisoner in the dock preparing to mount one final, desperate
defense for his life. The candle flickered, its illumination
darting upward, casting James's hard-sculpted features half in
light, half in shadow. Watching him was like gazing upon the souls
of two different men trapped within his frame.

It was Armande de LeCroix's well-modulated
voice that spoke to her, as icily controlled as ever; but the fire
in the blue eyes and the angry set to the mouth were the features
of James Lethington.

"It's a long story, Phaedra, and not one I
can easily bring again to life."

Phaedra nodded and said gently, "I am ready
to listen."

His words came hesitantly at first, then more
confidently as James delved deeper into his tale, weaving a spell
about Phaedra until she felt carried back into the past,
transported by the anguished recounting of his memories.

Through James's eyes, she saw, in more
detail, much of the story that had already become somewhat familiar
to her-the restless young man longing for adventure, yearning to
pursue some intangible dream far beyond the staid confines of his
family's china shop. Then came the death of his beloved father,
forcing him to assume the responsibilities of the business as well
as to look after his mother and sister and his quiet younger
brother, Jason. Phaedra heard James's bitterness at being entrapped
in a role to which he was so ill-suited, his guilt and despair as
the shop began to fail, his apprehension when he realized the
growing attraction between Julianna and Ewan Grantham, his
determination to keep his impressionable sister away from the weak
man whom he held in contempt.