The Bride Wore Pearls (33 page)

She approached the bed gingerly, if impatiently. Two empty bottles sat upon the night table, along with a flute containing the dregs of something that looked vile and sticky. Anisha picked it up and inhaled deeply. Her nose, honed by her practice of ayurveda, easily detected anise and fennel. And something else. Something she knew but could not bring to mind.

She set the flute down with a
clunk
and picked up the bottle.

Absinthe
.

The rare spirit was distilled from a form of artemisia similar to
nagadamni,
an ayurvedic herb with magical properties. To Europeans, the plant was known as wormwood and believed poisonous. And its victim looked as if that might indeed be the case.

“Rance?” she whispered, setting a hand on his bare shoulder.

He tossed almost feverishly, muttering something she couldn’t make out. Lightly, she tapped him, softly calling his name. He thrashed again, this time turning toward her. Anisha could see his eyes were slightly open, but glassy and distant, and his face contorted as if with pain. She set her hand to his cheek, stubbled with black, unshaven beard. He felt not feverish but instead cold as death.

“
No, no,
” he replied, jerking against her touch, then muttering something in French.

“What’s that?” She gave his face a gentle pat. “Come, can you wake up?”

“
Non.
” Suddenly, his eyes flared wide but remained unfocused, his pupils like ha’pennies. He seized her arm violently. “
C’est toi
!” he rasped accusingly. “
La sirène—
”

“Rance, it’s Anish—”

“All
fucking
night—” With one jerk, he yanked her across the solid width of his chest with such force that her feet left the floor. “Damn you,
stop
! Stop! Do you hear me?”

She tried to lift herself away, but her arm was wrenched awkwardly. “Rance, wake up,” she commanded.

He merely tightened his grip, dragging her up his chest with inhuman strength. Anisha’s heart sped up, something akin to fear chasing through her. They were face-to-face, her breasts flattened hard to his chest, so close his breath stirred her hair.

“Rance, wake up,” she said sternly. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

In response, he forced her head down and kissed her, his empty hand spearing almost brutally into her hair. Anisha gasped and tried to roll away. It was out of the question. No mere caress, this was a kiss of passion unfettered; a raw, rough claiming that left no choice but surrender. Opening his mouth over hers, he invaded, pushing his tongue deep with long, sinuous strokes that left her shivering.

On a swallowed cry, she set her hands to his shoulders as if to push away. And yet she did not. Rance’s arm came fully around her, bunching up her skirts as his hand massaged her left hip, urging her to him. He withdrew from her mouth for an instant, then thrust again, each stroke more sensual than the last, the stubble of his beard raking her face.

Dimly Anisha remembered the servants. They would be coming. She tried to twist away, to lift herself up. It was no use. His arm was like iron, his strength that of a madman. He shifted, and in an instant she was thrown flat on her back, Rance coming half atop her.

Snaring both her wrists, he forced them into the softness of the bolster, pinning her with the weight of his body. The evidence of his arousal was hard and unmistakable now. Fleetingly, their gazes locked. His eyes were wild. “
La sirène,
” he growled, gasping. “
You will torment me no more
!”

Anisha struggled for breath. “There’s
no
siren
!” she shouted, pounding at his shoulders. “There’s no
torment
! Wake up, for heaven’s sake!”

Suddenly footfalls sounded, pounding into the room. “Good God, man!” a deep voice barked. “Release that woman! Emmit, seize him!”

There was the heavy clank of a bucket, and in a trice the weight was yanked away. Rance was dragged back by a broad-shouldered gentleman in a dark suit, the ashen-faced footman aiding him.

“Criminy, Horsham!” the lad croaked. “ ’E’s gone mad.”

But the man called Horsham was undeterred. “Sir, you must wake up!” he shouted, dragging him to the bolster. “This won’t do.”

“
No, damn you.
” Rance fell back onto the bed, eyes closing, the heels of his hands going to his temples. With a practiced snap, Horsham threw up the sheets, covering him to the chest.

“He’s having some sort of nightmare.” Anisha had jerked upright to untwist her skirts. “Perhaps he’s been drugged?”

“Done it himself, more like.” Horsham jostled Rance hard. “Sir, come now! Open your eyes.”

Anisha clambered backward off the bed. Emmit leapt deferentially back, almost tripping over the brass cans he’d carried up. Horsham shot a grim look across the mattress.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “but this is no fit place for a lady. If you might wait just inside the study? Emmit, help me get him up.”

Anisha realized she was being chided. “Lazonby has an appointment to keep, and I knew he would refuse,” she said a little defensively. “Is he ill? Must we call a doctor? He seems quite out of his head.”

“
No . . . damned . . . doctors,
” said a thready whisper.

Anisha looked down to see Rance’s eyes fluttering.

“He is quite all right, ma’am, or will be,” said Horsham tightly. “He’s had a bad night. He often does. Now if you would be so good as to withdraw, we’ll heft him into his bath and pour a little water over his head. That, and some strong coffee, will usually revive him.”

Her face suffusing with heat, Anisha went into the study without closing the door. Horsham did not spare her another glance.

Between the two servants, Rance was more or less hauled up, grumbling as he went. “
Devil fly . . . fly away wiff . . .”
he muttered, but the rest of his imprecation trailed away.

At least he was rousing.

Exhaling on a sigh of relief, she collapsed onto the leather settee. The young footman returned to seize the brass cans, his entire face turning pink. An instant later, there came a loud clattering of brass upon porcelain and the unmistakable sound of a good dowsing.

“Bloody hell!” Rance began to cough amidst the splashing. “Damn you to blazes!”

“You may damn the absinthe, sir,” Horsham firmly replied, “and it’s entirely your own fault. Emmit, go help with the rest of the bathwater.”

“Horsham, you’re sacked,” Rance bellowed, sounding more himself. “Why the hell did I just hire you anyway? God almighty, someone’s hammered a railway spike through my skull.”

“Done by your own hand, sir, I’m afraid,” the servant calmly replied. “And you really oughtn’t dismiss me.”

There came an unintelligible response.

“Because being a military man, I’m most adept with firearms.” This declaration was followed by another great cascading of water. “And since you have . . .
manhandled
Lady Anisha Stafford, I daresay her brother will be calling you out.”

A long moment of silence followed.

“What?” Lazonby finally rasped.

A great deal of low conversation ensued. Anisha leaned forward, attempting to hear.

“Dear God,” she heard Rance muttering. “Where?”

“In your study, my lord.” The words were clipped. “She wishes to see you. But not, I collect, in your altogether—which seemed to be the aspect you were intent on presenting her.”

Rance groaned, but whether from shame or pain, Anisha could not have said.

Just then another footman came in with coffee. The next twenty minutes passed in relative peace. Rance stopped swearing. Horsham kept murmuring. The door onto the passageway flew open again, and a rotation of servants bearing steaming cans of water commenced trundling past.

Through it all, Anisha sat, twiddling her thumbs and cursing her own impatience. A few minutes ago, Rance had clearly not been awake—or himself. And though she had not been
too
terribly frightened, she had certainly given his servants a turn, a circumstance she deeply regretted.

And she had made them question her good sense. Perhaps even her decency. Yes, she was an old friend, and a widow of some years. But English society was far more rigid than she might wish. She should not have come here; not like this. But it was too late now, and she was as certain as ever that they had no time to spare.

She sat thus in her impatience until eventually she heard Rance again snap at the much put-upon Horsham, this time declaring amidst a streak of blue that he could bloody well shave himself.

Shortly after that, Horsham was again damned, sacked, and ordered out. This time he went, casting her one last censorious glance as he crossed the study, then slamming the door behind him. Five minutes later, Rance appeared on the threshold, bare from the waist up, one long arm resting high upon the doorframe, the other clutching the folds of a white towel that hid almost nothing. He appeared haggard, his expression grim. Still, the stippling of harsh beard was gone, and he looked more or less awake.

She regarded him calmly, wondering what a well-bred lady said to a man who’d just mauled her. But Rance spoke first. “Well, Nish,” he croaked, “it would seem I owe you a monstrous apology.”

“You had a difficult night, I collect?”

Eyes rueful, he dropped his arm and dragged his hand through his damp curls. “Aye.”

“Are you . . . feeling yourself now?” she asked. “May we move on to something more pressing?”

His gaze locked to hers. “More pressing than the fact that I apparently tried to . . . to what? Force myself on you?”

“You kissed me.” She remained perfectly still on the leather settee. “Rather determinedly, yes. But I’m fine.”

A bitter smile curved his mouth. “Aye, well, if ever a chap kisses
you
any other way, then he’s not a man worthy of the name.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” She dipped her gaze. “But you didn’t know who you were kissing. You were . . . hallucinating, I think.”

“Aye, perhaps. I remember some of it, too . . . I dreamt the whole night. Awful, tormenting stuff. Some of it was— ” His words falling away, Rance shook his head in disbelief. His thick, dark curls were starting to spring softly to life as they dried.

“Well, I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “And Horsham is right. You should give up the absinthe. I’m told it’s a vile habit. Now, may we drop this discussion?”

He let his arm drop. “For now, aye,” he said wearily. “But let us press on to a related topic. You’ve caused a stir, Nish, coming here. But you just don’t care, do you? You are too bloody stubborn to see the risk in—”

“Thank you,” she stiffly interjected, “but I have already been thoroughly lectured by your valet.”

He set his shoulder to the door and regarded her through heavy, bloodshot eyes. “You would drag us right out into the open, wouldn’t you?” he said.

“
Is
there an
us
?” she asked sharply.

He just shook his head. “Despite what I said to you in the garden the other day, you are going to . . . to
push
this to the point of doing yourself irreparable harm. And I—well, I’m just a man, Nish, with a man’s desires. I’m half afraid I’ll let you.”

“You said you would not declare any affection for me openly.” She willed her voice to calm, breathed deep, and folded her hands together. “And that is your choice. I cannot compel you to do anything. I cannot force you to declare your feelings for me. Perhaps”—to her shame, her voice quavered—“perhaps you have none.”

“Nish!” He strode across the room to go down onto one knee, his free hand cupping round the turn of her cheek. “Oh, Anisha, love.
Unfair
.”

“Is it?” She managed a light shrug. “In any case, I cannot compel you. But I’m done trying to fit myself into a conventional box, Rance. And you cannot compel me to alter how I feel, or too behave as you think I ought.”

“No,” he said dryly, rising. “Apparently not.”

“We are lovers—or were,” she said, lifting her chin to look up at him. “Because you wanted it, Rance. You won’t put this off on me entirely.”

He dragged in his breath. “Aye, you’re right,” he said quietly.

Smoothly, Anisha rose, sliding her hands down her skirts to tidy them. “Do I still have your friendship, then?” she asked softly. “Do you still find me beautiful? Desirable? For those are the things you promised me in the garden that day. And those are the only things I can—or would even attempt—to hold you to.”

He shocked her then by catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and lowering his lips to hers. She did not tremble or step away, for it was a kiss of exquisite gentleness. For a seemingly infinite moment, his lips lingered, molded warmly over hers, until Anisha had to close her eyes and almost bite her tongue—all to keep from begging him for something more.