Twice Tempted (37 page)

He’d been wrong. He had tried to help Amabelle. He had been infatuated with her. But he had never really loved her. He had never respected her. He had never been in awe of her courage and candor and bright, sharp intelligence or her devotion to her sister. He had never wondered how he could live without her.

Finding Amabelle dead had been terrible. Wondering if Fiona would die was unbearable.

Wilkins met him at the door and sent him up to the guest bedroom with Fiona.

“O’Roarke is with my father,” was all Alex said.

Wilkins took care of that, too. By the time Alex gently laid Fiona on a bed in one of the guest rooms, he could hear a horse clattering out of the mews.

“Oh, and this is Thomas Mitchell,” he told Wilkins. “He is about to tell Drake everything he knows about the Lions’ attempts on the Ferguson ladies’ lives. He is not to be let loose or introduced to any law enforcement entity. Am I clear?”

“As glass. T’other lady is here, just so you know.”

“Mairead is safe?” Fee asked from the bed.

“As houses, ma’am,” Wilkins assured her, then coughed politely. “Lord Wilde is with her.”

Fiona actually smiled. “I’m glad. Don’t let her know I’m here until I’m feeling a bit better. She…she has bad memories of some other times we…er…had trouble.”

Alex remembered the night of the fire, Mairead keening in Fiona’s arms. Fiona seeming so calm, as if the reaction was all too familiar.

His stomach dropped away and he thought he’d be sick. He had just assumed he’d known the worst of what Fiona had lived through.

No, he admitted honestly, he had refused to admit how bad it could have gotten. He hadn’t been able to bear the idea of worse.

“Are you about to finish the confession you began out on the street?” he asked.

She turned wide, bleak eyes at him and then looked away. “I suppose I am.”

“You were living alone in an impossible place,” he said, “forced to survive on your own. I can’t imagine anyone would indict you for self-defense.”

Her smile got even sadder. “Even if it was with foxglove?”

Alex could barely breathe. Foxglove? She had poisoned someone? He felt as if he’d taken a leveler. He’d just assumed that Fiona had found herself in a situation like tonight, forced to protect herself and her sister from an attack. But poison took planning. It took a cold heart and colder calculation.

Every time he wanted to open his mouth to say something, he knew it would be wrong. Pat. Trite. Patronizing. So he coughed and shook his head. “How about we save the rest until I’m quite sure you’ll be around to finish?”

She looked at him with pain-darkened eyes and then simply closed them.

Alex wasn’t certain if she had fainted or simply wished to avoid further discourse. He didn’t blame her. He sure as hell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how he would manage to say it past the hot, hard grief that ate at his chest. He wanted to pick her up and run until she could outdistance her past. He wanted to close her so tightly in his arms she could finally feel safe. And yet, he was finally realizing that he could do neither. He couldn’t save her. He could only stand with her as she fought to save herself.

Then he pulled off the braided blue jacket and costume shirt to expose the wound on her side and forgot everything else. The issue of saving her suddenly became all too tangible. The cut was narrow, deep, and bleeding freely. A stab rather than a slice. Much more dangerous. Much more easily fatal.

Damn it, Fiona Ferguson. Damn it!

He didn’t say a word, just pulled over a chair and bent over his task. Fortunately Wilkins knew him well and had already called for hot water, towels, and basilicum. So Alex kept busy treating Fiona until O’Roarke could make it there to help.

O’Roarke, who was a good fifteen miles away.

So Alex bent to his task, washing the wound and applying the basilicum. He knew he was hurting her. She flinched and clenched her hands, her silence taut and heavy.

“It would be easier if you could faint like any self-respecting woman,” he growled, pressing down hard.

Her chuckle was breathy. “Sadly, it usually only works that way in Minerva Press novels and on the stage.”

“You’ve never met my sister Cissy. Does it hurt to breathe?”

“With you…leaning on me like that, yes.”

He eased back a moment. “There. Any trouble?”

“My lungs are fine. I think he missed them.” She still hadn’t opened her eyes. “A good beefsteak should take care of the rest.”

Wilkins had been busy gathering lamps and setting them up around the bed before he stoked the fire until the room almost sweltered.

“Anything else?” the butler asked, his hand on the door.

Alex looked at the blood on his hands, how it still trickled past Fiona’s ribs. “I wouldn’t mind a stiff brandy or two, if you find it.”

“I think you know me better than that, milord.”

Fee raised a hand. “I’ll join you.”

Wilkins grinned and bowed. “I was gonna pour yours first, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

And so saying, he briefly decamped to return with the decanter and two filled glasses. Setting them down, he helped Alex resettle Fiona on her back so she could drink.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile to the butler and a sip. “I think I might survive after all.”

Wilkins’s grin was delighted. Alex saw that Fiona’s hand trembled and wanted to gather her close, where she couldn’t be afraid or injured ever again. Where he didn’t have to be afraid for her every minute.

“You did send somebody for O’Roarke?” he asked Wilkins.

Amazingly, Fiona all but reared off the bed, spilling a bit of brandy over the back of Alex’s hand. “You called the doctor away from your father? Alex, how could you?”

She was ashen-pale, and dark rings had begun to show beneath her eyes, and she wondered how he could have called for the best physician he knew. He didn’t know whether to laugh or soundly kiss her. “My father is resting.”

She huffed, then winced. “He was resting a week ago when you left. I will be fine. Women suffer blood loss on a regular basis. We manage.”

Never in his life had Alex thought a woman would bring him to blush, much less Wilkins. But she managed it quite handily.

“As intrepid as your sex is,” he said with a grudging grin, gently resettling her, “I would rather have the reassurance of an actual physician. Now, then, Wilkins, that is all.”

Alex folded a cloth pad and laid it against the wound, wrapping gauze all the way around Fiona’s slim waist. The waist he had explored only the night before, tracing it like a treasure map, following the bend of her hip like the curve of a river, her belly, her breasts.

It was tainted by blood now. Defiled by violence and avarice. If Alex let himself be distracted by what had happened to his beautiful Fiona, though, he would never be able to work. Wilkins picked up the decanter and refilled Fiona’s glass before departing. Alex sat by the bed waiting for the linen strips to soak through. He picked up his own drink and sipped, and he hoped Fiona would drink enough to not mind what was coming. He was making her uncomfortable enough. No matter what O’Roarke did, it was going to hurt her worse.

Besides, he thought, ashamed at his own selfishness. Couldn’t this be the chance he’d been waiting for? Could it hurt for her to relax enough to actually be completely honest with him for the first time? There was so much he wanted to say. So much he needed to know. She was at least marginally comfortable now. He was more certain she wouldn’t die. Could he finally learn who the real Fiona was?

Did he really want to?

“Fee…”

He wasn’t certain whether he was relieved or not that he was interrupted.

“So, this is the other half of the famous Ferguson twins,” drawled a voice from the door.

Alex gritted his teeth. “Apologies for abusing your hospitality, old man. Our options were limited.”

For her part, Fiona was squinting at the newcomer who stood just inside the doorway, still clad in evening attire, his opera cloak thrown over a shoulder.

“I don’t know if I like you, sir,” she said simply.

One of Drake’s eyebrows slowly rose. Alex turned to see a rather martial light in Fiona’s eyes.

Laying his hand against his heart, Drake bowed. “I am desolate, Lady Fiona. May I introduce myself? Marcus Drake.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, only slurring a bit. “I know. I know all about you.”

He didn’t smile. “And I know all about you.”

Alex gave Drake a quick look, not at all sure he wanted to know what he meant.

As for Fiona, she let her glass rest back on the bed and surrendered to the pillows. “I wish you had told Alex. It might have saved time. Since we’re here, are you going to give him the watch, Alex? Or does Chuffy have it?”

“Watch?” Drake asked, suddenly sounding alert. “Is there a watch?”

“There is far more than a watch,” Alex said. “You and I will discuss it after I am finished here.”

“I strongly suspect we should discuss it now,” Drake said.

Alex turned on him. “I’m not certain what Chuffy has told you,” Alex said. “But I was able to retrieve a treasure trove of what looks to be Lion material tonight. If you don’t want me to toss it in the fire, you’ll allow me the time to see to Miss Ferguson.”

“From Hawes House,” Fiona added quietly, taking another long sip of her drink. “From bloody Hawes House.”

This time Drake betrayed surprise. Both eyebrows lifted. “My. Does this trove include whatever they were holding over your head, Knight?”

“It does. I will share it all.”

“And does it involve your father?”

Alex faced his superior with unsmiling eyes. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“Well, the treason warrant was for you both. And…his trip to St. Petersburg wasn’t entirely his idea.”

Alex found that he was gaping. “You
knew
? And you didn’t say anything?”

Drake didn’t look particularly penitent. “There were some suspicions. Your father and your wife.”

Alex came off his chair, only to be forestalled by Drake’s raised hand. “Don’t be absurd, man. I’m speaking of state secrets, not sordid gossip. We’ll talk about it when you come downstairs.”

“Gladly. But you will stay away from my father.”

Fiona opened her eyes and grabbed his hand. “That is not what we decided.”

Alex turned to find her gaze suddenly sharp, afraid. For him. Considering how afraid she was of her own final revelation, it almost made him smile. So he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. And then he refused to let it go.

“I wouldn’t be interfering if I were you, Miss Ferguson,” Drake mused gently. “There are at least two dead men in Edinburgh who were known by you.”

“So I’ve been informed by the lady herself.” His expression steely, Alex glared at Drake. “In case you weren’t certain.”

For some reason, that was enough. With a sudden smile, Drake vanished without another word, and Alex turned his attention back to Fiona.

But she wasn’t looking at him. She looked after Drake, as if he had left the scent of dread behind. She didn’t seem to even notice Alex anymore. Her hand, rarely still, as elegant in flight as a swan, lay limp in his. Her eyes seemed to have lost their light, oddly gray in the early morning. Alex fought a creeping sense of foreboding.

Suddenly he wanted her to stop. To keep every secret to herself, no matter how bad. He would want to ease them, solve them. He would find a way. But he was suddenly sure that some truths Fiona protected were best left in the dark of those vaults beneath a bridge in Edinburgh.

Lifting the decanter, he refreshed them both. She didn’t even seem to notice, her eyes unfocused, her fingers rubbing the etched glass in her hand. Alex waited.

“Mae was so beautiful,” she finally said as if continuing a conversation, her eyes focused somewhere else. “I tried so hard to mask it, but she was extraordinary. Even when she was a child, people in the street stopped to stare at her.” She looked down to where she kept picking at the knitted green comforter across her lap, and her voice grew even quieter. Flatter. “There was a banker. Very powerful. Very well respected. Family man. Member of the kirk. We were on our way home from the optical shop one day when he caught sight of Mae.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and Alex squeezed her hand, amazed at the strength in her grip. The expression in her eyes never changed: vague, flat, hopeless. “I was holding her hand because the street was busy. I didn’t want her to be hurt. She was only eleven.”

Alex was struck by a rage such as he’d never experienced in his life. He wanted to batter at something, tear it apart until it was unrecognizable, shards scattered across the ground. He wanted to lay waste until he was thigh deep in blood, to every predator who had tormented those girls, every good Christian who had turned their backs, every politician who cared more for his own comfort than the children who roamed the streets.

He’d suspected. Tormented himself with the possibility that Fee could have been caught in a web of coercion. But Mae. Mae, who still saw the world refracted through the prism of her sister. Mae, who had needed her hand held after living under a bridge for a year.

“He kept…appearing,” Fiona said, her voice scraped raw now. “Following us. Talking to her. Giving her things. Baubles. Sweetmeats. Then one of my friends told me that the banker had hired a bullyboy to separate Mae and me. To…
secure
her. I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Alex swallowed bile, his unoccupied hand fisted. “What did you do?”

She actually smiled, although it was grim. “Made friends with the scullery at his house. Found out he was partial to a particular chop from the butcher. Nobody else ate it but him. Every night. So I paid the butcher’s boy to let me make his delivery.”

It was then, oddly enough, in the silence that followed, that the full weight of Fiona’s words struck him. Mae had been eleven years old when the banker had spotted her. And if Mae had been eleven, so had her twin. Which meant that when she was only eleven years old, Fiona had been fierce enough, devoted enough, intelligent enough, and remorseless enough to poison a man rather than let him destroy her sister.