A Kiss In The Dark (27 page)

His hand clenched into a fist at his side. “I used to dream about the day that I would return to London and show my father what I’d become. But I didn’t get the chance. When his solicitor finally contacted me with news of his death, I was stunned. He always seemed so much larger than life, so indomitable, and I felt … cheated. Robbed of the opportunity to hear him admit he’d made a mistake about me.”

Behind his agonized expression, Deirdre could have sworn she saw traces of the young man he’d once been, so desperate for his father’s approval despite his actions to the contrary. She felt her heart wrench in sympathy. “And Emily?”

He looked away. “I can’t tell you how many times over the years I thought of her. How many times I put pen to paper in order to write her, only to wind up tearing it up and throwing it away. I just couldn’t find the words. What could I say? I’m sorry for abandoning you? I’m sorry for not being able to save our mother? Nothing I could possibly say sounded right, so I just left it as it was. It seemed better that way somehow.”

“And what about since you’ve been home?” Deirdre prompted.

He swung to face the fireplace, his back stiff as he braced his hands on the mantelpiece. His grip on the marble was so tight that she could see the whiteness of his knuckles, even at this distance. “I’ve tried to do right by her, but it seems no matter what I do I’m destined to be wrong.”

He reached up to rake his fingers through his hair, rumpling the ebony strands into unruly disarray. “I offer her the best of everything. I hire the most highly recommended governesses so she can be properly educated, and she chases them away with one madcap stunt after another. I don’t know what else I can do.”

Deirdre wet her lips and took a steadying breath. Perhaps she was venturing where she had no right to go, but she had to wonder … “Tristan, have you tried talking to Emily about all of this, asking her how she feels?”

His nonplussed expression as he glanced back at her said it all.

Oh, dear. “Have you spent any time at all with her since you returned? Gone on a picnic or taken a carriage ride in the park? Sat down to dinner with her in the evenings?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he avoided her eyes. “I’ve been extremely busy, what with trying to take care of all father left undone, attempting to recoup his losses. There … hasn’t been time.”

“Meaning you haven’t?”

There was a beat of silence, then he inclined his head in a stiff nod. “Meaning I haven’t.”

“Oh, Tristan.” Deirdre laid a hand gently on his arm. “I’m far from experienced in these matters, but I would say your sister is trying to tell you something. She doesn’t want expensive things or a prudish governess. She wants you. She’s been calling out for your attention and you haven’t heard her.”

“I heard. I just didn’t want to listen.” Pacing away from the fireplace, with a harsh groan he sank down on the sofa they had just recently vacated, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It hurts too much.”

“What does?”

“Seeing her, talking to her.” His voice was raw, anguished, as if he were pushing the words out through a constricted throat. “She looks so much like Mother. Every time I’m with her I’m reminded that I’m the failure Father always accused me of being, that it’s my fault my mother is gone.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Deirdre moved to sit beside him, determined to make him listen. “You wouldn’t let me hold myself responsible for Mouse’s death, and it’s the same thing. You can’t blame yourself for what happened to your mother.”

“I can and I do.” He looked up at her, eyes blazing. “Our situations aren’t the same, Deirdre. I was there when my mother was attacked and I failed to save her. And now, through my own negligence, I’ve managed to lose my sister. Who else is there to blame?”

She didn’t know what to say. His desolation was an almost tangible thing, hovering in the air between them like a dark cloud, and she had no idea what she could do to make it go away.

“Tristan, you’ve made mistakes with Emily, it’s true. But they can be rectified. You have to believe it’s not too late. I know you love her. You just haven’t known how to show it. But once you have her back you—”

“Maybe I don’t deserve to have her back.”

His words were sharp, deprecating, and she felt herself go cold at the resignation she could see so clearly in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Maybe I don’t deserve to have her back. So far I’ve been utterly worthless as a guardian. Once I find her, it might be better if I send her to live with Aunt Rue, after all. It’s what the Dragon Lady has wanted from the very beginning. And why not? Apparently, she knew what she was talking about. I’m unfit to be the caretaker of anyone, much less an impressionable young girl.”

He truly believed the nonsense he was spouting, Deirdre realized as she struggled to find the words to persuade him he was wrong. He had somehow convinced himself that his sister would be better off with a prim and unloving aunt than she would be with her own brother.

“Tristan, please. Don’t make any hasty decisions. Wait until after you’ve found her and then decide what’s best. But I must say, I cannot credit that she would be better off away from you. You’re her brother, the only close family she has left. She needs you.”

One corner of his mouth twisted bitterly. “It’s not a good idea for anyone to need me, Deirdre. I seem to have a habit of letting down the people I care about the most.”

“But—”

“No. That’s enough.” His face closed up, and she could practically see him reerecting the wall between them, which she had believed was gone for good. “It’s time to end this conversation. Obviously, you see things differently than I, but you don’t really know me, Deirdre. Not the real me. If you did, you wouldn’t hesitate to agree that the farther Emily was from me, the better.”

Rising, he strode toward the door with purposeful strides, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “As you said, right now we have things to do. I shall alert Cullen that we are ready to depart, and then we can be on our way.”

He exited the room, leaving Deirdre staring after his departing figure, her heart breaking for him.

L
ater that evening, Deirdre sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair with slow, meditative strokes as she turned the events of that day over in her mind.

What with her concerns about the Rag-Tag Bunch and the subsequent discovery of Mouse’s death, things had been rather harrowing, to say the least. But what occupied her thoughts the most was Tristan’s continued refusal to allow her to help him.

After bringing about such an abrupt end to their conversation earlier, he had once again retreated behind his usual shield of stoic reserve, treating her with a cool civility that had made her want to scream in frustration. On the way back to her town house, every attempt she’d made to broach the subject of Emily had been effectively cut off, until she had finally thrown up her hands in defeat and left him to his brooding ruminations.

What am I to do?
she wondered, laying aside her brush with a sigh. How could she make him see that he was wrong about everything? He might think he’d given very little away, but whether he knew it or not, his words had been extremely telling. Ever since his mother’s murder, he’d spent his life afraid to let people too close, certain he was undeserving of anyone’s love or trust because in the end he would fail them. Just as he believed he’d failed his mother. Just as he believed he was failing Emily now.

An overwhelming sense of sadness washed over her as she recalled the look of anguish that had suffused his features when he’d talked about giving his sister up. She had no doubt that doing so would devastate him, but she knew he was prepared to go through with it despite all of her efforts to dissuade him.

Blast him, but he had to be the most stubborn man she’d ever met. He could give comfort, but he wouldn’t take it. He talked about bottling things up, but he was just as guilty of that as she was.

Getting to her feet, she wandered over to the window to stare out at the night beyond. Never had she felt at such a loss. It wasn’t in her nature to sit idly by and watch while someone suffered, but as long as Tristan continued to push her away, there was nothing she could do.

Damn the late Lord Ellington! And damn Barnaby Flynt! Both men had much to answer for.

At that moment, the clock in the hall outside her door struck midnight, and she sent a longing glance in the direction of her bed. If only she could lose herself for a while in the sweet oblivion of sleep! She was positive, however, that if she even attempted to lie down she would do nothing but toss and turn.

Perhaps now would be a good opportunity to slip out of the house and return to the Rag-Tags’ hideout to see if she could ascertain what was going on in that quarter. But no sooner had the thought occurred to her than a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and she quickly discarded the notion. September evenings in London could be quite chilly at the best of times, and the idea of venturing out into the cold, wet darkness was far from appealing.

She wasn’t certain how long she stood there, gazing out at the surrounding landscape with unseeing eyes, but the first drop of rain had just plopped against the glass pane when she became aware of a strange noise coming from the other side of the wall.

The wall her bedroom shared with the guest chamber.

At first it was faint, a low groaning that had her pricking up her ears and moving closer, straining to hear above the patter of raindrops outside. After a second or two, however, it rose in volume and became more distinct.

It was the unmistakable sound of a person caught in the throes of a horrible nightmare, and even as she came to the realization, there was a sudden loud thump, followed by an alarming crash.

Dear God! Tristan!

Without stopping to think or even bothering to retrieve her dressing gown from the foot of her bed, she raced pell-mell into the hallway, her heart pounding with fear and dread. She didn’t pause to knock on the guest room door; she simply pushed it open and flung herself inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to become adjusted to the gloom. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and shadows filled the chamber. Gradually, however, things became more distinct, and she could make out the restless figure moving beneath the covers on the canopied bed against the far wall.

Taking a step closer, she immediately saw the source of the loud crash she’d heard. Pieces of a porcelain vase that had once rested on the night table next to the bed now lay scattered over the polished wood floor, a victim of one of Tristan’s outflung arms.

The noise hadn’t been enough to wake him, however. He was still deep in the grip of some terrible dream, his harsh breathing and incoherent muttering loud in the stillness.

“No! Please, no! Emily!”

His raw, agonized cries were enough to fill Deirdre’s eyes with sympathetic tears. Even in his sleep, it seemed he couldn’t escape the torment of his waking hours.

Well, she couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. She had to help him. But how? Should she try to wake him?

She paused for a moment in indecision, wondering if she should summon Mrs. Godfrey and ask for the housekeeper’s assistance. In truth, she was surprised that one of the servants hadn’t heard the noise and come running to investigate the cause.

It was then that Tristan gave another groan, chasing every thought right out of her head, and she hurried forward to stand at the edge of the bed, studying him in concern.

He lay on his back, the blue silk sheets tangled about his lean waist, his broad, bronzed chest gleaming with perspiration. As she watched, he tossed his head on the pillow, his teeth clenching as he fought off the demons that tortured him in his mind.

Dear Lord, hadn’t he suffered enough? She couldn’t bear to see him like this.

She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before reaching out to lay her hands gently on his strong shoulders, speaking in what she hoped was a soft, reassuring tone.

“Tristan. Tristan, can you hear me? It’s Deirdre. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Surfacing from what seemed to him to be the darkest bowels of hell, Tristan became aware of the feel of hands gripping his arms, a voice speaking to him in garbled sentences that made no sense. Taunted by images of sinister dark eyes and a scarred face, he lashed out, his one thought to bring his ordeal to an end.