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A good time later, she said, “You did this on purpose.” Her tone was mocking.
“I do everything with purpose.” He arched a wicked brow. He stood up and held out his hand. She stood thigh-deep in the water next to him, as he wrapped a towel around her. Her long legs, slick with water, gleamed in the firelight. In one motion, he scooped her into his arms and moved toward the bed, her body pressed warm and damp against his chest. Although they had just made love, he would have given his soul to slide his fingers into the knotted towel and peel it from her skin.
The urge was clearly not his alone. Meredith's fingers clutched at his shoulders as though she needed to keep him there, hovering over her. He looked for no further encouragement, as he lay down beside her.
“How is this possible?” she murmured against his neck.
“That I want you again?”
It was a question he couldn't answer. Instead, he rested his forehead lightly against hers. His lips brushed her skin. “Perhaps,” he tried carefully, “we should endeavor to speak of other subjects.”
Her eyes spoke rueful appeal as she looked up at him. His expression was encouraging. “What are you looking at?” she whispered when the tension of their silence became unbearable.
“You,” he replied simply. Against the furs she looked as decadent as an odalisque, making it nearly impossible for him to think clearly. The silvery marks on the inside of her arms reminded him of his folly. He was quiet for a long time, his arms loosened around her. He lifted his head up, looked down into her eyes. He appeared as if he was considering whether to speak.
“What happened, Meredith?” he asked finally. He took his thumb and gently brushed it over the inside of one arm and then the other.
She stared at him. “They are the price I paid rescuing Julia and Rowena,” she said thickly after a moment.
He nodded, continuing with his stroking. “How?”
“It was the nursery fire,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “I had awakened to the sound of flames as my bedroom was adjacent to the nursery. They were little more than babes.” She took a deep breath. “I didn't think but simply plunged through the smoke. Julia was standing by the rocking horse while Rowena was in her crib. When I reached in to gather her into my arms, the heat of the crib's metal spindles singed my flesh.”
Archer was silent, his rhythmic caress continuing.
“It was well worth it,” she said fiercely. “These are scars that I welcome because they saved the lives of two innocents who would otherwise have perished.”
“As your father did.”
She nodded.
“And the kaleidoscope?” he asked softly.
She kept her eyes on the ceiling. “First belonged to Julia and then to Rowena. It was most often found in the nursery.”
There was much he wanted to say but couldn't.
“I know what you're thinking. And what you would like to ask.” She turned into his arms. Her eyes were wide and filled with truth. “Faron set fire to the nursery.” She said the words too quickly, too breathlessly, and he stared at her intently.
“That is what Rushford told me,” he said gravely. Then he asked, “Why would he do something like that?”
She shuddered in his arms. “Revenge. Madness. But it was my fault.”
“I don't believe it.”
And as if it were yesterday, Meredith saw Faron standing in the light of the summer afternoon inside a simple cottage. “It happened in a little cottage outside Blois,” she said, her eyes looking into the distance, almost able to smell the roses that scented the air around the place. “Of course, Father knew we were falling in love. Faron's parents were always in Paris and thought their son's dalliance with his tutor's daughter was something they could simply ignore, in the assumption that he would grow out of it.” She paused. “He surprised me one day by taking me there,” she said softly.
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“You fill my heart,
mon amour.
I would give you all the world as a bouquet.”
Their eyes had met, and the magic that existed for them alone filled his gaze. It seemed like yesterday, despite the years that flashed by and the memories that threatened to engulf her. Her eyes had shone with tears of love at the sight of Faron, his arms overflowing with red roses he'd gathered from the bush outside. He was across the room at her side before the first tear spilled, dropping the flowers and sweeping her up into his arms. “Don't cry,” he whispered into her hair, cradling her against his chest. “Think of the happiness we share and all the years ahead of us.” They walked to the cottage door and she stilled in his arms, gazing out at the sunset, and the gentle forest beyond. The radiant summer sun lit up the young couple looking into the promise of a shared future.
“You are my life and my love,” he murmured, his dark eyes turning toward her. “My best friend. My intellectual equal, lest I forget, and also,” he whispered, lightly brushing her cheek with his lips, “my passion.”
She smiled at him tremulously. “And your chess partner.”
“And a colleague whose interests match my own. I could never have translated that last stanza of
The Bacchae
without you,” he said, love in his voice and eyes. “Although I should add that you also cause my heart rate to accelerate when I see you in that beautiful gown you wore at the Comte de Polignac's dinner a fortnight ago.”
Lifting her head from his shoulder, Meredith dropped a quick kiss on his mouth. “Enough of this flattery. Father is convinced that it will go to my head and I shall lose my focus on my studies.”
Faron shook his head, taking her pale hand and placing it against his chest. “Impossible. You have bothâblazing beauty and intellect. And I am the most fortunate man in the world to have you by my side. Will you marry me?” he asked her with a brilliant smile that she knew she would never tire of for as long as she lived.
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Beside her on the bed, Archer pushed the hair back from her face, his expression shuttered. “You said yes, of course.”
“I never had the chance.”
“His parents wouldn't allow it. The daughter of a tutor who was only a minor English nobleman.”
She shook her head. “I literally never had the chance.” Then she told him. After they had made love, Faron had left the cottage, in the early evening. On his way back to the chateau, he was viciously attacked by his cousin Jerome, a deeply disturbed young man who had always been bitterly jealous of Faron. He was left for dead, with a grievous wound to his head. He barely survived and the injury left him with a lifetime of seizures and a diminished intellect. Jerome committed suicide, but not before leaving a note, swearing that Meredith was the cause of his jealousy and the reason for his heinous act.
“The young man I knew was not the same,” Meredith continued. “Plagued with wild mood swings which he hid behind a leather mask, as his formerly handsome features were beset with wild tremors beyond his control.”
“He blamed you.”
She shrugged helplessly, recalling the weeks he had spent recovering in the northeast wing of the chateau. The act of opening his eyes had been torture, the pounding in his head like an anvil. Meredith had sat by his bed, memorizing the fleur-de-lis patterns on the rich silk hanging, the heavy mahogany furniture, the bed curtains pulled back. A tapestry hung on the wall, its unicorn and frolicking maidens all distantly familiar. For weeks, she had watched as he broke out into cold sweats, the first of a series of convulsions racking his body. He had drifted in and out of his fevered state of alternating pain and awareness.
“He was never the same,” she repeated. “And poisoned against me. He believed that because of me, he was left a carapace of a man, imprisoned behind a leather mask, with scarred flesh and a scarred mind. I had no choice but to flee after the fire with Rowena and Julia.”
She remembered the last time she'd seen Faron. She was on a stolen horse, galloping like the wind, her cloak flowing behind her, her hair escaping from her hood. Faron had somehow known where she was, and intercepted her on the road outside Blois where she had managed to secrete the children. He drew rein and pivoted his mount to stop her. Her horse, whipped to a frenzy only moments before, tossed its mane and danced impatiently, poised to disappear over the horizon. She met his gaze for what would be the last time, his eyes obsidian behind the mask. At that moment, he was still everything that she had ever loved him for in the beginning. Then her heart closed forever, before it could shatter.
“Do you see why I am so concerned for you?” Archer held her closer, breaking through the memory. “Say that you understand.”
He could tell that it took all her strength to keep her tears from spilling over. “You are the one who needs to understand, Archer. I have said it once before. I know in my heart that he is dead, as Rushford and Rowena attest. There is no possible way that the toy from the nursery came from Faron.”
She moved from his arms and sat up, pulling the fur rug around her shoulders.
Fascinating choice of words, Archer thought, startled by the bitterness of his thoughts. “You are a woman of intellect and you pride yourself on your logic. Your
feelings
about the matter should not signify.”
She rose from the bed, pulling a sheet around her, although it was far too late for modesty. “I do not have to explain everything. Surely I have explained enough.” She was exhausted, enervated, but becoming increasingly out of temper at Archer's damnable presumption. Marching from the alcove, she threw herself on a chair by a porthole, drumming her fingers restlessly on the chair arms, looking out into the black night.
When he joined her moments later, she looked away, trying to visualize where their strange alliance would lead next, cursing herself for having revealed more than she should have in a moment's weakness. It had begun to rain, she noticed distractedly, more sleet than rain, really. When the small clock on the mantel chimed some time later, she looked away from the porthole and was startled to see how late the hour had become. How long had she been here with Lord Richard Archer, in this hothouse fantasy of desire and excess?
Why, she thought indignantly, was she sitting here like some fearful child? She was a grown woman, long since able to face reality and its demands. “I believe it is time that I leave,” she began, finally turning her head in the dimly lit interior, her gaze drawn to Archer's powerful form seated across from her. He was whipcord lean, full of constrained energy; the strong, stark lines of his face did not bode well.
“Of course, you're free to go. But I should advise waiting until morning. The roads to London will be more hospitable.” His intense scrutiny belied his casual sprawl; his feet bare, he was clad only in his breeches. “Before you leave, tell me at least that you will not resume your relationship with Hamilton.”
“Good Lord, Archer. Not that again! I don't believe you have any right to dictate with whom I spend my time,” she snapped.
“I think we have determined that you are in danger,” he said quietly.
“I shall not have him threatened,” she said heatedly, incensed by the way he commanded the space with his presence. “He is a lovely man who has only shown himself to be a loyal friend. It would behoove you not to forget how he came to my assistance, not once but twice.”
“Precisely.” His voice was flat, his response simple. “I have not forgotten. And there's the rub.”
“Why do you not like Hamilton?” she asked, angrily, then reconsidered his neutral expression. “What do you know that you are not telling me?” she asked in a hushed, hesitant voice, her nerves on edge.
“Just call it instinct.” Rubbing his head with both hands, he raked his fingers through the thickness of his hair to smooth the disheveled roughness.
“That's no reason to ask me to avoid a man. You can't do this,” Meredith declared, “every time I make a new acquaintance.”
Leaning back in the carved chair, Archer rested his head wearily against the teak wainscoting. “I realize that,” he murmured with a faint grimace. A moment later, he rose from the chair, pushing it aside with a harsh gesture. He strode away from her to look into the blackness of the porthole.
“I should leave now,” she said quietly. Before the situation deteriorated.
He shrugged, his powerful shoulders in his hastily donned shirt outlined against the dark glass. “Not until I have your word that you will not visit with Hamilton in Cambridge. At least not without me at your side.” He stood motionless before the porthole, looking out as though there was something to see beyond the pitch black.
“At my side. Are you mad? I don't understand you at all. What is it that you want?” Meredith rested her hands on the arms of the chair, hoping to steady them. Her heart was beating rapidly, like the young girl she no longer was.
“Clearly what I can't have,” he muttered into the black night. Turning, he faced her, in shadow still, his expression shuttered. He took a step forward and the glow of the brazier fire threw into sharp relief the stamp of weariness on his face. There was a flat silence and then he said softly, “It frightens me.”