Obsession Wears Opals (12 page)

At last, she continued. “He was very attentive and flattering. He was handsome and . . . my parents approved of him. My father’s title and estates are entailed to a distant male heir, and I think they were relieved to see me well matched. I imagined myself in love because that was the very next natural thing that I should be, after all. I was pampered and convinced that everything in my life would be . . . lovely.”

He nodded, his attention unwavering.

Isabel sighed. “I never knew that things could be so ugly, that it could change in a single breath, and that a person could be robbed of the ability to say no.”

“You never lost that power, Helen. You did whatever you had to do or told him whatever you needed to say in order to survive. But hear me now, from this moment forward, you possess the power to say no to anything and to anyone.” Darius leaned forward, replacing his spectacles, and then deliberately knocked over the black king on the board and yielded the contest. “And there is no ambush here.”

She nodded and stood, suddenly too anxious and restless to stay. His company was compelling, but she blamed the length of the day on the unruly turns in her thoughts and inability to focus on the game. “I should retire.”

He immediately stood when she did, bumping the table and overturning a few of the pieces. “Of course! It’s—I’m exhausted myself.”

She started to go but turned at the last. “I wish to ask you something, Mr. Thorne. But it is terribly forward and . . . rude.”

“Is it?”

She nodded miserably. “I’m afraid so. But—I have to know.”

He smiled. “Then you should ask.” He straightened his coat and kept his place by his chair. “There is no question out-of-bounds. My old teacher, Professor Warren, used to say that curiosity is a thing never to squander.”

She took a deep breath. “Why are you not married, Mr. Thorne?”

“Ah,” he said softly, “
that
question!”

She almost tried to take it back, offer an apology, and assure him that he needn’t answer. But Isabel held her ground.

“Why do
you
think I’m not married, Helen?”

“That’s not fair. You cannot use the Socratic method and turn this all around!”

He merely smiled at her and folded his arms. “Well?”

“Mrs. McFadden has hinted that it’s all to do with your eccentric wish to spend every waking moment in your library and your inability to hear dinner bells.”

“Hmm. That sounds promising,” he said carefully.

“No, it doesn’t! The love of books does not disqualify you as a husband.”

His eyes flashed with something, a surge of hope—or heat—or . . . Isabel wasn’t sure what it was in the quick betrayal of his expression before he ducked his head to examine the fraying threads on his shirt’s cuff.

“I am not married, because I am not married, Helen.”

“That hardly tells me why,” she whispered.

“No, and I promised you could ask.” He sighed and looked up, the vulnerability in his eyes sending a wash of aching raw electricity through her. “Don’t mistake secrets for goblins.”

“Is it a secret, then?”

He nodded. “It’s not that I’m not inclined or interested. It’s not that I don’t envy my friends who’ve found their happiness in matrimony. But I’m . . . Marriage is for better men than myself. Let’s leave it at that. Please.”

Please. He gives me all the power and I’m so clumsy with it that all I can do is hurt him somehow.

“Of course.” She turned and left to hurry upstairs without looking back.

The evening was definitively concluded and Darius stayed behind in the library as she retreated up to the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Why are you not married?

One day I’ll tell her and be done with it. It’s stupid pride that kept me from it tonight. Stupid pride and the hope of a fool trapped in a penny novel—I didn’t want her to think less of me.

He had never allowed himself to get too close to anyone, terrified at the thought of becoming that monster he’d grown up with. A priest had told him when he was six that it was a family curse. “Your grandfather was a tyrant and your father . . . It’s the way of it. Thorne men are handsome as the devil but known for their quick tempers and quicker fists.”
Thorne men.
Even at six, he’d absorbed the worst of the implications.

He was a Thorne man.

That must mean he would grow up and become cruel like his father.

And so he’d set it all aside. All his energies had gone into a pursuit of a life that was not his father’s. He’d drowned himself in books and avoided the company of women for fear that if he lost his heart, he’d lose his head as well.

Of all the women in the world, perhaps Helen would understand and respect my desire not to inflict harm.

Or see it as confirmation that all men are secretly base and unworthy.

At the moment, he felt extremely base. Every nerve ending was alert and alive, and there was nothing of pristine chivalry in the thickening weight of his flesh and growing demands of his body in her presence. Realms of intellect abandoned him and Darius sat down at his desk to face the truth.

He was losing ground quickly in his battle to keep her at arm’s length.

Damn. I’ve sworn to protect her, but I never thought to worry about protecting her from me.

Chapter

8

The next morning, Darius was in his library penning a letter to Ashe about his revelations on the lack of leads amidst the Scottish gem dealers, oblivious to the usual noise of the house until the tone of the bickering drifting up from the kitchen seemed to change.

Darius stopped what he was doing and cocked his head to one side, listening to a new undertone of upset in their banter. With a sigh, he pushed back from his desk and headed toward the back of the house, his pace increasing at the sound of a scream followed by a great crash of metal and china against the floor.

Darius threw open the door only to freeze at the sight of Hamish laid out on the flagstones next to an overturned worktable, with Helen standing over him in tears, holding a cast-iron skillet upraised as if to strike him again. Mrs. McFadden was frozen with her apron held up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise.

Helen dropped the skillet and the jarring sound of it hitting the stone floor made poor Hamish groan and sit up. “I’m . . . so sorry,” Helen whispered.

“What happened?” Darius asked.

Mrs. McFadden looked as miserable as any creature he’d ever seen. “I . . . I . . .”

Hamish reached up to cradle his skull. “It’s a goose egg but I’ll survive.”

Darius tried again. “What happened?”

It was Hamish who finally answered. “I found out your housekeeper’s first name and . . . got clouted for it.”

“Truly?” Darius asked, struggling not to smile.

“Here’s a hint.” Hamish moaned after running his hands through his hair. “It isna’ Mary.”

Mrs. McFadden nodded, her cheeks patchy with splotches of red betraying her embarrassment. “Margarida is hardly a good Scottish name, sir. My mother heard it from a Spanish gypsy and took a fanciful liking to it. I confess I’ve always been a bit sensitive over the matter and might have made a bit of a squawk. I believe madam thought to come to my rescue. . . .”

“A bit of a squawk?” Hamish scoffed. “Ye came at me like a Morrígan with that tongue of yours, you banshee!”

Mrs. McFadden crossed her arms defensively. “You
laughed
at me, you insensitive boor!”

“Well, here.” Darius stepped forward to help the man to his feet. “Let’s get you off the floor and get a cold cloth for your head.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. MacQueen!” Helen said as she offered him a cold, wet rag, her hands shaking badly. “I can’t believe—I am truly very sorry, sir!”

The housekeeper took the cloth from her, folding it over expertly and stepping in. “Don’t apologize to the brute, madam. It’s his own fault and—mine. I should mind my temper. Here, I have him in hand. Why don’t you take a glass of sherry in the library and I’ll be in with some pies in a bit.”

“Yes, a truce.” He held out his arm to Helen. “Come, Helen, let’s leave them to patch things up. Mrs. McFadden can manage from here.”

Helen meekly ducked her head and took his arm, allowing him to escort her from the kitchen. As far as Darius could tell, the sanctuary of his library had never been a more welcome sight. He showed her to a chair by the fireplace and then retrieved the sherry. He filled a small crystal glass with a generous pour and then knelt at her feet with his offering. “Here.”

She took the glass, and Darius’s stomach clenched at the fear in her eyes. “You have every right to be angry, Mr. Thorne.”

“But I’m not angry.”

“How is that possible? I hit Mr. MacQueen with an iron skillet and nearly killed the man.”

Darius lost the battle not to give in to the strange mischief of circumstances and the comedy of his household. “Helen,” he started, but had to stop as his merriment overtook him. Darius took the chair across from her as he laughed out loud. At last, he sobered enough to speak. “Anyone with sense would applaud your actions.”

“Why?”

“Because you were being so brave.” He watched her closely. “You didn’t know that Hamish wasn’t truly a threat, and yet you leapt into the fray and acted on Mrs. McFadden’s behalf.”

“I heard her screeching and then when . . .” Her blue eyes misted at the memory. “He—he called her a
witch
and was grabbing her arm . . . and I . . . made a fool of myself.”

“Ah yes, a witch. I think it’s a term of endearment in this instance. In return, she often calls him an idiot and something in Gaelic that I cannot translate in good conscience, but let’s just say it’s related to his profession and a certain fondness for cattle.” Darius smiled. “But they’re not enemies and Hamish would throw himself in front of a firing squad before he’d see a single hair harmed on her head. He adores her.”

“Really?” she asked. “I didn’t have that impression at all!”

“It’s easy to misjudge that pair.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’ll live. It’s just a small knot, and by the attention he’s getting from Mrs. McFadden, I’m sure he’ll thank you for it once his ears stop ringing.”

“She
shares
his sentiments?” Helen asked, her expression rapt and serious as she wiped away her tears.

Darius nodded. “I knew it after I watched her one morning preparing a breakfast tray for the man after he’d taken ill. She drizzled honey on his porridge in the shape of a flower and strained his broth with the best linen—
twice
.” He sighed, a touch of envy coloring his thoughts.

“But they are so cruel to each other. Is . . . all love . . . unkind?”

Darius’s heart grew heavy as he realized the direction of her thoughts. “No. Never at its core should love be anything less than kind. It is the highest ideal for a reason, Helen. Their words are a false show. It’s in our actions that we demonstrate our true nature.”

“The honey flower in his porridge?”

“And a hundred other small gestures between them. I have a friend who is a zoologist, and after reading some of his works, I swear watching my housekeeper and my driver is like watching the courtship of porcupines.” Darius smiled. “It’s a prickly business but it suits them.”

“So sweet,” she exclaimed softly.

“When you—meet the right person one day, you’ll know them by their actions. Your instincts will never betray you.”

“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Thorne?” she asked.

He looked back at the tips of his shoes. It was such a simple question and the answer should have been readily given. But how could he say no without sounding like a heartless bastard? How could he reveal his worst fears and greatest hopes without letting her see how much he already stood to lose in her eyes?

Before he could compose an answer, she spoke again. “Pardon me, it is none of my concern and an impertinent question. Especially after last night. I promised you to leave the matter alone.”

“It was another good question. It’s the answer that would be imperfect.” Darius leaned back against the cushions. He shook his head, shifting forward in his chair. “If you’d rather have tea or cider, I can get it for you. You haven’t touched your sherry.”

“No, please.” Isabel sipped her sherry, politely watching the fire. When she’d heard Mrs. McFadden’s screams, she’d been transported into a black panic where there’d been no room for logic. She’d simply taken action and grabbed the first weapon she could seize to save her friend—and when Mr. MacQueen had fallen into the table, it had been the worst catastrophe.

Because only then had reason returned in a miserable avalanche, and logic was an unforgiving mistress. Common courtesy dictated that a lady didn’t overreact and murder her host’s driver in the kitchens, no matter what!

Darius had said the two cared for each other, but the incident only further undermined her confidence in her ability to judge the character of others. She’d been so blind to her husband’s true nature, so fooled by his civil courtship that it made her question everything—her instincts, her intelligence, even her sanity.

He stood to restore the decanter to the side table and she stood as well, wandering over to his desk. “The battle interrupted your work?”

“I’m pleased it did.”

She eyed some of his notes, admiring the neat, firm lines of his handwriting and the graceful curves of his drawings.

“May I help you with it?” she asked. “I am very organized and have a fair mind. My tutors always praised my ability to master new skills very quickly. Perhaps—I could help organize your papers? Or . . .”

His expression was uncertain. “It’s such a strange business. I don’t wish to be indiscreet but—”

“Before you answer, I should admit that if I’m forced to sit and stare at the walls of my bedroom all day, I might run mad, Mr. Thorne. It’s . . . difficult to feel so useless as the hours pass and with nothing to do but think. . . .” She squared her shoulders. “Instead of being a charity case, I might act as your secretary, Mr. Thorne.”

“My secretary?”

“Please. I know it is a forward suggestion but I’m not welcome in the kitchen, and after today, I don’t think I have the nerve to offer, and cannot really leave the house. You said I wasn’t a prisoner, Mr. Thorne, but I am very much confined.”

“Then it would be unfeeling not to employ you.” Darius squared his own shoulders to mirror her businesslike demeanor. “Helen, you’ve put your life in my hands, and if you helped me, you’d be returning the favor. My life and the safety of my friends might be in yours.”

Isabel looked at him warily. “Are you deliberately being dramatic, Mr. Thorne?”

He shook his head. “I wish I were. I’d always prided myself on my ability to solve puzzles, but I think I’ve looked at this too long—or I’m living it and I’m too close to see the clues.”

“Then, I could assist you. While I’m here.” Isabel prayed she didn’t sound as desperate to him as she seemed to herself. But if he could lose himself in his work, then perhaps she could learn the trick as well. She longed for a distraction.

“Very well. I’ll trust myself to your discretion.”

He sat Isabel at his desk and Darius began to lay out maps and drawings to underline his tale. He spoke to her as an equal and a trusted ally, revealing what little information he had in a puzzle that threatened the lives of the Jaded. Before long, Isabel was swept away in the dangerous world of sacred treasures, a mysterious character his friends had named the Jackal, lost Indian temples, and agents of the East India Trading Company, and for the rest of the day, she gave not a single thought to the “trifling business” of abusive husbands.