Obsession Wears Opals (2 page)

Hello, Dear Readers!

Thank you for all your wonderful notes and messages. It’s a bit of a cliché to admit that writing is ultimately a solitary task and it’s easy to feel isolated sometimes. But you’ve made sure that I never felt alone, and I’ve loved creating the Jaded Gentlemen for you and I appreciate the reception they’ve received! I try to answer every e-mail and note that I receive because it means the world to me to have that opportunity to connect with readers.

Obsession Wears Opals
has been a labor of love, and as a true nerd, I confess I’ve always had a secret crush on the smart, shy guy in glasses. So who’s to say my sexy Darius can’t prove that intelligence can win over brawn, and win a few readers’ hearts along the way? Just to avoid any confusion if you’ve been following the series, note the timeline. Darius is in Scotland while Josiah is meeting his match in London and so these stories
start out
concurrently—so if Darius isn’t yet aware of his friend’s romantic fate with Eleanor Beckett, it’s because he hasn’t gotten the news in Edinburgh, where this story takes place. And naturally, if this is the first book you’ve discovered in the Jaded Gentleman series, welcome and don’t worry! You can enjoy this one without having read any of the previous books in the series. I promise.

So, it’s still January 1860, and while Josiah Hastings is battling his shadowy demons, here is the answer to Galen’s question, “Damn it, what is keeping Darius in Scotland?”

Enjoy!

Renee Bernard

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.

—RUMI

Chapter

1

Edinburgh
January 1860

Somewhere a drum was beating.

Isabel groaned in frustration at its insistence, at its intrusion on the numb, cold peace that had finally overtaken her. She’d lost track of time. She didn’t know how far she’d ridden, but the gallop of yesterday had long yielded to a slow crawl through the night, and Isabel couldn’t remember seeing the sunrise. She had ridden until exhaustion and the wintry lash of wind and icy rain had woven together into a tapestry of deadly quiet.

Except for that infernal drumming.

The rhythm was steady and slow. But loud enough to draw attention, she thought, because now there were voices. Someone was screaming and then there was an exchange, distant and anxious. Hands were touching her with muffled questions she couldn’t understand. And then someone was lifting her from the frozen wet ground.

I was on the ground? Did I fall from the saddle? How is that possible—Samson would never let me fall. . . .

Isabel’s anxiety bloomed at the thought that something had happened to her faithful stallion, that she’d ridden him beyond the limits of his strength, but then her ankle was being freed from the stirrup where it had caught, and she was being pressed against someone and cradled in a man’s arms, wrapped in a coat and blankets. She struggled to open her eyes, aware for the first time that she must have closed them.

The voices were closer, the vibration of the deep timbre of his speech touching off a spike of agonized fear that jolted her back to reality.

The drumming was my own heartbeat.

God help me, I was praying for it to stop.

Numbness fell away in a single breath and Isabel cried out at the cruel loss. She didn’t want to feel—anything. Not the fiery bite of the sleet against her cheeks or the warmth of his frame against hers; or the horrible return of memory and terror that had driven her to try to escape.

“I’ve got you,” the stranger said softly, and something in her ached at the gentleness but despised the pain that it evoked.

You have me.

And what would you say if I just begged you to leave me as you found me?

There was a flurry of activity and Isabel became more and more aware of what was taking place as her weightless state gave way to sodden skirts and labored breathing. A woman was hovering behind them and making an awful keening fuss as they crossed the threshold and the warmth of the house enveloped them all. “Is she dead? Oh, God! A dead woman in my winter garden! I’ll be haunted all my days!”

“She’s
not
dead.” He shifted her carefully and began to make his way toward the heart of the house. “Calm yourself, Mrs. McFadden. Fetch Hamish and ask him to ride for Dr. Abernethy at once.”

“No,” Isabel croaked barely above a whisper, wincing at the agony of speech, but her terror overrode everything. “P-please, I beg you. N-no . . . a-authorities . . .” She looked up at him and tried not to cry as desperation bled into her words. “P-please, sir. I c-cannot . . . go back.”

“What’s that she’s saying?” the woman screeched from the kitchen doorway.

Isabel held her breath, praying for mercy in an unmerciful world, and nearly broke when she saw the flood of compassion and comprehension in his green eyes.

“Forget the doctor,” he amended, raising his voice slightly and turning back to his housekeeper with authority. “Tell Hamish to tend to that horse and make sure the upstairs blue bedroom has enough firewood. Our guest will recover there, but for now, I’m taking her to the library where it’s warmest. And hot broth, blankets, and dry clothes, Mrs. McFadden, as soon as you can manage it, please.”

“Yes, Mr. Thorne.”

Her terror retreated slightly as the threat of a doctor faded and she was carried through another doorway into a small library. He knelt and then, with his free hand, yanked the cushions off a nearby chair to make a nest for her in front of the fireplace. His hands were efficient as he rolled her gloved hands in his to warm the leather enough to peel it from her fingers, and he spoke pleasantly as if they were experiencing an ordinary introduction.

“My name is Darius Thorne and you must forgive my housekeeper, Mrs. McFadden, for her reaction. I must be such a dull man that she’s grown unused to any excitement at all.” He laid the gloves aside and then sat back on his heels to address the jet buttons on her riding coat. “Pardon my familiarity, but if we don’t get you out of some of these soaking wet clothes, then I won’t be able to keep my word and will have to send for Dr. Abernethy after all.”

She nodded, weakly trying to help him with her jacket but failing as her fingers refused to obey her commands. “Thank you. Sh-she has every right to complain. P-people r-rudely landing in her k-kitchen g-garden.” Isabel’s teeth chattered as she spoke. “I—I’m ruining these cushions, t-too.”

He smiled, apparently ignoring that she’d not offered her own name in return. “No worries. I’ll make sure she knows I’m to blame since I’ve long disliked that chair with its embroidered scene of some idiots cavorting about and shooting deer.” He undid the last button and drew the sodden coat from her shoulders, replacing it with the blanket that had fallen off as a temporary aid to ward off a chill. “Let’s get your boots off.”

Her extremities had begun to warm, and with the return of her circulation, her skin began to burn as if pricked by a thousand needles. She winced as he pulled off her boots and forgot modesty as he made quick work of her stockings to toss them on the stone hearth.

“Damn,” he muttered beneath his breath and, without preamble, began to vigorously rub her feet and calves.

“It hurts!” she protested but stopped when she saw the pain in his face.

“I’d not hurt you for all the world, but we must get your blood flowing to ease your injuries. Please forgive me.” He returned grimly to his task and she nodded slowly, acquiescing to his good sense. But there was more to it.

Isabel paid no heed to the tears on her cheeks as she studied her rescuer for the first time. The sincerity in his face was a strange balm that removed her from discomfort. By the firelight, his wire-rimmed spectacles gleamed like copper and his handsome features were accented by the glow. He had the soulful look of a poet, with arched eyebrows and sweet eyes, but his face was chiseled as if nature had hoped to fashion him for war. He was calm and careful as his strong hands gently worked over her flesh until the pale skin finally began to glow pink and become pliant to his touch, and when he looked back up at her, Isabel’s breath caught in her throat.

“Better?” he asked. “No frostbite, I’d say.”

He’d said he’d not hurt her for all the world and it made no sense in the world she’d experienced to believe him. But there she was, sitting in front of his fire with her bare feet tucked into his lap, half frozen and miserable—and inexplicably feeling safe for the first time in months. It was impossible but she wanted to trust this man.

She nodded and opened her mouth to answer him but a crisp knock at the door ended the spell.

“All’s prepared upstairs, Mr. Thorne. I’ve a roaring fire going and a tray of hot broth and fresh pastries to follow, but I thought I’d see her up and settled first.”

“Yes, brilliant, Mrs. McFadden.” He stood, unfolding from the floor, and Isabel winced out of habit at the sudden movement. “Are you unwell?”

She shook her head. “N-no. I don’t think so.”

“Here, let me help you.” He lifted her up effortlessly as if she were a small child and made his way toward the doorway and his impatient housekeeper. “Lead on, Mrs. McFadden.”

Isabel closed her eyes and swallowed any protest she might have made. Pride urged a lady to insist that her legs worked and that she couldn’t allow him to exert himself on her behalf, but a small practical voice inside of her won the day by noting that she couldn’t really feel her toes, that every part of her ached, and that the room was starting to spin.

The haze of exhaustion reasserted itself as they moved up the staircase, and Isabel fought to stay alert in his arms. The transition to his guest bedroom was smooth and well choreographed by the firm instructions of Mrs. McFadden as he set her down on an upholstered couch at the foot of the bed. The room was as warm as toast, and while Mr. Thorne waited dutifully outside the door, Mrs. McFadden saw her out of every stitch of her wet clothes and into soft woolen stockings and several layers of an old flannel nightgown. And then Mr. Thorne returned and lifted her up to carry her to bed as Mrs. McFadden tucked in a heated brick wrapped in cloth to serve as a bed warmer and turned back the covers.

Ensconced under mounds of bedding, Isabel sank into the feather mattress and lost the battle to keep her eyes open.

“There you are,” he said softly, before he retreated. “Safe and sound.”

Safe and sound.

Isabel slid into the darkness that opened up around her, welcoming oblivion before one last thought bubbled up.

I’ll never be safe again.

***

“She’s English,” Mrs. McFadden noted, her lips pressed into a thin, worried line.

“Yes.” Darius headed down the stairs with his housekeeper on his heels.

“And that’s no maid run off from service!”

“No.” At the bottom of the staircase, he encountered a very surly looking Hamish blocking their path.

“It’s a crime, I tell ye! Anyone who’d take a bit of horseflesh like that and ride him into such a state!” Hamish, his driver and houseman, crossed his arms, openly furious. “If you don’t take the gentleman out that did this and beat him bloody, I will!”

“Hold, Hamish!” Darius had to take a deep breath to keep his own emotions in check. “First of all, no one is beating anyone for anything or speaking out of turn! Whoever the lady is, she is in need of our help and our sympathy. I’m sure she never meant to harm her horse and will thank you when she recovers for your skilled nursing of the animal, Hamish, and your care for him.”

“L-lady?” Hamish asked, looking appropriately chastised. “The harridan there didn’t say a word of it, sir. Naturally, I’ll see to the beast and have him set to rights.”

Mrs. McFadden gasped at the insult and glared at her nemesis with an unspoken promise of dirt in his next bowl of porridge.

“Thank you, Hamish.” Darius spoke deliberately, dismissing the man so that he could have a private word with Mrs. McFadden.

Hamish turned and went back to the stables, and Darius invited Mrs. McFadden into the library, where the woman immediately busied herself by picking up the soggy cushions from the floor.

“Mr. Thorne. What are ye thinking?”

“I’m thinking that nothing matters but her health and comfort.”

Mrs. McFadden dropped the cushions onto the chair. “I think that woman’s in some trouble. Ye should’ve sent Hamish to fetch the constable.”

“No.” Darius turned back to his housekeeper. “We’re not sending for anyone until she requests it.”

“This isn’t a stray cat we’ve plucked from the snow, sir, if you don’t mind me sayin’ it!” Her thin faced was pinched with disapproval and unhappiness. “Poor thing!”

For Darius, everything ground to a halt at her words. His instincts had been raging ever since he’d laid eyes on the woman, and when she’d pleaded for him not to contact the authorities, a part of him had guessed at the truth. “How bad is it?”

Mrs. McFadden averted her eyes but dutifully answered. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Her back looks like she just took a serious flogging. Whoever it was used a cane, I’d say, but somehow managed not to break any of her ribs. It’s . . . it’s a horror, sir.”

Shit.

“We’ll keep ourselves to ourselves, Mrs. McFadden. Tell Hamish to keep that horse out of sight, and when the lady is ready, I shall offer her whatever assistance she needs. But under no circumstances are you to tell anyone of her presence here. If it’s what we suspect, then the authorities will provide no relief.” Darius ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the taste of rage in his mouth at the man who would inflict such harm on a woman. “Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Yes, but—”

“No. No, Mrs. McFadden. I told her she was safe and sound, and by God, I mean to do everything in my power to see that she is. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Thorne. Not a word to anyone.” She bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, leaving him alone with his books and papers.

Darius waited until the door closed behind her and the startling realization that he had an unexpected houseguest sank in. He bent over to retrieve all the notes he’d scattered in his rush and tried to reorder his thoughts.

The shock of it wasn’t lessening and so he gave up for a minute and sat down at his desk. When he’d seen her lying in the snow, his heart had stopped. Her horse’s saliva had frozen into a wreath on his bridle from laboring for so long, and his sides shimmered with frost. The beast had apparently failed to clear the garden’s low stone wall and then stood over his mistress unsure of where to go.

At the first scream, Darius had instinctively grabbed a decorative sword from over the fireplace and launched from his study, prepared for anything. Tossing the useless sword from his hands, he’d slid on the icy path to kneel next to her, praying her neck wasn’t broken. But she’d been intact. Ice cold and nearly frozen to death, but intact. Pale blond hair and skin almost as white as the ground around her, she was ethereally beautiful with fine, delicate features so perfectly formed it was like stumbling onto a life-size porcelain figurine.

She was so slight and frail that he’d worried that her spirit might have already departed, but when she’d cried out and then struggled against him, his relief had been palpable.

Alive.

He’d been carrying her inside when she’d opened her eyes and begged him not to send for the surgeon. One look into her eyes and he’d simply known.

He’d known that Mrs. McFadden would find bruises.

He’d known that nothing would ever be the same.

And not because she’s English and well-off. Her riding coat was velvet, her jacket tailored, and the buttons were carved jet. Even her boots bespoke privilege, not to mention that horse—not that I’m gifted with Galen’s eye for horseflesh, but that wasn’t a common pony.