Page 14 of A Daring Desire

Gilbert swallowed, pushed his spectacles up his nose, and fled.

“Perry!” Cat scolded the moment the door was closed. “How could you? When you promised me faithfully you would be careful, and there you are flirting with the poor man at the very first meeting, you wretch. Whatever am I to do with you? And you put poor Gilbert to the blush.”

“Such a pretty blush it was, too,” Perry said wistfully. “And I’m sorry, darling, but there’s something about a fellow in spectacles. He looked so terribly grave and serious, I couldn’t help myself.”

Cat got to her feet, huffing at him, and Perry followed her to the door. “Now I must go,” she said, turning back to him. “For I don’t like to leave Kilbane for too long. Oh, Perry, he’s so dreadfully sick, and I don’t know what I shall do if—”

Perry gripped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Chin up,” he told her sternly. “Remember who you are, love. If ever I was sick, I would want to know someone as fierce and brave and determined as you were by my side. So go to your husband and make sure he knows just who is taking care of him.”

He kissed her cheek and Cat smiled, if a little tremulously.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and hurried back up to her husband’s room

Chapter 4

Mother,

That ‘old’ brougham was paid for in the spring when you informed me you simply must have it, and a team of black horses too, for Lady Helena had the same and it was all the rage. I provide you with an income which is generous to the extent of folly and yet still accede to the occasional whim, hoping to ensure my life is peaceful. This, however, is my just deserts for allowing you far too free a rein. The answer is no, madam, and will remain no.

I trust that your consequence is elevated enough to endure such strictures of economy. However, should you feel so dreadfully ashamed at being driven out in an equipage which is all of seven months old, I shall lose no time in escorting you to the depths of the countryside where you may live peacefully without the embarrassment of anyone observing your straightened circumstances.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Pagan Bancroft, Viscount Marlowe to his mother, the Right Hon’ble Edith Bancroft, The Dowager Viscountess Marlowe.

21st December 1849, Connaught Place, London.

Kilbane woke once more to misery and cursed his rotten luck. Why did the devil not take him and have done with it? If he was going to roast in hell, then he may as well get on and do it, except then it occurred to him that this may very well be hell. It was certainly hot enough. His skin was dry, stretched too tight across his aching bones, and his head pounded. He made the herculean effort to crack his eyelids open, only to close them again with a groan as candlelight seared his eyeballs. Breathing had become a delicate procedure, and he dared only take tiny, shallow breaths for fear of agitating the cough that would send him into a world of pain like nothing he’d ever known. He slept with his back slightly arched, for lying flat produced a sensation akin to being stabbed in the chest with a dagger piercing his lung and was an agony so exquisite it made him sob like a child. He lived in a haze of pain and nightmares and, though it terrified him to acknowledge it, he was having difficulty sorting reality from dreams, for nothing seemed to be as it ought.

Ricky had been tormenting him again, but Ricky was dead. Yet when he closed his eyes, his vile brother was there, larger than life and every bit as cruel.

“What are you doing, Ciarán?” came the mocking voice, stalking him through the corridors of the home he had loathed and escaped from at his first opportunity. “Come and play with me, there’s a good chap. We’ll have a lark.”

Except his brother’s larks were no fun, but an exercise in terror, and he’d had to work hard to outwit him. He’d learned, though, in time, that he was cleverer than Ricky and his father. Their cruelty was pedestrian, it lacked imagination, and that meant Ciarán could stay two steps ahead of them once he was old enough to understand his family was the enemy. Luckily, Graymont Park was vast and rambling, and it was easy enough to hide away for days, even weeks at a time. There were tunnels and priest holes, and he would make a camp, taking books and supplies enough to last, and only venturing out to raid the kitchen, or when his loathsome kin finally quit their country abode for the delights of the city.

Then he could be free, for the staff did not bother with him, other than to see he was clothed and fed. Those days were the closest thing to happy he had ever encountered, if happiness was an absence of fear and misery. There were no loud parties with drunken revelry and crude women, or mockery for the boy who ran away and hid rather than behave as his brother did. When they were gone, he had free range of the library, reading whatever he could lay his hands on and devouring knowledge. For, if he were clever, he could escape this life and make one of his own, one where he was free. The library was a mixed blessing, however, for his father and brother’s tastes were predictable enough. Ricky was enamoured of the work of de Sade for one, and Ciarán’s eyes were opened fully to the life his family inhabited with no illusions about humanity’s cruelty, about greed and lust and the untrustworthy nature of world and everyone in it. He promised himself to trust no one, and in that way, he would be safe.

He had only erred twice. Once when he was a child, and once on the cusp of manhood. Twice he had allowed himself to love deeply, to trust, and he had been well served for his foolishness. Memories crowded in and he shook his head, not wanting to return to them. He told himself they could not hurt him anymore, yet here, in this inferno, it seemed they could. The past lived again, the dead walked, and the pain in his heart seemed as fresh as if he had plunged again into the moment, an unwilling time traveller pitched headfirst back into his past.

He groaned, and the cough, lying in wait like a villain in the dark, struck out. Pain lanced through him as his breath was torn from his lungs and he gasped, too breathless to scream as agony pierced his side.

“Lie still, my love. Easy, now. Oh, my poor darling. There, now, that’s it. That’s the way.”

The pain subsided, and Kilbane’s attention was riveted upon the soft voice. It came for him when things were bad, so bad he only wished for oblivion, for the darkness, but then that voice pulled him out of the void, promising light, and he was powerless to do anything but follow it.

Something cool and damp caressed his burning face and neck, and he sighed as the torment receded a little.

“There now, can you take a little ice?”

Kilbane jolted as a freezing ice chip slid between his lips, but he held it in his mouth, close to weeping with relief as the sweetness of the water filled his parched mouth. He turned his head, seeking more, and more was given to him.

“That’s the way,” soothed the voice. “You’re doing so very well, but I need you to fight for me now. This fever is going on too long, my lord. You must fight.”

Kilbane wanted to deny the possibility, he was too tired, too wretched, to endure this any longer, but the voice persisted, and he heard sorrow behind the words that begged him to stay. Curious now, he opened his eyes, enduring the too bright candlelight to focus on the beautiful face swimming above his. Something in his heart reacted, an odd jolt as he recognised his wife, poor little creature. How sweet she was, and what a villain he had been to her.

“Be free soon,” he managed, smiling at her.

“No!” she exclaimed, her anger so hot and furious that he jumped in shock as it cracked through the quiet room and the sharpness of her denial tugged him further into consciousness. “Don’t you dare! I won’t let you die on me. I won’t let you.”

He stared at her in consternation, seeing tears rolling down her face. Why? Why did this enchanting, stubborn, ridiculous girl persist? He could not understand it.