The Dark Lady by Máire Claremont Page B

curricle in the rain and the mud.

Chapter 8
    T he world made no sense. Just hours ago, she’d been locked away in a dark cell and now here she was in this room of winter light and sprightly furnishings.
    She forced herself not to think, because if she did, she would think of him and then the pain would eat her up. And she would not be able to push away thoughts of her other man. The little one.
    Her boy. Her Adam. How she had killed him with one mad decision to race off into the storm. She paused. How she wished she could recall why it had been so imperative to dash out into the rain and race to the village. But such memories had dimmed to soft gray edges that could no longer be made out.
    Ian stood not ten feet away from her. She sensed his eyes burning into her back. It was the most she had felt since Thomas’s doctors had given her the first doses of laudanum hours after Adam’s death. She hated it. “Ian? I am so confused—”
    “I know.” His voice was strong and deep, hypnotic even. “But I will see you right.”
    Eva was sure that if she closed her eyes, she could fall into his voice and be safe forever. If she let herself believe . . . But she would never be right again.
    His steps echoed on the wood floor, a clear sign he meant to close the gap between them. She had no ideawhether she should run or simply meet him. Perhaps she should let herself be consumed by his strength.
    A knock shook the door and the latch clicked. “Breakfast, dears!”
    The door popped open and Eva swallowed back the fear and anticipation beating through her veins. Even though she was sweating slightly now, confused at her sudden escape from the asylum, she forced herself to at least physically acknowledge the bouncing voice of the woman with a small nod.
    “I’m Mrs. Marlock—if me husband hasn’t already given our name.” The older woman bustled in, her arms straining at the weight of the tray before her. Her belled calico skirts twitched about her ankles like a cat after a ball. “He said to me, ‘Missus, there’s a young woman upstairs what needs feeding.’ And so I fetched up all my best vittles.”
    Mrs. Marlock, apparently completely oblivious to the tension in the room, scooted the tray onto the circular table. It gleamed with dishes fit not for the best of lords, but certainly suitable to those with a hungry appetite.
    Eva eyed it with no desire. Hunger was a distant memory that had eluded her for years.
    The older woman hesitated, her peppery sausage curls bobbing as she looked from Ian back to Eva. Her smile brightened with emphasized cheer as she clasped her hands in front of her. “Now, my dear Mrs . . . . ? I’m sorry I don’t believe my husband caught the name.”
    “Blacktower,” Ian blurted.
    “My!” Mrs. Marlock exclaimed. “What an ominous name! Now, Mrs. Blacktower, you look a little worse for wear. May I provide you with a gown or robe? Mr. Marlock said you had no luggage.”
    Eva had absolutely no idea what to say. She hadowned but one shabby piece of material in the last two years. Before that, she had filled her closets with more gowns than half the women in Mayfair.
    “That would be most kind of you,” Ian said. He beamed at the woman as if she were the most fetching creature he had set his eyes upon. Indeed, he sauntered forward and took the woman’s crinkled hand in his own. “Our luggage was lost. Our footman—new boy, don’t you see—didn’t secure the straps properly. They must be tossed about the moors around Harrogate.”
    Mrs. Marlock gasped, then tittered like a schoolgirl as she slipped her hand back from his. “What a disaster! I can recommend some very good shops for you and your wife.” Mrs. Marlock’s mobcap fluffed as she dipped her head slightly to the side. “The items are ready-made, mind you, but—”
    “Thank you, madam,” Eva cut in, more sharply than she’d intended. But suddenly exhaustion pulled at her muscles. All she wanted was to lie upon the bed.