Page 6 of Forbidden Fire

T he London fog was rolling in, but it didn’t disturb Ian. He was accustomed to fog, and he loved it. A lot of London reminded him of home—the sight of an expanse of bridge, the swirl of the mist and the coolness of the night against his face.

He had met with a Scottish wool merchant for dinner, and had chosen to walk to the boardinghouse rather than take a hansom cab. He was enjoying himself. There was a great deal of beauty and elegance here in the heart of the city. He paused before a new house going up and critically studied its lines. It would be a beautiful home.

He frowned then, thinking of the postponed meetings he was going to have to reschedule when he returned home. He’d been hired to design an office building. The site was to be upon some of the newly reclaimed land in the marina area, and he was having a hell of time convincing the owners that if they chose to build there, their costs would go up. He felt uneasy about building on the land—it was all fill. Deep pilings would be necessary, and a great deal of steel. And it would also have to be a building capable of sway. Tremors often swept the city, and a certain amount of sway was necessary to keep the structures from cracking. He had been watching buildings go up ever since he was a boy. And he had known even then that more than anything else in the world, he wanted to build. And he had hated the store for standing in the way of that dream.

It was late, he realized, really late. He started to walk in the direction of Hyde Park, and as the moon flared its soft light upon him to join with the glow of the gas lamps, he suddenly raised his hand to note the thin white band around his pinkie where he had removed the signet ring in the middle of his wedding ceremony.

He stopped cold, feeling ill, feeling a heat sweep over him. For what seemed like the thousandth time that day he demanded harshly of himself just what in hell he had done.

And why, in God’s name, had he done it?

He paused and leaned against a fence and closed his eyes tightly. He had vowed on the day when he had stood in the drizzling cemetery and watched as Diana’s coffin was sealed into the family mausoleum that he would never marry again, never call another woman his wife. They had loved one another too deeply, too fiercely. She had been the most gentle woman he had ever met, so gentle that she had left life behind her with barely a whisper.

It had been a long time before he had managed to touch another woman, and then, perhaps, he had managed to rationalize things in his mind. It was all right to find women entertaining and amusing, and it was even all right to form certain relationships, as long as they were kept in their proper perspective. As long as the women were never his wife, as long as he need never rouse himself to offer love.

And he had been managing just fine.…

Now there was this chit of a girl in his life. He had accepted the responsibility that Sir Thomas had begged of him, but he had never expected this.

His mouth set in a grim line of anger. She wanted her inheritance enough to beg and plead. She had sold herself, just as surely as the finest courtesan in London or the most jaded street girl in San Francisco. She’d used logic, indignation, a touch of pathos and even fury, and somehow, she had sparked something dark and dangerous in his heart. He had said no, he had meant no. And then suddenly he had been out pounding the streets in a state of total dishabille, digging up the Honorable Mr. Blackstone—

And exchanging wedding vows.

What was it that she did that could cause him to feel such a passion of fury in his heart and soul? He didn’t want to hurt her. By God, she was Sir Thomas’s daughter.

No, he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to be near her. He had just wanted to go on living, allowing her to roam his house and giving her the freedom of her own life. And she, in turn, should have politely avoided him, stayed out of his way, and behaved graciously and kindly to guests within his home. It could have worked.

But he’d lost his temper and married her …

He pushed away from the fence, still furious with himself as he strode down the street, heading for his room.

He hated her, suddenly and intensely, and what she had goaded him into doing.

He paused again, inhaling, exhaling. No, he didn’t hate the girl. He hated his reaction to her. He hated the curiosity she drew from him when he looked into her eyes. She could appear so haunted. As if she was desperate to reach out and grasp things, and hold them tightly, simply because they had always eluded her.

She could have a look about her, as if she had witnessed serious nightmares.

She had just lost her father, he reminded himself. And yet there was more. She could be regal and supreme, she could speak with a voice that rang cool and imperious, and yet, caught unaware, there could be that beautiful and haunting appeal in her eyes. Those cat’s eyes, green cat’s eyes, proud, spirited, beguiling.

His wife, he reminded himself, and tasted the bitterness on his tongue.

At least she was beautiful. Maybe she had a point. She would be an asset to his home and to his business. He imagined that she could throw an elegant dinner party, and wear mink or silver fox to the opera with panache.

It could be a bargain well met.

And along with her came that young Jimmy O’Brien. Ian was impressed with the lad. Oh, he was raw, but his eyes held honesty, and he was earnest. And he was seeking the American dream, something that Ian believed in deeply. No kings, no queens, no royalty. Just a tough but beautiful land where hard work and ambition and dreams could be realized. O’Brien could be trusted, he felt.

And O’Brien could save Ian a great deal of time. Ian knew he could have sold the emporium, but it would have seemed like a betrayal. His father and grandfather had loved the store.

And if Diana had survived, and their child had been born, perhaps his own son or daughter would have loved the merchandising business, too.

But now there would be no children, no heirs, ever, he promised himself. He could sell the bloody business.

But he would not.

He had returned to his lodgings, and he quietly let himself in the front door of the boardinghouse.

Just as he reached his room on the second floor, he heard a sound and looked down the stairs. A woman was standing there. A tall, handsome blonde with a full figure and proud carriage. She was dressed in red silk with a matching feather-ornamented hat. Her name was Molly, and she played the piano and sang at the Gray Friars, a pub down the street. She could be elegant, and she could be discreet, and he had shared a pint or two with her during trips to London. He had even mentioned vaguely that he might see her when he had first arrived two nights ago.

She smiled slowly, and he was tempted to call her up. But before he could open his mouth, he felt as if he were suddenly blinded by a pair of flashing green eyes. He could hear Marissa’s voice, painfully scornful and dignified despite the very sweetness of her tone, as good as telling him that he was welcome to his harlots and his whores and his dance-hall girls.

Desire seemed to surge within him, along with a sizzling of fury. But when he looked at the tall, handsome blonde he felt only weariness.

“Good evening, Molly,” he called to her.

“Mr. Tremayne!” she murmured.

Ian knew she expected more, but he merely said, “Good night, Molly,” and entered his room.

He sat at his desk. He had spent last night with the brandy bottle to warm him. It seemed that tonight he would do the same. And he would drink until he could drown out the sight of those haunting emerald eyes.

His wife’s eyes.

He groaned and took a long, long swallow of the burning liquor.

Then he leaned his head back and prayed for a decent night’s sleep.

At two-thirty the following afternoon Marissa stood before the altar at Saint John’s to witness Mary’s and Jimmy’s wedding.

They had both come to the hotel not long after dark the previous night, blushing, happy, so blissful that they appeared to be a pair of fools. And they had announced their wedding to Marissa. Apparently Jimmy had seen a minister the moment they’d come to London. The banns had already been called.

Marissa had been startled and hurt that they had kept it a secret from her, but then she realized that Mary had not wanted her to know, had not wanted Marissa to feel that added pressure.

Jimmy and Mary both hugged her fiercely, thanked her again—and then assured her that they both thought the very world of Ian Tremayne.

Marissa said tartly that that was quite nice, since Mary really should have been the one married to the man, but they were so very happy that she couldn’t put a damper on their tremendous enthusiasm.

She loved them both, and she was delighted that it was because of her they could be so very happy. But watching them that night gave her the first pang of emotion regarding all that she had given up.

Mary and Jimmy sat together on the sofa, held hands and gazed into one another’s eyes. And there was such a look of adoration between them that she felt as if she was an intruder, and then she realized that she was. She retired quickly and left them alone.

In bed she lay awake staring at the ceiling and relived every moment of her own hasty wedding, then thought about the man she had married. He was definitely not Jimmy, she thought with a sigh. He would never sit before a fire, gazing adoringly into her eyes.

And yet she could not forget his touch, his kiss. And the more she remembered their encounters, the warmer her thoughts made her grow, the more she felt a quaking within, a sizzling of apprehension …

Of excitement.

In the morning, Mary seemed more beautiful than she ever had before. Her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were flushed, and there was no sign left of the fever that had so seriously plagued her just weeks before.

She had dressed in a day dress of soft ivory satin with an elegant Spanish veil that had been left to her by her mother. Her enthusiasm and happiness were contagious, and Marissa could not resist her good humor. They very decadently decided to order champagne for breakfast, and by the time Jimmy came for them in a hansom cab, they were both giggling and giddy.

“So you have to be tipsy to marry the likes of me, eh?” Jimmy teased Mary, but she laughed and uninhibitedly reached her long fingers around his neck and dragged his head down to hers and kissed him so long and sweetly that Marissa finally had to clear her throat to remind them of her presence.

Jimmy laughed a little huskily, and he offered an arm to each girl. They arrived at the church and spoke to the reverend, and Jimmy checked that all their papers were in order. The minister’s plump and beaming wife came out to play the organ and sing, and she did both beautifully.

And then the ceremony began, with Marissa and the minister’s wife as witnesses. It was small, as small as her own pretense of a wedding had been.

But it was different. So different.

Marissa thought that she had never seen such love in anyone’s eyes as that which shone in Mary’s and Jimmy’s eyes. She had never seen a couple so devoted.

Their vows were barely whispered, but their hearts were in their whispers. When the minister told Jimmy to kiss his bride, and Jimmy did so, Marissa felt she was about to cry. She didn’t understand why; weddings did not usually make her want to cry. She realized that she was witnessing something she had never considered might exist. Something that was far, far out of her own reach.

And then some curious inner sense made her turn around.

She inhaled sharply, feeling a cold shiver sweep over her.

Ian Tremayne was at the back of the church, leaning against one of the huge white pillars. Casually, comfortably. She had the feeling he had witnessed all of the ceremony.

The blood drained from her face. What was he doing there? How had he come upon them?

She had lied to him, introducing Mary and Jimmy as man and wife. And now here he was at the back of the church, watching the ceremony.

He was standing in the shadow. She could not see his eyes; she could not begin to fathom his thoughts.

But she knew he was staring at her. And she seemed frozen, unable to tear herself away from that gaze.

“Mrs. Tremayne!” the minister called to her. “If you will, please, we need your signature!”

Those words propelled her into action. Mary’s real name was on those papers. She had to get them signed and put away. What if Ian should chance to see them?

She sped down the aisle to the side pulpit and quickly scratched out her name, K. Marissa Tremayne. Ian was walking down the aisle.

Mary caught Marissa’s eyes and realized that they didn’t dare allow Ian to see the papers. She rushed forward, blocking Ian.

“Mr. Tremayne!”

“It was a lovely wedding, Mary. Really beautiful,” he told her.

“Thank you. If I’d known you were planning on coming—”

“Well, Mary, I wasn’t planning on coming. It was my understanding that you and Jimmy were already wed.”

Mary blushed furiously. “Ah, that’s Marissa! She was trying to—defend us.”

“Defend you?”

“Well, it must have appeared that we …” She let her voice trail away delicately with a note of distress. “She did not wish you to think ill of us.”

“Oh, Mary, I did not think ill of you or your young man for a moment,” Ian said smoothly. He looked up and smiled crookedly at Marissa over Mary’s shoulder. “I did not think ill of you at all.”

Jimmy was rolling his set of papers into his jacket while the minister shuffled his. Jimmy, flushing, paid and thanked the minister and his wife, then he, too, hurried down the aisle.

Marissa remained by the pulpit, stiff and straight.

Ian congratulated Jimmy, and Jimmy began to stammer. Ian waved a dismissing hand in the air. “You did nothing wrong, Jim O’Brien. And I did truly enjoy witnessing the ceremony.”

“How did you come to be here?” Mary asked him at last.

“The parlor maid from the hotel sent me here when I arrived at Marissa’s room with your traveling papers. Since I did make arrangements for a Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien, I’m glad to see that you are man and wife in truth.”

He stepped past them and walked down the aisle to the pulpit where he faced Marissa. He didn’t say a word to her, but his eyes were hot upon her and she felt the simmering anger within him.

He wasn’t mad at Mary or at Jimmy. He was furious with her. She had lied to him.

He reached out to take her arm. She almost flinched from his touch, but managed to refrain.

“Ah, so this must be Mr. Tremayne!” the minister said jovially. “Elizabeth, had we known Mrs. Tremayne’s good husband was going to be here, he could have served with his wife as witness!”

Marissa paled slightly, thinking of the trouble they would have been in if Ian had seen papers that joined James O’Brien and Katherine Mary Ahearn. Ian greeted the reverend and his wife solemnly, adding, “I’d really no idea that I was attending the wedding; my wife did not invite me.”

“Oh!” the minister murmured, distressed.

Ian offered him the slight curl of a smile. “It was quite a service, though, and I am very glad that I did not miss it. Good day to you, sir.”

He doffed his hat and spun Marissa around. She wanted to wrench free from his hold, but it was firm, and she was swept along without making an effort to escape him.

In the middle of the aisle they reached Jimmy and Mary. “Well, it seems we’ve quite an occasion here,” Ian murmured. “Would you be so kind as to accept a wedding supper from your new employer, Mr. O’Brien?”

Jimmy’s mouth worked for a moment without sound. Then he managed to speak. “Sir, it’s kind, but I can’t accept more from you—”

“Nonsense. Any man can accept a wedding dinner from another. Come along while the night is young. Neither Marissa nor I would want to intrude upon too much of this special time, yet neither would we have you begin this new life without proper celebration. Eh, Marissa?”

Was he serious, or was he taunting her? What was his game? His eyes were still filled with fury when he touched her. His grip was tight with tension.

“Marissa?”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He was always in control, she thought. On the street he quickly hailed a cab and asked the driver to take them to an exclusive but expensive club near Parliament, one that was patronized by members of the royal family. Jimmy did not know the name. Mary’s eyes widened. “Mr. Tremayne, you needn’t—”

“Mary, indulge me,” he said.

Soon they were at the club. The doors to the hansom were opened for them, and Ian was lifting Marissa down. A doorman swept them into the club, greeting Ian by name. He spoke with the ma?tre d’, and they were quickly led to a table in a private room.

Potted palms adorned the room. The chairs were huge, elegant with carved lions’ feet. The table was covered in snowy white linen, and the flatware upon the table was golden while the wineglasses were of the finest crystal. Soft light shimmered from candles in a chandelier.

Ian seated Marissa. Jimmy did a fair job of imitating him as he seated Mary. Ian ordered rack of lamb from the waiter, who obviously knew him. And champagne.

When the champagne came, Ian lifted his glass to Mary and Jimmy.

“To a lifetime of health and happiness!” They all sipped champagne.

“Aye, and thank you!” Jimmy exclaimed, leaping to his feet to toast in kind. “And to you, sir, and to Marissa! A lifetime of—”

He choked at the end, realizing that there was really little to wish them. The slow, taunting curve came to Ian’s lip, and he lifted his glass to Marissa. “A lifetime of wealth,” he murmured, “and health and happiness, too, of course.”

Marissa smiled coolly. “Thank you so very much.”

He turned from her with a shrug and spoke to Jimmy. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a parcel of documents, which he handed to Jimmy. “Tickets, transfer points, the address and phone number for my home in San Francisco, everything you might need, I hope. I plan on being at the train station when you arrive, but should something prevent me, a carriage or a car will meet you.”

Jimmy nodded gravely, accepting the packet. “Thank you, Mr. Tremayne. Thank you.”

“Ah, another toast!” Ian said. He lifted his glass again. “To a long and prosperous business relationship between us!” he said.

“Hear, hear!” Mary cried, delighted.

Ian filled the glasses. Marissa discovered that she was acquiring quite a taste for champagne. It went down so easily, and it smoothed out the rough edges of discomfort and unease.

And fear! she thought unhappily. He had come so very close to seeing the name on Mary’s wedding papers today!

Ah, but he hadn’t really thought to look at them. He didn’t suspect. He thought he remembered Marissa at times, but he didn’t realize she had been the maid in the shadows or the child in the mining village. And still, tonight, each time he glanced her way, she knew he was condemning her for the one minor lie he had caught her in …

Her glass was empty. He filled it. She felt the sharp probe of his blue eyes, and lowered her lashes to study her crystal glass.

The food was brought and it was delicious. Marissa was saved from much conversation, for Ian questioned Jimmy, and Jimmy talked about Ireland, and wool—he knew wool very well. Ian told him how alike San Francisco and London could be at times, blanketed in fog, mysterious, beautiful. And through the fog you could see the bridge and the bay, and the houses with their gingerbreading and pastels and colors, and they were beautiful. Marissa listened to him, and was suddenly afraid again.

She didn’t want to leave England. She didn’t want to sail the distance of an ocean, then travel across a continent.

She looked up. Ian was watching her again. She flushed slightly, and her lashes lowered.

She toyed with dessert. The check was signed, and they were soon out on the street. “I’ll hail you a cab,” Ian said to Jimmy. “And see Marissa to her rooms.”

She glanced up, startled, then realized that Jimmy and Mary were married. Legally. Naturally Ian presumed that Mary would be staying with Jimmy. But the thought of being left alone with Ian terrified her.

“Oh, but it’s early yet!” she said hurriedly. “Perhaps they’d like to return to my suite for a while.”

“For more champagne?” Ian asked politely.

How much champagne had she already swallowed, she wondered. Not enough. She felt dizzy, and guessed she would have a headache later, but at least she felt a little more capable of dealing with him.

“Champagne, sherry, conversation—” she began.

“They are true newlyweds, my dear. And surely seek their privacy,” he said. He lifted his hand and flagged down a hansom.

There was nothing Marissa could do. She quickly hugged Mary, not wanting to let her go. She kissed Jimmy, and perhaps clung to him too long.

Ian’s arms disentangled her. “I’ll see you in America!” he called to Jimmy.

“Aye, sir, in America!” And the bay horse pulling the cab clip-clopped into the night.

“Come on,” Ian said roughly. He tugged Marissa’s arm and she saw that a second cab was awaiting them.

“I can see myself to the suite,” she said with what casual aplomb she could manage.

“You can scarcely walk,” he said flatly, “and I wouldn’t dream of allowing my dear wife to travel the streets of London alone.”

He lifted her up and set her into the cab, then climbed up beside her, calling the address to the driver. They didn’t speak but she felt the warmth of him beside her, the flex and movement of his every muscle. She felt the tension that had stayed with him, no matter how smooth his manner, since he had seen her in the church.

They came to her suite. When she had entered the parlor she tried to turn swiftly and thank him for the meal and for escorting her back.

He none too gently pressed her forward, entering determinedly behind her, then closing the door behind himself.

Marissa swept off her cape and moved into the room, dropping the cape upon the settee. Ian leaned against the door, his blue gaze searing.

She fought the champagne, for it was making her dizzy, and her vision was blurry. Perhaps it was for the best, when he stared at her so.

No! She needed her wits to deal with him.

She yawned extravagantly. “Really, Mr. Tremayne, it is late—”

“You were just saying that it was early.”

“But I am suddenly so exhausted.”

“Well, exhausted or no, Mrs. Tremayne, you’ve an explanation to make, haven’t you?”

“Have I?”

“About your newlywed friends.”

She shrugged. “I don’t—”

“You lied to me about them.”

“It seemed easier to introduce them as man and wife. I knew they were marrying the next day. Why on earth are you so angry about them?” she demanded, determined not to show her fear.

“Oh, I’m not angry about them at all,” he said softly.

“Then?” she murmured.

He moved into the room at last. He was stalking her, she thought. She moved back. A quivering seized her. She was angry; she was uncertain.

And she knew that he was going to touch her, corner her and touch her and hold her to his whim. It was in his stride, in his eyes. And she shivered because she did not know if she despised the idea …

Or anticipated it.

“Then …?” she repeated on a note of desperation.

“Then …”

She was backed against the wall. He laid a hand flat on either side of her head, imprisoning her without touching her, except with that blue fire in his eyes.

“What I want to know, my dear Marissa, is just what else you’ve lied about to me.”

“Really, there’s nothing—”

“I will have the truth, Marissa. And I will have it tonight.”