By Desire Bound Read online

  "We'll take Lavinia's things to Poiteau's. We'll get a fair price there, at least. I used to know everyone there—but that was years ago. We came over often in the eighties."

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  Details. One after the other, spilling from him as if he were reliving them in a dream.

  "Did you?" she murmured.

  "Pengellis had a designer of jewelry, a man named Valery, whose pieces were coveted all over the world. Every year, they would summon us to Chatelguyon or Biarritz or Nice for the newest display. And they would buy, lavishly and open-handedly, cost no object as long as the thing was one of a kind. We made our reputation on those pieces. And they were exquisite."

  She got the connection. "Are the pieces I took the work of Valery?"

  "I think so. I don't want to know. We'll just sell them."

  "We still have some money," she told him.

  "We're going to need a lot of it," he said, turning his blank gaze toward the window.

  That sounded as if he were committed, she thought. And as if he were planning ahead. "We're coming into the station," she said.

  "I know. I feel the train slowing down." All the tell­tale signs by which he was learning to negotiate his way without sight. Did a man ever get used to it? Could he, after that one heaven-struck moment of seeing his at­tacker and his savior?

  He felt like he was reining himself in, that if he let himself, he would explode all over everything and ev­eryone around him.

  One step at a time, he told himself. Methodical and well-planned, step by step as he started to remember. And just put the two incidents out of your mind. The whole thing with the wheelchair was an accident. And Darcie must have misunder­stood the doctor's name. Simple and reasonable explanations. He hadn't been seriously injured, and now they were finally on their way.

  On a damned long trip.

  The thought popped up from nowhere.

  To where?

  He tried to recall the previous time he'd come through Paris. From Dover. He knew exactly where to go because he'd been here before. He'd conserved money by staying at an inexpensive pensione. He had been at the begin­ning of his journey. That journey. But what he'd done next utterly escaped him. And he couldn't remember for his life where he had been going.

  And that was crux. Where.

  "We're here." Superfluous to say it, when the train had heaved into the station with a huge burst of steam and come to a lurching halt.

  She guided him off of the train and onto the platform where dozens of hansom cabs vied for passengers.

  "Where to now, Con?"

  He shook his head, and then: "Rue Mirbeau, I think."

  She signalled and one of the drivers pulled over. "S'il vous plait — " she began, and then she looked up into the driver's face, and into the dark burning eyes of the deckhand of the Rossignol; into the evil smile and dark malevolence of their enemy, just as the horse reared up and the carriage shot toward Con.

  And he could see! In that mind-flashing moment, as Darcie shrieked and tackled him and he fell heavily to the ground, he saw everything clearly and concisely: the horror of the faces in the crowd rushing forward, the deckhand working masterfully to get his horse under control, and then the fiendish rictus of his triumphant grin.

  And then in a split second the man vanished, and the dark came on again.

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  He kept insisting he was all right, and he didn't tell her what he had seen.

  "Well I'm not," Darcie said tartly. "I didn't imagine that. Everyone saw it. It was the same man . . . the deck­hand of the Rossignol. I'd know those eyes anywhere."

  "He won't find us again."

  "How do you know? How do we know anything?"

  "It's a coincidence," he said, but he knew it was a half-hearted excuse. "No one will find us here."

  "We're not there yet," Darcie grumbled. "Rue Mir-beau—suppose he heard you tell me that."

  "He didn't hear." He didn't know how he could sound so confident. The incident had shaken him badly, far more so than the accident at the dock.

  Two occurrences since they'd arrived. And in short order too. But, he wasn't going to think about that. It had to be a coincidence, just as he'd said; it was easier to believe that.

  Meantime, they could only go one step at a time. First, the boardinghouse he remembered on the Rue Mirbeau. Then a good night's sleep and Poiteau 's tomorrow.

  They had walked a good number of streets beyond the train station.

  "I think it's safe to call a cab here," she murmured, lifting her hand to signal. Immediately, one came roll­ing over, handled this time by an older cabman who was courteous and kind.

  "S'il vous plait—" she began, and Con interrupted, "A la Rue de la Croix, et vite. "

  He pushed her into and climbed in beside her.

  "What was that about?" she whispered.

  "I decided not to take the chance. We'll be close enough where he's taking us."

  Close enough. Details. Memories. Little by little. Piece by piece.

  The cabdriver set them down on a broad avenue that skirted the Bois, and Darcie paid him.

  "Now what? It's getting dark."

  "Across the boulevard on the far side, and down that street. Rue Mirbeau is down that way. Hurry."

  They hurried as much as they could with her having to guide his every step.

  Details. As if he'd had a map in his mind.

  "Left down Mirbeau," he said, when she hesitated. "You'll see, there'll be discreet signs advertising rooms."

  Details.

  Ten more minutes before they made their way slowly down Rue Mirbeau in the oncoming twilight and she tried to find the signs.

  "Ah! Here ..."

  "No. Keep going."

  Details. What did he sense? What could he hear?

  They continued on.

  "Here's one."

  "What does it say?"

  "The sign says restez ici."

  He thought about it a moment. "Yes."

  She would have questioned it, but it was getting too dark too fast, and she felt as if they were alone in a vast unknown. She stepped down to the basement entrance and rang the bell.

  A pretty maid answered, and Con spoke for them, quickly, concisely, and several minutes later, she led them up into the hallway while she summoned the con­cierge. He made the rest of the arrangements with equal brevity, told her how much money the room would re­quire, and to sign the register as husband and wife and in her maiden name.

  She didn't question it. He had his reasons, obviously. The place seemed well kept, the gas-lit corridors were

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  narrow, with two rooms to the side and one each front and rear as they came up the steps.

  They were allocated a front room on the third floor. Darcie took the key and closed the door after them grate­fully.

  It was a small, small room, with a large bed tucked under the eaves, and a dresser, a washstand, a table and chair, and a closet.

  "Do you think we're safe here?" she asked as she swung their suitcase onto the table and began to unpack.

  He sank onto the bed. "I think we have a place to stay for the moment."

  "And you remembered it." Details.

  He considered that and nodded. "I think I did. And I saw the driver of the cab."

  She stopped what she was doing instantly. "You didn't."

  "I swear to you."

  "Con—this is getting crazy."

  "I had my sight, Darcie; I'm as certain of it as when I found the diamond. I saw him."

  "Do you know him?"

  He hesitated. "No."

  "But you're remembering other details. Like Poiteau and the trips to Paris. So you're bound to recall things as we get deeper into the journey
."

  "Maybe." But who needed him to do that more—their nebu­lous enemy as embodied by the deckhand—or Dame?

  The answer was obvious, and it disturbed him even more that he was leaping from the mysterious deckhand to her as the source of his disquiet.

  She felt the change in him instantly, sharply, like the connection between them had broken off somehow, and she had to reestablish it quickly or she'd lose him forever.

  "Con . . . you don't think . . ."

  "What, Darcie? What don't I think?"

  He'd gotten up and he was moving toward her as unsteadily as if he were walking on quicksand.

  "... he has some other way to track us—to follow us?" Uh oh—wrong question. She saw it in his eyes.

  "Maybe he does, Darcie."

  "What are you thinking?" she asked, suddenly scared. He was too intense, too wary. And she couldn't back away and let him fall on his face.

  "I just keep thinking there's one person who has a greater stake in this than anyone else. Someone who very easily could be helping my so-called enemies track me. Us. One person, Darcie."

  "No . . ."

  "You."

  "No." She put up her hands protectively against the hot wall of his chest.

  "How do I know?"

  "You have to know, Con."

  "I don't know. Tell me again, Darcie."

  "I've told you—every way I know how," she whis­pered.

  "A woman's way," he said scornfully.

  "It's the only way I know." She just couldn't believe what he was saying. She felt brittle, like fine china that could fracture into a hundred pieces.

  "You do it well, too. Who put you up to it? Lavinia? Roger? Who, Darcie? Your father?"

  She broke. "My father's dead, Con. He died before he got to be an esquire. He gave over my dowry, he saw me married to Roger, and then he was gone. It's just me. My dream. My quest. And yours, if you still want to go."

  "I don't goddamned know what I want to do," he snarled. She'd got him off-balance again. Her father

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  was dead. To whom could she have allegiance then? Was she that good an actress that she could pretend to hate Lavinia so?

  "Your secrets, Con."

  "Till I die, Darcie."

  "Then we'll make sure you don't die."

  "Darcie—" It was so dark, and he was so alone.

  "I'm here."

  "Goddamn you," he growled, and he swept her into his arms and into the roaring tide of his heat, his ram­pant sex, and his punishing kiss.

  She melted against him. His anger was potent and swift. He tore off her clothes and she helped him. He pushed against her and pushed against her until she backed up against the door.

  Secrets. Hard driving secrets. Against her back. Against all reason.

  She wrapped herself around him, her arms, her legs, her naked body pressing against the hard edgy core of his desire. He was like lightning, bolting into her without priming or preparation, and pinning her against the door.

  It was absolutely what she needed from him: a storm of emotion binding him to her, and obscuring every­thing she didn't want him to see.

  She clung to him as he pounded her toward the preci­pice; she climbed—slowly then, slowly, drawing him out, pulling with her.

  And then she fell into the breakwater as he emptied himself into her, and she opened herself to him and, in that bone crackling moment of surcease, she gave him her soul.

  Ten

  They lay together on the bed, silent, quiescent, spent.

  She felt liquid, satiated, golden, loving his hands play­ing on her bare skin and the feel of her naked body against his clothes.

  He trailed his fingers down her shoulder, her arm, her hip; and then he slipped his hand to her belly and spanned its width.

  She recoiled instantly.

  The baby . . . she kept forgetting the baby. But that was the thing—it hadn 't even been that long. Not nearly enough for her to think in terms of it being real.

  Her body tensed as she waited for his question, but it wasn't the one she expected.

  "When did your father die?"

  She took a deep breath to calm herself. He'll get to the baby, I know he will. And it seemed to her that all that lust and sex evaporated in the face of his question.

  "About six months after Roger and I married."

  He sensed the reluctance in her and she cursed herself for letting that emotion show. She brushed his hand away and reached to pull the blanket up over her naked body, a movement she knew he would read correctly.

  But it didn't matter; her father's death was still a sore point. And she didn't want to tell him why, even though she knew exactly what his next question would be.

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  "How?"

  She tried to keep her tone neutral, but she couldn't keep out the slight tremor. "The doctor said it was a heart attack."

  "So soon," he murmured, his response instinctive and quick. He wondered about it immediately. "He made the next big strike, he came to England, he sold you to Roger, and then he died." "That's just how it happened." "And Roger did what with the money?" "Paid operatives to search for you," she said tartly, "because The Eye of God is more valuable than gold, jew­els, diamonds, life—if it's real."

  "It's real," he said succinctly, but that was all he wanted her to know. "And once Roger had the money, your father was expendable, and probably you were too."

  "And you," she said blundy.

  "And yet, we're both still here," he pointed out.

  "How can you believe I could betray you?"

  "One wonders," he said, levering himself up and away from her and swinging his legs over the bed. Only he didn't know where he could go in the dark. Always always, he had to consider the dark. He wanted to pace, he wanted to see.

  What did he see? Everything she didn't say. The breadth of his family's duplicity, and the lengths to which they would go to possess The Eye of God. Their greed. Their gluttony. Their viciousness and immorality.

  Inherited traits, all. He had them. He'd had no compunction about using them.

  Darcie's father had been sacrificed on the altar of the Pengel-lis greed.

  The quest had killed him. The Pengellis curse.

  He had to decide now: did he continue to take the risk or did he walk away?

  Balance. It was always a question of balance.

  And trusting what he couldn 't see.

  A woman. A baby. His desire. Her motives. His memories.

  Tenuous things, with all the substance of the dark in which he was immured. He had to come to terms with it: the dark was a place from which he couldn't walk away.

  "We'll go to Poiteau's in the morning," he said, and the decision was made. "We're going to need all the money we can get."

  Details.

  She'd pulled away from the cliff-—this time. She could see him weighing the details, determining their lives.

  One misstep. One wrong move . . .

  Forget it. She'd dealt with things like that before. The only tricky part was the death of her father. It was the only thing about which she thought there was something more.

  They were past it now, she thought, as she dressed. She shouldn't have to defend her deceased father. She needed to focus on the baby. It was still early enough, and the baby would be fine. She just had to remember to consider the baby.

  She was down to one dress, one skirt and one shirt­waist now. Two sets of underclothes, excluding the cor­set which he had ruined last night, and the little bags of jewelry, no bigger than sachets, that she pinned to her camisole and her waistband.

  She buttoned the high collar of her dress and she was ready to go.

  "We won't come back here tonight," he said, and she packed what was left of their belongings in the suitcase,

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  they signed out with the concierge, and then they made their way back to the Rue de la Croix. "Let's walk," he said suddenly.

  "You're being awfully cautious," she murmured, but she was not immune to the feeling that someone could have followed them.

  But there wasn't anything remotely suspicious along the sun-bright avenue. "Which way shall we go?"

  "The opposite direction where the cab left us last night."

  They walked; he held onto her, which he hated, and he listened to the burgeoning morning sounds. It was early. There was only the intermittent rumble of a dray or cab along the avenue. A certain sense that there were no crowds and that they were alone. The heat of the sun beating on his face. Her sure step as she guided him along.

  Her impatience grew with every step. They were wast­ing time, she thought, and she had no idea where she was going.

  "I wish I had a map," she said fretfully. "We'll get one." That was a problem he could solve. "The store is on the Boulevard des Anges. I think it's safe to find a cab."

  Still, her hand trembled as she signalled one and an­other of the few hansoms canvassing for passengers along the avenue, and she didn't like that. She couldn't let herself be intimidated by anything. They were both counting on her strength, and she lifted her chin haugh­tily as the driver looked askance as Con gave directions. They looked like paupers, she thought. They didn't look like anyone who would patronize the elegant stores along the Boulevard des Anges. People who shopped

  there were blessed by the angels, and dripping with dia­monds.

  Nevertheless, the wealthy knew, as Con did, that Poi-teau's was one of the few stores where they could dis­creetly dispose of those assets, and no matter what they looked like, no matter who they were, they would not be turned away.

  As the cab slowed before the tall golden double doors of the entrance to Poiteau's, Darcie was gripped by a sudden fear. "What if they recognize the settings, Con? What if they know it's you?"

  "It's been ten years or more. Who could still be there who would care?"

  "I don't know. It was stupid; she was being an alarm­ist. Evil could exist on the beautiful Boulevard des Anges.

  She pushed open the golden door and they entered. A gentleman in formal clothes immediately came to greet them.