Scowling, he left without another word.
Madeline tried to summon her usual patience, remembering the wrong she had done him, her vow to earn his love slowly over time…but instead she experienced a new burst of anger. It seemed that her love and patience had gotten her nowhere. If this was how Logan wanted things between them, so be it! She was tired of being a martyr, tired of waiting and hoping. Clenching her fists, she went upstairs for a lengthy bath, hoping to soak away her tension in the hot, scented water.
Before retiring, Madeline went to her bedroom window and pushed the velvet curtain aside to glance out at the formal garden and the guest quarters in the other wing of the house. There was a light in the window of Lord Drake's room, and a flicker of movement within.
Lord Drake was awake, she surmised with a frown. No doubt he was guilt-ridden, drunk, and in pain. Madeline thought of ignoring the light in the window and letting him suffer alone. After what he had done that day, threatening her husband's life, he didn't deserve compassion. Moreover, Logan's edict to stay away from him still rang in her ears.
On the other hand, she wasn't a child or a servant to be ordered about. She was an adult, with the right to follow the promptings of her own conscience. Troubled, she rang for her maid and went to her armoire.
The maid appeared in a minute or two. “Yes, Mrs. Scott?” she asked, seeming perplexed by the sight of Madeline pulling a day gown from the armoire.
“Please help me change.” Madeline said. “I believe Lord Drake is awake. If so, I would like to speak with him.”
“But Mrs. Scott, the master told everyone—”
“Yes, he made his wishes clear. But there's no need to worry. I will be perfectly safe, as I intend to have someone accompany me to his quarters.
“Yes, Mrs. Scott,” the maid said doubtfully. “Though I don't think the master will be happy once he hears of this.”
As it was, Madeline was escorted to the guest quarters by a footman, Mrs. Beecham, and the butler, all of whom made their disapproval quite clear. “There's no need for such a crowd,” Madeline protested, but they were determined to protect her from a man they considered dangerous.
Lord Drake was rummaging through the cabinets of a mahogany sideboard in the guest parlor when they arrived. Swaying unsteadily, blinking like a child who had been awakened too soon, he stared at the four of them, his bloodshot gaze fastening on Madeline's small face.
She was amazed by the contrast between his usual appearance and the way he looked now. The mocking, carefree degenerate had been replaced by a stranger with matted hair and a sickly gray complexion. He had dressed himself in the fresh clothes that had been set out for him: a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a vest that had been tailored for Logan's leaner frame. Buttons and fabric strained to contain his bloated waistline.
“If it's alcohol you're looking for,” Madeline said softly, “Logan made certain that it was removed from the guest rooms. Would you like me to send for coffee?”
He gave her a look of horrified shame and seemed to slink to the corner of the room. “Please go,” he muttered. “I can't bear to face you. What I did today—”
“You weren't yourself,” she replied, her earlier condemnation changing to pity.
“Oh, I was,” he assured her. “That was definitely me, cowardly raving bastard that I am.” He shook his head as Madeline instructed the footman to bring coffee and sandwiches. “Don't send for anything. I'll be gone within the hour.”
“You must stay, Lord Drake. For my husband's sake.”
There was a humorous twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I'm sure you don't want him to be deprived of the pleasure of beating me to a pulp.”
“You know him better than that,” she said quietly, sitting in an armchair while Mrs. Beecham and the butler lit the lamps and stirred the fire. “Do sit and talk to me, Lord Drake.”
He complied reluctantly, half-sitting, half-collapsing in a chair near the fire and resting his disheveled head in his hands. Eventually coffee was brought, and Lord Drake downed three cups of the bitter brew, seeming to gain a measure of lucidity. When it seemed that there was no apparent danger from him, the servants acceded to Madeline's murmured request and withdrew to the next room.
Lord Drake spoke before Madeline was able. “I'd been drinking for three days straight before the water-party,” he mumbled. “I was half-crazed with fear, knowing that some bastards I owed a fortune to had put a price on my head. I had devised some idiotic scheme to make it look as if I had drowned, hoping that would throw them off the trail for a while. After my ruse succeeded, I disguised myself in order to play at a gambling-hell on the east side. It was there that I heard the gossip about Logan. Everyone was talking about it, that he was Rochester's bastard son. I went insane. I've never felt such hatred as I did in that moment.”
“Toward Logan?” Madeline asked, bewildered.
The dark, disheveled head moved in a weary nod. “Yes…although most of it was directed at my father. Between the two of them, they've made me into a fraud. Logan was the first son, and I took his place. I was given the life he should have had…and it was always bloody obvious that he was the better man. Look at what he's made of himself. I've always compared myself to him and come off lacking, but at least I could comfort myself with the knowledge that I had the Drake blood flowing through my veins. Now it seems he has that too.”
“You are Lord Rochester's only legitimate heir,” Madeline said. “Nothing will change that.”
Lord Drake wrapped his fingers around the delicate china cup and clasped it until Madeline feared the porcelain might crack. “But it should be Logan, don't you see? Instead he got nothing. Worse than nothing. My God, you couldn't know how he lived, the punishment he took at Jennings's hands, the countless days he went cold and hungry. While I lived in the mansion nearby—”
“You couldn't have done anything to change that,” Madeline interrupted softly.
“My father could have—and knowing that is pure hell. I can't stand being his son. And I can't stand having Logan as my brother, when all I've done is take from him since the day I was born.” He stood up from his chair and set the china cup aside with hands that shook. “The only thing I can do for Logan in return is to make certain he never sets eyes on me again.”
“You're wrong.” Madeline remained in her chair, staring at him with a clear gaze that seemed to pin him in place. Her voice trembled with conviction. “At least have the courage to face Logan tomorrow. I think in his heart he believes that everyone he cares about will leave him eventually. If you have any brotherly feeling for Logan, you'll stay and find a way to help him come to terms with the past. He'll never be at peace unless you do. You're the only link that Logan has to Lord Rochester. I don't believe he'll ever come to love or even like Lord Rochester, but he must learn to accept that he is his father.”
“And you think I can do that for him?” Lord Drake inquired with a sardonic laugh that sounded startlingly like Logan's. “Good God, I can't even do it for myself.”
“Then you'll have to help each other,” Madeline replied stubbornly.
Lord Drake sat down again, chuckling unsteadily. “There's more to you than meets the eye, isn't there? You're a persistent little wench—but I suppose you would have to be, married to my brother.”
They shared a gaze of silent amusement until they became aware of a large, shadowy form in the doorway. Logan…his face contorted, his voice hoarse as he spoke to Madeline. “Get out of here.”
Madeline blinked in confusion. “I was merely talking to Lord Drake—”
“I told you to stay away from him. Is it too much to ask you to obey the simplest instructions?”
“Look here,” Lord Drake said, sounding weary and bitterly amused, “nothing illicit has occurred, Jimmy. Don't blame your wife for something that happened long before you met her.”
Logan ignored him and stared coldly at Madeline. “In the future, madam, you will not interfere in matters that are none o
f your business.”
Something inside her seemed to wither. For months she had deliberately left herself vulnerable to him, tried to earn his affection by giving him the best of herself…and it hadn't been enough. She was tired of trying and failing, repeatedly losing and gaining the same ground. She stood and replied without emotion. “Very well. I won't be a burden to you any longer. From now on you're welcome to your privacy—as much of it as you want.” She left the room without a glance.
Logan took his gaze from the empty doorway and sent Andrew a glance rife with hatred. “If you laid one filthy finger on her—”
“My God,” Andrew said, shaking his head, “you can't possibly think I'm capable of seducing your wife—or any woman, for that matter—in this condition. I have more pressing matters to worry about. Besides, she wouldn't tolerate my advances. She's not like Olivia.”
“I'll kill you if I ever find you alone with her again.”
“You're a bigger fool than I am,” Andrew observed, sitting and rubbing his aching head. “I didn't think it possible, but you are. You've actually found a woman who loves you, though I can't fathom how or why, and you have no damn idea of how to react.”
Logan regarded him icily. “You're drunk, Andrew.”
“Of course I am. It's the only time I can bring myself to tell the truth.”
“I'll be damned if I'll discuss my wife with you.”
“You're damned anyway, brother—you're a Drake. Eventually you'll manage to drive away everyone who cares about you. The Drakes are solitary creatures. We destroy anyone who dares to get too close. We have contempt for the poor idiots who try to love us. It happened to your mother, and it's happening now to your wife.”
Logan stared at his half brother in stunned silence. Denial seethed inside him. “I'm not like him,” he said in a raw whisper.
“How many people have you sacrificed because of your ambition? How many have you kept at arm's length until they drifted away? You've convinced yourself that you're more comfortable alone. Life is damned safe and convenient that way, isn't it? You've been cursed with an amazing autonomy, Jimmy—just like Rochester and me.” He smiled bleakly at whatever it was he saw in Logan's eyes. “Do you want to hear something strange? She asked me to help you.”
“Help me?” Logan heard himself ask incredulously. “I'm not the one who needs help.”
“That's a debatable point,” Andrew mocked, laboring to produce a smile. “Let's talk in the morning, brother…I'm damned exhausted and drunk. In the meanwhile, you might consider going to your wife and begging her not to leave you.”
Fifteen
Logan wandered to his private suite in a daze, feeling as if his safe, comfortable world had been turned upside down. There had been too many surprises of late…the news of his own impending fatherhood, the discovery that he was Rochester's bastard, Andrew's death and subsequent reappearance. Nothing but such an onslaught would have been able to break his defenses. In the middle of it all, only one thing had remained steady and unchanging. Madeline…generous, affectionate, resilient, showing him in every way possible that she loved him.
He needed her, but he could hardly bear to admit it, even to himself. Madeline would have to content herself with what he could give, and not ask for more. Summoning his reserves of weary determination, he entered the bedroom. He found his wife sitting on the edge of the mattress, her small hand clasped to her stomach. The odd expression on her face made his heart lurch in sudden panic.
“What is it?” he asked, coming to her swiftly.
“I felt the baby move,” she said in wonder.
Startled, Logan could only stand and stare at her. His fingers twitched at his side, and suddenly he wanted badly to touch her, to feel the minute vibrations of his child moving within her. The effort of holding back caused a tremor to run through him, a barely perceptible shiver.
The softness left Madeline's face, and she rose from the bed. She went to the armoire, and it was then that he saw the valise she had pulled from the lower shelf.
“What is that for?” he asked sharply.
Her voice was taut and low. “I've decided I don't want to live here anymore.”
Incredulous anger surged through him, and he replied with jeering softness. “You don't have a choice, madam.”
“Yes, I do. Unless you physically restrain me, you have no way of keeping me here.”
“I had no idea this was so unpleasant for you,” he said, gesturing to their luxurious surroundings. “If you haven't been happy, you've given a damned convincing imitation.”
“You seem to have a way of making me happy and miserable at the same time.” Madeline pulled out a pair of gloves, an armload of linens, and a lace scarf, jamming the articles into the valise. “Obviously I've been a terrible inconvenience to you. However, once I learn to stop loving you, everything will be much easier for both of us.”
Logan strode to her and stood in front of the armoire. “Maddy,” he said gruffly, “I shouldn't have snapped at you earlier. I was worried about you. Now set that thing aside and come to bed.”
She shook her head, her eyes prickling with impatient tears. “I've finally given up, Logan. You'll never stop punishing me for having hurt you. You wait for every opportunity to show me that you can walk away without a backward glance—you've made your point often enough. I admit I've been a fool for hoping you might change. Now all I want is to get away from you and find some peace.”
Her quiet stubbornness infuriated him. “Dammit, you're not going anywhere.” He took hold of her shoulders and was shocked to feel the quick sting of her hand on his cheek. She had slapped him.
“Let go of me,” she said, breathing fast and glaring at him.
It was as unexpected as being bitten by a butterfly. Bewildered, outraged, Logan bent his head to kiss her, trying to soften her the only way he knew how. Instead of offering her usual sweet response, she was stiff in his arms, her mouth cold beneath his. For the first time he discovered the streak of iron that Madeline hadn't revealed until now. Staring at the small, unyielding stranger before him, he let his hands fall away.
“What the hell do you want from me?” he asked roughly.
“I would like the answers to a few questions.” Her amber eyes searched his. “Was it true, what you said this afternoon? That my only value is the baby I'm carrying?”
He felt his face darken with a flush. “I was angry with you for putting yourself in danger.”
“Did you marry me only because of the baby?” she persisted.
Logan felt as if she were systematically chipping away at him, weakening his foundations with the intention of making him crumble. “Yes, I…no. I still wanted you.”
“And still loved me?” she half-whispered.
Logan scrubbed his hands through his hair until it was in wild disarray. “Dammit, I won't discuss this.”
“All right.” Calmly she turned away and resumed packing.
Logan made an infuriated sound and took hold of her from behind, ignoring the way she stiffened. He breathed in her scent, rubbing his mouth at the nape of her neck. His raw voice was muffled in her flowing hair. “I don't want to lose you, Maddy.”
She strained to break free. “But you don't want to love me, either.”
He released her abruptly and paced in the room like a caged wild animal.
“You said it to me once,” Madeline burst out angrily. “Why is it so impossible now? Are you really so cold and unforgiving?”
He stopped, facing away from her, and replied in a tortured voice. “I forgave you a long time ago. I understood why you did what you did. Part of me even admired you for it.”
“Then why are there still walls between us?” she asked with incredulous despair.
A shudder moved across his shoulders. Madeline bit her lip, waiting, sensing that if she were quiet she might hear the words that would bring her understanding.
“You know that I love you,” he said hoarsely. “Everyone knows it. No matt
er what I do, I can't stop it.” He went to the window and flattened his hands on the cold, icy glass, staring fiercely at the wintry garden outside. “But I can't let it happen again. There will be nothing left of me if I lose you this time.”
“But you won't lose me,” she said in pained confusion. “Logan, you must believe that!”
Logan shook his head. “Rochester told me…” He paused and swallowed convulsively. “My mother died while giving birth to me. I was too large—her death was my fault.”
Madeline made a sound of protest. “My God, how can you believe that?”
“It's a fact,” he said doggedly. “It was my fault. And I can't take any joy in our baby when I think about how it might…” He couldn't finish the sentence. There was no need.
“You're afraid that I won't survive the birth,” Madeline said, her features wiped clean with astonishment. “Is that what you're trying to say?”
“Any child of mine is bound to be large…and you…”
“I'm not so frail as that,” she said, staring up at his shadowed face. “Logan, look at me! I promise that nothing will happen to me or the babe.”
“You can't make such a promise,” he said roughly.
Madeline opened her mouth to argue but suddenly recalled that her own mother had experienced many problems with childbirth. Logan was right—she couldn't guarantee that everything would be all right. “What if your fears are justified and the worst happens?” she asked. “Will it be any easier, having kept yourself apart from me?”
He turned to look at her then, his face tormented, his blue eyes shimmering with moisture. “Damn you, I don't know.”
“Aren't you ever tired of keeping yourself separate from everyone?” she murmured, staring at him with love and compassion. “Come to me, Logan. We have each other. There's no need for either of us to be lonely.”
The words were his undoing. His stiff jaw trembled, and he reached her in a few strides, wrapping her in a painfully tight embrace. “I can't live without you,” he said, his voice muffled.
“You won't have to.” She clenched her fingers in his hair and kissed his damp cheek, while her body went weak with overwhelming relief.