Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

  When Daniel spoke again, his voice was quiet. “I know why you forgave him. You wanted everything to go back to the way it was before, didn’t you?”

  He sounded as though he understood perfectly, as though he’d experienced the same need himself.

  “I did,” she said. “But it never could be the same, could it?”

  “No. It never can be.”

  Violet gave a mirthless laugh. “I forgave him,” she said. “I stayed with him. That is, until he tried it the second time.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Jacobi gambled too much. He was forever in debt. When he tried to use me to pay again, not six months later, I had enough of my wits about me to run. I was fast, and the man he owed was too rotund and slothful to catch me. I took my mother and Mary out of our rooms that very afternoon, and we left Paris. I never saw Jacobi again.”

  Daniel took her hand. He squeezed it between his, the strength of him immeasurable. “Lass, I am so sorry.”

  Violet let out her breath. “Nothing to be done.”

  Daniel released her, anger in his eyes. “Don’t sound so bloody resigned. What he did was monstrous. You trusted Jacobi, and he hurt you, in a way no father should hurt a daughter. In a way no man should hurt any woman.”

  “But he wasn’t really my father.” Violet’s heart bit with old pain. “That was my childhood fancy. Doesn’t mean he returned the sentiment.”

  “Don’t try to make this not his fault. It is nothing but his fault. I will find him so I can break his neck.”

  “I truly believe he’s dead. I want him to be. I never want to see him again.”

  Daniel remained in silent fury, and Violet leaned her head back on the windowpane, spent. The shutters were closed behind the window, keeping out the night and the wind, but the panes were cold.

  Dredging up the tale had hurt so much, like tearing scabs from closed wounds to let them bleed afresh. It had been twelve years since the red-bearded man had touched Violet, less than that since she’d run from Jacobi. And still the pain was there.

  Childish confusion had receded as adult understanding had come, but the anger, shock, and horror hadn’t died. Jacobi and his red-bearded creditor had killed young Violet that afternoon, making her disappear forever.

  “So that’s why you hit me so hard in London,” Daniel said. “I put you in mind of the bloke, which scared you senseless, and you struck out.”

  “Yes. I didn’t . . .”

  Daniel’s hand clamped down on hers. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean to. You did mean to, every bit of it. I scared you, and you tried to defend yourself. Only natural. But I’m not sorry I tried to kiss you. That I’m going to do again, and again. And I’m used to women trying to kill me, so no worries there.”

  The cynical look in his eyes broke through Violet’s haze of pain. She remembered what he’d said when he’d walked her home from the theatre—she remembered every word of every conversation they’d ever had.

  Everyone who hears my name knows my mother tried to off me with a knife when I was a tiny babe, before my dad threw me out of the way and stopped her.

  “I’m sorry,” Violet said. “About your mother, I mean.”

  Daniel shrugged. “I was a wee babe. Don’t even remember.”

  “But it hurts you.”

  Daniel let go of her hand, pushed himself from the window seat, and walked halfway across the cluttered room. “Are you asking for a look at my haunted childhood, since I made you tell me about yours?”

  Violet started to say no, but she knew that was exactly what she wanted. She’d shown her shivering vulnerability, and she wanted to see his. “Yes.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.” Daniel turned to face her, crossing his arms over the shirt she’d ripped open. The shirt was open to his waist now, his brown chest exposed, the tattoo bared, his kilt sagging on his hips. He was delectable, but the folded arms shut her out, shut everyone out.

  “Ye want me to tell you how I felt when I found out about my mum trying to kill me. Well, do ye know how I found out? My dad didn’t tell me. No. He never talked about it, though he was in the room that day, wrestling her down to take away the knife. I found out by whispers among the servants that my da killed my mum, and then the same whispers among the lads at school. And me not knowing what was the truth. The only person who knew for certain how my mother died was Dad, and he never told a soul, until he met up with Ainsley and gave her the tale.” Daniel balled his fists. “He wouldn’t even share it with his own son.”

  “I shouldn’t make you talk about it,” Violet said. But she wanted to know. She couldn’t lie to herself about that.

  “Yes, you should. I don’t blame Dad anymore. He was buried in his own troubles. My mum hurt him something awful, believe me. But knowing that the one person who is supposed to cherish you—your mother—hated you so much she wanted to kill you is a blow to a boy.”

  “Your father cares for you,” Violet said. “So does your stepmother. I saw that in them tonight.”

  “Oh, aye, they’re caring folk, they are. But it took me a long time to decide to give my trust to anyone, and maybe I haven’t done that yet. My dad did his best raising me, but he was busy chasing women, you see. Beautiful, expensive courtesans or beautiful, expensive married women—ladies he never had to let fully into his life.” His gaze went remote. “Most of them didn’t want to have anything to do with me—why should they? But some of them liked children, were hungry for kids of their own, poor lasses. They brought me little presents and played games with me, put up with my little-boy chatter. I’d start hoping my dad would marry one of the nice ones, so I’d have a mum like the other chaps at school. But as soon as I’d start thinking she’d stay, the lady would disappear. Dismissed by my dad, never to be seen again. When I was very small, I figured that meant the lady decided she hated me after all. Like my own mother had. As I grew older, I realized that my father simply didn’t want the woman around anymore. I got angry at him. Whenever I started to care for one of his women, he’d take her away from me. I said so to my dad, and that I’d never forgive him for it. He wasn’t impressed. Finally, I ceased bothering to care.”

  Daniel was a grown man now, hard-muscled, tall, formidable, with that hint of Old Dan Mackenzie in him. But Violet saw, behind that, a flash of the angry and confused little boy who’d learned to hide his hurt behind anger.

  “Your father married again, though,” Violet said.

  “Oh, aye. By the time he met Ainsley, I was old enough to understand that here was a woman who could make the poor old sod happy.” Daniel chuckled, the hurt little boy falling away. “To push Dad at her, I pretended I was in love with Ainsley myself. I told him I wanted to take her as my mistress. Trying to make him jealous, and me all of sixteen.” He laughed again, this time in true mirth. “Dad saw right through me, the wise old man. He finally let Ainsley land him, thank God. Took a weight off me mind, that did.”

  Violet smiled in spite of the tightness in her chest. “A happy ending.”

  “Aye, some people get them.”

  What about us? Will you have a happy ending, Daniel Mackenzie? Will I?

  He looked at her with eyes that held heat. Violet wanted him—yes, she did—but she felt open and naked, quivering and exposed.

  She clasped her hands together. “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know, love. You’ve had a world of hurting, haven’t you? And so have I, and there’s no easy way for either of us to trust another person.”

  He had a way of putting things plainly. Violet wanted to trust, but the old darkness reached out and swatted any threat of softening away. Every single person in Violet’s life had betrayed her, except Mary and her mother. And Celine was so wrapped up in herself, her health, and the spirit world, that some days she barely noticed she had a daughter at all.

  Daniel turned abruptly and ma
de for the door. Violet’s heart beat swiftly as he slid a bolt across the top of it and turned again to face her.

  “Well, there’s a couple of things we could do. We could go our separate ways, make a clean break, and get the hurting over with right away. Let it bleed, let it heal, never see each other again. Easy enough to do.”

  Violet’s heart squeezed with an ache and an emptiness she’d never felt before. “We could,” she said hollowly.

  “But you don’t want to, do you?” Daniel came to stand in front of her again, feet planted apart, arms folded over his open shirt. “I see it in your face. You want to try, to fight, and find out what happens.”

  “But I don’t know how.” Violet tightened her fingers. “I don’t know how to fight, not like this. It isn’t lifting tables, or releasing ectoplasm . . .”

  “It isn’t fooling people, no.” Daniel’s eyes were still. “It’s truth. It’s life.”

  “I don’t know anything about life. I only know how to run.”

  Daniel reached his tanned and callused hands out to her. “Then grab hold of me and hang on. We’re both scared about where this will end up, and when the hurting will come. If the hurting comes, it will be bad, I already know that. But hang on to me, and we’ll find out together, all right?”

  Chapter 17

  Daniel kept his hands out. He waited for Violet to rise and push past him, to run from him back to her boardinghouse, or all the way out of Marseille.

  His chest hurt with pain for her. If Jacobi was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. He’d taken Violet, an amazing and precious woman, and destroyed her, not only in the eyes of the world, but inside herself. It was as though Jacobi had snatched up an exquisite and priceless marble by Michelangelo and smashed it to powder—worse, because Violet was a living, breathing woman. Alive, and in pain.

  Daniel would find not only Jacobi but the man who’d touched her and make him pay for every moment Violet had hurt. For every pain, every tear, every breath of panic.

  Violet looked up at Daniel for a long time, her blue eyes still but thoughts racing behind them. Her loose braid fell across the black canvas bodice, the breasts it hugged rising with her breath.

  Finally she lifted her hands, fingers visibly trembling, and placed them in his.

  Daniel closed his fingers over hers, feeling the cold of her skin, her fear. He pulled her to her feet. Violet’s hair was mussed, her eyes large, her dark face powder half brushed off to reveal patches of white skin.

  Daniel tugged her against him and closed his arms around her. He felt her trembling turn to all-out shaking as Violet clutched at the back of his shirt.

  Ideas for avenging her spun through Daniel’s thoughts, but he wouldn’t frighten Violet with them. There was a time for slaying dragons, and a time for holding on to someone and making the terror go away.

  Violet’s fear, it seemed, wouldn’t let her simply hold on. She jerked his shirttails out from the back of his kilt and again pulled at his waistband.

  Daniel’s heart was beating as rapidly as hers, and he was hard for her—aching—but he caught her wrists and pulled her away from him. “I think I said this before. Let me savor you.”

  “I can’t.” Violet spoke breathily. “I need to burn through the fear. I want it done, before I know it’s happening . . .”

  She shook out of his grip and yanked once more at the kilt’s waistband. The pin that held the kilt in place broke open, and the plaid sagged from Daniel’s hips.

  As Daniel grabbed for the slipping kilt, Violet was shoving open his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders. She moved like a frightened animal, desperate and trembling.

  “No, lass.”

  “But you want me.” Violet sounded confused. She stroked down the front of the kilt, finding his hard cock and sending up a spike of madness. “You want me.”

  “Aye, that I do.” Daniel had to drop the kilt to seize her wrists. Violet fought, but Daniel was stronger. “I’m burning for you, lass. Have been for some time. But this isn’t what you need.”

  “Yes, it is. It is.”

  “No.” Daniel pulled her with him to the long, scrolled French sofa, currently covered with drawings. He shoved these to the floor and seated Violet on the couch. He’d missed one paper, and it crinkled under her skirts.

  Daniel knelt in front of her, still keeping his hands around her wrists. She stared at him in frantic bewilderment.

  “We’ll not be rushing through this,” he said. “No finishing before you realize what happened. No getting it over with.” Daniel brought her closed fists to his lips and kissed each in turn. “What you need is to learn slow goodness. How to enjoy each and every moment of it, how to embrace it to your heart and taste it. And I’m just the man to teach you.”

  He didn’t give her any time to think or react. Daniel kept hold of her hands as he moved up from his knees and sat next to her on the sofa. His loosened kilt spread across her colorful peasant skirts.

  Daniel lifted one of her hands, opened it, kissed her palm, and placed her hand on his bared chest. Violet’s eyes widened a little as she contacted his skin, and he saw fear flash.

  “Do what you like,” he said. “Touch. Feel. Scratch. Whatever you want. But slowly.”

  Violet’s lower lip shook once before she pressed her mouth into a firm line. She let her hand rest, still, on his chest a moment, then she curled her fingers a little bit, points on his skin. The tip of her middle finger just brushed his nipple.

  Would he be able to sit still for this? Daniel’s heart beat hard, his skin dampening in the warming room.

  Violet swallowed as she drew her finger across his tight areola. Fire trailed from her touch, but Daniel held himself back from reaching for her.

  He watched Violet’s fear start to lessen as she focused on his chest. Daniel never seemed to be able to keep his skin covered when he worked on his engines out of doors or helped his father with the horses. Every summer his skin turned a rich red brown and took its time fading over the winter. Now his chest, back, and arms were a light bronze, and the tattoo, which he’d gotten in London from a man from the Japans, was dark against his skin.

  Wisps of Violet’s hair tickled him as she leaned closer, but Daniel held himself back. This was already killing him, but she needed to learn not to be afraid of him.

  Violet’s breath brushed his areola, which tightened even more. Daniel’s cock tightened in direct response.

  Now she was almost nuzzling him, breathing in, as though getting herself used to his scent. Daniel couldn’t stop the little grunt in his throat.

  Violet raised her head, cheeks flushed. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Enjoy a beautiful woman examining me?”

  “I don’t know.” Her puzzled look was endearing.

  “Let me put this another way,” Daniel said. “When we were in that inn, far away from everywhere, ye weren’t afraid of me.” He remembered her response when he’d slid his hand inside her nightgown, when he’d begun to seduce her with slow kisses. “You kissed me back. You weren’t running away then.”

  “It was different. Not real, somehow.”

  It had been plenty real. Daniel remembered every second of it. “Well then, if it’s easier for you, this doesn’t have to be real either.”

  She frowned. “But it is. Too real.”

  “But it’s the same, isn’t it? We’re hidden away while the city teems around us. No one here but you and me.”

  Violet shook her head. “This is very real. But I want it to be real.” She looked up at him, hope and fear mixed in her eyes. “Can it ever be?”

  “It can. Oh yes. Come here a minute.” Daniel snaked his arm around her and very gently pulled her to him, until her head was resting on his shoulder. “Let’s just sit here, shall we? And take what comes?”

  This was definitely going to kill him. Never, eve
r had Daniel contented himself with merely sitting still with a woman, however beautiful. But his ladies, usually older than he—he couldn’t bring himself to be with courtesans who were barely more than girls—rarely wanted to sit still. They wanted Daniel and didn’t hide it.

  Violet was like an untamed colt, one that had been mistreated, who looked out at the world in frightened uncertainty. Daniel didn’t want to break her, as trainers sometimes did with the young horses. He needed to gentle her, to earn her trust.

  Her head was warm on his shoulder, and Daniel felt Violet start to relax. If he had to spend another night snuggled down in a cozy nest with her, only sleeping, so be it. Daniel might have to lock himself in his private bath when he returned to his hotel, but he would accept that.

  “I don’t understand desire,” Violet said softly.

  Daniel leaned to catch the words, unsure he’d heard correctly. “What’s to understand? Desire comes naturally. The most natural thing in the world.”

  “Is it?” Violet settled herself more comfortably on his shoulder, her hand stealing to his bare chest. “I watch others seek passion—so many girls want me, as a fortune-teller, to promise them true love; men ask me if their true loves will have them. It can lead to much pain too—women ask me to tell them whether their husbands are betraying them, and they’re so hurt inside. It’s awful. I wonder that anyone wants to seek another’s bed at all.”

  “Mmm. That’s right cynical of you, sweetheart.”

  “It’s just that I’ve seen so much pain. All because of what people call desire.”

  Daniel knew that some cock-brained men had no interest in what their ladies felt—either physically or emotionally. They believed a woman was for a man’s use, nothing more. Courtesans told Daniel they liked him because he talked to them. To them, as people, not as bodies paid to behave the way he wanted.

  Violet wasn’t only a body, though Jacobi and this other man had forced her to be just that. They’d taught her that desire meant pain and fear. Her own needs had to have grown as she blossomed from girl to woman, but those needs would have been mixed with terror and shame. Daniel had met other women who’d been forced. They either grew cynical and decided that being used by men was their lot, or they shattered completely.