Free The Dark Lady by Máire Claremont

throat tightening around the words.
    “How could I?” Hamilton echoed. “How could you? You’ve stolen my father’s esteem. As long as you are here, he will never love me,” he railed. “Do you understand?”
    “I—You wish me to go?” Ian asked, incredulous. They’d been together, inseparable, since that day he’d come to Carridan Hall ten years before.
    Hamilton hesitated, then said, “No. No matter how angry I am, Ian, I could never wish to be separated from you.”
    Ian closed his eyes for a moment, then gently rested his forehead along Hamilton’s stallion’s neck. “Go with God, my friend,” he whispered.
    Slowly, he stood and pointed at the dead horse. “You know this changes everything.”
    “What?”
    “This,” he said, pointing from the dead stallion to the pistol in Hamilton’s hand. “You. What you did. It changeseverything. You’re becoming someone I don’t know. Someone I don’t wish to know.”
    Hamilton’s eyes flared. “Ian . . .”
    “No. I—” Tears stung Ian’s eyes. “We can’t let this happen. To you. To our friendship.”
    Hamilton nodded. “I know. I promise.” He swallowed, his face ashen. “I promise I’ll do better. Somehow, I’ll make you and Father proud.”
    Ian longed to shout that none of that mattered, that honor mattered. But Hamilton wasn’t listening. His friend was staring off into the distance, tormented by demons that even Ian couldn’t see.
    England
The present
    They came into the city of York at dawn. The gray-pink light of morning was obscured once again by the heavy white clouds that heralded another batch of snow. Ian glanced out the window, then back at Eva. They were about to arrive at the coaching inn. One of lesser repute, the Norseman’s Arms.
    They rattled over icy cobblestones, passing the medieval wall protecting the city from ghostly marauders. The harsh metropolis bore a quiet welcome at such an early hour. Certainly, at the heart of the old city there would be the cry of street hawkers. But here on the outskirts and in this ramshackle bit of town at this hour, one would turn one’s head before raising a hand in greeting.
    But even with so few people about, Ian couldn’t deny that Eva was a sight. Any Bow Street Runner would be able to track down a woman of such a description. Only ladies struck by illness had hair shorn to such a degree.
    The last thing they needed was undue attention.
    The coach rumbled to a halt and his man jumped down. The snick of the carriage steps being unfolded heralded the door’s opening. Ian nudged Eva, but she didn’t move. Heavy sleep had taken her. Although he wished he could let her rest, it would be difficult to make a quiet entrance with her in his arms. He might as well shout their presence from the rooftops.
    “Eva,” he prodded.
    “Mmm?”
    He stroked her arm, savoring the touch. For years, he had not been able to do more than imagine her. Now all he longed to do was drag her into his arms, to hold her, to know she was real. Hunger stirred within him, shocking hunger for the woman who was before him. Just that gentle touch was enough to send his blood pounding. She was his to care for now. His to ensure that nothing ever harmed her again. Carefully, he stroked his fingers along her shoulder, tempted to cup her cheek. He hesitated, unwilling to frighten her. “Wake up.”
    “Don’t want . . .”
    Gently, Ian drew his cloak back from her slight frame. “We’ve arrived. Wouldn’t you like food?”
    She shivered at the cold and her fingers stretched out, searching for her lost blanket.
    He glanced to his manservant, Digby, who stood just outside the door. Servants had long been a part of Ian’s life. In India, he’d adjusted to the personal service of a single batman, but now . . . Now he was returning to the ever watchful eyes of an army of servants routine to a man of his station. Digby and the two other liveried servants—their names Ian couldn’t recall—craned their necks,