Free The Dark Affair by Máire Claremont

lost himself. For all he loved had vanished from this world.
    Viscount Powers was not a man easily understood. But soon she would have all the time in the world to understand him. And understand him, she would.
    •   •   •
    “You can’t do this! He’s the enemy.” Matthew stared at his sister’s calm face, wondering how his dreams had so entirely shattered.
    “Ah, Matthew, that he’s not.” Margaret lifted her hand to her face, rubbing her temple. “You need help. This will help.”
    Her words rang, traitorous, in his skull. He’d spent the day in her lodging, hiding, dreaming of how he would soon meet up with the others in secret, thinking Maggie might join them. Now? “This will destroy us.”
    She shook her head. “No. You and the foolish actions taken on by your friends will destroy us.”
    “Mag Pie,” Matthew declared, “he’s one of
them
.”
    There had never been anything clearer in all his life than the difference between the Irish who were truly loyal and the English Irish who pretended to be like those from England, looking down their noses and wishing the real inhabitants of Eire dead.
    “He is not.” Her eyes sparked with fire. “He helped the Irish.”
    Matthew flinched, hardly believing the madness coming out of his sister’s mouth. “He sent money. Money? What does that mean?”
    “A great deal,” she retorted, her cheeks red with fury. “Without money, what can be done?”
    “Judas took his money too.”
    She stood silently for a long moment. “If that is how you see it, then yes, I am a Judas. I will take my silver and save you.”
    Matthew bit back a cry of what felt like pure agony as his sister so clearly chose to leave him. God, he’d rather face a firing squad than see her take this path. “And you recall what happened to Judas?”
    “He hanged himself,” she said softly.
    “Aye. And is that what you want? Betrayal on your conscience?”
    “You’re a fool, Matthew Cassidy.”
    “Oh no. I’m the only one who sees sense. We can never be free if we take their help.”
    “And do you equate freedom with death? Because as I see it, that’s the road you’re on.”
    “If my death will help my people—”
    “My God, Matthew!” She shoved a hand over her red curls. “Do you hear yourself? You came to me for help. You’re on the run. A price on your head. And you talk of helping your people? Your actions have ensured you can do naught for them!”
    He stopped. It was the first time in years he could recall Margaret losing her temper so fiercely. Once she’d been crack and fire, fury on her lips, quick to rise. He gloried to see it upon her, but not for this. Not fury at him and the cause. “This was not supposed to be how you helped me.”
    “And how was I to help?”
    “You were to join me.”
    She paled. “I’ll not have blood on my hands.”
    “The tree of liberty must be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants,” Matthew countered.
    She pressed her lips together. “Thomas Jefferson.”
    “That’s right. A great man. A great thinker. And haven’t you admiration for such as he?”
    “I have no admiration for a man who urges blood as the answer.”
    “Liberty arises from blood,” Matthew replied. “You’re too afraid to see it. You’re afraid of your own power, Margaret.”
    “I’m afraid of how it will end,” she whispered. “Of all who will be dead.”
    “It’s going to happen. The war.” Matthew’s heart hammered in his ears. How had this happened? How was this conversation even taking place? He drew in a sharp breath and continued. “And the question is, what side will you be on? That of the patriots or the tyrants?”
    “You can’t see the world in such black and white.”
    “I can and I do. There’s us and there’s them.”
    “I’m going to marry him,” she said evenly.
    “Tyrant.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “This tyrant is going to save your life.”
    “I’d rather be dead.”
    Margaret’s eyes glossed with