Ashes

  ASHES

  BY ALEXANDRA BENEDICT

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  ASHES

  Copyright © February 2018 Alexandra Benedikt

  Cover Photo Copyright © Black_Blood/Bigstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  www.AlexandraBenedict.ca

  ASHES

  Once upon a time . . .

  Lady Elizabeth watched the clock strike midnight. As the timepiece chimed, she shut her eyes and whispered, “Goodbye Ash.”

  After a year of mourning, today was her first day as a woman of society again. She beckoned her maid to unfasten the laces of her black dress. She would never wear black again. She would never marry again. She would never mourn again.

  As the last chime echoed throughout the dressing room, Elizabeth opened her eyes. Her heart fluttered as she gazed upon the bejewelled gown made from gold satin, hanging in the wardrobe.

  A soft smile touched her lips.

  ~ * ~

  London, 1816

  Elizabeth knocked the young man’s arm with her elbow. Like her other courtiers, he always wanted intimacy after sex, but she shunned such affection. She lived for earthly pleasure: a life of the senses, not the heart. She would never again offer her soul … just her body.

  She traced the bauble in her hand: a gold necklace with emeralds, so striking it shimmered even in the dim light of the bedroom.

  “Very pretty,” she murmured, then tossed the choker aside and wrapped her naked body in the white linen bedsheet. She left the bed and sauntered toward the vanity, picked up a horse hair brush, the handle studded with pearls, and weaved the bristles through her shiny blonde hair.

  “Thank you for the trinket,” she said in a curt, dismissive voice. “It’s late.” And she yawned with ennui for good measure.

  The young buck frowned, crestfallen. He arranged his clothes, then headed for the door. There he paused, a note of hope in his voice: “When will we meet again?”

  “A long while, I’m sure. I’m terribly busy, you know?”

  And with that swift blow, she ended their affair. He was a terrible bore. Though young, handsome and rich, he lacked charm. Magnetism. He didn’t know how to tease or flirt, how to play the game, and she was simply tired of his juvenile ways.

  As he opened the door, two footmen stood guard to escort him from the house. Did she hear a sniffle? Mercy.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes as her maid scurried into the room. The girl went about her routine: drawing her mistress a bath, changing the bed linens, and placing the emerald necklace in a chest with the other jewels.

  “Your wrapper, my lady.”

  After she’d tied her long hair into a loose chignon, Elizabeth let the bedsheet fall to the floor and slipped her arms through the silky garment. She followed her maid into the bathing room where a large tin tub was filled with steaming water. Her maid sprinkled lavender oil into the bath, her mistress’s favorite perfume, before she curtsied. “Will that be all, my lady?”

  Elizabeth dismissed her servant with a flick of the wrist.

  Alone, she closed her eyes and savoured the heady mixture of warmth and sweet flowers, sighing with anticipated delight. Untangling the stays of her wrapper, she dropped the nightwear and dipped her toe in the balmy water, shuddering with gratification.

  She adored the piping water, the humidity in the air. At one time, she’d lived without the simple comfort of heat. At one time, she had never touched thermal water or thick fur or the warmest of wool—until Ash had saved her.

  A coldness pierced her heart and gooseflesh spread across her limbs. Quickly she nestled into the tub, relishing the sultry heat, bidding away the phantom memories.

  Soon the torrid warmth soothed her chilly thoughts and smoothed her prickled skin, and she relaxed in a hazy dream.

  A gentle hand gripped her shoulder.

  Elizabeth lurched forward, dazed. Water sluiced over her breasts and spilled across the tiled floor. How long had she dreamed? A half hour, at least. The water was lukewarm.

  She recognized the hand on her shoulder and swivelled around, prepared to reprimand her maid for disturbing her—when she found a man crouching beside the tin tub, his face half covered in a blue silk mask.

  She gasped.

  He lifted his finger to his lips, shushing her. “I mean you no harm.”

  The low timbre of his voice, his familiar touch … had she met him before? A jilted lover? An old friend?

  Her heart pounded with the clout of a blacksmith’s hammer. She snatched the wrapper off the ground and covered her body, soaking much of the garment. “Get out!”

  “I will, Lizzie.”

  Her heart, her very breath seized. She had not heard her pet name in years, had forbidden anyone from using it again since the death of …

  Her nerves thrummed, yet she couldn’t scream for help, her voice strangled in her throat. She scooted to the opposite side of the tub, creating a barrier, and just stared at the elusive stranger … who seemed less elusive with each passing second.

  She eyed him with intent: the fashionable cut of his dark blue vest and coat, the fluffy white cravat and tight black britches, his polished boots. Her gaze lifted toward his concealed features. She noted his hard jaw line and full lips, the contours familiar yet different. Short, ruffled black hair. And his eyes, a spellbinding steely grey. She had once delved into such mesmerizing eyes, but they had been the lightest blue then, like turquoise gems.

  “Who are you?” she demanded again, her innards twisting in knots, her voice quivering.

  He was tall and muscular and could dunk her head below the surface of the water with ease, and yet she wasn’t afraid for her life. Rather, another sort of fear gripped her. The kind when a raw truth was about to be revealed, a devastating truth—like the moment she’d learned her husband, Ashley, had died.

  He tsked. “I didn’t think you’d forget me so soon, Lizzie.”

  Her blood swelled with impatience. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Take off the mask.”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to frighten you.”

  “Frighten me?!” she screeched. “You have already frightened me.”

  “I apologize, my lady.”

  He wasn’t going to remove the mask, the interloper, and she fisted her palms. “Why are you here, then? What do you want?”

  He leaned forward. “A kiss.”

  She shot her foot out of the tub and slammed it against his chest. “Stay back,” she gritted in an icy vein.

  He chuckled, a husky sound, strangely sensual. “I understand. I’m not welcomed in your bed anymore.” He fished inside his coat pocket. “I believe I have the required sum.”

  He removed a gold ring with a round cut ruby: her birthstone.

  Elizabeth glared the precious stone for several moments before she ripped the bauble from his fingers and threw it across the room.

  She shot out of the tub, drenching the floor, folding the wet wrapper around her body. “How dare you!” she seethed with indignation.

  Slowly he lifted to his feet, his own glare darkening. “Have I affronted you, my lady?”

  “Yes.”

  She sidestepped the stranger and hurried towa
rd the bedroom door in search of assistance. She would shoot the bounder herself if she had a pistol. What an absurd charade! Did he really think he could procure her services with a mere trinket? She wasn’t a prostitute for hire. She was a courtesan. She picked her lovers. She inspired their devotion. She toyed with their affections. And she ended their affairs.

  She refused to give any man control over her life again. And to think a dotty, senseless dandy had broken into her house, hoping to sweep her off her feet with a mysterious mask and a trivial gold ring?

  Never!

  She grabbed the door latch, but the stranger was at her backside, cradling her hand, preventing her from opening the door.

  “I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he breathed softly into her ear.

  A lump formed in her throat at the sincerity in his voice. A blasted lump! She had not cried in years. Not since the funeral. How was he doing this to her?

  She elbowed him in the gut. Hard. He grunted, taking a step back. And in that disorienting moment, she pinched his mask and yanked the silky threads away.

  Her heart stopped.

  “Ash.”

  ~ * ~

  A woozy Elizabeth opened her eyes. What had happened? Had she fainted? Her head throbbed with agonizing memories of her husband: her screams of sorrow as his remains had been lowered into the cold, dark earth.

  She squeezed her eyes tight, clenched her teeth at the misery swirling in her soul.

  She had dreamed of Ash. He had come to her in spirit, chastised her. He was angry with her. And a sob welled in her breast. She was about to release the pain in a groan when a figure shifted beside her.

  Elizabeth stiffened. How had she reached the bed? She was naked under the sheets. Warm. Ever so warm. Slowly she turned her head to the side—and saw Ash.

  Her breath hitched. She studied the man sleeping beside her. He rested on his stomach, his muscular arms wrapped around a white pillow. The room was heavy with candles, and she watched the flickering firelight play across his spine. Her eyes fell to the small of his back and the slight curvature of his buttocks, but she saw no more of his nakedness, his lower body covered by linen sheets sprinkled with lavender oil.

  The soothing oil made her drowsy and her lashes fluttered, but she wasn’t about to close her eyes and lose the vision of her husband. Instead, she lifted her gaze to the man’s rugged features. A curl of sable black hair dangled over his brow. His lips whirred as he breathed deep and steady, so tranquil.

  She was afraid to touch him. He might flitter away. And yet, she knew he was real. He generated heat, sweltering heat. He had climbed into bed with her to take away the chill, the shock of seeing him alive. Still, she would not wake him. She wanted the moment to stretch on forever.

  Ash.

  Where have you been? Why did you leave me?

  And then her confusion turned sour. She saw the truth. He had abandoned her.

  Elizabeth shot from the bed. She grabbed another dressing gown with feathered cuffs and hemline, sheltering her naked body, though a biting, wintry draft blasted her the moment she left her husband’s side.

  Quickly she stoked the dwindling fire, building a blaze, yet the bitter cold still penetrated her skin right to the bone.

  “Come back to bed, Lizzie.”

  The husky sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine. She peeked over her shoulder and found him propped on an elbow, his lambent eyes a smoldering inferno no wood burning fire could match.

  She yearned to be in his arms, to wallow in his fiery embrace—but he had betrayed her.

  The iron poker still in her grip, Elizabeth’s hand trembled.

  He eyed her shifty movements, then arched a brow. “Planning murder, luv?”

  That did it! She smashed the poker against the stone hearth. “How dare you call me that endearment. You have no right.”

  “I’m your husband,” was his possessive response, the words digging into her heart.

  “I’m your widow,” she shot back.

  “A merry widow, I see.”

  She gasped at the insult. The man in her bed was not her husband. Ash would never hurt her.

  “Get out,” she ordered, pointing toward the door.

  Slowly he eased off the mattress and sauntered toward his clothes, revealing every sinewy detail of his strapping figure, and devil take it, her blood quickened with long forgotten arousal: a profound desire only he had ever inspired.

  She crunched her bottom lip with her teeth, tamping the treacherous urges billowing in her belly.

  He slipped into his trousers and fastened the buttons.

  When he stopped there, she demanded, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making myself more comfortable.” And he settled in an armchair next to the fire, stretching his long legs, swaying his bare feet in front of the flames.

  “I said leave, Ash!”

  He curled his arms behind his head. “It’s my house.”

  She snorted. His house. The gall! He had left her in utter ruins after his supposed death, not even a penny of support. If she hadn’t resorted to drastic measures, there would be no house.

  Elizabeth considered shouting for help, but if the servants found their former master in his rightful abode, not a hand would toss him outdoors and risk the gaols.

  A welter of impotent fury stormed her breast. She snatched the comforter off the bed, still feeling nippy despite her reeling temper.

  Dragging the blanket toward the armchair opposite her husband, she plopped down and curled her legs under the downy softness.

  “Cold?” he murmured, offering her a steamy stare. “Care to climb into my lap?”

  “I’d rather freeze,” she bit out.

  “Don’t be such a shrew, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to spoil your fun.”

  She bunched the comforter between her fists, her knuckles turning white. “Why are you here?”

  After five bloody years! she screamed inside her head.

  A minute ago, she’d wanted to know everything about his disappearance, but now she just wanted him to disappear—again. There was no excuse for his abandonment. There was no excuse for leaving her destitute. There was no excuse for faking his death and shredding her heart to pieces.

  Elizabeth shuddered as she remembered the unholy darkness that had consumed her after his burial, after she’d returned to the house alone, a pauper, and …

  She glanced away and swallowed the acrid tears. After a measured breath, she persisted, “Why have you come, Ash?”

  “I told you, Lizzie. A kiss.”

  At his heartsome words, her sharp gaze settled on him, and she loathed his lazy manner while she struggled with unbound emotion. He should be at her feet, begging forgiveness. Not that he deserved it. Not that she would grant it. Still, how dare he sit there, so easy at rest.

  “If you touch me,” she gritted, “I’ll kill you.”

  A sparked flared in his eyes. She had provoked him. Good.

  Had he really entered the house believing he could take it—and her—without a fight? A single protest? If she had to fend him off, she’d use her nails, her teeth, even the poker on the ground, but she would not permit him liberties … not even a kiss.

  “I’ve paid for your services, Lizzie. A ruby ring, remember?”

  She reached for the iron poker. He grabbed the other end and yanked her toward him until she stumbled into his lap with a shriek.

  He dropped the metal shaft and pulled her into his arms. “I won’t hurt you, Lizzie.”

  Hurt her? He had already hurt her beyond imagination. And immeasurable grief finally burst from her lungs, “You son of a bitch!”

  She pounded his naked chest over and over, his muscles flinching with every brutal blow, but he still maintained a tight hold of her.

  At last, exhausted, she slumped against him, trembling. “Bastard.”

  He cradled her, rocked her even. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

  She shut her eyes, swelling with briny moisture. “
No.”

  But the memories came crashing over her like pummeling waves, beating her, bruising her, thrashing her like a hapless rag doll.

  “I do,” he whispered, stroking her temple. “I remember kneeling over you, panicked, rubbing your icy cheeks, begging you to open your eyes.” A finger rolled slowly down her cheek and swept across her wet lashes, making her shiver. “And then you peeked at me through your frozen lashes, and I delved into the most haunting pair of light green eyes.”

  “Stop,” she begged, wheezing and weak.

  “You were clutching a pack of burnt matches.” He clasped her hand, massaging her fingers. “I had to pry your fingers apart from the sticks, you were clenching them so tight.”

  “Stop,” she pleaded with him again. “I can’t … I can’t remember.”

  “I remember.” He nudged her temple with his nose. “I remember your bare feet, covered in frostbite.” His hand spread across her thigh, drifted over her calve and circled her bare toes. “You had a tattered dress and threadbare shall. Even your golden locks were frigid with ice. I was amazed to find you alive—and ever so grateful.”

  Elizabeth sobbed. Oh, that dreadful Christmas Eve! She had not sold a single match that night. She hadn’t a farthing to bring home to her father. And she’d dreaded another beating.

  At seventeen, she had grown tired of the endless slog. Haggard, her soul crushed, she had curled in an alleyway and struck every match, searching for warmth, for light. Colorful spots had danced before her eyes. Visions of beautiful things. And she had rested in the snow, a smile across her lips … until Asley had stumbled upon her in the early morning hours, coaxed her from the hands of death.

  He had wrapped her in his great coat, carried her to his house, nursed her to health—and offered her marriage. The urchin and the lord. At first, she’d resisted him. Doubted him. In time, though, he’d melted her heart. And for three wonderful years their matrimony had been an intimate, unshakable kinship.