The Dark Lady by Máire Claremont

“My husband shall inquire when we have need.”
    Mrs. Marlock smiled as if Eva hadn’t stopped her short. “Certainly.” She gave a quick curtsy. “My boy will be up in a moment to light your fire. Now excuse me and do enjoy.”
    The woman left as quickly as she had come and Eva’s shoulders sagged with relief. She had become accustomed to the strange comings and goings of the asylum. Cries in the night. Scratching at the door. The grunts and shouts of the keepers. But this strange exchange of pleasantries mixed with a barely veiled line of questions . . . ’Twas too much.
    “You are upset?” Ian asked.
    “No.” She eyed the bed, her limbs as heavy as the cobbles on the street below. Every sinew cried out to stretch upon it and close her eyes in forgetfulness. Withouther medicine, however, forgetting was an elusive phantom. “Indeed not. I am merely out of sorts.”
    Ian let out a humphing sound. “She is right, however.”
    “How so?” she said, because she knew he expected her to say something in response.
    He raised a gloved hand and gestured to her loosely clad body. “Your clothes.”
    Eva glanced down at the threadbare fabric against her skin for several moments; then a wry smile split her lips. “Shall I not be presented? The court would be most amused by my dress.” She swept a shaky court curtsy. “All I need is a few feathers for my hair.” She waved her hand behind her head, wiggling the fingers in a mockery of ostrich plumes. “Don’t you think?”
    Ian’s lips pressed into a hard line. Obviously he was at a loss as to how to react to her gallows humor. Perhaps he’d left his sense of humor in India. He crossed to the table and eyed the items on the tray. One by one, he lifted the lids from the porcelain dishes. Steam puffed up toward his face. “It looks surprisingly appealing. You should eat.”
    The scent of sliced bacon and kippers filled the air. Her stomach spasmed with displeasure and she grimaced. “I have no appetite.”
    He scowled and picked up a china plate painted with Dutch windmills. “Despite this, you shall eat.”
    The very idea was loathsome. Her body ached and the scent of the meat sent her stomach to jumping and twitching, and he had the audacity to suggest she eat? “Food is not what I require.”
    As he ladled a helping of fried egg onto a plate, he contradicted, “It is exactly what you require.”
    “No.” She fisted her hands, driving her short nails into her palms. A strange snaking fire slid through her. It had been hours since her last dose of medicine. And she wanted it now. No, not wanted . . .
needed.
    “I—I—require.” Eva bit down on her lower lip. She knew exactly what she desperately required. Lord, but she was not quite willing to tell him. Not yet. It was shameful enough, letting Ian see her like this. Broken, a shambles of her former self.
    She shouldn’t be ashamed. Laudanum in large doses had been prescribed for her by doctors, and then she’d been fed the stuff by Palmer’s keepers. But she was horribly ashamed. And the unpleasant emotions hardly helped the slight shaking of her hands and the perspiration beading her brow.
    “Eva,” he said firmly, “you shall eat. Strength comes from such sustenance.”
    In pure, irrational defiance, she folded her arms under her breasts. “Will you order me?”
    The words were petty, childish, but it was all she could summon considering how tormented she was by the growing nausea. Along with the sickness, an alarming clawing sensation raced along the inside of her skin, demanding she do whatever need be done to secure her next dose.
    His face grew stony and his strong fingers on the plate so visibly tightened she was sure it would shatter. “Yes, damn it.” He squared his jaw, screwing down his temper. “I most certainly will if it is in your best interest.”
    “I will not be ordered!” she snapped back, hating the sting in her voice. Knowing she was being stubborn, yet unable to stop