Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(93)

Worriedly Madeline asked Mrs. Beecham if Logan had ever behaved like this before, and the housekeeper hesitated before replying. “Only when you left him, Mrs. Scott.”

Madeline colored with guilt and remorse. “How long did it last?”

“It took one week for him to drink himself insensible, and another before he would begin to eat properly again.” Mrs. Beecham shook her head in sincere puzzlement. “That I could understand, as we all knew how he felt about you…but this…I wouldn't have guessed that he cared so much about Lord Drake. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but the man was a ne'er-do-well, may he rest in peace.”

“It must be because they grew up together. For some reason Logan felt responsible for him.”

The housekeeper shrugged. “Whatever the cause, the master has taken his passing very hard.” Her sympathetic gaze touched on Madeline's strained face. “He'll put himself to rights eventually. Don't distress yourself, Mrs. Scott. It's not good for a woman in your condition to worry.”

That, of course, was easier said than done. How could she not worry when her husband seemed determined to drink himself to death? Late in the evening of the second day, Madeline gathered her nerve and went to his door, turning the heavy brass knob and discovering that it was locked. “Logan?” she asked, knocking quietly. As she had expected, there was no reply. She knocked a little harder and heard a muffled snarl from within.

“Stop scratching at the damn door and leave me in peace.” His voice was filled with ugly undertones that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Unlock it, please,” Madeline said, trying to sound composed, “or I'll get a key from Mrs. Beecham.”

“Then I'll wring your neck like a Christmas goose,” he returned, sounding as if he would relish the process.

“I'm going to wait here until I see you. I'll stand here all night if necessary.” When there was no reply, she added in a moment of inspiration, “And if something happens to the baby, let it be on your conscience!”

Madeline braced herself as she heard his heavy footsteps. All of a sudden the door was unlocked, and she was snatched into the room with a violent jerk.

“There's nothing left of my conscience,” Logan said, slamming the door, closing her inside the shadowed bedroom with him. He loomed over her, huge and dark, his hair rumpled, his breath rank with liquor. He wore a pair of astonishingly wrinkled trousers; his feet were bare, and his muscular chest and shoulders, naked. Madeline couldn't help shrinking back, alarmed by his appearance. He seemed capable of almost anything. His mouth twisted with a sneer and there was a wild, desperate gleam in his bloodshot eyes.

“You want to play the dutiful wife,” Logan said thickly, “and pat my shoulder while whispering platitudes in my ear. Well, I don't want comfort from you. I don't need it. All I need is this.” His hand caught in her bodice, his fingers delving into the hollow of her cle**age, and he pulled her hard against him. His hot mouth, surrounded by wiry bristle, scoured the tender skin of her throat.

Madeline sensed that he expected her to protest his crude fondling, but she slid her arms around his neck and relaxed against him. The gentle yielding seemed to be Logan's undoing. “Damn you,” he groaned. “Don't you have the sense to be afraid of me?”

“No,” she said, her face pressed against his hot, smooth shoulder.

Abruptly he let go of her, breathing in unsteady gulps.

“Logan,” she said softly, “you're behaving as if you're somehow to blame for your friend's death. I don't understand why.”

“You don't need to.”

“I do, when you seem bent on destroying yourself. There are many people who need you…and I happen to be one of them.”

His anger seemed to drain away, and he suddenly appeared weary and full of self-hatred. “Andrew needed me,” he muttered. “I failed him.”

Her gaze searched his ravaged face. “Is that what this is about?”

“Partly.” Logan picked up a half-empty bottle of brandy and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. There were liquor stains on the sheets and the Aubusson carpet, evidence of the last thirty-six hours of drinking. He raised the bottle to his lips, but before he could take a swallow, Madeline approached and took it from him. He made an unsteady swipe for the bottle and braced himself to keep from toppling over.

Madeline set the brandy aside and stood before him. “Tell me,” she said, aching to touch him. “Please.”

Looking like an exhausted child, he closed his eyes and hung his dark head between his shoulders. He choked out a few names…Lord Drake…the Earl of Rochester…Mrs. Florence…and then, in a halting stream of words, an incredible story emerged.

Madeline stood unmoving as she tried to understand what he was telling her. Logan said that he was the illegitimate child of Rochester and Mrs. Florence's daughter…that Andrew had been his half brother. She listened in amazement while he unburdened himself with the bitter honesty of a condemned man. It was clear that his grief and love for Andrew were mixed with devastating guilt.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Madeline finally asked, when he had fallen silent.

“No need…you were better off not knowing. So was Andrew.”

“But you wanted to tell him, didn't you?” she murmured, daring to reach out to him, smoothing his disheveled hair. “You regret not having said anything when you had the chance.”