by Olivia Drake
As the barb struck, his eyes widened slightly, giving her another tantalizing glimpse into his depths. He recovered swiftly, a rakish grin tilting his mouth. “You always were a tart-tongued beldam. ’Tis no wonder you’ve never taken a lover.”
“How do you know I haven’t?” she retorted. “Perhaps I’ve had dozens.”
He chuckled, his shrewd gaze sweeping over her powder-blue gown and styled white hair. “I recognize a woman with principles. You’ve never been touched by any man but your husband.”
His direct gaze demanded the truth from her, and she gave it in a roundabout manner. “I’m not averse to male companionship.”
“Nor I to the company of an intelligent woman.” Lifting her gloved hand, he kissed the back, never once taking his compelling gaze from her.
Lucy’s heart fluttered. Was he hinting at his desire for a liaison? No, surely his tastes ran to younger women, women who had not yet experienced the change of life, women who didn’t have wrinkled skin and sagging breasts and great-grandchildren.
She extracted her hand. “So long as the woman is wealthy, and willing to support you in the manner to which you are accustomed.”
He winced. “Such a cold woman you’ve become, Lucy. There was a time when you looked on me with favor.”
“That was before you frolicked off to Paris with the widowed Lady Ramsgate.”
His deeply chiseled features showed amusement rather than shame. “So you even recall her name.”
“Only because she was twice your age and opened her legs as easily as her purse strings.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “By jings, what a memory you have. I wonder what else you recollect?” That impish light in his gaze, he sidled closer to her, his fingers stroking the nape of her neck. “I seem to recall a moonlit garden, an arbor of roses—”
“Honeysuckle.”
“Ah, yes, I remember it well, that honeysuckle. And a sweet young girl who’d never been kissed.”
His large hands settled over her shoulders. Lucy didn’t protest; she couldn’t protest. She was too enraptured by the memory of stealing outside with a dashing rake, nearly swooning at her first taste of a man’s lips...
Nathaniel touched his mouth to her brow. “Lucy,” he murmured. “My dear Lucy. If I hadn’t gone off to Paris, perhaps we would have wed.”
She shook her head. “You aren’t the marrying sort.”
“Then tell me why I’ve been pining for you all these years.”
For once in her life, Lucy couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He took her in his arms, and his tender embrace stirred a mélange of feelings in her, hope and yearning and excitement. Oh, she had missed a man’s attentions. It had been so many years since her husband’s death; she’d raised her son and then her grandsons, suppressing the ache of loneliness, making herself believe she needed only the companionship of the Rosebuds.
But now she wondered. Was she foolish to long for love at her advanced age?
Then she noticed something alarming. “The music has stopped.”
“Let’s make our own, then,” Nathaniel murmured in her ear.
“Scoundrel,” she said, slapping him away and rising to her feet. “We must see to Meg.”
Grumbling, he escorted her back to the ballroom. There was a swagger to his manner that demonstrated his pleasure at their revitalized closeness. But did Nathaniel truly care for her? Or did he simply want another rich widow to gull?
Distractedly, Lucy looked around the ballroom for her charge. But she couldn’t spy dark-haired Meg anywhere in the milling throng.
Her buoyant mood altered to a burgeoning dread, and she lifted her gaze to Nathaniel’s grim features. “Dear heavens. She’s gone.”
“So is Sir Charles Damson.”
The Light in the Window
“You forgot to lock the master’s chambers again,” Mrs. Swindon accused, her voice slightly muffled beyond the curtained alcove. “When Sir Charles hears about your carelessness—” Her words ended in a choking gasp.
“Ye won’t live to tell the tale, bitch.”
With a jolt, Gabe realized the valet was throttling the housekeeper.
Huddled against him, Kate shivered. Gabe swore silently, viciously, his grip tightening on the pistol. In a moment, he’d have to burst out of their hiding place and stop the bastard. And ruin their plan to snare Damson.
Thankfully, there came a muffled thump as Figgins released Mrs. Swindon. Her ragged breaths rasped through the chamber.
“Say one word to the master,” Figgins snarled, “and I’ll gut your innards and throw ’em over the cliff to the fish.”
“I...won’t,” the housekeeper muttered hoarsely.
Kate let out a whispery sigh of relief. Gabe held her close, rubbing his cheek against her hair. She responded to the comforting gesture by lifting her face to him, her hands seeking his collar and gripping hard. Her mouth was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath.
Outside the alcove, Agnes Swindon coughed. “Mr. Figgins,” she said in a much subdued tone, “there’s no need for threats. Haven’t I always kept your little secrets?”
His guttural laugh slithered past the curtain. “Ye don’t know my secrets.”
“There was that serving maid you ravished here while the master was away.”
“Bide yer tongue. Lest I blacken yer eye like I did hers.” Drawers opened and closed. “Where’s that tin of goose grease? The master wants it put downstairs.”
“Bottom drawer.” The housekeeper’s footsteps scuffled over the carpet; then there were more rummaging sounds. “Here ’tis. Ooh, Mr. Figgins!” she squealed. “You pinched me!”
“That’ll teach ye to wiggle yer bum in me face.”
“You used to like my bum. Remember?” In an abrupt switch, a slavish seductiveness entered her voice. “Mayhap you’ll come to my room. We could play dragon and maiden.”
“What of that fancy footman of yers?”
“Whitcombe?” she scoffed. “Huh, I’ve no interest in him, pretty as he is.”
“So he refused ye, did he?”
“He has a liking for the lads.”
Kate made a sound suspiciously like a giggle.
At the same moment, Figgins guffawed. “Oh-ho! All that simperin’ ye did, and he’s a buggerin’ arse peddler.”
“Never mind him,” Mrs. Swindon said huffily. “I’d sooner have a real man betwixt the sheets.”
“Then lift yer skirts fer me right now.”
There was a gasp, then the sound of smacking lips and rustling clothes. Gabe groaned inwardly. If those two went at it right here, he and Kate could be stuck in this alcove while time ticked relentlessly away.
A playful slap resounded. “Mind where you put your hands,” Mrs. Swindon said on a giggle. “The master could walk in at any moment.”
“He’ll join us, then,” Figgins said with a nasty laugh. “Though he likes his chickens young and fresh, not tough old birds like ye.”
“But you like a seasoned hen,” the housekeeper said cajolingly. “Come along, my handsome cock, I’ll give you much to crow about in my chambers.”
Their voices faded as they tramped out, taking the candle with them. Kate shuddered against Gabe. “I feared they’d never go,” she whispered, tucking her face to his high collar.
Velvety blackness enveloped the alcove. Gabe brought his hand up to cup her cheek, rubbing lightly over her satiny skin. An intense rush of feeling flooded him. Relief that she was safe in his arms. The desire to claim her. And something more. Something soft and tender and unmanly. For one wild moment, he forgot that he was holding a pistol, that they stood in an alcove with a stolen statue, that they hid in the bedchamber of a murderer.
Until he tried to get closer to her, and the awkwardness of their position snapped him to his senses.
“Let’s go,” he said, nuzzling her brow. “It’s time to signal Ashraf.”
“The light in the window...of my bedchamber.”
&nb
sp; “Yes.” By a prearranged signal, when Ashraf saw the lamp burning in the tower window, he would depart the castle and notify Bickell. The Bow Street Runner would obtain a search warrant from a magistrate in the neighboring county. If all went as planned, Damson would be behind bars by morning.
Gabe squeezed out from behind the pedestal and stuck the pistol inside his coat. As he held the curtain aside and Kate stepped into the shadowy bedchamber, he took one last look at the alcove.
He could barely see the statue. Without the benefit of candlelight, the goddess neither glittered nor gleamed. Not even the occasional flash of lightning could penetrate the deep obscurity therein.
Gabe hated like hell to leave the statue. To let it out of his sight, even for a few hours. But he had no choice.
As they started toward the door, a burst of raindrops spattered the windows. “The storm is worsening,” Kate said. “What if Ashraf isn’t watching for the signal?”
“He will be.”
“The rain could delay him.”
“He’ll go, anyway. You can count on that.”
“You really do trust him.”
“With my life.” Grasping her hand, he drew her to the door and turned the handle. Locked. “Dammit, they took their key. I hope you have yours.”
Through the gloom, he saw Kate reach inside her glove and extract a slender bit of metal. Bending down to unlock the door, she said, “It must be your lucky night, my lord.”
His mouth went dry. Kate could have no notion of the hot images evoked by her words. She was too innocent to know.
And he was too jaded to forget that.
Stepping in front of her, he peered into the dim-lit corridor. Figgins and Mrs. Swindon had vanished, and Gabe hoped to hell they were swiving each other blind. It would keep both of them out of the way for a while.
Tense, he walked ahead of Kate. He couldn’t shake a core uneasiness. As they went down the passageway, he felt the need to hurry, to get her safely away from here.
They took the broad staircase that curved downward in a gilded stairwell. The far-off strains of music indicated that all the guests were still in the ballroom. It struck Gabe that he’d never danced with Kate, though it seemed they’d known each other forever.
When this was all over, when he shed this damned wig and livery, he’d rectify that omission. That, and others. He’d court her, woo her...
His palms broke out in a cold sweat. No, he wouldn’t marry Kate or any other woman. Long ago, he’d vowed to avoid that trap. He could pinpoint his aversion to a night when he’d found his drunken father sobbing on the staircase, ready to pour out his troubles with his cold wife to his eleven-year-old son. The burden of those marital secrets had weighed on Gabe, and in time, his shock and bewilderment had given way to a deep-rooted distaste for the institution of matrimony.
Of course, Kate wasn’t like his mother, nor was he like his father. He relished Kate’s combination of prim spinster and feisty female. He’d harbored fantasies of her writing the book with him, amusing him with her lively conversation ... and making love with him.
In the wilds of Africa, when he’d lain beneath the starry sky, he’d thought of her, half-girl and half-woman, determined to become his mistress. He’d wanted Kate then, but now he desired her with a single-minded recklessness. More than that, he craved her respect and the impossible dream of her love.
The intensity of his feelings choked him. When this was all over, he’d leave Kate with his grandmother. He’d strike out for the open road, live his life as he pleased, without any encumbrances. He’d forget Kate Talisford, once and for all.
He ushered her down a deserted corridor, where closed doors marked the many guest bedchambers. At last they reached the winding stairs that led to the tower room. One foot on the bottom step, he paused to look back at Kate. The ballgown skimmed the perfection of her slim figure, the bodice cut low over her full breasts. Her lips were parted, her upswept hair tousled as if she were going to meet her lover.
Her lover.
“I’ll take care of the signal,” Gabe said abruptly. “You should return to the ball, lest Damson become suspicious.”
Her fine brows winged together in a frown. “Lady Stokeford will make my excuses.”
“As your guardian, I’m telling you to go. Now.”
Her spine stiffened. “Sir Charles killed my father. I will light that lamp.” With that, she brushed past him and marched up the stairs.
Short of throwing her over his shoulder, he couldn’t stop her, so he followed in her wake, gazing balefully at the flick of her skirts, the sway of her hips. Didn’t she realize the danger of being alone with him? If she had any inkling of the things he’d like to do with her...
The circular chamber was dim and shadowed, lit only by the fire smoldering on the tiled hearth. Studiously, he kept his gaze averted from the gauze-draped bed. But he remembered the softness of her skin. The satiny dampness at the juncture of her legs. Her wild cries of delight.
He wanted to make her come alive with passion again. This time, he’d be inside her, sharing the pleasure, binding her to him forever. The urge was so powerful, he ground to a halt in the middle of the room, his lust striking a blow at decency and good judgment.
Kate took a candle from the mantelpiece and bent down to light the taper at the hearth. The gracefulness of her action fed the beast inside him. The flames painted a fiery sheen over her upswept hair, and his fingers itched to pull out those pins, to let her curls ripple down to her waist in a glorious waterfall.
Rising, she went to the bedside table and used the candle to light a brass lamp, which she carried to the third window and set on the stone ledge. The placement of the beacon would tell Ashraf where they’d found the goddess: the first window meant the study, the second indicated Damson’s sitting room, the third his bedchamber. The fourth and final window implied a location elsewhere in the castle and signaled Ashraf to wait in the stables for Gabe’s instructions.
Gabe wished he had that excuse to leave here.
Lightning flared with an eerie glow, briefly limning Kate’s womanly form. As if she’d forgotten his presence, she stood with her back to him, peering out the night-darkened glass.
They had accomplished their purpose to rousing success. Now all they had to do was wait. Somewhere else.
“Kate,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
A certain rigidity in her bearing lured him to her. His footfalls silent, he walked to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Her warm, bare skin delivered a charge of heat to his body. He fought the compulsion to run his hands all over her, to find out if she felt so silky everywhere.
“Kate, let’s go.”
She bowed her head in uncharacteristic silence. As he brought her around to face him, he noticed the luster of tears in her eyes. Tears.
She made a move to walk away, but he held her in place. He usually avoided a woman’s tears, for they were too often artifice designed to manipulate a man.
But this was Kate. His beautiful, strong, invincible Kate. “What is it?” he asked gruffly. “What’s wrong?”
She averted her face. “Nothing.”
Cradling her cheeks, he tilted her head up. “Tell me. Please.”
Her green eyes formed pools of anguish. She hesitated, then her words tumbled out in a rush. “I never said goodbye to him. To Papa.”
Gabe set his jaw. “What happened in Cairo is my fault. Hate me if you must, but don’t weep.”
“I meant four years ago. On the morning of Papa’s departure, I ... kept to my chamber.”
He frowned, thinking back to that sunny dawn. He’d felt a guilty relief at not having to face Kate again, and he’d been filled with high spirits and an eager impatience to set out on an adventure into the unknown. “Of course. You didn’t want to see me.”
“I didn’t want to see Papa.” Kate swallowed as if it pained her to speak. “I was so angry at him. He knocked on my door, but I...refused to come out and em
brace him, to wish him well. I let him go without a single, kind, loving word...” Her voice choked to a halt, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
Disabled by tenderness, Gabe put his arms around her, stroking her hair, wishing he knew how to comfort her. “You were distraught. I’m sure your father understood that.”
“But if I hadn’t been so stubborn...so childish...”
“You were a child,” Gabe said roughly. “That’s why you shouldn’t blame yourself. I know you loved him—”
“Not enough,” she cried out. “Never enough.”
“More than enough.” With his thumb, he caught another tear that trickled down her cheek. “You loved him enough to offer yourself to me. Enough to wish me dead for taking him away.”
I loathe you, Gabriel Kenyon. I’ll loathe you forever. I hope you die in that jungle!
Her lashes lowered slightly, as if she too were remembering the intensity of her hatred. He wished bleakly that he could do it all over. Back then, she’d been young and impressionable, and if he’d taken her to bed, he could have made her love him, too. Instead, he had inspired her revulsion.
He forced himself to step back. “I must go.”
“Where?”
He couldn’t let himself be swayed by that wounded, needy look. Or by the fact that they had little to do now but wait. Recalling the nebulous disquiet that had nagged at him, he said, “I’ll watch Damson’s chambers. Make certain the statue doesn’t disappear.”
Kate curled her fingers around his arms. “Be careful.” The little catch in her voice disarmed him. Was she truly concerned for his safety?
“And if something happened to me?” he found himself asking. “Would it matter to you?”
Her lips parted as if to deliver a tart rejoinder. But she didn’t speak, didn’t move. She simply gazed at him, her large green eyes conveying an eloquent warmth and a sense of wonderment. He was rendered powerless by that look. Incapable of rational thought. Unable to stop himself from tasting her soft lips.
At that first sizzling touch, he knew he needed more. Much more. Kate did, too, for she trailed eager fingers over his face and chest, sliding her hands inside his coat. Her scent wafted to him, something feminine and infinitely mysterious. He drank deeply of her, his desire flaring with a violence that strained the bonds of his self-control.