by Tracy Sumner
And…she wanted to bash him over the head with his ink blotter.
She was so distracted trying to decide between kissing and bashing that she shifted, sliding a brooch she had not noticed was lying there against his hand. A circle of sapphires, the ruby center glowed like a rabid eye.
She flinched as Julian groaned and brought his fist to his head.
She had thrown him into a vision with the touch of the brooch, one which appeared to be devouring him.
“Julian,” she shouted and knocked the jewelry from the desk, where it hit the wall with a ping. His head dropped as if nothing but a thin string connected it to his body. A tortured inhalation lifted his shoulders.
Piper took a breath, covered his hand, and stepped into the vision with him.
It was evident from first sight that the woman in the otherworld was raving mad, her aura looking much like the floor of the lodge, spattered with random colors, a horrifying muddle. She stood before a window, her hair a sooty cascade down her back, searching but not appearing to see the horde of people and carriages passing in a blur of motion. She fingered the sapphire brooch at her neck, a sequence of aggravated repetition.
Unable to curb the compulsion, Piper pushed Julian aside. His anger ripped through her as he tried to stop her. But it was futile. In this, she governed.
When Piper got within reach, the woman’s head spun like a child’s toy toward her. Her eyes glowed, and Piper felt trapped, solidified like a bug in amber.
“You,” she said, her heavily-accented threat crisping the air, “I seek you. And I’m close to gaining what I seek.”
Piper’s vision dimmed as the woman touched her, and she knew no more.
“Leaving me to deal with Scamp again, is that it? I’m getting deuced sick of the two of you. You’ve ruined my thinking I might experience matrimonial serenity someday if this bedlam is what love is like. I’m telling you, if it is, I want no part of it. My widow friend in the village will do just fine. For the rest of my life, fine.”
Christ, Julian thought and shoved a letter detailing the purchase of a gaming hell in his portmanteau. “How is she? Did Minnie give her the sleeping powder?”
“Cranky, mulish, and yes, finally sleeping. Thank the Lord. Rebellious chit threatened to find you herself, so here I am, doing her bidding. And dashed if you’re not doing just what she thought…” Humphrey brushed aside the rest of the statement with an oath as he kicked the study door shut.
“I can’t stay,” Julian said, the most he could admit when what he meant was, I can’t breathe. His chest was so constricted, he had yet to take a full mouthful in the twelve hours since Piper had fainted, striking her head hard enough on his desk to send blood everywhere. His hand shook as he fastened the portmanteau with a snap. “Tell her—”
“Hell, no. I’m not volunteering for that job.”
“I can’t. Not right now. Not when…” He shoved his hand in his pocket and fingered her hairclip, sending her lovely visage cascading through him. He’d known as he held her lifeless body in his arms what he was going to do. Not what he had to do, but what he wanted to do. With her blood streaking his skin, time had fluttered like the pages of a book until he was fifteen years old and stepping from the earl’s carriage and into her life.
Remembrance of that moment had pierced his skin and let joy flow in. He wanted that feeling back, wanted it every morning when he woke next to her.
He’d been a fool to think he could deny her.
Deny himself.
Humphrey took one look at his face and threw himself to the settee, his large body overwhelming the tiny fixture. “She’ll have my head on a platter when she finds you’ve hightailed it to London, and I didn’t try to stop you.”
“The storm won’t last long because I’m going—” Julian thumped the portmanteau to the floor, swallowed, and tried again, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I need something from my safe in Mayfair to do it. Also, a brief meeting with my solicitor to secure a special license is in order. Keep her occupied; I’ll be back before two days have passed. Call me a coward, but I need a moment to gather my resources before facing her.”
Julian glanced over to find Humphrey—for the first time in memory—stunned to silence.
“Shocking, Rey, that you have no supplementary advice upon hearing this declaration.”
Humphrey gave one hard blink, and then a slow smile cracked his lips. “If you’d followed my advice, you would’ve been married to Scamp for a while now. Can’t ignore her healing when she’s in your bed every night, now can you?”
Julian bumped back against his desk, this point the one compromise with himself he had yet to account for. He still thought his gift was ruinous, his future bleak.
But he loved her.
Too much to let them go on like this. In a quasi-state of inseparability, profound intimacy the likes of which he’d never imagined, even with her. He’d begun to think a balance may lie in the positive aspects of their union outweighing the negative.
She needed him, too, and if she weren’t consumed with getting him to admit he loved her, maybe she’d start accepting his counsel.
Occasionally, anyway.
Was he insane to think marriage could settle down Scandalous Scott—without killing Julian Alexander in the process?
“You look like you’re plotting a war campaign over there. It’s downright frightening but makes me feel, sure to my bones, that you’ve found your match in that hellion.”
Julian wrapped his hand around Piper’s hairclip and released a breath that came out sounding horribly sentimental. “What if she says no? What will I do then?”
Humphrey threw his head back, laughter rolling from his throat. “You are one sad duck, Jule. It’s tough to watch. I prefer Scamp’s take-no-prisoners method.”
Julian could only hang his head in agreement, hoping what was hidden away in his safe in Mayfair would convince Piper to share her future.
He had left for London without a word. A note. An explanation.
Piper digested this information as she rested against her bay’s flank, the cottage Julian was forcing upon her sitting at the end of the pebbled footpath. Brook Cottage, to be exact. A bequest from the Earl of Montclaire to his cherished granddaughter, a delightful abode where she would follow expectation and live an undignified life with an undignified maid and ten screeching cats.
She kicked at a rock that had snuck beneath her boot. In truth, she was not overly fond of cats.
And, Julian might be surprised, but the damsel in distress was no longer up to the chase.
Drawing her ire like a shawl about her, she inhaled a breath scented with myrrh, musk, and tea rose. Regrettably, she understood Julian better than he understood himself. This insight allowed her to see both sides, even if she only wanted to see one.
Hers.
Julian tried to do the right thing, always—and she knew it. She supposed she loved him for his scrupulousness even when it got in her way.
Looping the reins around a fence post, she crossed to the babbling brook giving the cottage its name. The ivy-covered dwelling was constructed of the chalk brick in such favor in Oxfordshire; the window frames painted a splendidly contrasting blue. Gardens, modest but undeniably lovely, surrounded her. The manor was adorable, and she loved it on sight. Halting in a thicket of rose bushes, she popped a pale pink bloom from its stem, wondering what in heaven’s name she was going to do now.
As she stood there, peeling the flower like an onion, at a home Julian had chosen for her, very personally now that she had a look at it, a feeling similar to being enfolded in his arms overtook her.
The gift of Brook Cottage was a loving embrace.
And a kick in the backside.
She and Humphrey had argued about this very topic at breakfast this morning, right before she snuck past her guards by telling them she was returning to her bedchamber with a female complaint.
For once in her life, she marveled with a humorless smile, Humphrey was on h
er side. Agreed, Julian should not have left. You scared the life out of him, and the like. He hadn’t been able to look her directly in the eye, this bizarre occurrence making her wonder what he and Julian had up their sleeves.
Why did she have to love the noblest man in all of bloody England?
His motives were admirable, but she wanted more than saving.
She wanted to be loved.
When Julian was not capable. His fear too great. His affection too weak. His walls too high. She wrenched another rose off the bush, sick of trying to rationalize the situation.
Weary, perturbed, finished.
This time, the mess was his fault, his doing.
Although the episode in his study had been a disaster on every level.
Petals drifted from her fingers to the ground. That dashed brooch, she thought even as she dipped her hand in her pocket and curled her fingers around it. When the madwoman found her, and find her she would—and soon, Piper suspected with a spike of dread—she wanted the piece on her person. For reasons she could not define.
They had located the woman’s London hotel from details contained in one of Finn’s dreams, but she was gone when Julian’s men searched her room. Nothing there except the brooch, tucked beneath a wrinkle in the carpet. It was delivered to Harbingdon for Julian to read, although he’d hesitated for days to touch it.
Until she’d forced him to.
When he was drinking and troubled, not in the best form. Too, Piper had forced her way into the otherworld, stepped right past him, then promptly fainted when the woman touched her. Humphrey didn’t understand, and she couldn’t properly explain how powerless Julian had felt, unable to reach her in the unsettling space between past and present. His aura had been clear on that score, flaring the color of a pearl freshly pulled from the sea.
It hadn’t helped that she’d cracked her head. Blood a bright spill over her bodice, Julian’s face matching his colorless aura when she awoke to find herself cradled in his arms. Neither Finn nor Humphrey could talk him out of his desolation.
Do you see? This is what her grandfather warned me about.
As soon as the doctor proclaimed her injury one she would fully recover from, he’d saddled his horse and left for London. Solicitors to meet. Papers to sign. Gaming hell to purchase.
Running, she’d shouted from her bedchamber window as he galloped down the drive, Minnie tearing at her sleeve to pull her inside.
Piper sighed and approached the cottage. The door was unlocked and swung wide, the little-used hinge squealing.
Exposed beams, a lovely stone hearth. As charming inside as out.
She lost herself to the fantasy of walking the gardens with Julian before dawn, making love in the bedchamber she could see down the hall. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry when he returned. Time usually restored an agreeable mood.
Then she heard the hinge’s protest. And realized she should have let one of the Duke’s soldiers accompany her after all. Stubborn, lovesick fool.
Sneaking out hadn’t been wise.
The man blocking the door wore unfamiliar livery, a glorified mercenary similar to one of Ashcroft’s soldiers. Pistol drawn, knife strapped to his hip, he fashioned an intimidating portrait. When another man joined him in the foyer, Julian’s words shot like a bullet through her brain.
If they come for you, for once in our life, play along.
No tricks.
No rebellion.
He’d covered the possibilities more than once, often while their bodies were tangled and spent. So, she didn’t resist when the brute crossed to her, when he took her wrist in a damaging grip.
She would follow through on her promise even as dread sent her skin tingling and her heart racing.
“The beautiful boy, the dreamer,” the man whispered in accented English as he shook her so hard her hair whipped her cheeks. “Where is he?”
Finn. “I’ll die first,” she vowed.
With a violent shove, the brute sent her stumbling to the floor. “That can be arranged.”
She gazed into the man’s eyes, seeing only relentless brutality flashing back at her. Your gift is your weapon, Julian whispered. His sureness brought her strength. “Bring me to her,” Piper directed, only a slight flutter bruising her words. “And take care, because a dead woman can’t heal.”
Julian said he would go to the ends of the earth to find her.
She believed him.
Simon peeked around the garden wall, watching as the men dragged Miss Piper to a waiting carriage. She staggered but caught her footing, and Simon’s breath rattled in his throat. The rat bastards, he raged, his fists clenched. They were handling her very roughly, not like they should a proper lady. Simon had lived among vermin all his life and could pick out rats in a skinny second—no matter the flipping fancy attire.
Daft lass, going off on her own. Glad now he‘d decided to follow her, but…
Lawks was Lord J going to be mad. Everyone knew he was near crazy about Miss Piper.
Simon wiped his hands on his trousers and danced from one foot to the other, trying to come up with a plan. Think, Si, think.
“See that platform at the rear?” the haunt at his side asked.
Simon nodded, not taking his eyes off Miss Piper as the men shoved her in the carriage. The annoying old gent had been following him for days and wasn’t likely to leave anytime soon.
“Called a tiger’s platform.”
“Tiger. Like a cat?” Simon asked.
“Small footman.”
Simon nodded. “Righty-ho.”
“When they pull away, hop on the back. But you must jump off before the carriage stops.”
“Then I go tell Finn.” He could tell Finn anything, he thought with a spark of newfound adoration, when he’d yet to adore anyone in his life. Aye, he’d seen lads in livery attire, clinging like mud to the back of carriages. All over London, he’d watched them and marveled: what was that life like? Tigers. Blimey. He quite liked the name. But not the silly gig required for the job.
“They must not see you, boy. You understand?”
“You be one yappy ghost,” Simon said. When the carriage rolled from the drive, he sprinted with it, and only when it gained speed did he hook his arm on the platform and swing himself up. Pressing his back to the outer wall, he crouched low and tight in the corner. His pulse pounded in his ears as the spot of cheese and bread he’d eaten on the walk rose in his throat. He actually felt a measure of calm when the old haunting gent settled in beside him.
Lord J talked a lot about destiny. Purpose. Goals, when Simon couldn’t give a fig about them. He gave figs about a full belly and a soft bed, not having a knife pressed to his throat. The bint he had secreted beneath his fancy mattress.
Only, he liked Miss Piper. She talked to him about the haunts without scooting away from him like he had the pox. She read him stories and had promised to let him plant rose bushes in the garden next week.
And he liked Finn, of course. He would follow Finn Alexander to the ends of the earth.
So, wot, just wot, if saving Miss Piper was his destiny?
Chapter 20
While we may, the sports of love; time will not be ours forever.
~Ben Johnson
In the past twenty-four hours, Julian had come to find he’d misconstrued life’s signals.
Piper was his life; all he’d ever wanted once he let himself admit it. She had clawed her way into corners he hadn’t exposed to light in years.
And he meant to have her.
Even if she entered the otherworld.
Even if what the earl had threatened was nothing but the painful truth.
Even if, and this idea nearly brought him to his knees, he and Piper created a child who carried his gift. Or hers.
A child he would love to the end of time.
He no longer cared. Or mayhap better to say, Piper was worth more than his concerns. She was worth more—and he could not, would not, live without her. The sun had gone
behind a cloud, and it was never to reappear if she did not.
He dropped his head to his hands. So, this is what dying feels like.
“They want her alive. They want her to heal,” Humphrey whispered and laid a fist on his shoulder.
Julian shook off the touch and paced Brook Cottage’s lone drawing room. Once there and back before he was able to catch his breath. After Finn had intercepted him at the Cock and Bull, they’d tracked Piper to this dwelling and found her bay tied up outside. The sight of the horse waiting patiently for its rider made him question if he was losing his mind.
Ire was clouding his judgment, and all he could think was: if they touch her, I’ll rip out their hearts. He would return to the savagery of the rookery without a second thought. As it was, he was holding himself back from unleashing his fury on the guards she’d slipped past.
“We’ll find her, Jule.”
“Piper has the brooch, Rey. I have nothing to read.”
“They’re not in London.” This from Finn, who stood with a devastated expression by the stone fireplace Julian had known Piper would love the moment he saw it. It was one of the few times he recalled Finn looking anything other than bored. “The dream last night”—he held up his hand, then let it drop with a whispered oath—“they were in the country. They’ve taken her somewhere close. I can feel it.”
Julian exhaled and let his head fall back. That crazy bitch was going to rue the day she messed with his family.
Ashcroft ducked inside as he, unbelievably, stood the tallest in the room. Two of his soldiers tramped in behind him. Truthfully, Julian was glad he was there because the man always looked as if he would joyfully tear someone apart. Like no duke Julian had ever seen. “There were two men. Easily fifteen stone. No sign of a struggle. Just one point in the yard where she stumbled. Their tracks were made from the cut of a French boot. I’ve seen it before.” He scowled, chasing his hand down his coat to the knife holstered at his waist. An unconscious movement, Julian was sure. “A child’s boot impression as well. By the garden wall and leading to the carriage. Fresh. The same time frame, from the dried mud.”