by Candace Camp
Prescott answered before the maid could. “When Lady Montclair didn’t return, Molly became concerned for her mistress’s well-being, so she came to me for help.”
“I assure you, there is no need to be concerned. Norton, send Timothy back to the Langham with Molly so that she can pack up her ladyship’s things.”
“I’m not doing any such thing.” Molly crossed her arms mutinously. “Not till I hear it from Miss Abby’s lips.”
“Will you not? I suspect Lady Montclair will be distressed when she wakes up tomorrow and finds she has nothing to wear. But if you would rather not stay on with her, that is your decision, of course.”
Molly’s eyes widened. She looked about to burst into an angry speech, but after a moment, she set her chin and said, “All right. I’ll bring her things back. But I don’t need any help from them.” She cast a mutinous glance at Norton and Timothy.
“Of course not. It seems to be a national trait. I will leave it to you, then, to settle the matter.” He nodded toward Norton and swung toward Prescott. “Now, Mr. Prescott, if you will join me in my study, I have a few things to discuss with you.”
Prescott shot him a frustrated, furious look, but he, too, seemed to realize how little he could do to challenge Abigail’s lawful husband. With a short nod, he followed Graeme to his study.
“Have a seat.” Graeme gestured toward the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace.
“I’d rather stand.”
“As you wish.” Graeme shrugged. “Now—”
“What happened? Why is Abigail here?”
“She is here because she was almost shot this evening.”
“What?”
“After which she was pushed into the river and nearly drowned.” His words apparently rendered the other man speechless, for Prescott continued to gape at him. “I brought her back here, where I could protect her.”
“Protect her!” Prescott found his voice. “You sure as hell haven’t done a very good job of it so far.”
Graeme’s mouth tightened. “Clearly not. Unfortunately, I was unaware of just how much protection Abigail required. But from now on I intend to make bloody well sure she’s safe. I hope you have enough interest in her safety to help me do that. Tell me who she was meeting tonight. Why? Did she return to England to see him?”
“I didn’t know she was meeting anyone tonight, much less who. I am not privy to Abby’s plans.” The bitterness in Prescott’s voice convinced Graeme the man was telling the truth. “As for why she returned, she had the absurd idea she wanted to reconcile with you. I tried to tell her that being alone by yourself is better than being alone with someone, but she wouldn’t believe me. You are the reason she’s here. If she was attacked, I imagine that has to do with you, as well.”
“Me? I can assure you that until Abigail arrived in London I had not been subject to any attacks.”
“I’m sure not. It’s your inconvenient wife who is the victim.”
“What the devil are you suggesting?”
“I am saying that when she was in New York, no one harmed Abby. But here someone has tried to shoot her and drown her. I wonder, who in this city would like to get rid of her? Who has told her to leave time after time?”
“You’re accusing me of harming her?” Graeme took a quick step forward. “Are you mad? She is my wife.”
“Exactly. A wife you would prefer not to have.” Prescott did not back away.
“I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t harm any woman, much less one I took a vow to protect.”
“You made a number of vows that day,” Prescott sneered. “You haven’t kept the others. Why keep this one? We both know you have failed Abby in every way possible. I suppose you might not have been behind what happened to her tonight. But I doubt you’d shed any tears if she were gone. Forgive me if I am not reassured by the idea that you have locked her away in your house and are ‘looking after’ her.”
Graeme clenched his fist, thinking how satisfying it would be to smash it into the man’s face. “Lady Montclair is not a prisoner here. You are free to call on her tomorrow at a more reasonable time and see the state of her health for yourself.”
“Oh, believe me, I will.” Prescott’s baring of his teeth could hardly be termed a smile. He stalked away, but at the door he stopped and turned back to Graeme. “Take damned good care of her, Montclair. You’ll answer for it if you do not.”
Graeme swung around and began to pace, seething with anger. As if he would try to hurt Abigail! It was absurd, of course. Abigail would not think that; she was too reasonable. Oh, the devil, what was he talking about? He had no idea whether Abigail was reasonable or not; he scarcely knew the woman. All he really knew was the strong and inconvenient hunger for her that had taken up residence in him lately.
He felt like smashing something, but that would be childish. He took out some of his ill humor by jabbing the fire with the poker, then banging the poker back into its stand. What was most annoying was the fact that several of Prescott’s arrows had struck too close to home, echoing his own thoughts earlier this evening. He had failed to protect her. Indeed, he had failed in any number of ways.
At least he could do something about safeguarding Abigail from now on. He had already taken the first step by moving her here, under his roof. It was clearly impossible to keep an adequate watch over her when she lived somewhere else. The next task was to untangle the mystery of tonight’s rendezvous. He was certain that was the key to it all. Tomorrow he would find out the name of the man who had been shot tonight.
Right now he needed to see her. Despite Mrs. Burbage’s assurance that Abigail was fine, he wanted to check for himself. As he climbed the stairs to his room, he realized that he also needed to sleep. His anger at Prescott had drained away, taking with it the remnants of his energy.
He thought of Abigail in his bed, of slipping beneath the covers with her. It had been nice—far more than nice, if he was truthful—to wake up beside her this morning. But it seemed an invasion of her privacy to lie down with her uninvited. Which was enormously foolish. He was her husband, after all; he had every right to be there. It was, in point of fact, his bed.
The only thing wrong about lying down with her was the fact that his need for sleep had nothing to do with it. He was already aroused, just thinking about her, but it would be base of him to importune her. Abigail had been through an ordeal tonight.
His bedchamber was dark save for the flicker of light in the fireplace, but that was enough to allow him to see Abigail’s form in his bed. He walked over and stood for a moment, gazing down at her. She was nestled on her side, dark hair spread across his pillow. The covers had slipped down, and he could see that her shoulders were bare. She was naked beneath the sheet.
His body tightened, his mind filling with images of stripping her wet clothes from her this evening. Graeme thought about the way he had ripped her dress apart in frustration and sliced the laces of her corset. Predictably, now he was hard as a rock. He should turn away and let her sleep.
Graeme reached out to glide his hand across her hair. Abigail’s eyes opened and she smiled sleepily.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to awaken you.” And wasn’t that an enormous lie?
“That’s all right.” Abigail turned over on her back, reaching out to take his hand, which sent the covers sliding perilously down the slope of her breast. To his disappointment, it stopped just above her nipples. “Come to bed.” Her voice was soft, and she tugged at his hand.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I, um . . . You should sleep.”
“I will.” She smiled again, the curve of her lips slow and provocative. “We can both sleep here. It’s quite large.”
“You must be tired,” he said thickly.
“So must you.”
“Not at the moment.”
She chuckled a little, her lips parting over her teeth, and all he could think of was how it would feel to have those teeth sink into his shoulder. Abigail sli
d over, flipping the corner of the covers back in invitation.
Graeme stripped off his clothes and climbed in beside her.
Abigail was, as he had guessed, deliciously naked, her flesh warm and pliant. He stroked his hand down her body, watching her eyes darken with desire. He bent to kiss her. Now, he knew, he could not stop. He kissed her over and over—long, drugging kisses as his fingers sought out the hidden places that made her tremble and moan.
Graeme was drunk on the taste of her, the feel of her. Her skin was satin against his fingertips, and when his hand slipped between her legs and found the thick moisture of her arousal, it was all he could do not to let out an animal growl of hunger. Passion pounded in him, urgent, insistent, but he clamped down on it with merciless control, determined to take the time and care that he should have taken the night before.
Abigail writhed beneath him, her hands caressing his dampened skin, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Graeme . . . Graeme . . .” She threaded her fingers through his hair, and when she clenched her hands in his hair as a tremor ran through her, the prickle of pain only heightened his hunger.
At last he moved between her legs, sliding into her slowly. Desire was a deep, throbbing ache, a swelling pressure that pushed at the dam of his control as he thrust and retreated in a timeless rhythm. Abigail dug her heels into the bed, arching up against him, her relentless need building until with a thin cry she shuddered and clung to him. Then, at last, he released the reins of his control and rode, hard and fast, to a shattering climax.
Graeme collapsed against her, his flesh quivering and damp with sweat. And that, he thought with a deep satisfaction, was a husbandly duty done sufficiently.
chapter 15
Abby awakened in a strange bed in a strange room. Disoriented, she sat up. It was a man’s room, the furniture heavy and dark, men’s brushes on the dresser, a shaving stand across the room from her. Graeme’s bedroom.
She remembered it all now—the blood running down that man’s face, the hard shove in the back, the cold water closing over her head, the panic exploding in her as she fought not to breathe it in. And Graeme’s arms closing around her, lifting her up and pulling her to safety.
After that, her memory was a trifle spotty—flashes of a speeding carriage ride, of Graeme saying her name, the warmth of the fire and Graeme’s face looming over her, sharp with anxiety. She remembered, too, much later, when Graeme had joined her in this bed. A smile curved her lips. Yes, that she remembered quite well.
Abby glanced around, and there, as if by magic, was her dressing gown laid over the foot of the bed. She was tying it around her a moment later when the explanation for the robe’s presence opened the door and craned her head around it.
“Molly.” Abby smiled. “What are you doing here?”
Her maid came the rest of the way in. “He ordered me to bring your things here.” She sniffed her disdain. “But you just say the word, and I’ll whisk them all back into the trunks and we’ll be off.”
“He did, did he?” Abby smiled. “No, I think we are fine right where we are.”
“Hmph. I don’t trust him, and that’s a fact.”
“I got that impression. Yet you told him where I was last night.” When the older woman began to bristle, she added hastily, “I am very glad you did. I would have drowned if Montclair hadn’t arrived in time. I’m merely surprised you entrusted him with the information.”
“Well, the devil you know . . .” Molly shrugged. “They’ve made up a room for you in here.” She went to a door in the side wall and opened it into another spacious chamber.
“Ah, the countess’s bedroom, I take it.” Abby surveyed the adjoining room. It was a much more feminine room. The furniture was still dark, but its lines were more graceful, less massive, and the wallpaper was an elegant blue-and-white pattern, the draperies a matching blue.
She would have liked a lighter wood, but no doubt it would be considered sacrilege to change anything. She would not be here long, in any case. Once she was pregnant, their goal reached, doubtless she would not be living with Graeme.
The thought lowered her mood, and Abby set it aside. There was no reason to spoil what she had with thoughts of what would come later. She dressed with Molly’s help and made her way downstairs in search of food. She was, she discovered, ravenous.
Glancing around, she saw that she was alone in the corridor. She began to waltz, humming a tune, making her way down the wide hall in great, swooping circles, and as she danced she sang. She was still humming beneath her breath when she entered the dining room. Abby was disappointed to see that only the dowager countess and a small, dowdy woman were there.
“Was that singing I heard?” Lady Eugenia asked in astonished tones.
“Yes, I believe I was singing.” Abby smiled as she took the seat the footman held out for her. “Good morning, Countess.” She turned a little inquiringly toward the other woman.
“Mrs. Ponsonby,” Lady Eugenia explained. “She is the widow of my late cousin. Philomena, allow me to introduce you to Montclair’s wife.”
“Oh, yes, we have met.” The small woman smiled shyly and bobbed her head, reminding Abigail forcibly of a sparrow. “At your wedding, Lady Montclair.”
“What nonsense, Philomena,” the countess said. “That was ten years ago; I am sure she wouldn’t remember meeting you.”
“No, no, of course not.” Philomena let out a little titter. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember so small a thing.”
Abby felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman. “Please, call me Abigail. I should remember meeting you. But I have forgotten most of what happened then.”
Lady Eugenia gave her a narrow look, but apparently could not decide if there had been a barb in Abby’s words. “You are looking well this morning, considering your adventure last night.”
“Yes, I am quite recovered, thank you.”
“You must have been terribly frightened,” Mrs. Ponsonby said, her eyes wide. “I am sure I would have been.”
“It was rather scary. I am very fortunate Graeme was there.” Abigail added casually, “I had thought I might see him here.”
“Montclair left the house some time ago.”
“Oh?” Abigail waited, but Lady Eugenia did not elaborate. “Where did he go?”
Graeme’s grandmother looked pained. “I am sure I don’t know. I never question a gentleman about his plans.”
Abby suspected that was a thumper, but she said only, “Indeed? I’m afraid I’m far too curious for that.”
“In my day, young ladies were taught to restrain their curiosity. No doubt it is different in America.”
“No doubt.”
“It is so nice that the weather has been pleasant while you are here,” Mrs. Ponsonby offered. “Hardly any rain.”
“The spring was terribly wet,” Lady Eugenia added.
By the time Abigail finished eating, they had thoroughly explored all aspects of the weather, both in June and earlier months, not to mention in previous years. Abigail finished her cup of tea, which she had to doctor with large amounts of milk and sugar to make it palatable, and politely declined to join the other ladies in the dowager countess’s sitting room upstairs.
Graeme had not returned, so she whiled away the rest of the morning exploring the house. That, too, soon palled. She was contemplating tracking down the butler to ask that coffee be added to the breakfast menu—she suspected both he and the countess would consider that bad form—when Norton appeared in the doorway to announce Mr. Prescott.
“David!” Abigail followed the butler into the entry to greet her friend—no doubt another social solecism. “It is so good to see you. How did you know I was here?” She tucked her hand in his arm as they returned to the drawing room.
“I came by last night. Didn’t Montclair tell you?”
“No, I haven’t seen him this morning. I slept rather late.”
“Molly came to me for help last night.”
“She
notified you, too? I must say, she was certainly busy.”
“When you didn’t come back after she talked to Montclair, Molly grew very worried. And rightfully so. Did you really go down to the docks, Abby? What were you doing?”
“Well, it wasn’t my choice of a meeting place. But that was where he told me to be.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.” Abby sighed. “Please don’t lecture me, David; Graeme has already pointed out how foolish it was. I took precautions, and I was positive the man wouldn’t hurt me. He wanted money, and injuring me would not have achieved that. I hadn’t foreseen that someone would shoot him.”
“And push you into the river, apparently.”
“That was probably just an accident.” Abby doubted it, but hopefully the idea would soothe her friend’s worry. “He was running past me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”
“He was very clear that I must come alone. Besides, I couldn’t confide in you.” She shook her head. “It involves someone else; it’s not my secret to tell.” He frowned, and she cast about for something to deflect his next question. “David . . . you were working for my father when we came here before.”
“Your father?” His eyebrows shot up. “This is about Thurston? Good heavens, Abby, don’t risk your life trying to help your father. If Price is in trouble, I am sure it is well-deserved and nothing to do with you.”
“I’m not trying to help my father. I wondered if you knew Lord Montclair’s man of business at that time.”
“Lord Reginald’s business man?” He looked surprised. “I suppose I might have. Let me think. . . . Yes, I believe I met him. I don’t remember why.”
“That’s not important. What I want to know is his name.”
“I have no idea what his name was. That was years ago, and he wasn’t memorable. I can’t even recall what he looked like. Why don’t you ask Montclair?”