My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  “And how on earth do you suppose we find the ‘right’ person?”

  “Easily,” you say. “We find who disliked her most and go from there.”

  You have a plan, and a good one at that! Go to this page.

  After some stalking about the house with a tightly furrowed brow, you come upon a terrified Alexander, crumpled in a heap beneath a portrait of his dead mother.

  “Mama has come to hurt me again,” he says. He is weeping, his eyes red with tears and horror.

  “Mama is gone, Master Alexander,” you say, unsure if your words are true. Unsure, to be honest, of anything anymore. “She can’t hurt you.”

  “But I’ve seen her!” Alexander wails.

  “What you’ve seen is the portrait,” you say.

  “No!” he cries. “Mama! She’s here!”

  The frightened child lifts a trembling finger, pointing toward a woman’s skirts disappearing around the corner and into the next room.

  Your heart leaps to your throat. Though you did not see the strange figure’s face, you did see the locks of raven hair trailing behind her.

  This is impossible. Do you…

  Find Lord Craven and demand answers? Turn to this page.

  Flee to Mrs. Butts for comfort? Turn to this page.

  Or force an admission from the apparition? You are most certainly not afraid of no ghosts! Turn to this page.

  Clad in only your still-wet dress, you flee the room and the castle. You trusted this man, and perhaps were even falling in love with him. How could it be that a man so good, so kind, and so gentle could also be a murderer?

  You race to the stables. You know not where you will go, but you know that you must leave this place…if only for a while.

  Flinging open the stable door (and almost sending it off its rusty hinges), you decide to take the sturdy bay nag. As you look for a saddle, however, a strong arm wraps around you and a calloused hand clamps over your mouth.

  “Be quiet. You are in more danger than you realize.”

  The arm releases you. You turn in a daze to see the face of your long-lost love, Ollie Ruston—whole, handsome, and very much alive!

  “Ollie! But how? I thought that you were lost at sea!” you say, gaping in disbelief. You stare at his face and try to find the sweet boy you knew in the man who stands before you. He stares back, his once-innocent brown eyes now darkened with anger.

  “I allowed everyone to believe that. I would have done anything to stop England from being conquered by Napoleon.”

  “Oh, Ollie…” You sigh, at a loss for words. He cups your face gently with one rough hand, but his expression is etched deep with long-held fury.

  “You see, I had no choice. Not if I wanted to do right by my country…and those who I loved,” he says, stroking your cheek with a hardened thumb. “I had to fake my own death so they wouldn’t look for me when I embarked on my new life as a spy.”

  If this is one of the most aggressively attractive things you have ever heard and you want to provide him with some secret services of your own (if you catch our drift), then turn to this page.

  But if you are seriously enraged—the bastard let you think he was dead for more than a decade and you want some bloody answers right now—then turn to this page.

  “Oh, Kamal!” You cling to his shirt ever tighter.

  “Miss?” he squeaks.

  You stare into each other’s eyes for a few deliciously loaded moments. Nothing more needs to be said, for you both know you have found your other half in this life. Kamal pulls you into his arms and kisses you with a passion you didn’t know he had.

  The next thing you know, you are tearing at each other’s clothes, making feverish love among the mummies. It doesn’t matter. They are dead, but your loins are alive.

  You marry, of course, and are blissfully happy. You also feature as ongoing comedic side characters for the continued series of Lady Evangeline’s adventures, always providing a safe space and sympathetic ear when called upon. She drops in from time to time between quests to tell stories to your enthralled offspring. Little Evangeline, your eldest (and sole nonbookish) child, particularly loves these visits from her rambunctious godmother and namesake and grows up to be quite the adventurer herself.

  The museum flourishes under your careful eye, and your legacy is continued in the capable hands of your many adorably studious children. The museum stands to this day in the heart of Cairo, a wonder for all to see. The names of you and Kamal are inscribed in the entranceway of its grand facade.

  The End

  “What do you mean?!” you ask.

  “It had to come from the order of command in MacTaggart’s regiment,” Ollie says, his face a mask of pure hatred.

  “That could have been anyone. You don’t know that it was Mac!”

  “Oh, but I do,” says Ollie. “You see, apart from you there is only one woman I have ever loved…whom I dared ever love. Constantina. She was also a spy, and the bravest woman I have ever met. Captain MacTaggart killed her with his bare hands.”

  Your stomach drops as the pieces of this horrific puzzle fall into place. The fear in Mac’s eyes when you said her name. His harrowing confession.

  “Oh, Ollie…,” you whisper, with voice and hands shaking. Suddenly, the barn door bursts open again. There, like an avenging ginger angel, stands Mac.

  “Unhand her, you absolute dobber!” he cries. Then he turns to you, his voice softening. “Did he hurt ye, lass?” He speaks with such gentleness that your very soul sings. But before you can answer, you hear a chilling click.

  To your horror, Ollie has aimed his pistol squarely at Mac. “Not so fast, you bastard.” The weapon glints wickedly in the early evening light.

  You panic. Mac may be grumpy, he may be damaged, he may even be a murderer, but you know, somehow, that his heart is pure. You cannot stand by and watch him be killed.

  Desperately, you throw yourself between the two men. Ollie glares at you.

  “What is wrong with you? After all I’ve told you?!”

  “What you’ve told me is not enough. I need to know everything.” You walk over to Mac. Placing your hand on his ruggedly handsome face, you stare deeply into his eyes. “I need to hear it from you.”

  Mac sighs. “I tried to explain before ye ran off, lass. Constantina was Abercrombie’s bit o’ fluff when we were stationed at Salamanca.”

  “No!” cries Ollie. “That is a lie! It’s a filthy lie!”

  Mac sets his already extremely firm jaw. “No, ye bampot! It’s the God’s honest truth! I saw her around him often, but what commander didn’t take comfort in a sweet young woman in such dark times?”

  Ollie starts to protest, but now you walk over to him. With a gentle hand, you still him and take the gun. He grits his teeth.

  “What happened, Mac?” you ask gently. “How did Constantina die?”

  “Och, lass.” He hangs his handsome head. “I may have been a soldier, but ye must understand I dinnae hold with killing women. I have never forgiven myself for that night.”

  Ollie stares silently at Mac, his face twisted in pure hatred.

  “I saw her late one night crossing a bridge,” Mac continues. “She was walking…toward the French! I assumed the lass was possibly a wee bit tipsy.”

  “And then what happened?” you whisper.

  “I went to stop her, of course! I went to warn her! But then—” Mac pauses, his hazel eyes clouded by ghosts from the past. “Then she turned on me with a knife. The fury she fought with! I could scarcely believe it of such a wee lassie, nor could I understand why. I tried to stop her but…we struggled. It was an accident, I swear on all that I hold dear, but in that struggle she fell off the bridge…to her death.” He looks up, shame and fear shading his face.

  “So there’s the truth,” he says. “Do ye hate me now, lass?”

  “Oh, Mac,” you sigh. “O
f course not—”

  “No! NO! EAAAARGH!!” Ollie screams and launches himself at Mac.

  The two men begin to pummel each other.

  So, now that you have two handsome men in hand-to-hand combat before you, how do you proceed?

  If you fear for their safety and want to stop this madness at once, turn to this page.

  If you are enjoying the show and want to continue watching the pair whale on each other with homoerotic vigor, turn to this page.

  The evening’s festivities have finally started in earnest, though the room still throbs from the delicious gossip that has just come to pass. You bear the whispers no mind. You and Lady Evangeline take another swig of brandy and have a giggle at the expense of poor Nigel Frickley, who is asking a sobbing Henrietta to dance and only getting fiercely wept upon for his trouble.

  And yet, despite your triumphant mood, you find yourself pausing for a moment when you spot a familiar dark head of hair—and handsomely brooding face underneath it—over at the card table. Remembering Benedict’s harsh words earlier when you tried to offer comfort, you chide yourself for your overly tender heart. He deserves neither your comfort nor your pity.

  You excuse yourself from Lady Evangeline, for the devil is in you tonight and you cannot resist strutting over to tell Benedict of your clever plan. Not that you care a jot what he thinks.

  “What’s trump, boys?” With all the confidence of a fellow fellow, you saunter up to the fellows playing whist in the game room. The handsome, stylish-to-the-hilt men form a rather pretty collection of well-born, possibly quite unmotivated knights errant. Benedict, their fallen King Arthur, slouches at his card table. His immoveable expression fades the moment you address the room.

  “Pardon my aunt’s maid, gentlemen,” he says. Then he huffs in your direction before hissing in your ear, “What the devil do you think you are playing at?”

  You ignore him pointedly.

  “Pardon her lady’s companion, gentlemen.” You smirk. “As well as your host’s fine manners. I come only to entreat you, Sir Benedict, to entertain your female guests. In fact, all of you charming gentlemen are sorely needed to fill a dance card or two. Morale is falling abysmally low among the womenfolk, I’m afraid.”

  A few among the crowd chuckle good-naturedly. Some men, in their cups, eye you up and down. But Benedict shifts his weight in his chair from one long, lean, well-muscled leg to the other. “These women,” he drawls, “do not count you among their number, dare I say?”

  “Dare as you wish, sir.” You feel bold enough to seat yourself in an empty chair near the table, a bit of impudence that causes Benedict’s eyes to flash with shock. “I have no desire to dance this evening. Not when there is detective work to do.”

  You anticipate more deliciously slow back-and-forth with old Benny, but instead he throws his hand of cards on the table, flies to his feet, and grips you firmly by the elbow. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says with forced jollity, “but I shall help the lady find her way to the dance floor.”

  The jollity ceases the moment you are out of earshot.

  “What do you think you’re about, woman?” Benedict seethes when you have reached the chamber outside the game room. “Prattling on endlessly in your absolutely vulgar way, pretending to be one of the gentlemen when you are so clearly not.” His eyes flicker down briefly before he rights himself. “You are barely one of the gentlewomen.”

  Gratified that he is so flustered (for Benedict, anyway) that he cannot even stop from drinking in a quick sight of you in your evening dress, you decide to press on.

  “Well,” you say sweetly, “do you wish to hear my news or not?”

  “No!” he cries, disgust and exasperation coloring his strong features. “I do not wish to hear your news, nor do I wish you to discover any more that pertains to me and my family.”

  “But what if the information I find saves you from ruin?” You smile, all icy calm. The nerve of this man.

  Benedict stares incredulously and in frustration runs a hand through his now very disheveled hair. To your annoyance, it only improves his appearance.

  “Saves me from—? Listen, the only ruin that matters to me is the ruin that shall rain down if I am found strangling an impudent, gold-digging busybody of a lady’s companion. Halt your line of inquiry. Let me be so-called ruined. Above all, let me be! Do you understand?” His grip is so tight, and his body so close, that you see tiny drops of perspiration appearing at his temples, sliding down the cut-crystal angles of his face, and coming to rest at the top of your cleavage.

  With a quick, deep look into his eyes, you see that he has taken in the droplet’s trajectory as well.

  “Do I make. Myself. Clear?” he says through gritted teeth.

  You stare back, aware that your breath is short and your bosom is heaving. You are not quite sure, but somehow the two of you have managed to find yourselves at the entrance of a small curtained-off alcove in a darkened corner. It is tempting. Oh, so tempting.

  Do you give him what for? There’s intrigue afoot and a mystery to be solved! Turn to this page.

  Or do you give in to your basest desires? Turn to this page.

  Watching Lady Evangeline at work fascinates you. Her slender hands run over the paper so delicately that you shiver to imagine such a touch. Golden curls fall from her careless coiffure and tumble down her long neck. What would those curls look like spread across a pillow? She pauses, concentrating, and bites her swollen lower lip. A lower lip that just moments ago was so close that all you needed to do was turn your head to find it touching yours. What would such a mouth be like to kiss?

  This is madness. Lady Evangeline is your employer and your dear friend, nothing more. You simply need to clear your head.

  “Shall I fetch us more tea?” you say. Lady Evangeline glances up, the light from a nearby window dancing across her divinely beautiful face, which she breaks with a distinctly un-goddess-like mischievous grin. Unfortunately for you, this only serves to make her even more desirable.

  “That would be marvelous.”

  You scurry out of the room before doing something you would surely regret. You have ventured barely halfway down the corridor when you hear something close to a scuffle, followed by a sudden silence. Did you imagine it? There’s not a soul in sight and it is deathly quiet. Too quiet…

  Do you go back and alert Lady Evangeline? Yes, it’s probably nothing, but many years of hardship have taught you to trust your instincts, and right now your instincts are saying “AAAARGH!” Go to this page.

  Or do you investigate by yourself? Lady Evangeline is hard at work, and an eerie silence does not an emergency make. Also, turning back would look fairly strange. Turn to this page.

  You hold your ground, as defiant as Boadicea in the face of the Roman onslaught. Craven is shocked at your boldness and bravery.

  “I know this has haunted you, my love. The very weight of what happened tortures you, even now,” you say to him, your voice a cool balm for his fevered soul. “But I must implore you, I must beg you, to tell me what happened. If I do fear you afterward, if I do leave you, then it will be nothing more or less than what you have assumed I would do. And if I do not, then you will know that my love for you is as unbending and unchanging as death itself!”

  He stares at you warily.

  “Confide in me, my love,” you continue. “Let me lighten your burden. You have suffered alone for too long.”

  Lord Craven kisses you deeply, as though for the last time. You respond with equal urgency, your mouth ravenous. As at last you pull apart, he keeps you within his powerful arms and leans his forehead against yours, like he is seeking absolution.

  “In the beginning we were happy,” he says. “But as I loved her more, she loved me less. She thought it weak of me, to love her. She thought all men weak. When she bore a child, she was horrified it was a boy. She used to whisper to me, before we fell a
sleep, that he would be dead by morning. I would wake and run to the boy’s room, place my ear to his mouth to check for breath. She would shatter me with her cruel laughter, watching me from the doorway. ‘You will never know when I will strike,’ she would say. And then one day, she did. She tried to stab him with a kitchen knife stolen from Cook as she slept.”

  You nod knowingly. “Cook does sleep a lot.”

  Craven nods back, his breath ragged, and continues.

  “I came upon her in her chamber and screamed, begged for her to stop. She laughed at me. Her throat, her beautiful throat, thrown back in laughter as she tried to kill our son.

  “ ‘I never truly loved you,’ she said to me. She was a beautiful woman, but so ugly when she laughed. She was a demon then. She—she tried to throw our boy in the fire, but I caught him. My jacket was singed, and as I went to put out the flame, she grabbed hold and tried to push me in as well. ‘Nothing is according to plan,’ she cried. ‘Nothing but this will do, this will do! See you in hell!’ And as we struggled, she must have gotten turned around. My last memory is of her falling into the fireplace, her hair aflame, her eyes red, her laughter turned to screams, her beauty consumed by the blaze.”

  You hold him. Your mind reels, and yet you hold him. “Surely you tried to save her?”

  “Yes!” he cries in anguish. “I pulled her from the flames, but it was too late. I lay her upon the hearth, I stroked her face, and I wept. But all my weeping could not douse her. I could not save her. And perhaps”—he is fully sobbing now—“perhaps it was her wish not to be saved.”