My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

He turns to you, his eyes lost and despairing. Your heart aches for him.

  “So, now you know it all,” he says. “The full, ugly truth of it. What do you think? Are you repulsed?”

  If you are not repulsed in the slightest, and hearing his confession has burned away all suspicion and distrust in the furnace of truth so that now all that remains is pure and true love between two souls, joined as one for all eternity, then turn to this page.

  If actually yes, you are repulsed—he seems like a lovely man, but he has essentially confessed to killing his wife, and this is quite a lot of baggage to deal with—farewell! Turn to this page.

  “Yes,” you say. “I’m yours.”

  Mac shakes his head. “All my life, I have told myself I do not deserve the love of a good woman,” he whispers. “I do not deserve to know beauty, or laughter. And you—you make gifts of your kindness and mirth, you make gifts of your soul, to all around you. To the orphans. Even to this wee foal. But to me, you make a gift of love. And I dinnae ken what to do with a gift so fine as this.”

  His admission leaves you breathless. Mac looks down at the foal, and you swear his stormy eyes are gilt with unspilt tears.

  “You can make me a gift of your body,” you say.

  He pulls you into a kiss that would make other mouths ashamed of themselves, then pulls you up and onto him and slides slick fingers into your aching rainbow, searching for the gold at the end of it.

  He listens to your every moan, attends every catch of your breath, and when the time is right and neither of you can resist creating the perfect union that your love, like this foal, was born to witness, he slips his dirk into your sheath.

  Together, you play the most beautiful song on the bagpipes of your joined bodies. Together, you reach love’s most exuberant pinnacle, screaming louder than the stable full of horses as you do.

  Mac is the best, most purehearted, surprisingly nimble, and not surprisingly well-endowed man you have ever known.

  And yet…there is something about this whole business that doesn’t make sense. The name that has haunted you since you first saw it interrupts your joy again. Constantina. Why would a camp follower such as Constantina suddenly turn on Mac? What did he do to make her act so? Does Abercrombie have any idea of what Mac did? And why did he lie about how much he knew her? Your head is whirling.

  “Excuse me,” you whisper. “I’ve got to…freshen up.”

  Turn to this page.

  “I do understand,” you say, as casually as you can muster. Fabien looks over his shoulder at you and scoffs before returning his gaze to the desert night.

  “Do you, chérie?” he says. “You, a sheltered lady’s companion, who has never known what it means to be hungry and friendless…”

  His back is turned. Now is your moment.

  Silently you reach for one of the more promising-looking rocks within reach and creep toward him. Fabien does not notice and continues monologuing into the night, his pectorals glazed by the moonlight.

  “…not knowing what the future holds, only that you are unwanted in this world and that—”

  Fabien falls silent as you smack him over the head with the rock. As he slumps to the ground, you use the edge of the knife tucked in his waistband to cut through your ties.

  “Adieu, Fabien,” you whisper, and then kiss his bleeding forehead. Taking the knife, you mount a camel and head into the desert.

  Unfortunately, you are not exactly skilled at camel riding and can barely make the animal move in the direction you wish. Still, it is enough to give you a head start and lose your captor.

  You do not know how far you must go to reach safety, and before long it is morning. The blazing Egyptian sun beats down on you mercilessly. Your throat burns and your lips crack, but you dare not take a drink. You are running low on water, and you fear there is much more desert ahead of you.

  Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps you may die here…

  Suddenly you spot an object, far upon the horizon. Some large structure out here in the middle of the Sahara. Is it a mirage? No, as you draw closer you can hear, coming from within the structure, shouts, raucous laughter, wild music, and what sounds like several fights happening at once.

  You fall off your camel and stagger to the door, your legs buckling and your vision blurry. As you tumble through the doorway, several curious faces turn toward you. To your unfocused gaze they all appear to be…women? Strange women, wearing all manner of dress…and undress.

  Some stare at you with hardened ferocity, some gaze with sharp-eyed curiosity, and some seem not to mark you at all. The effect is unsettling, and yet…impossibly exhilirating. Where could you have found yourself now?

  This cannot be real, you think. And then the world turns black.

  Seriously, where have you got to now? Turn to this page to find out.

  You raise an eyebrow haughtily and bore your gaze right back at him. You are damned if you will let yourself be intimidated.

  “Of course, Sir Benedict,” you trill as sweetly as you can manage. “I shall do as you wish. Don’t mind me, I am now off to do something demure. Needlework, perhaps.”

  You smooth your skirts daintily and trip off to find someone to interrogate. To your misfortune, almost immediately you are waylaid by Nigel Frickley.

  “Oh, it is marvelous to see you looking so well!” he exclaims.

  “Thank you, Mr. Frickley, but I have to—”

  Nigel summarily cuts you off with a stream of boundless enthusiasm. “I say, would—would you care to take a turn around the room with me?” he yelps, an overexcited puppy as always, and you cannot bear to reject him.

  “Of course, Mr. Frickley,” you say politely. “A turn about the room would be most—”

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  “I-I, er…,” splutters Nigel, as none other than Cad grabs your arm and leads you away.

  “Mr. Caddington?” you say pointedly, trying to fight the sinking feeling that the raft of your well-being is about to be upended on the stormy seas of Cad’s whims. His eyes devour every inch of you.

  “That’s Sir Rafe Granville now, sweeting,” he says, backing you into a corner with that fallen angel’s body. He leans to whisper in your ear. “You would do well to remember that.”

  You realize with shock that you have aroused his body. Now if only you could get him to let something slip without arousing his suspicion as well…

  Now that this blackguard has you cornered, it is the perfect opportunity to coax more information out of him. Turn to this page.

  “I’m sorry,” you say to Lady Evangeline. “But my heart still beats for one impossible, infuriating, wonderful man, and for him alone.”

  Lady Evangeline smiles gently.

  “I completely understand. And may I say, it is gratifying to see that my dear cousin Benny has at last found love.”

  “A love that cannot be,” you say with a sigh.

  “You might be surprised at that.”

  Before you can ask what she means, your heart lurches as you spot a familiar dark head coming through the crowds.

  “Benedict?!” you cry. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have news for you. News that I knew I had to deliver myself.” He is out of breath but continues his story, his eyes afire. “You see, inspired by you I have taken upon an investigation. I have long suspected my Aunt Aurelia, your employer, of intrigue. However, my suspicions were fully aroused when I saw her receive what must have been legal documents—documents with your name on them.”

  “But what could they be?” you ask.

  “Well, it took some pushing, and some probing, and finally some outright threats, but it seems that Aunt Aurelia has been hiding the fact that your father left you a rather large inheritance.”

  “But Papa died penniless!” you cry. “Bankrupted from foolish investments!”

  “Not all of them,�
�� Benedict says. “It seems there was a diamond mine that was thought to have been spent, until a rather large amount more was discovered a year ago.”

  “So…I am an heiress to diamonds?” you say.

  “In part, yes. But the real bulk of your fortune comes from an investment in an innovation for canning fish. You are rich beyond measure, thanks to kippers.”

  You stare at him in wonder. “Then…I have enough money to marry who I like!”

  “Yes,” says Benedict. “A thousand times over.”

  “But I don’t want a thousand husbands.” You gaze up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I want you.”

  Benedict stares at you, his silver-gray eyes filled with longing.

  “I didn’t do it for that,” he says huskily. “I didn’t do this to partake in your fortune. I only wished for you to be happy.”

  “You make me happy, you fool! I wouldn’t care if you were a penniless beggar on the streets, I would still want you with every fiber of my being!”

  “Benny’s actually a long way from that,” says Lady Evangeline nonchalantly. You both turn to her. She shrugs.

  “Well, seeing as dear Henrietta is on that ship, sailing to a new life with her dear farmer, there didn’t seem much reason to keep the truth a secret.”

  “ ‘Vange…what did you do?” says Benedict.

  “Well, I might have informed the papers about what happened to Mr. Caddington. Laced with scandalous testimony from several of the wardens at Bedlam, who were more than willing to talk when encouraged with some coin.”

  “You didn’t,” you say. You gasp in admiration.

  “I did,” Lady Evangeline says as she saunters off. “So I suggest that the two of you get down to the business of living happily ever after.”

  Neither of you answer her, for Benedict has pulled off your bonnet with exceeding tenderness. As you melt into his arms, you whisper, “Well done, you fool.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, you harpy.” He grins.

  And with that you kiss with a white-hot ardor, there at the docks, not caring who sees.

  The End

  “They fight with the urgency of men who want each other dead, and the languor of men who know they are being watched by a powerful, beautiful woman.”

  Mac and Ollie take turns throwing each other across the barn. They fight with the urgency of men who want each other dead, and the languor of men who know they are being watched by a powerful, beautiful woman taking in every line of their bodies and becoming increasingly aroused by the thought of this ending in a lot of satisfying hair-pulling and possibly kissing.

  As if Ollie can peer into the deep recesses of your mind, he tears Mac’s shirt from his gleaming, heaving body. The swell of Mac’s chest is so vital and hot that you almost lose your breath watching him. Then Mac follows suit, screaming, “HYAHHHH,” and tearing off Ollie’s shirt.

  They circle each other, the red rose and the white, both armed with thorns of regret and honor. There is a wolfishness to this dance, a hungry playfulness, a deep longing.

  They both shine, their bodies pearlized with sweat. You wonder what it would be like to join in the fray and have them tear into you, as well as each other, applying the same vigor of their battle to the theater of lovemaking. How they would rise and fall over you, how they would alternate between kissing your body’s hills and dales and exploring the depths and chasms of each other, how the three of you could reach the happy valley—if you worked hard, and soft, and hard—together.

  After you watch them wrassle a bit more, you sigh. Deeply. It is probably about time to put a stop to this madness.

  Turn to this page.

  “This is the end you deserve, you stupid chit.” Manvers’s eyes shine with triumph. “We shall all perish for Craven’s sins, and I will see my Blanche again in the afterlife.”

  “You will see her in hell, you mean!” Craven arrives at your side just as the smell of smoke gives way to the visible flames licking the ceiling in the hallway. He kisses you and whispers, “I’ve alerted the servants of trouble and they are filing out of the estate as we speak.”

  “But what of Master Alexander?” you whisper urgently. Just then, as if to answer, the boy appears, yelling “ARGHHHH!”

  Your eyes flash to his small form just as he slams his épée onto Manvers’s wrist. You see then what you hadn’t noticed before: that Manvers is armed with a small golden pistol, which, you surmise, might have once belonged to Blanche. He is aiming it at your heart.

  “Look, my lady! I have saved you from the monster!” Alexander cries, pleased. You scoop him into your arms and grip him tightly.

  “Indeed you have, boy,” you whisper. “Indeed you have!” You shiver all over, doubly so as the flames from the hallway reach ever closer to Manvers, who is seated beside the portrait of the late Lady Craven.

  “Manvers!” you cry. “You must away with us or perish by this beastly fire you have set!”

  “I must only wait for happiness,” Manvers replies, his voice eerily calm, before he is consumed by the flames.

  Turn to this page.

  “I-I’m sorry, my lady, but I feel that this is the end of my journey,” you say to Evangeline. “I am just a simple woman, and certainly no adventurer. As much as I admire and respect you, I have no place here.”

  Evangeline nods, her eyes filled with kindness.

  “I quite understand. It is a very different life that I lead, and I am aware that there are few who would wish to travel such dangerous and difficult paths.”

  “So you are not angry?” you ask.

  “Of course not,” says Evangeline. “For if there is one thing I hope you have learned in our travels together, it is to always follow your heart.” She smiles bittersweetly. “You will, won’t you, my dear?”

  “Oh I will!” you say with a gasp, embracing her warmly.

  You rush back to the museum, escorted by the enormous form of María José. No one dares hassle you on the way, for fear of having their thorax ripped to shreds. As you enter through the solid doors, you are shocked to find that Kamal has righted the museum to its former glory. Everywhere you turn there are more treasures from the time of the pharaohs, each more exquisite than the last.

  “Oh, Kamal!” you cry. “This is truly breathtaking!”

  “You are very kind,” he says, blushing. “I am glad that you—”

  He is cut off midsentence as you suddenly grab him by the shirt and cling on for dear life.

  “Are you all right, miss?” he asks. You stare at him wordlessly and shake him slightly. He startles for a moment and then gives you a lingering look from the liquid pools of his intelligent, deep-brown eyes. His boyishly handsome face is still marked with bruises. “Miss?”

  “I just want a normal life, Kamal,” you say, your voice growing stronger with every word. “A normal, happy, boring life, working with the beautiful objects you have filled this museum with. You must give me a job! Please, Kamal, I beg you!”

  Kamal’s smile lights up his entire face, causing him to wince slightly because of the bruises.

  “Of course! Nothing would make me happier.”

  Thrilled beyond words, he excitedly thrusts out his hand to shake yours, upending some of his papers as he does so. A notebook falls to the floor. You are shocked to see that he has sketched your face lovingly in the margins, in the same delicate style he uses to draw all of his beloved artifacts.

  “Oh, Kamal! What is this?” you ask, blushing.

  “It…I…oh, miss, I am sorry. I am too forward. It…it’s just that…I…”

  You realize that, in his own shy way, this is a confession of love. You stare at him in wonder.

  Do you go for it with Kamal and his adorable bookishness? If so, turn to this page.

  Or do you turn him down gently, because bookish fellows, however adorable, are not for you? If
so, turn to this page.

  You find Craven pacing the library with a snifter of brandy in hand, mumbling to himself in the soft, lurching tones of the tormented. His hair looks astoundingly (and attractively) unkempt, and he wears his shirt open to the navel. You have noticed that the more tortured he feels, the more skin he bares. This has a disorienting effect on you. You take several deep breaths before speaking.

  “My lord.” Your voice escapes your throat in a harsh whisper. Before the words can leave your mouth, his lips are upon it.

  “I thought you would never come again.” He kisses you hungrily, as though for redemption, for forgiveness, or for your body and soul. “I thought I had frightened you, had pushed you away.”

  Apologizing slips a little lower on your to-do list, as you allow yourself to be pushed up against the damask-covered wall. Your fingers slide down his rippling chest, and you tease him by lowering your graceful yet filthy hand into the space between his breeches and body to feel his family crest. He shudders with desire. You quake with your own, but manage to break away from kissing his vital, dangerous mouth.

  “My lord, I must…apologize.” Speaking plain, and at least at arm’s length, is your best course of action. “I am sorry for disrespecting the memory of your dead wife by teaching your son to parry and joust on the very site of her demise. It must have been a shock to see me there, especially after you had expressed wishes for me not to enter that area of the house.”

  He stops kissing you as suddenly as he started. “Who. Told. You?”

  “None but my own intellect,” you say, stunned at his shift in tone and more than a little irritated by it. “I merely observed—”

  “Observed?” Craven shakes his head and begins to circle you as a lion would its cornered prey. “So you once more returned to the room in the wing I expressly forbade you from entering. Do they not give you enough to eat in the kitchens, girl? You seem hungry for my disapproval.”