by Susanne Lord
Unless you knew the artist’s last name was Mayhew.
Seth did the same thing.
With hands that shook, Seth turned the pages. Her talent had grown over the years. He could almost feel the velvet on the petals of the violet. “Can I keep this?” Seth asked, his voice hoarse.
Rivers sat still as stone as Seth fought to control the tremor in his hands, but now he nodded once. “It’s yours.” Rivers rolled the glass tube in his palm. “Why did you say this isn’t hers? This was in her bag.”
Seth shook his head, swallowing hard against what was blocking his words. “Years ago, Georgie…she bought a supply of ultramarine. For painting. She vowed never to use anything else but that or azurite. My sister…she’s particular about her materials. Already that pigment is fading.”
Rivers unstopped the cork and lowered his head as if to smell it.
Seth held up a hand. “Don’t. It’s likely not fit to be breathed.”
Rivers stopped up the tube and returned it to his pocket. He skirted Seth with a glance. “I am sorry. I liked George.”
Seth smoothed the cover of her journal.
Rivers cleared his throat gruffly. “The fifty quid?”
The fifty—? Right. Seth breathed deep and sat up straight.
“The information’s not false.” Rivers handed him a card. “I wrote the name of the Bengal commissioner of Upper Assam. Man by the name of Jenkins. You should be able to confirm my information easy enough.”
Seth nodded, shoving the card in his pocket.
“My direction is on the card.” Rivers stood. “I’d appreciate a note when it’s confirmed, or I’ll call on you again. Are we done?”
“Mr. Rivers?”
Seth and Rivers turned at the woman’s voice.
And Emma glared up at her intended.
Mina and Tom were coming up fast behind, so Seth pushed to his feet. “We’re done, Rivers. But you owe the lady an explanation.”
And before anyone could question him, Seth turned and escaped the hotel.
* * *
What had Mr. Rivers said to Seth? His skin had been ashen. Mina stared after Seth’s back, but she could not leave Emma alone with this man. Colin Rivers faced Emma, and Mina wanted to haul her sister back. Without Seth, Mr. Rivers was far more intimidating. He was not as tall as Seth, but his shoulders were just as broad. Dark, hooded eyes studied Emma from a stony, arrogant face.
But Emma’s fury was more than a match for the man’s menace.
“Where have you been?” Emma didn’t stop advancing until she was toe-to-toe with the man. “What happened to you? Did you not understand I was to arrive?”
His eyes narrowed and the confusion on his face appeared genuine. Perhaps the man was not impenetrable after all.
“Emmaline Adams, I presume?” He rasped her name softly, and it was a sound like something long dormant and little used. And more than a little…astonished.
Emma’s eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed red. “Who else would claim you?”
He didn’t move an eyelash, but Mina could have sworn a flicker of admiration softened his stare—but the light was suppressed in an instant.
“And what are you to me?” he asked.
Emma flinched as if struck. “I am to be your wife.” The words hung in the air between them as they stared.
No, Emma would not marry this man. Mina put her arm about Emma’s shoulders and tried to pull her away, but her sister would not be moved.
Mr. Rivers’s eyes shifted to the door. “I have no knowledge of any wife. I’m not the Colin Rivers you seek.”
“Are you Colin Pierce Rivers? Deputy director of agriculture in the North-Western Provinces?”
He held very still.
“We are betrothed,” Emma said. “You paid my bond to sail here. You wrote me letters. You—”
His head swung about. “What letters?”
“How dare—” Emma gripped her reticule, her knuckles white. “You know very well what letters.”
His jaw tightened as he scanned Emma once more. “I am ignorant of any marriage scheme, Miss Adams, and I have no intention of taking on a wife. You’ll forgive me.” With a curt dip of his head, he turned on his heel and made for the door.
Emma sobbed, and before Mina knew what she was doing, she followed the broad back of Mr. Rivers. He’d reached the door before she managed to catch the man’s arm. His right arm didn’t swing from against his side as a normal arm would, but was unbending as steel beneath her fingers. “How dare you speak to my sister like that?”
He stopped abruptly, his eyes scanning the room behind them over her head. “There is no need for hysterics, Miss Adams.”
“Hysterics?”
“I will not wed your sister and all the better for her.” He unhooked her hand gently from his arm. “I just informed Mr. Mayhew that his sister is dead, so perhaps you might maintain the proper perspective.”
All feeling rushed from her body. “Dead?”
“Your sister Emmaline will have no difficulty in securing a willing husband. No one that beautiful would lack for admirers. Good afternoon to you.”
The man stalked out of the room, and Mina struggled to keep her legs beneath her. Georgiana was dead.
And Seth was alone.
Thomas and Emma appeared at her side. Emma’s skin was ashen. “That was him—” Emma’s voice broke halfway through. Like a fever, Emma’s tempers always left her shaken and weak after they’d run their course. “Did you see him? That was him and he was hateful.”
“He was, dear. He was cruel.” Mina hugged her tight, as much for herself as Emma. “You will not marry him.”
“But…his letters. He promised.” Emma wrapped her arms about Mina, her breathing ragged, and watched the direction Mr. Rivers had departed.
Mina looked to Thomas. “We must return to our room.”
Thomas jerked to action, putting an arm about Emma’s shoulders. “Of course. I’m at your service.” Thomas looked around. “Where has Mayhew gone to?”
A sob rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. “I don’t know.” She locked eyes with Thomas. “I don’t know. But we must find him.”
Twelve
The moment Seth returned to his hotel room, he knew it was a mistake. He should have kept walking. The streets had been dark but at least there’d been life—dogs in the alleys and bodies huddling in doorjambs and turning in sleep, exposed under the Bombay sky.
The room was a mistake.
It was quiet as a crypt.
Where could he go? What could he do? It was the middle of the night, and he’d just come from walking all over the city. He stared at his bedroll on the charpoy platform. How could he sleep? His head was aching.
Georgie’s journal was in his hand. Still in his… He should put it down. Light a candle. Put a cleft on the fire. Drink some water. Did he have anything to drink? He could try to sleep or…or maybe he should go out and walk again. He could—
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Seth turned as if he could see through the wall.
“Mr. Mayhew?”
Thank God…thank God…Minnie. He hurried to the door, his chest tight and burning. The light from the hall illuminated his room. He should light the lamp…but he was so relieved to see her face, he froze in place.
In the dim light, her lips worked into a warm, loving, sad smile, and for the first time that night, hot tears stung his eyes. He turned his head before she could see.
“You changed your dress.” He frowned. Damn foolish thing to say. Now she’d know he wasn’t right.
“May I come in?” she whispered, her gaze flickering up and down the hall.
Quickly, he stepped aside, even knowing he shouldn’t. Closing the door plunged the room into darkness. “I’ll…uh.” Damn, he couldn’t find words. He poi
nted to the mantel and lit the lamp, holding Georgie’s book under his arm.
A gentle hand landed on his arm and the book was slipped from him. “Let’s put this down.”
He watched Georgie’s journal be carried to the table and set down. Standing in the center of the room, Mina passed him again to light the fire. “I should do that, Minnie.”
“I have it.”
In moments, the fire crackled and grew, and she took his hand to lead him to a chair at the table. “Why don’t you sit?”
He only had the one chair. The room was too dark for company, for a lady. “You shouldn’t be here.” But he couldn’t put up more of an argument than that. When she pressed him into his chair, he didn’t resist.
“It is all right. Emma is asleep and no one saw me come. I came earlier, but you weren’t here. I’m glad you’re back.” She put a kettle on the hob over the fire.
“I don’t have any tea,” he said. “Sorry, Minnie. Don’t have much of anything to eat. I have some mustard, I think.”
“I brought tea. And jam and bread. Well, naan.”
A jam pot was placed in front of him, along with three pieces of the flat bread the native people ate.
“That is an explorer’s trick, isn’t it?” she said. “Jam or mustard can make any food edible.”
A small smile curved her lips and he clung to the sight. “What did you make of Colin Rivers?” He needed to know. The man almost seemed a specter now—no, all of it seemed a nightmare. One he couldn’t wake from.
“At first, I thought he was trying to deceive us,” Mina said. “But it’s obvious he’s endured some trauma. He claims to know nothing of his agreement to marry Emma. She will not marry him in any case.”
“Good, that’s good,” he murmured. Mina poured tea from a kettle he didn’t recognize. “Did I have a teapot?”
“I brought this with me. Will you try to eat?”
Obediently, he ate in silence. Mina bustled about the cupboard, arranging the kettle and teapots and dishes. Turn around, Minnie.
He carried his cup to his bedstead, freeing the chair for Mina to sit. The tea warmed him, released the tension in his back and shoulders, and made him calm. Calmer than he’d been in hours. “He said he knew Georgie. He had her sketches.”
“May I look at them?”
He nodded and Mina picked up the journal and sat beside him on the bed. “These are beautiful drawings.” After a moment, she asked, “Are you certain this belonged to Georgiana?”
“Do you see that M and W on most of the pages?”
She didn’t look up. “Yes.”
Fresh pain surged in his chest. “He said…said she’d been robbed and killed in Burma. He said he wasn’t there—”
Mina’s arm slid around him, her body warm and bracing as the tea. He breathed deep and dared to look at her. No tears. Thank God, no tears. He couldn’t bear those right now. “I’ll send a telegram to the Assam commissioner in the morning.”
“That’s a good idea. Nothing is certain. Nothing confirmed.”
Hot tears flooded his eyes and he turned his head to hide them. Soft cotton was pressed against his eyes to dry them. Mina’s handkerchief.
Embarrassed, he huffed a laugh and took the little square. No use pretending.
“It’s normal to be afraid for her,” she said.
His little officer. Straight-thinking, plain-speaking Mina. He could breathe again, but his tears wouldn’t stop. But it seemed all right to let them fall with her. He never cried. Not since he was a lad.
She stood and, instinctively, he caught her wrist, nearly hauling her back.
“Shall I refill your tea?” she asked quietly.
He let her go, embarrassed to look at her as she moved to the fire.
“I think you should sleep,” she said.
Mina handed him another steaming cup, which he drained. The tea might’ve been the only heat in his body. She drew the curtains closed and he clamped down on his shredded nerves. She’d leave him and he’d go back to his pacing, back out to the street maybe, until sunrise—what did she say?
He looked at her. “Ay? I didn’t… Did you say something?”
She smoothed her hair, though it was neat as a new pin. “I could stay here with you. If you would like…?”
Stay? Stupidly, he looked down at the bed. He wanted her there, wanted her to stay, wanted not to be alone with that journal.
“Yes.” He cringed at how loud he answered, how desperate he sounded, but he couldn’t take it back. “Stay. Please.”
She clutched her skirt pocket, and it took a moment before she spoke. “Let’s sleep, then. There is nothing more we can do tonight.”
“No.” That made sense. It made sense.
She turned quickly, and there was no need to say anything more. Pins were plucked from her hair, and small, white fingers released a thick braid to sway down her back.
Maybe he shouldn’t be watching. He looked at his lap as her skirts rustled. She shouldn’t be here. If she was seen—
But she was always on his side.
“Mr. Mayhew?”
His head shot up and the smile she gave him was bashful.
“Will you undo my top buttons?” She presented her back. “This neckline is not comfortable for sleep.”
He lurched to stand. Mina was even shorter in her stockinged feet. She slung her braid over her shoulder before he could touch it. There wasn’t much to do, only a few buttons. But he memorized the line of her neck, the delicate whorl of hair at the nape of her neck. He’d draw that in his book…
“Thank you,” she murmured.
It seemed abrupt when she stepped away from his fingers, but he wasn’t moving with any sense of time. And Mina was efficient about things. Hairpins were stacked at one corner of the table with her necklace, her shoes arranged on the floor directly beneath them, the lamp had been turned down.
She was so beautiful with her hair down, like an angel. His fingers curled into his palms, wanting to touch her.
Christ, his head was muddled. He turned his back, took off his waistcoat, and unbuttoned his collar. That was enough—she wasn’t undressing and he wouldn’t either.
She folded down the blanket and lay down. Without a word, he followed her into the bed. And lying beside her was easy. So easy. Her rose scent was different now, richer, darker, like liquor. Pretty Minnie…so close, just inches away.
She faced him, her lids heavy and her hair so dark and soft against the pale sheets. “Seth? Close your eyes.”
It took him a moment to speak. “You said my name.”
Her hand found his under the blanket, their fingers threaded together. She edged closer. “Close your eyes.”
“I can’t.” The faint firelight bathed her in a haze of light. He didn’t want to see anything else, didn’t want to dream anything else. “I can’t close ’em.”
She stroked his hair back from his brow. “All right.” She inched closer, and it was so easy, so right, when her head rested on his chest.
And this was like nothing he’d ever felt. This woman, so small and light on his chest, her hair the softest silk under his chin…
Just for tonight, he’d take her comfort—a wife’s comfort—even if he didn’t deserve it. He’d never deserve it now.
I was too late, Georgie. I’m sorry.
He held Mina’s hand on his chest, her fingers cool in his. “Are you warm enough?”
“I am,” she whispered.
His head swam with exhaustion. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes. Are you?”
His body was heavy, and her hair… “Roses…”
“Hmm?”
Mina’s roses were in the air. Soft skin. She was warm. His lids grew heavy, his eyes closed.
And he dreamed of home.
* * *
Mina came awake in an instant and knew exactly where she was. This dark room was Seth’s and this was his bed. This was his arm he’d slung around her waist. And his body pressed against hers.
But this couldn’t be her. She didn’t recognize this woman. She didn’t break rules. She didn’t risk. Even sailing to Bombay to marry Thomas had calculated in her favor.
She had to leave. Right now.
Seth’s deep, even breaths tickled the hairs on the top of her head and the tension in her body eased a notch. He’d slept. At least he’d slept.
He rolled, and his hug drove her into the mattress and pinched her lungs. The man’s weight was nothing to trifle with. Carefully at first, then with more effort, she extricated herself from beneath his hold and slid off the bed.
“Minnie?”
“I’m here,” she whispered quickly from where she stood by the table. His low, gravelly voice would be heard in the hall.
The blankets rustled and the bedframe creaked. “Are you leaving me, then?”
The sad words gave her pause, but she stuffed whatever she was feeling down with all the very urgent reasons for getting out of his room before she might be discovered. “The sun is rising.” She adjusted the drapes to allow the smallest sliver of light in.
He swung his legs to the floor and sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Bent over his knees, his head hung from his massive shoulders. The sight arrested her, but she couldn’t tarry. She pocketed her hairpins, slipped on her shoes, emptied the tea into the slop bucket—he could keep the jam.
He hadn’t moved. Was he asleep again? Holding the teapot, she ventured closer and set a hand on his shoulder. “Seth, lie back down.”
He caught her hand and rose, a solid wall of man, heated and powerful, but always so gentle. His size did not sway her anymore. His heart had beat against her cheek, and he’d held her hand to sleep. There was no flirtation or bluster in him now.
Not now. Perhaps not for a very long time.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said softly. “I’m sorry—”
Her neck was cradled by a big hand and, in the next instant, a warm mouth covered hers. Surprised, her lips were rigid—cool and unmoving as the teapot in her hands. But Seth pressed gently and she relaxed against him, resting a hand on his hard chest. And that was all. A kiss of comfort. For him. And for her.