Several men started coming out of the card room. Hart grasped Eleanor’s arm and steered her quickly up the stairs to the next floor. The gentlemen did not notice them, and went on to the drawing room, greeting the ladies there.
Hart opened the door nearest the top of the stairs and towed Eleanor inside. It was a little sitting room, lit by one gaslight, and Mrs. McGuire’s staff were apparently storing guests’ coats there.
“Say nothing about Joanna,” Hart said. “For her sake.”
Eleanor withdrew from his grasp. “I had no intention of saying anything. You had no need to drag me up here to tell me that. You could have whispered it into my ear.”
“I did need to.”
“Running from the pompous gentlemen already?” she asked, smile in place. “We’ve not been here above half an hour yet.”
Avoiding more tiresome arguments had only been part of it. Hart had had the sudden and overwhelming urge to be alone with Eleanor, and Mac’s town house, where they were staying the night, was too far away.
“Now that I do have you alone,” Eleanor said, “I will tell you that it was Joanna who sent me the photographs.”
Hart stopped, surprised. “Did she? Where did she get them? Stolen from Mrs. Palmer?” If Joanna had somehow found those ridiculous photographs while staying with Mrs. Palmer, would she have looked at Hart in such terror?
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Did you give them to Joanna?”
“No. Why the devil would I?”
“Playing some game of your own?”
He shook his head. “Not this time.”
“Hmm.” Eleanor folded her arms and regarded him skeptically.
“Now, what are you doing?” Hart asked.
“Deciding whether or not to believe you.”
“Believe whatever you want.” Hart could wait no longer. He snaked one arm around her waist and pulled her with him across the room to an armchair, which had given him an interesting idea. He swept the coats that had been carefully folded over the chair to the floor.
“Hart, you should not…”
“I should. How is your arm?”
“Much better. But you know that. You ask me three times a day.”
“I am the reason you were hurt,” Hart said. “I’d ask five times a day if I saw you that often. Now, come here.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
Hart seized her hand before she could back away and pulled her smack against him. “It was very dangerous for you to smile at me like you did downstairs.”
As though she loved him. As though she wanted him. He touched her lips.
Eleanor pulled away the slightest bit. “What if someone comes in?”
Hart smiled his excitement. “What if someone does?”
“Oh.” He saw her passion rise. “I see.”
“Turn around,” he said.
Hart swiftly found the fasteners that held her skirts to her bodice and undid them. He lifted the skirt off, and the petticoats as well, then untied the tapes that held her bustle in place. Under that, she wore fine lawn drawers, no more worn fabric for his wife. He had her out of those quickly too.
He sat down on the armchair, faced Eleanor away from him, unswathed the kilt from his hips, and pulled Eleanor down to his lap. Eleanor gasped in surprise, but she was so slick that Hart slid right into her.
Yes. Hart tilted her head to the side, baring her neck and shoulder to him, she still in her bodice. The satin rode low across her bosom, delphinium blue fabric to match her eyes. He suckled a little, tasting her skin and the fragrance she’d dabbed on.
Eleanor wriggled, seemingly pleased at the way that drove him inside her. Hart let her play while he fingered her curls and kissed her neck.
He’d positioned the chair so that the standing mirror across the room would reflect them. Eleanor had her eyes closed, but Hart drank in the sight of her bare legs wrapped around his browner ones, her head resting on his shoulder, trickles of her hair snaking across his chest, and the place where they joined.
He could watch as he pleasured her, see her every rise of chest and twist of mouth, every flutter of her hands as she pushed against his thighs. She was a beautiful, beautiful sight.
It did not take long, and Hart hadn’t thought it would, before Eleanor found her deepest pleasure. Hart reached to the join of her legs and gently stroked her.
Eleanor’s eyes opened wide, and she cried out her joy. Hart’s shout joined hers, the syllables of her name a delight on his lips.
Eleanor sank back onto him with a sigh, and Hart wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He would never let her go. She was too precious to him.
He touched the bandage on her arm, a smaller dressing now, thank God, and vowed that he’d never let anything hurt her again.
The halcyon first days of Eleanor’s marriage ended when Hart had to return to London. A telegram from David Fleming arrived at Kilmorgan, and off Hart went. It was time for him to work, and Eleanor knew that from now on, she’d see little of him.
True to his word, Hart did have Wilfred make arrangements to move Eleanor to town as soon as possible. Hart’s lingering kiss promised he’d do much more when she arrived at the Grosvenor Square house, and then he was gone.
Eleanor had too much to do to wallow in missing him, and the day or so between his departure and hers flew by. She was excited not only to see Hart again, but to make a start on redecorating the house. The Grosvenor Square mansion had been left much as when Hart’s father had lived in it, and Eleanor was determined to give it a new life. She’d be hosting balls, soirees, and garden parties of her own there, and she’d need to make a hurried start.
Eleanor traveled to London with Ian and Beth and their two children, plus Ainsley and her baby daughter, Gavina. Mac and Isabella had already gone, their three children in tow, back to Isabella’s London social whirl. Cameron had returned south to his horses, and Daniel remained in Edinburgh at university.
Hart had a private car that was hooked to the back of the train in Edinburgh, Hart, of course, always traveling in luxury. The parlor car helped keep the three busy children contained, at least. Eleanor helped with them, enjoying the task.
She watched them with a secret hope in her heart. Her cycle was late, which could mean a child starting or could mean nothing. Eleanor hadn’t conceived when she’d been Hart’s lover years ago, and she was much older now.
Euston station in London was crowded when they arrived, so many people traveling up and down the country. The train glided into its empty platform, Hart’s car being the last in the line.
Eleanor was happy to alight, the overcushioned comfort starting to wear on her. Perhaps she should redecorate the car as well.
Hart was to come to the station to meet her, and her heart beat faster as she stepped down to the platform. He’d scoop her up for a kiss—Hart wouldn’t care that all of London watched. She’d let him know, when she could whisper it to him, that her arm felt much better.
Beth and Ainsley lingered with the children’s nannies to put everyone to rights, Ian protectively with them. Eleanor couldn’t wait. She excused herself, eager to find Hart and go home.
Eleanor lifted her small valise and started walking down the platform, ignoring the porters and the duke’s footmen, who looked shocked that she was actually carrying a bag by herself. She spied Mac’s tall bulk in the crowd in the main part of the station, Aimee on his shoulders, Isabella beside him. No babies, so they must have been left in the charge of Nanny Westlock at home. Aimee would have insisted on coming along.
But no Hart. Eleanor tried not to let her heart sink. Her husband had many things to do now, and some crisis had likely prevented him from leaving Whitehall. That was probably why Mac had come instead.
Eleanor waved across the platforms and crowd to Isabella, and Isabella and Aimee waved back. She walked quickly onward, making her way to the main platform. She could almost feel Isabella’s hug and kiss, and see Mac’s huge smile and hear the b
ooming baritone of his voice in greeting.
How splendid to be part of such a family—a large, unpredictable family with her husband at its head. Eleanor walked faster, feet light.
When she neared them, Eleanor saw, at the far end of the platform, entering the station, the unmistakable form of Hart Mackenzie. With him was the tall David Fleming, he and Hart debating something as usual. The pugilist bodyguards trailed behind them.
Eleanor resisted the urge to run straight to Hart and stopped to hug Isabella and Mac.
“There’s Ian,” Mac said, looking across the platforms. He shaded his eyes. “What is he doing?”
Ian was standing at the edge of the platform, two over, where their train had pulled in. His gaze was fixed on something near the waiting room, but Eleanor, glancing that way, couldn’t discern what had caught his eye.
Her gaze was drawn back to Hart, and Isabella laughed. “Go on. He needs someone to be glad to see him.”
Mac snatched Eleanor’s valise out of her hand, and Eleanor thanked him and started pushing through the crowd toward Hart. So many people, so many bonnets and tall hats, so many bustles and folded parasols and umbrellas to wade through. Did they all have to be here today?
Hart loomed through the crowd, Fleming having dropped back. Across the space between them, Hart’s gaze met Eleanor’s. She felt warmed, happy.
She saw Hart stop, turn, scowl, then lift his hands to his mouth and shout Ian’s name. Eleanor turned to look, and her mouth went slack as Ian dropped from the platform to the tracks, sprinted across them, climbed the next platform, and dropped onto the next set of tracks, never minding the giant steam engine chugging into the station toward him.
Beth saw, and screamed. Hart kept shouting. Ian cleared the tracks and leapt onto the platform with seconds to spare, his kilt flying as he ran for Hart.
A loud noise sounded to Eleanor’s left, nearly drowned by the groaning breaks of the approaching train. Eleanor turned her head, heard a boom! then saw a giant cloud of smoke, rubble, and glass expand and rise to cover the entire platform and all the people on it.
Eleanor felt her body pushed backward. She fell against a man in a long wool coat and then slapped onto the surface of the platform. Then she was rolling toward the edge, the iron face of the engine coming at her, and she heard the horrible hiss of steam and squeal of metal on metal as the train tried to stop.
Chapter 19
At the last minute, Eleanor stopped her wild rolling and shoved herself away from the edge of the platform. The locomotive slid by, and Eleanor lay on her stomach, trying to catch her breath.
She heard screams and smelled smoke, saw bricks, stone, and glass raining like bullets onto the crowd. She dimly heard Mac swearing, and Isabella frantically calling her name.
Eleanor pushed herself up, blinking grit-stained eyes as she climbed painfully to her feet. Around her people lay groaning, crying, some trying to rise as she was. She peered through the smoke to where Hart had been standing not a yard from the explosion, and did not see him.
The train next to her was intact except for broken windows and frightened passengers looking out of them. Across the platforms, through the thick air, she glimpsed Beth and Ainsley running for her, the fearful nannies staying behind with the babies.
Eleanor shoved her way forward, ignoring Mac and Isabella, her heart constricting as she searched for any sign of her husband.
“Hart!” she shouted. She cupped her hands around her mouth, tears and smoke stinging her eyes. “Hart!”
She kept moving forward, gaining strength as she went, until she was running. “Hart!” She heard Beth’s voice shrill behind her, “Ian!” because Ian had vanished too.
Eleanor saw Hart’s bodyguards frantically shoving through the mob. They were searching, turning every which way, not finding him.
Eleanor’s limbs turned icy with fear. “Where is he? Where is he?” she screamed at the nearest bodyguard.
The man shook his head. “He was right there. He was right there.” He pointed a thick finger to a patch of platform that did not exist anymore. The wall of the station house was gone as well, and remains of vendors’ carts were scattered across the rubble.
Eleanor ran to the heap and started pulling away stones. Her hands were too small, her gloves too thin. The leather ripped, and her hands bled. The bodyguard started helping her, and others around caught on, reaching for stones.
A hand came into view, one groping for life. Eleanor clutched it. The bodyguard shifted a stone, then reached in and pulled the person out. An older woman, one of the vendors. She clung to Eleanor, and Eleanor held her, stroking her back.
Mac reached her, bellowing into the smoke and dust. “Where is Hart? Where is Ian?”
Eleanor could only shake her head. Tears fell, hot, to her face, and she held on to the woman at her side, having no comfort to give.
Mac started pulling away the rubble. He shouted orders in a harsh voice, and people hurried to obey. Isabella was suddenly beside Eleanor, and then Beth. Beth was crying and trying not to.
“He saw something wrong,” Beth said. “He ran to warn Hart. He ran to help him.”
Ainsley came to them, her capable arm around Beth’s waist. “El, Beth, you should come away. The danger might not be over.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Inspector Fellows was supposed to arrest them all. He was supposed to find them.”
“He did,” Isabella said. “The newspapers were full of it. But there are always others.” Her eyes held tears as well as rage.
“I can’t go,” Eleanor said. “I can’t run for shelter while people are hurt. I have to help them. You take Beth and the children home.” She had to stay. She had to know that Hart was all right.
She kept expecting him to rise like a giant from the ashes, shouting orders and taking charge. And Ian with him, Ian who was the most resilient man she knew. But—nothing.
People were coming, women with white pinafores, men in dark clothes, rushing to help. Eleanor gave over the woman she’d helped rescue to one of the nurses and turned to other unfortunates lying in the rubble. Mac and the bodyguards kept lifting stones, joined by workers and others in the station.
Ainsley at last persuaded Beth to leave with her, the nannies having gotten the children safely out through the other end of the station. Isabella carried Aimee, following the two ladies as they went, arms around each other. Eleanor, left alone, helped the nurses—lifted stones, held people, comforted them, bandaged the hurt.
At one point she saw a man rush in who had Hart’s build and look, and her heart nearly stopped. But it wasn’t Hart; the man was Inspector Fellows. Mac went to him and both stood back to survey the mess and the crowd.
Eleanor kept working, helping, trying to calm people and reassure them. The station was clearing, the injured being taken away, others gone or helping search the rubble. They found more people buried inside, all still breathing when they came out, thank God.
But no Hart, no Ian. As the station darkened with night, the platform was cleared to reveal a great, gaping hole. A noisome smell came out of the hole, which was half filled with rubble. Mac, with Inspector Fellows, bullied men to bring in equipment, and they dug down into the hole and the sewers beyond.
But they never found Hart or Ian, not a trace of them.
Hart couldn’t breathe. He was choking, drowning, and someone was beating him, blows crushing his back and ribs.
Don’t cry out. Don’t let him know how much it hurts.
It was very important that Hart never let his father see him break down, never let his father win. The duke wanted Hart to be his slave, to obey his every wish, no matter how trivial or how vicious.
Never. Though he beats me until I die, I will never belong to him.
The old duke had never tried to drown Hart before, though. Only beating, usually with a birch cane or a leather strap—or if they were outdoors, any stray branch that looked sturdy enough.
Through the pain and fog in his
mind, Hart knew there was something—something good—that he needed to remember. Something he could hang on to, which would see him through. Something that made his heart warm despite the dank chill surrounding him.
Hart opened his eyes. Or thought he did. He saw only inky darkness.
The beating went on. Dimly Hart remembered looking down the barrel of a shotgun into his father’s purple and enraged face, then the explosion of sound as the gun went off. It rang in Hart’s ears still. Was his father dead? He couldn’t remember.
Something roiled in Hart’s gut, and he rose on his hands and knees to vomit it out. He remained there, gasping and retching, but at least his father had stopped beating him.
The roaring in his ears wouldn’t cease. Hart had no memory of how he came to be in this dark place, but he was certain his father had something to do with it. I’ll bury you alive, boy. Maybe that will make you respectful.
He smelled something sharp under his nose, felt a cold, smooth edge on his lips, and then burning liquid in his mouth. Hart coughed and swallowed. The liquid seared his throat and slid to his stomach, and he felt a bit better.
The taste was familiar. “Mackenzie single malt,” he croaked.
The hand that held it could not belong to Hart’s father. The old man would never have given Hart a healing swig of whiskey, especially none this good. This was the reserve stock, which only Mackenzies got to drink.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Underground,” a baritone voice said next to him. “In one of the middle-level interceptor sewers.”
“One of the what?”
“Middle-level interceptor…”
“I heard you the first time, Ian.” Hart knew it was his youngest brother with him in the dark. No other man would explain their precise location with such patience, prepared to repeat it until Hart understood.
Hart rubbed his aching head, finding something wet, which, judging from the pain, was blood. “The sewers, eh? Two Scotsmen left to die in the midst of English filth. I spent my first years as an MP on various committees on sewage. The Dung Committees, I always called them.”
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