by Rue Allyn
A rakish bandage circled his crown, and gauze covered the backs of his hands. He was thinner, but his beautiful hazel eyes shone bright and eager.
“James.” She put all of her love into his name.
“Mae.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips.
“I almost lost you before I found you.”
“You mean before you said you love me?”
She nodded.
“I’m glad,” he remarked.
“You’re glad?” She frowned, uncertain what he meant.
“I’m glad you told me you love me because I love you.”
“You said something like that during the fire, but I thought…” She took a deep breath, despite feeling the ache that lingered in her lungs. “I thought it was just the moment, the danger that prompted you.”
“We’re not in danger now, so you must know it wasn’t just that moment.” He linked his fingers with hers. “I’d like to have a lifetime of moments with you, Mae. Will you marry me, for love, not wealth, not sacrifice, nor to prove to yourself you have courage?”
“I’d like that.” She smiled, finally. Since moving around still hurt, she placed an index finger to her lips in invitation.
He accepted, sealing their true betrothal with a kiss that left her wishing they were already wed.
“About the settlement terms,” she said when he sat back. “We can tear up that agreement.”
He grinned. “I know. However, we’ll keep the documents, if you don’t mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to be happy as well as safe. I can promise the world, but if I put the promises in writing, we’ll both know I really mean them.”
“All right. But do I have to continue managing Alden Cloth Works?”
He blinked, obviously surprised. “Don’t you want to? If the mill is rebuilt, we’ll need a steady guiding hand on the reins.”
“Not all the time. I want to continue improving the lot of workers in Boston, but I also want to have time available for you and our children.”
“Are you telling me…?”
She nodded. “I haven’t seen Hugh to ask him if he noticed anything when he examined me after the fire, but I’m fairly certain.”
“Then we’d best have the wedding quickly. Will a week from today be too soon?”
“I can hardly arrange a wedding from my sick bed, and Hugh won’t let me up until next week.”
“Lydia and Lalie will be happy to make the preparations, if you like.”
“That would be wonderful. The sooner I can become Mrs. Collins, the better.”
He planted another kiss on her brow. “Thank you.”
When he sat back once more, she was glowering at the coverlet.
“What’s the matter?”
“My sisters won’t be here. Even if I knew where to send a telegram to Edith in San Francisco, she couldn’t get here by next week.”
“San Francisco? I thought Edith was in Maine.”
“Since we’re betrothed, I’d better explain.”
James shook his head over the plot the two sisters had hatched. Still, she was relieved to tell him how they’d decided to try to find Kiera before their grandfather died or recovered completely so they could present a united front and convince him to change his will.
“Does Edith know your grandfather passed away?” James asked.
“I sent telegrams, but they never reached her. She hasn’t been at the address I have in weeks, and I’m worried sick. The only thing that kept me sane was knowing I was doing everything possible to secure the inheritance for her and Kiera when they return.”
“Pinkerton has been searching for her since before your grandfather died. They’ll find her.”
“I know. We found the file Grandfather kept. They lost track of her in San Francisco. That’s why Edith went there.” A tear slipped down Mae’s cheek.
“Hush, darling.” He put his cheek against hers and laid his hand over hers on her abdomen. “I’ll do everything possible to find both of them. If they can’t be here for the wedding, they’ll be here for our child’s arrival.”
She shifted, kissing first his cheek, then his brow and finally his mouth.
“Ahem.”
They parted to see Lalie standing in the doorway with an envelope. “This came from Cressida Damato. It’s addressed to Mae.”
Mae opened the missive and scanned the contents, then with a nod passed the letter to James. “I’m sorry for her,” she said. Her heart wept for the woman now penniless and without family or protection. Mae knew what that was like “Living with a man like Vincent and my grandfather isn’t easy. She must have feared for her own safety if she didn’t do as he said.”
“What did she say?” asked Lalie.
“She apologized for her brother’s actions and any part she might have had in helping him. She’s been completely dependent on him, and he was her brother. Of course she did as he asked, but she didn’t know he planned murder. She’s left the city and promises never to darken our door again.” Mae couldn’t be sorry to have the relationship severed. Still it eased her mind that Cressida blamed no one but Vincent for his fate.
“That’s very good of her. Saves me the trouble of putting the law on her.”
“James.” Lalie’s astonished tone drew both his attention and Mae’s. “The woman is without funds or family. How could you possibly wish to see her punished for crimes she did not commit?”
Mae watched James lift his gaze to the ceiling as if praying for patience.
“Do you honestly believe her claim of innocence?”
“Do I have any evidence to the contrary?” countered Lalie.
“I would think you’d be happy to have a clear field with Kerry.”
Lalie stamped her foot.
The small display of temper was the most passion Mae had ever seen from her soon-to-be sister-in-law.
“Hugh Kerry is welcome to pursue Cressida Damato or any other woman. Why everyone seems to think I want him is beyond belief.” Lalie whipped around and stomped off muttering. “I’ll send him after Miss Damato myself. Then maybe my family will stop trying to match me with every bachelor I meet.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One week later, moments before the wedding, Lalie answered a knock on Mae’s bedroom door.
“All the guests are seated,” announced Hugh. “Is she ready?”
Lalie stepped aside.
“I am.”
Mae stood, attired in her mother’s ivory wedding dress. Pearls gleamed at her neck and ears and love burgeoned in her eyes.
“You are a beautiful bride. I’m not even certain Lalie will outshine you.”
Her eyelids flew wide as she looked at her friend. “I thought … you didn’t tell me.”
“He only asked me last night.”
“Have you set a date?”
“Nothing certain, but we are discussing May or June. I’d like you to be my matron of honor, and, well, Hugh told me about your delicate condition.”
Mae bent an accusatory stare at her friend’s fiancé. “That secret wasn’t yours to tell.”
“I apologize. It was out before I knew I’d said it. Lalie was, ahem, distracting me.”
Mae smiled. “Glad she knows how to do that. Distracting is one of the benefits of marriage.”
Lalie rolled her eyes. “It was only a kiss.”
“Shall we go? Your groom is probably getting anxious.”
“By all means. Let us put him out of his misery.”
However, they only reached the middle of the staircase when James strode past in the hall below.
“James?”
He paused and looked up at her. His gaze traveled over her, then lingered on her eyes. “I am truly the luckiest man alive.”
“Why aren’t you in the garden?” She descended the last few steps with Hugh at her side.
“Henries told me we have some late arrivals.” James took her hand from Hugh.
“Surel
y he could have seated them without disturbing you.”
“Yes, he probably could, but this is better. Come with me.”
“Thank heaven he didn’t put them in the study,” Mae muttered as she trotted down the hall after James. “I swear I’m going to completely redecorate that entire room. I’d demolish it if I could.”
He opened the door to the back parlor. “I think you’d better ask your sisters.”
“Don’t be silly, James, you know my sisters are—”
“Right here.” Edith rose from the settee as she spoke. Beside her stood a large good-looking man with a tumble of wheat blond hair and serious blue eyes under reddish brows.
On the far side of the room near the windows stood another man, slimmer than the blond giant, but just as tall. This man had thick, feathery red hair, just a shade off copper. A three-day beard shadowed his lean face, and he stared at Mae with honey brown eyes. He shifted to one side, and Kiera peered past him to look at a speechless Mae. “Aren’t you going to welcome us home?”
Mae burst into tears as she gazed from sister to sister.
James drew her into his arms. “Forgive her. This is our wedding day and she’s in an interesting condition.”
Edith sniffled and turned into the arms of the blond man beside her.
Kiera bit her lip, blinked her eyes and buried her face in the shoulder of the brown-eyed man, who now held her by the waist.
Three baffled male glances met.
“What did we do?” asked the blond giant with Edith.
The lanky man with Kiera shook his head. “Don’t think we did much of anything, ’sides mebbe, uh… I don’t know about you, but Kiera’s expecting in April.”
“Ev!” Mae's sister lifted her head. “Now’s not the time.”
“It’s all right, Kiera.” He pressed her head gently back to his shoulder. “I can’t think of a much better time.”
Beside Edith, the blond man grinned. “Do tell. Edie and I expect our blessed event in April.”
Mae wiped her eyes and smiled at her sisters. “Really?”
The other two women nodded.
“Am I to assume these gentlemen are your husbands?” she asked.
Edith straightened. “And if they aren’t?”
“As long as you love them, I don’t care, but I think your children will be happier if their parents are married. I know the baby I’ll have in April wants his mother and father to wed.”
“You can rest easy, Mae. This is my husband, Dutch Trahern.”
“And this is the love of my life, Marshal Evrett Quinn.” Then Kiera’s eyes went wide. “All of us, in April?”
Mae nodded and began to giggle. Her sisters soon joined.
The men shook their heads.
“Speaking of weddings,” James announced. “Mae and I are about to have ours. Everyone else is in the garden. Would you join us?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” chorused the other two couples.
With her beloved beside her and her sisters at her back, Mae turned and walked into her future, leading the way instead of hiding.
Crimson Sneak Peek
Revolutionary Hearts by Pema Donyo
Village of Hathras, United Provinces of Agra and Oudh, British Raj, India
1924
What in the blazes was he supposed to do?
Warren read the wrinkled letter again for the thirtieth time that afternoon. The paper had faded yellow from its long journey across the Atlantic and had become creased in too many places to count. The shorthand method was familiar to him, but the contents of the letter were not.
He cursed beneath his breath. His previous years spent in the National Bureau of Criminal Identification investigating domestic anarchists hadn’t been this difficult. At least he would be able to dash away on a moment’s notice, unseen and unheard. The U.S. government had placed him as a blasted British general! He couldn’t just slip away anymore.
Where was the nearest other U.S. operative, anyway? Lucknow, most likely. But that was more than 300 kilometers away. He couldn’t steal one of the cars without the other soldiers running after him. And Lucknow was hardly a short motorcycle ride.
Warren pressed the letter against the oak table, his fingers running along the folded creases of the missive. He interpreted the shorthand as he read it aloud to himself, if only to confirm the message was true. Perhaps he had misread. “Agent, we regret to inform you that we have reason to suspect your identity has been compromised. The NBCI has folded into the FBI. Find a way to return home.”
He crumpled up the letter and shoved it into the roaring flames stoking in the marble fireplace. Home. Back to America. How on earth did they expect him to do that?
Warren rubbed his jaw with his hand, placing one elbow over the mantel. He had no time for this, not when he didn’t even have information to report back to the NBCI yet. They’d sent him to ferret out rumors that one of the Indian revolutionaries was an anarchist with the potential to influence rebels back in the States. What was his mission now that the bureau had become absorbed into the Federal Bureau of Investigation? He’d heard whispers of what the organization did, of course, and he assumed it was more than catching anarchists. But without any direct contact with the bureau, only the devil knew what the FBI would want him for. Did he still have a job? The Indians had only started to voice civil unrest, and there was so much knowledge yet to be discovered.
His eyes wandered to the open window. Wispy, white curtains framed the view outside his mansion, where he could see the tops of houses from the nearest village. There. That was where he needed to be. That was where all the real action was happening, not shut inside the safety of marble walls.
“Sahib?”
He looked up at the sound of his butler’s voice. The Indian bowed before him, his turban shaking a bit as he stood back up. The man kept his eyelids hooded, avoiding direct eye contact with his employer.
Warren winced. As much as he’d tried to acclimate himself to the British colonial culture, he never understood the servant system here. It was no better than the old slavery back in the States.
“What is it?”
“The gardener has brought a new maid for you.”
He raised a brow. “When did I request a new maid?”
“He says you will not turn her away, sahib. She is to replace one of the older maids who works here.”
In the passing seconds, the orange flames hissed and crackled in the fireplace as they eroded the logs. The contents of the letter were stored away as nothing more than dust and ash, and his message from home had faded into smoke.
So had his hard-won position undercover.
“Send them in.” What did it matter, a new servant or an old servant? Neither was going to help him maintain his position. How could anyone have suspected him? It certainly wasn’t the way he portrayed himself. His British accent had become nearly second nature. He barely remembered what he sounded like without it.
His fists clenched, straining his upper arms in the starched general’s uniform he wore. How on earth could the NBCI not send him any instruction on how to return home?
The turbaned servant bowed once more. His slippers padded softly against the marble flooring as he exited the room. The floor was nearly as elegant as the rest of the ballroom, complete with a crystal chandelier, gold-leafed accents, and colorful murals that would rival the works found in St. Peter’s Basilica. He had to admit that when he’d stolen the real general’s identity, he hadn’t expected a house quite so opulent. It would be difficult leaving such a lavish place. Maybe the NBCI had it wrong. Maybe his identity wasn’t compromised … yet.
“General Carton, sahib, this is my sister.”
Warren turned his attention away from the comfortable palace he’d learned to call home and toward the gardener. He recognized Raj … the one whom his chain in command had told him to keep an eye on. Raj Singh had risen to fame in the record books of the National Bureau of Criminal Identification as an anarchist deter
mined to overthrow the British government. He’d started to gather quite the following, the bureau had been alarmed to find out. Their brilliant idea had been to dispatch Warren as a British general. He found the idea laughable in retrospect. Yes, of course, the British general would be informed of all the revolutionaries’ secrets.
“Raj.” He nodded to his gardener and then turned his attention to the woman standing next to him. She was several inches shorter than Raj and slighter in build. A long veil covered her head, and a faded red sari draped over her slim shoulders. “Lower your veil.”
The girl dropped her veil. He studied her with the quick precision of an operative scanning a target.
Her Eurasian skin was tan, not quite as dark as the other Indian maids in his house but not light enough to be British. Half-Indian, he guessed. He’d heard during his training that they were rare, but his time in India had proved quite the opposite. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties. Her dark, wavy hair fell to her shoulders. Her thick eyebrows were high and arched, her lips full and plump. Though her veil had been covering her face moments before, she stood with her chin tilted upward. Pride shone in her eyes as she met his gaze with a challenging look.
“Parineeta Singh. She will serve as the new maid in place of our grandmother.”
“Hello, Miss Singh,” Warren began in Hindi. “Why do you wish to take your grandmother’s place here?”
Her eyes flashed with an emotion he was surprised to decipher as anger. Before he could apologize, she responded in British-clipped English, with nearly no trace of an accent. “She has served enough of her time in this prison. It is my turn to take her place.” She bit her lip immediately after her response, as if afraid of what she’d say if she continued speaking.
Raj elbowed his sister.
Warren held up his hand. “It is quite all right.” A corner of his mouth twisted upward. She was not simply any maid after all. “What makes you so convinced this is a prison, Miss Singh?”
She remained silent.
“Go on,” he encouraged. Now this was the information he needed to report back to the National Bureau … FBI, he corrected. Damn, he needed to find out what this new FBI wanted him for. No more battle plans or details of rebellions; he’d had enough of those. He needed real accounts from Indians about the effects of this anarchist’s leadership.