“You’re correct, of course. I have no right to think of you at all, do I? I shouldn’t give a damn whom you invite to tea, whom you sit with on the settee, whom you blush for. But damn me, Elizabeth, I care. I care so much that I could have dragged him off that flowered atrocity and beaten him to a bloody pulp for just making you smile, when I’ve never given you cause to do anything but frown.”
“What game is this?” she demanded. “Oh, how I despise not being able to see your face and the lies in your eyes.”
“No lies. I swear.”
“You swore you’d never hurt me, either. But that was soon forgotten, abandoned in the wake of the other lies you told, and the ones you forgot.”
“I want another chance.” He blurted that out, the words sounding almost desperate to his ear, the suave seduction he was famous for suddenly evaporating like smoke.
The air was heavy, taut, until she cried, “Absolutely not!”
There was no brooking the point. No hesitation in answering, either. Elizabeth was a woman who knew what she was about. She had convictions and morals, and stood for everything he wasn’t.
He wasn’t ready to give up, however. Nowhere near, he fumed as he took a handful of steps closer to her and reached for her. He’d taken his jacket off, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His arm hurt like the devil, throbbing like an unrelenting demon. Scotch would have taken care of the pain rather nicely, but he’d had too much last night, and today… Well, today he had made plans to change. To be someone worthy of Elizabeth York and her attentions. He’d wanted this audience with her, to tell her that he meant for her to forgive him, and that he would do everything to earn that forgiveness.
And he hadn’t thought it would be sincere if Scotch was filling his veins.
Instead, he’d gritted his teeth against the pain while he and Black buried Anastasia, and again now, when Elizabeth’s hands locked around his arms, squeezing his biceps so that she might steady herself. The wound was seeping again. He could feel the heat, the stickiness clinging to the fine linen sleeve.
“Don’t struggle,” he breathed, pulling her closer.
“Don’t—” But she pushed away an inch, her hand leaving his arm as she brought her fingers to her nose. The tips were covered in blood.
“No, don’t!”
But it was too late. Her tongue came out, tentatively tasting. His blood coated her lip, and she frowned. Worry replaced anger, and something wickedly carnal and base stole over him. Iain swooped down, capturing her mouth with his.
His blood tainted her own sweet taste, and again the primal sensation swept through him as he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her voluptuous form against his unyielding one. She was soft and womanly, her belly cushioning him, embracing his hardening cock.
He was breathless, but unable to stop the kiss to draw in air, for fear she would pull away.
She hadn’t responded yet, but the animal in him would wait—didn’t care, it seemed. All he could think about was Elizabeth, her fingers tipped in blood and her tongue coming out to taste them—taste him.
He was ravenous, his mouth twisting overtop hers, and when she gasped, he sank his tongue deep into her mouth, searching for hers, stealing her breath. There was no seduction, no rhythm or finesse to this kiss. It was uncoordinated, full of pent-up passion. Raw.
Kiss me! The words chanted over and over in his head, a merciless pleading. Melt for me…. Sink with me to the carpet.
Unable to resist, Iain moved his hand to her breast, cupped her, squeezed, groaned at the heavy weight of her in his palm, the taffeta-covered flesh spilling from between his fingers. He wanted that flesh in his mouth, wanted to lift her breast to his lips, suckle her voraciously.
Wanted to make her tremble and cry out—come with only his mouth on her luscious breasts.
“Stop,” she cried, pulling away.
“Nay, I canna do it,” he groaned, wincing as he heard his brogue, thick and hard as he buried his mouth in her neck and nuzzled her fragrant skin with his lips. His fingers were soothing her breast, where he prayed he had not gripped her too hard. “Doona ask me to.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s no bother,” he growled, and ducked his head, searching once more for her mouth.
“Iain, for God’s sake, stop! ” If he hadn’t already decided to turn over a new leaf, he would have pressed on, heedless of her protests. He would have kissed her until she forgot she was protesting.
But this wasn’t the way to win Elizabeth back. In fact, it had never been the way to win her in the first place, but that was the method he had used. He’d overpowered her with a seductive onslaught that an innocent like her could never fight against.
Forcing himself to stop, he stood still, breathless as Elizabeth once more brushed her fingers over the sleeve of his left arm. “From last night, I assume?”
“Aye.”
“I cannot say I’m happy to hear you were wounded, but really, if you’d quit getting into the beds of married women, you wouldn’t find yourself in these pre-dicaments.”
“What recourse am I left with when the one bed I want is not open to me?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. You’re like a child with a toy. You’ve seen someone express interest in me and now you want to play, to see if the toy is really that interesting, or if it should be thrown to the back of the wardrobe. And you should know, Iain, that I’m not interested in playing with you. Now, let’s find someone to look at your arm. Did Sutherland mend this for you? Perhaps you should have had a proper physician sew you up.” She was rambling as she led him from the salon. Before they reached the door, Iain pulled her to a stop.
“You’re not a toy, Beth. You’re the best gift I’ve ever been given, and I didn’t take care of you like I should have. But I will. You’ll see. You’ll come back to me and I will unwrap you with such care that you will never break again.”
“You’ve lost too much blood if you think I will ever allow anything like that to ever happen again. What is done is done. It’s a part of the past. Now, then, let’s get you to someone who can actually see what the devil is going on with your arm. As much as I once wished you dead, I cannot say that I still desire it, at least not here, today, bleeding on the carpet in my favourite room.” His voice softened, and he brushed back the loose strands of her hair that had fallen during their kiss. “Well, then, that’s a start, isn’t it, my Beth?” THE WIND PICKED UP, riffling through Iain’s hair. The November day had turned to twilight, the forthcoming winter making its presence known by the bite of the breeze and the scent of coldness in the air. He should be back home, in his study, indulging in a glass of Scotch while seated beside a blazing fire laid neatly in the hearth. But his curiosity and instincts had gotten the better of him, and instead of staying home tonight and nursing his aching shoulder, he found himself here.
Iain hadn’t been able to help himself. The urge to discover everything he could about Sheldon, and his plans for Elizabeth, had been gnawing at him all afternoon, and into the evening. Try as he might, he could not erase the image of her seated beside the earl, her gentle fingers traversing the man’s face. They had forged a connection that afternoon, and it terrified him. What if he was too late? What if Elizabeth had deep and abiding feelings for the earl?
No, the word whispered in his mind. He would not think that way. Not allow it. He couldn’t— wouldn’t—lose her. And so he had waited in an unmarked hackney outside of Sheldon’s town house, and watched. And waited. Only to find himself following the earl, who had only newly arrived in England. Iain wanted to know this man’s secrets. Knew he had them. Every man had some sort of secret or another he wished to hide.
While Sussex and Black were discussing the evening’s plans for attending the Adelphi Theatre in search of Orpheus, Iain was supposed to be seducing Lady Larabie, and discovering what she knew of the mysterious enemy they were trying to find. But Georgiana was the furthest thing from his mind tonig
ht. So, too, was any business he might have a duty to perform on behalf of his friends.
Orpheus and the Brethren Guardians could wait. Discovering what the Earl of Sheldon was up to could not.
Burying his chin in the collar of his woollen greatcoat, Iain watched from the shadows as the Earl of Sheldon gambolled up the stone steps of the British Museum, carrying a satchel. It was getting on in the evening—nearly eight. Well past closing time. But one light blazed softly in an east-facing window, indicating that someone was still inside. A caretaker, perhaps. But if it was only a custodian, what was the earl up to, climbing the steps?
What are you about? Iain silently questioned as he watched the man. Who are you?
Upon Sheldon’s approach, the double doors opened only enough to permit the earl to slide through. With a cautious look around, the man behind the door peered left and right before closing it softly.
Iain had no idea who had opened the door to Sheldon, but he did know one thing: the earl needed to be watched.
There was something about him that pulled at Iain’s gut.
He had not survived this long without listening to his infallible sense for trouble.
“Shall I go then, my lord, and search his place?” Sutherland. What would Iain do without the man? He was far more use to him as a spy than as a valet. There was no job Sutherland wouldn’t do for him. In fact, just that afternoon, Iain had had his valet staked out at the House of Orpheus, the place where their nemesis appeared like a damn magi, and disappeared just as quickly.
Iain had wanted to know whether the infamous Lady Larabie had come for a visit. She had not, but someone else had. Nigel Lasseter.
The man had meant nothing to Iain, but he’d stored the information away, to be pulled out at a later time. Now, it seemed, was the time. Nigel Lasseter had funded a research trip to the Holy City for one of the medieval museum curators, a Mr. Wendell Knighton—one-time suitor of one Isabella Fairmont, now Lady Black.
Knighton had somehow discovered the legend of the Brethren Guardians, and also the fact that the Guardians protected three relics fabled to hold secrets to a power no mortal should possess—a pendant, a chalice and a scroll. Knighton had stolen the pendant from Black and the chalice from Sussex, then had been mysteriously murdered —shot to death on the steps of the Masonic Lodge. Iain and the others had found the relics and hidden them away once again. But they did not learn how Knighton had discovered that the fable of the Guardians and the relics was true.
The man they called Orpheus was involved in Knighton’s murder and, they suspected, was the person who had aided Knighton in discovering the artefacts. Orpheus’s identity was a puzzling, frustrating secret. The man knew too much about the Guardians, too much about Sussex and his father, and the mistress the old duke had kept for years. Enough to murder Anastasia in cold blood.
But who he was, and how he was connected to all this, eluded them. The man was cunning, well protected and, it seemed, beyond the reach of Iain and his cohorts.
There had at one time, Iain knew, been a fourth Templar in the Brethren Guardians, but he had been betrayed by the other three, his body left on the desert sands in the East. Could it be possible that someone wanted them to believe this Orpheus was a descendant of the fourth Templar? Did Iain even believe it, or was the discovery of the Brethren Guardians just lucky happenstance? Was there something housed within the museum that contained the Brethren legend? Had Nigel Lasseter discovered it? Had someone else?
It was an unsettling thought, to have such a savvy, knowledgeable snake in their midst who could confound three of the most suspicious and cunning minds in England.
What they needed was more information. Something was missing—some nefarious piece of the puzzle that was the glue to all the other pieces. But what was it?
Iain had no idea. He only knew that the three relics were safe, and in their possession. He had a link to Orpheus through Georgiana, a link he must use before Orpheus slipped once more beyond their reach, and God forbid, harmed one of them or their loved ones.
Iain could not help but draw a line connecting Sheldon’s after-hours visit to the museum and knowledge of the Holy Land with the fact that Nigel Lasseter had once paid for an expedition to Jerusalem. Lasseter obviously had interest in Templar lore and crusader artefacts. He also frequented the House of Orpheus. The logical conclusion was that the common denominator in this mess was Nigel Lasseter—and now, perhaps, the Earl of Sheldon. It was the only thing Iain had to go on at the moment.
He thought of Sheldon, who was far too interested in Elizabeth for his peace of mind. Now that his suspicions were aroused, Iain knew he couldn’t afford to let the man out of his sight.
“Well, my lord,” Sutherland asked again, while cupping his hands together and blowing his hot breath into them. “What will it be? Want me on my way before the gent leaves the museum, and I’ll report back to you?”
“No,” Iain murmured, still watching the facade of the museum, and the flickering light in the window. “I’ll search his house.”
“I don’t mind. I’ve a knack for it.”
“No, my friend. I’ll do it. It’s…personal.” Sutherland’s eyes suddenly lit with understanding.
“So I was right. This has nothing to do with that hussy yer bedding.”
“How do you know?” And he wasn’t bedding the hussy—not anymore. Not after last night, and the cold, sick feeling he’d had upon seeing Georgiana. He had finally allowed himself to admit the truth—that he loved Elizabeth and wanted her back. It was the only thing he seemed able to focus on at the moment.
“Because you would no’ stick your neck out for the likes of her, or others of her kind. You wouldn’t say it’s personal. What you have with her is the coldest, most impersonal thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You talk too much, Sutherland.”
“You only say that when I’ve pricked a nerve. It’s that lovely of yours, isn’t it? Somehow she’s involved.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t, eh? Well, I know what I see, and it’s that protective gleam in your coldhearted gaze. I saw it only the once, the night I came across you and the enchanting Elizabeth York going at it like animals. You jumped up, covered her with yer plaid, and when you turned back to me, you had the very same look in your eyes as you do now.”
Iain turned to his valet. “Oh? And what look would that be?”
“The one that says ‘I’ll rip yer bollocks from ye and stuff ’em down yer throat if ye even look at her, or think ta touch her.’”
Closing his eyes, Iain slowly turned his attention back to the museum. Sutherland was not done talking, however.
“He wants her, does he?” his servant asked. “Does the gent know he is about to be torn to pieces by the mad marquis for daring to take something that belongs to him?”
“I only want to learn his secrets.” Sutherland snorted. “You want to tear him limb from limb, then show up at the lovely’s house and display for her what you’ve done. After which you’ll carry her off to her bedchamber like some feral animal marking a mate.” The valet smiled. “Like any Highlander worth his mettle would do. Stake your claim on the lass, then, my lord.
You’re well overdue.”
“Is there anything I can’t hide from you, Sutherland?” He sighed in irritation.
“Aye, you can. Up until now, you hid your heart. I’ve been wondering all these years if you even had one. Now, I see it’s lain fallow in your chest, and has just begun to beat again.”
Indeed, it had. He had never wanted to risk it, not after what he had done to Elizabeth all those years ago. He hadn’t wanted to pull the damn organ from the depths he had buried it, lest it hurt like it had when he had turned his back on the only woman he’d loved. The only woman he would ever love.
Now that it had begun to beat again, Iain finally accepted the fact that every beat was for Elizabeth.
“Watch him,” he ordered. “We’ll meet b
ack at the house, and you can tell me every move the bastard makes.
I want to know who he leaves with, how long he stays there. If he carries anything out, or if he makes another stop. I want to know everything, Sutherland.”
“Aye, I know how all this works. Off you go, me laird, and wreak your hell upon him.”
Oh, yes, the Earl of Sheldon would know the meaning of hell and pain when Iain was done with him.
THROUGH SHIFTING SHADOWS and weak light, Orpheus studied his accomplice. He was perturbed. There was a flaw in his plan, one he had not anticipated, and one that could potentially cause him a great deal of trouble. This new-est development made him want to lash out and choke the life out of someone—anyone.
His web was unraveling, but like a diligent spider, he would reinforce the weakness and continue weaving, preparing the silken threads to capture his enemies.
“Have Alynwick tracked,” he snarled as he lifted the flap of the blind just enough so he could see out the window, without being seen himself. “Find out what he knows. What connection he has put together. And what nuisance he’ll be with the girl.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“And don’t pander to me in that snivelling way of yours,” he snarled, baring his teeth. “I’m in no mood for it. Keep him in your sights at all times, or you’ll pay dearly for failing me, do you understand?”
“Of course. Indeed, you make yourself very clear, as always.”
“Always was a slippery, conniving bastard,” he muttered. “Never trust a Scot, even if they give the appearance they’re nothing but lecherous drunkards. Always had it in him,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. “I saw it that night, those dark eyes looking up, hatred and spite blazing in their depths. I knew then that he would not be complacent until the final blow killed him. And even then he’d spit in your face before tumbling to hell.”
“I know what will do the job,” his accomplice murmured. “I know the blow that will kill him, and keep him from destroying our plans.”
“Then by all means use it.”
“Of course.”
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