"Bloody hell, Robin, I never felt like that," Giles exclaimed. "Of course I mourned—losing her was the single worst event of my life. But I never blamed you for the fact that she died and you didn't."
"Father did. And he never let me forget it."
Giles turned back to the garden, his broad shoulders rigid. "When a woman dies in childbirth, most surviving family members accept it as the will of God. A few, like Father, blame the child. Others are like me. They... they cherish the baby who survived because it is all they have left of the woman who died."
Robin's voice softened. "You did that well. It made the guilt worse. I was responsible for your mother's death, yet you were always so patient with me."
Giles made an impatient gesture. "Stop talking as if you committed murder. Mama loved babies—I know that she miscarried at least twice between my birth and yours, possibly more than that. She was delighted when her pregnancy was advanced enough to make it likely to be successful. She used to tell me about the new brother or sister I would have, and how I must watch out for you." His voice caught. "I've wondered if she suspected that she would not survive. Her health had always been delicate, and she had to have known that continued pregnancies were dangerous. Yet I'm willing to swear that she was facing the risk willingly. Did your informants tell you that?"
"I never asked about the events surrounding her death. I... I didn't want to know more."
Giles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You were several weeks early and not expected to live. After she died, Father locked himself away and wouldn't speak to anyone. The household was in chaos. I heard one of the maids say that you would die without a wet nurse, so I rode my pony into the village. The miller's wife had just lost a baby a few days after birth, so I went to her house and practically dragged her back to Wolverhampton. I insisted that your crib be put in my room, so I could listen during the night and be sure you were still breathing."
Robin stared at him, his chest constricted. "I never knew that."
"It's hardly to be expected that you would—you weren't much bigger than a loaf of bread at the time." Giles made an obvious effort to master his emotions. "You were so like Mama—not just your appearance, but your quick tongue and your charm. Your precocity delighted everyone who met you even when you were behaving like a limb of Satan. I resented the way you got away with tricks that I would have been whipped for."
"Since Father despised me whatever I did, I decided to give him good cause," Robin said dryly. "I was a damned sight better at being outrageous than I ever was at obedience."
Giles shrugged. "Obedience is overrated. Father found my abilities useful, but no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed to be quite good enough."
Beginning to understand what this conversation was really about, Robin asked quietly, "Why are we talking about this after so many years? What do you want of me?"
Giles stared at his large capable hands, looking oddly vulnerable. Beyond the garden walls, a carriage rumbled along the Mayfair cobblestones.
After a very long silence, he said in a voice that was almost inaudible, "It sounds so childish. I suppose what I really want to know is that... that I matter to you. You're the only close family I have. I tried to be a good brother, but because you always went your own way, no matter what the cost, I wasn't usually in a position to help you. Not with Father, not at school, and certainly not when you decided at a ridiculously young age to enter one of the most dangerous trades on earth."
Robin frowned. "Of course you matter to me. How could you not know that? Surely you remember how I followed you constantly whenever you came home from school. You were incredibly patient. I wanted desperately to be like you. It was frustrating when I realized that was impossible. We were simply too different."
"Were and are," Giles said, still looking at his hands.
"Being unlike doesn't mean that caring is impossible," Robin said haltingly. "You were far more my father than our esteemed parent. Whatever I know of honor, discipline, and loyalty I learned from you." He sighed. "I suppose that one reason I became a spy was because I wanted you to be proud of me, and espionage was something I knew I could do well. Granted, it's a low, dishonorable pursuit, but against a monster like Bonaparte, the work was important. It hurt that you disapproved of what I was doing, but once I began, I couldn't draw back."
Giles glanced up, his gaze intent. "I never condemned your activities. Actually, I was enormously proud of your courage and cleverness."
Robin raised his brows. "You were? Every argument we ever had was over my work. It simmered between the lines of your exceedingly rare letters, and came to a boil that last time we met in London, four years ago."
His brother looked away. "I'm sorry I lost my temper that night, but I was concerned. You looked ready to break. I thought it was time to let Britain struggle on without you."
"I was not at my best then," Robin admitted. "But retiring to a quiet life in Yorkshire would have driven me mad. For me, it was better to keep working and take my chances."
"As you said, we're very unlike. For me, Wolverhampton has always been my retreat and my redemption."
There was another long silence before Robin said wearily, "After our mother died, there was never enough love at Wolverhampton, not with Father's grief and anger poisoning us all. I didn't dare ask you for too much, for fear that your patience would run out. I couldn't bear the thought of that."
Giles smiled humorlessly. "I felt much the same way—that if I did anything that might strain our relationship, you would flit off like a dragonfly and never return."
Robin swallowed against the dryness in his throat, feeling more vulnerable than when he had searched Napoleon's library. "You were the salvation of my childhood, Giles. Now, you're one of two—no, three people I would give my life for. I wish I had known how to say that sooner. I'm sorry you ever spent a single moment thinking that I didn't care."
Giles rubbed his forehead, his broad hand obscuring his face. When he lowered his arm, there was a gleam of moisture in his eyes. "Brothers are supposed to love each other, but I thought that with us, most of the feelings were on my side."
One of the knots tied around Robin's heart dissolved. Giles was right; brothers were supposed to love each other, and the two of them did. After almost thirty-three years of complicated living, he had discovered a bedrock simplicity that had always been there. Without speaking, he reached out a hand to his brother. Giles gripped it hard.
More than when he had returned to Wolverhampton, Robin felt that he had come home.
As he released his brother's hand, Robin said, "We should have talked like this years ago. Still, why tonight, in the middle of a first-rate dinner party?"
Giles gave an embarrassed laugh. "When I saw Desdemona being charmed by you, every brotherly resentment I ever felt came boiling to the surface. I don't mind you fascinating all the other females, but I very much minded about her."
"Believe me, you have nothing to fear. Our whole conversation was about you—the woman thinks you walk on water. I did not disabuse her of the notion. I gather that you have hopes in that direction?"
"I do." Giles smiled. "I think I'll go find her. I'm happier when she's nearby."
Robin understood perfectly. The discussion with his brother had been valuable and long overdue, but he felt as if he had been through an emotional threshing machine. Which meant that more than anything on earth, he wanted Maxie.
Chapter 32
Robin found Maxie talking to Lord Michael Kenyon, a tall man with chestnut hair and the whipcord toughness of a trained warrior. She glanced up mischievously. "Lord Michael tells me that he met you in Spain. When coaxed, he said something about you being disguised as an Irish priest at the time?"
Robin rolled his eyes. "I'm afraid so. During the Peninsular wars, a whole network of priest-spies operated from the Irish College of Salamanca University. I occasionally masqueraded as one when I was there." He made a face. "I also managed to get myself shot. I'm s
ure that Lord Michael didn't mention that he found me bleeding all over my stolen dispatches, and had the sense to haul me into Wellington's headquarters."
So that was how Robin had acquired that dreadful bullet scar. Not caring whether she shocked the other guests, Maxie rose onto her toes and pressed a light, swift kiss on Lord Michael's cheek. "Thank you. It must have taken a whole regiment of guardian angels to keep Robin intact."
Lord Michael gazed down at her, startled but not displeased. He had remarkable green eyes. "I'd heard that American women were enchantingly direct, but never been so lucky as to see a demonstration. Are there more like you in Boston?"
Robin said fondly, "Maxima is unique anywhere."
"I was afraid of that." After exchanging a few more words, Lord Michael moved away.
Maxie gazed after him. "Is there a Lady Michael who didn't come tonight?"
"He's unmarried. Are you interested in applying for the position of wife?" Robin said dryly.
She gave him a look. "That's an absurd comment even for you. I was merely curious. Though he flirts very nicely, his heart is not the least bit available."
"Interesting. According to Margot, he's spending the Season with Lucien and Kit with the idea of taking a wife if he finds a lady to his taste. Perhaps he's found one." Losing interest in the subject, Robin continued, "I came to see if you were interested in some fresh air. The Candover gardens by moonlight are quite a sight."
As much as Maxie was enjoying the other guests, she was ready for some time alone with Robin. They walked together to the French doors.
Before going out, he glanced around. "It's a bit cool this evening. If I know Maggie, she will have put some shawls here for female guests who might want to go outside."
Sure enough, a pile of softly folded fabric waited on a small table to the left. As Robin took the top shawl, Maxie said admiringly, "Margot thinks of everything."
He shook out the dark paisley shawl, then draped it around her shoulders, his hands caressing. They stepped out into the flagstone patio. After Robin closed the door, they strolled across the stones and down the steps into the garden itself. A scattering of low lanterns marked the paths for guests, but weren't so bright as to interfere with the magic of the night. The voluminous shawl hung all the way to Maxie's knees, protecting her from the cool evening air.
Even warmer was the arm that Robin laid over her shoulders when they were out of sight of the house. They were walking much closer than was proper. Not that she minded; quite the contrary. They had already been so close that it was an effort to remember society's strictures.
She looked up to make a comment, then frowned. Robin's light expression was gone, and in the moonlight he looked deeply weary. "Is something wrong?"
He gave her a slanting glance. "I should have known you'd notice. Giles and I just had the worst argument of our lives. Very fatiguing."
She stopped and stared at him. "That's dreadful. No wonder you're looking gray. I thought you two got on very well."
"We always did, to a point, but there's a lot that never got said." Robin sighed. "Tonight we both aired a lifetime of resentments."
"From what I've seen, it's easier for sisters to be friends than brothers," she said gravely. "Brothers often compete with each other, which can interfere with warmer feelings. It must be even harder when the elder is heir to a great title and fortune."
"You're right—I've seen that with other brothers. It's probably a blessing that Giles and I are so different." Robin hugged her shoulders and started them walking again. "We decided that the underlying cause of tonight's argument goes all the way back to my mother's death. My father blamed me for it, which warped the whole family. Giles became serious and responsible and tried to take care of everyone, which no child should have to do, and I grew up rebellious.
"As a result, Giles and I were incapable of showing how much we meant to each other. When I returned from France last fall, I wasn't sure if Giles would want me at Wolverhampton. I didn't realize that he was hurt by the fact that I had gone so far and stayed away so long."
"Did you and he manage to resolve your differences?"
Robin smiled. "Yes, thank God. We're closer now than we ever have been in the past."
"I'm so glad." Unable to keep the vehemence from her voice, she added, "But your father deserved to be whipped. Taking all of his guilt about his wife's death and piling it onto a defenseless infant was despicable."
"Guilt—my father? What for?"
"Your mother didn't get pregnant without help," Maxie pointed out tartly. "Do you know if she had a history of problems with childbearing?"
"As a matter of fact, Giles said that she was never strong, and she'd had several miscarriages."
Maxie nodded, unsurprised. "If your father had shown more restraint, her health might not have broken down."
After a long silence, Robin said in a wondering voice, "I never thought of that."
"Any woman would."
He smiled ruefully. "A pity we didn't have a sensible female like you at Wolverhampton to sort us all out."
Their wanderings had brought them to the folly, a tiny, circular Greek temple. The columns and proportions were so perfect that Maxie suspected that some earlier duke had bought the temple in Greece and had it shipped home in pieces.
Side by side, they climbed the steps. The folly was a pleasant, airy place, with curved benches built against the half-walls. A rectangular stone altar stood toward the rear, waiting for picnics rather than sacrificial goats. In the moonlight, the effect was quite enchanting.
Robin looked down at his companion. The moonlight made her features a symphony of elegant planes and shadowed contours. No longer able to wait, he raised her chin and kissed her.
He had meant it to be light and affectionate, but as soon as their lips touched, his emotional control disintegrated. In the last few days, he had been battered by the memories of every bad experience of his life. He would not have survived if not for the woman in his arms, and he yearned for her as a man dying in the desert thirsts for water.
They had been doing a slow dance of desire, beginning when he had gone to her room and building through the evening with lingering glances and private smiles. But what he felt now went beyond passion to a raw need for her blessed warmth and the bewitching mysteries of her body.
He slid his hands under the wool shawl so he could knead her soft curves. When she made a little purring sound of response, he teased her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It hardened immediately under the layered silk.
He wanted more, much more. Catching her by the waist, he perched her on the stone altar. She inhaled with surprise, then relaxed, her hands curling over the edge of the altar.
Raising her made it easier to reach various delicious bits of her anatomy. He put his hands over hers, trapping them against the stone. Her fingers fluttered for an instant under his, then became still.
He leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against hers. Her skin was petal smooth, cool on the surface with radiant life pulsing below. He blew lightly in her ear, then traced the delicate whorls with his tongue. She hummed with pleasure, stretching her neck like a cat.
The shawl was so large that she was sitting on it, yet still had enough fabric to cover her shoulders and chest. He nudged the shawl aside with his chin. The dark wool slithered down and pooled on the back of his hands where they held hers to the stone. Her position thrust her breasts forward alluringly.
He tasted the sensual arc of her throat. She was sane and whole and he wanted to devour her, to make that sanity and wholeness part of himself.
When his trailing lips reached her necklace, he quickly skipped lower. He'd paid a small fortune for the thing, but rubies and diamonds were cold and lifeless compared to the satiny swells above her décolletage. He kissed them with ardent tenderness, inhaling the haunting womanly scent from the cleft between her breasts.
Trying to mask his urgency, he released her hands so he could shape the ripe cu
rves of her buttocks with his open palms. Then his hands slid forward, gliding over the gentle curve of her abdomen toward the sensitive mound between her thighs.
She said breathlessly, "Time to stop, I think."
"Not yet." Under the shimmering skirt, her knees were several inches apart. He spread them farther and stepped between so that she could not close them again. He was so close he could feel her sultry female heat.
He sought and found her mouth, wanting her to be so beguiled that she would not question what he was doing. He lifted her skirt and petticoat with both hands and rested his palms on her stocking-clad knees while he deepened the kiss. Then he massaged upward, over her garters, seeking her hidden female essence.
She responded with openmouthed generosity, but she was too clever to be distracted. When he caressed her inner thighs, she turned her head away and instinctively tried to close her legs. She couldn't, and the pressure of her knees against his hips inflamed him still further.
Trapped by his body, she became still. "Robin," she said unevenly. "Robin, we should go back inside now. This is not the right time or place."
She was not afraid—not yet. To frighten her would be unforgivable, but he was incapable of moving away.
His breath ragged with effort, he straightened and wrapped his arms around her. A hard pulse beat in his temples, a harder one in his loins, where his straining sex was pressed against her intimate heat, trying to tear through his tight garments to meld with her. She was so small, so easily enfolded, yet supple with female strength. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "You're right, but—Christ, I have the most absurd feeling that if I don't have you, I will die."
He tried to sound amusing, to make a joke that would obliterate the foolish melodrama of his words, but for once frivolity failed him. The hammering of his blood repeated, If I don't have you, I will die. If I don't have you, I will die.
That stark need was not only for tonight, or for the physical act of union that his body demanded. He wanted her for always, his mistress, his match, his mate. But he also, rather frantically, wanted to make love to her right now.
Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 31