by Jo Beverley
She kissed him then with a fear-filled desperation and he couldn’t resist it. He tumbled her back to sprawl on the sofa as he consumed her with kisses beyond control. This indeed was truth. There was nothing moderate about his need for this woman, and nothing orderly about her response.
He’d known she could be passionate, but not that she’d discard all sensible restraint and fight any attempt of his to be wise. When he tried again to retreat, she urged him on, hands tight on him, entwined and moving with him, under him. Helping him explore her leg, her skin, her wet inner heat. . . .
Hades!
He dragged himself free and tugged her skirts back down with shaking hands. “We mustn’t.”
“No.” But she said it on a breath, wide eyes on his.
Above everything in the world, he wanted to satisfy her clear desire. But he could offer her nothing, not even that he’d live. He wouldn’t leave her ruined and alone.
He tried to move off the sofa, but she held on to his jacket and then coaxed him back down, shifting so they lay in each other’s arms, his head on her shoulder, her arm around him. He ached as he knew she did, but to be cosseted in her arms like this was another sort of heaven.
Her gentle perfume spoke of simple days and rural tranquillity, and the fire glowed, occasional flames licking over the logs, giving off that soothing tang. This was a peace such as he’d never known before in his life.
Chapter 25
Hermione stroked his hair, her body regretting their good sense, but her mind content, loving having him in her arms like this. In her protection, for this brief moment at least. He was right. She wanted to protect him all her days, but she tried to show him that she understood his choices. “It’s noble to care so much for your dear mother’s plight.”
“Confessional again?” he murmured. “I never loved her, and she never loved me. I was her only child because giving birth was too dramatic and bloody for her. It took months for her to recover in her mind, and she only ever treated me as a child who happened to live in the same house.”
Wordless, she kissed his hair.
“I don’t remember minding. I had a loving nurse.”
All the same, she wondered whether an infant knew when something was so adrift.
“To complete the confession,” he said, “I didn’t love my father, either. He was more attentive, but his main focus was always my mother and her needs. When I visited before joining my regiment, he apologized for not considering children when he married, but I know he’d have done the same again. She was everything to him. So once I was in the army, I hardly gave them a thought.”
“You have nothing to reproach yourself with.”
“The Bible commands us to honor our parents.”
“Probably because it was written by hoary old men.”
She delighted in his chuckle. “Not a chess player, but sharp debater,” he said.
“Too sharp to be ladylike.”
“A warrior lady.”
“Not at all.” As was clear by the fact that she’d taken the kris out of her pocket before coming here to read. If he’d been a villain, that could have been a fatal piece of carelessness.
“You said you’d have fought if Napoleon had invaded,” he said.
“When it came to it, I’d have probably hidden in a corner, quaking.”
“A kiss for courage,” he said, turning up his head. She provided it, but lightly. Anything more would be too dangerous.
“Your turn to confess,” he said, settling back. “Do I gather you were stretched to honor your father?”
“Extremely. He did nothing to deserve it, and didn’t have your parents’ excuse. He avoided us when we were children. By the time we were old enough to be worthy of his interest, we all knew he was lazy and selfish to the bone. Money was always short and he flew into tantrums at talk of any spending on us or the house, but he denied himself nothing. Fine horses and clothes, and fine women in London, I’m sure. Once, when we were in London in the spring, he ate a whole dish of new peas, the first of the season, without thinking anyone else might want some. I didn’t love him and I feel no guilt about it.”
“I grant you absolution.”
“Perhaps the papist confessional has a purpose,” she said, looking at the fire, which would soon need another piece of wood. The supply in the box was getting low, but she couldn’t ring for a servant to bring more. Perhaps she’d end up cold again, but for now Thayne would keep her warm. “I’ve never been able to talk this way before. I’m sure Polly feels the same about Father, but she’d be distressed to tears to say it.”
“People cling to convention.”
“Thinking as they ought,” she agreed. “The world would fall into chaos if we didn’t, but here I can say I didn’t grieve for my older brother’s death, either. Jermyn was exactly like my father. Roger was a better brother, but just as selfish. I blame my mother for that. She thought sons so much more important than daughters.” She found she wanted to talk about Roger, something else she’d been unable to do honestly. To Polly he had to be a perfect hero in every respect.
“He went into the army because he needed a profession and Napoleon needed to be stopped, but I think the action appealed to him. He loved riding and shooting and any sort of sport. At Harrow, he excelled at cricket, but I doubt he excelled at his studies. I never saw him with a book. He was rarely home once he went to school. We lived on a tight purse, but he had wealthy friends. One was the heir to a dukedom with access to fabulous horses and hunting. Another was an Irish boy and Roger spent a summer there on a horse-breeding estate. There was another duke’s son who seemed to be full of fun and many others. When Roger’s death was reported in the papers, we received letters from so many people who clearly felt his loss.”
“That must have been a comfort.”
“Perhaps, but I found it unsettling. The letters were heartfelt, but they were from strangers. One even offered assistance if needed.”
“Your father was the Moneyless Marquess.”
“You think he was offering money? That’s even worse.”
He shifted again to look at her. “The sin of pride?”
“Dignity,” she protested.
“But if the letter was from a friend, the writer was probably as young as your brother. It could have been well-meant.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. At the time I was in no state to think clearly at all. I was torn apart by Roger being gone, far away and violently.” That brought his danger too close. “Can you not give up crime?”
After a moment he said, “Not yet.”
That was something. “Soon?” she persisted.
“I don’t know, love.”
“Love?”
He moved them both to sitting. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But did you mean it? If you loved me . . . No, I won’t say it.”
“If I loved you, I’d choose the safer ways? Perhaps you’re right.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth. Are you in debt? Did your father leave you in debt?”
He put fingers over her lips. “I haven’t told you the whole truth, and I can’t. It’s true, however, that my path is dangerous and I can’t leave it yet. There’s nothing for us until I can.”
She wanted to fight his sober words. She wanted to beat against his will until he told her everything, because if she understood the problems, she could solve them—she’d be able to sweep away the danger and have the prize. But some instinct stopped her. Her fighting and beating could shatter everything. “At least promise to be as careful as can be.”
“I can do that.”
“And promise to come back to me.”
He grimaced at such an impossible demand, but said, “If there’s any way on earth.” He kissed her forehead. “I begin to understand my father, but
I must be stronger than he.”
She wanted him bound to her needs in the same way. That was probably unworthy, but she wanted it all the same and was desperate enough to say it. “I need you alive and with me, Thayne. A week ago I didn’t know it, but I think I’ve needed you ever since that ball.”
He cupped her face with one hand. “And I you. I vow to do my utmost to be safe and to return to you.”
His kiss was so gentle it felt almost sacred, and he held her as if she were made of spun glass. She’d not been cherished like this since she’d been a child. She’d never been important to anyone like this, or felt this way about another. It was painful and precious and she ached to find a way to chain him to safety.
He needed something different, however, and she loved him enough to try to give it.
She moved back to smile for him. “Don’t think me fragile. I’m not bold or brave, but I believe I’m strong in the mind. I stay on the level. I don’t fly high and low. I cope with what happens.” I won’t run mad, no matter what happens.
It worked. She saw his lopsided smile again. “As when a rascal invaded your room.”
“Polly would have screamed, then and there, but I didn’t.”
“For which I burn incense at your altar.”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that you don’t need to fret about me.”
“Can you not fret about me?”
“No, because you’re a thief with horrible people wanting to kill you. I’m an ordinary woman living an ordinary life. Why couldn’t you be a . . . a shopkeeper?”
His smile broadened to a grin. “What shall we sell? Candles or cups, books or bodkins?”
“Soap, always wrapped in a pretty package.”
A log collapsed in the grate, bringing them back to reality. The fire would soon be out. How long had they been here, illicitly alone and intimate, lost in passion, longing, and whimsy?
He stood, straightening his clothing, but then he looked at her. “My Hermione, relaxed in the glow of firelight, disordered and dangerous to all my righteous intentions.”
She should have straightened, stood up, and perhaps even protested, but she could only smile back at him, so handsome and strong in the dying light, despite his scruffy trimmings.
He knelt by the sofa to kiss her. “I want to stay here with you more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.”
So tempting to grasp him and hold him. Instead she smiled. “One day you will.”
One day, if it was within her power, a fireside conversation and kisses sweet and spicy would lead in due course to a lawful bed and thence to heaven. But where? In a cottage? In some tenement? Reality crept into the idyll, but she felt sure now that he wasn’t a common thief. A good life must be possible.
“You truly must go to London?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Into danger?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then go in disguise.”
“A wig and fake mustaches?”
“A woman would be better. A long wig and a fake bosom.”
“No.”
“Infuriating man. I wish I could give you a talisman.”
“You already did.” He rose and took a bit of dirty white out of his pocket. She recognized the silk rose.
“You kept it,” she said, and tears threatened.
“Treasured it. It’s sadly battered and grimy, but it’s kept me safe.”
“Then don’t lose it.” She reached into a pocket and took out a brass button. “I still have this.”
“Polished, even.”
“Of course.”
“I’d kiss you again if I dared. May that talisman keep you safe. Don’t forget that you could be in danger, too. Be as careful as you pray I will be.”
He was finding it hard to leave, and she wished he need never do so, but he must. She rose and lit a candle at the dying fire. “How did you get into the house?”
“Through the glass doors into the garden.”
“They were unlocked?”
“I had the means to unlock them.”
That shook her. Was he a common thief after all? A housebreaker? She’d leave all that for daylight and sanity. “I’ll go ahead to be sure the way is clear.”
She opened the door and looked out into the dark house. All quiet and clear. She led the way downstairs and to the side door, where he put his boots back on. Again he lingered. Again, despite all good sense, she longed to beg him to stay.
“God go with you,” she said.
“And with you. Till we meet again.”
“In London?”
“Remember, my enemies won’t recognize you, but if they see you with me, you could be in danger. Stay away from me, Hermione. I’ll come to you when it’s safe.” Perhaps he saw her doubts, for he added, “On my honor, I will.”
* * *
Hermione watched as long as his shadowy form was visible, but in time she had to admit that he was gone. Her beloved was gone.
Her beloved. Her tender emotions grew from the gallant young officer of that ball and seemed able to overwhelm the reality now, but reality lurked like a shadow. She was in danger of falling in love with a man who could offer her nothing but poverty and fear.
And yet, now, at this moment, she was powerless to be sensible.
Her beloved was gone. Forever, said the dread in her mind, but “For now,” she said out loud to fight the dark. They would meet again and somehow she would find a way for them to be together. She remembered Edgar’s money. She hoped it would be a long time before he died, but perhaps if there was a fortune, he’d give her a dowry. It might be enough for a simple, decent life. There had to be a way!
She locked the door and went back upstairs, reliving the encounter. Reliving all their encounters. How extraordinary that they meet again after all these years by happenstance, but somehow she felt it had always been inevitable. Why else had she kept the brass button and even polished it now and then? Why else had she found reasonable offers of marriage lacking?
She returned to the drawing room to make sure the fire was safe and then went to her bedroom, where her nightgown hung before the fire. As it had at the inn. If she’d been in her bedroom earlier, he would have invaded here. Would their encounter have tumbled even further out of control? Propriety and good sense said no, but propriety and good sense seemed to be a small part of her these days and the rest of her ached with What if? What if they’d lost all restraint? It would have been glorious. What if he died and they never had? The cold, sensible parts of her mind shouted how wise it had been not to commit herself, and how she mustn’t let passion overrule them.
But it’s so much more than passion.
She walked past the bed, sliding a hand over the smooth wood of a post, to the window, where she peered out through a gap between the curtains. There were few lit windows at this hour and none not covered by curtains or shutters.
It’s love. Even apart. Even if we were apart forever, love would rule.
He had a room at the Ferry Inn, and she knew where that was, even in the dark, but she didn’t know which window and couldn’t stay staring at the building forever, as if that would protect him.
She turned away and poured lukewarm water into her china bowl, but as she did so, she offered a simple prayer. “Keep my beloved safe, dear Lord. Bring him back to me.”
Chapter 26
Mark left Tranmere the next morning by boat for Warrington. At the Nag’s Head he commented on the poster about the corpse by the road. No one seemed to have connected it to a man who’d hired a horse there, nor did he hear any suggestion that Seth Boothroyd had been there asking about Nathan. Hermione should be safe—unless Seth was still on his way. Or if Seth was going directly to Riverview House.
Mark climbed into the London coach trying to persuade himself that Solange couldn’t pos
sibly have discovered the exact address, but worry was agonizing. He prayed Hermione would set off for London today or tomorrow, because she’d been right, his clever lady. She would be safest there. As the coach rolled out into the London road, he hoped he’d arrive to the news that Solange and Isaac had already been found and jailed, and that Seth Boothroyd was with them.
At the first stage he considered leaving the coach and riding back. He could ride guard on Hermione and her party as they traveled to London. They’d travel slowly, however, with an elderly invalid, and he must make speed.
She should be safe.
“Should be” wasn’t good enough, but it had to be.
After a twenty-five-hour journey, he left the coach in London, stiff, tired, but ready to put his plans into action. He went first to Hawkinville’s house to report and get the latest news. He’d never visited the Peel Street house, but he knew the way of it. He entered by the back of a house three doors down and passed through the cellars into number 32.
Major George Hawkinville was a tall, lithe man with an appropriately hawkish face and a fierce intelligence. Though not much older than Mark, he’d been awarded a baronetcy for his organizational work during the war.
“Have you breakfasted?” he asked. “No? Then do so as we talk. We had Braydon’s report—clever, that—but I need to hear of recent events from you.”
Mark was glad enough to settle to excellent food and coffee as he told the tale, or most of it, and then asked for the latest news about Solange.
“Damn all,” Hawkinville said. “Your suggestion about chemical suppliers hasn’t borne fruit as yet, nor the one about whores. Waite’s house is watched, as are the lodgings of the other Crimson Band members, but there’s no sign of the errant three. They could be in Timbuktu.”
“Solange won’t be far from London. She’s a city woman and London is her target. Unless Paris has become possible again?”
“The French are too weary for such passions. They’ll erupt again, but not soon enough to affect this. We need you to find the damn woman before she does anything.”