by Robyn DeHart
Dougal shook his head. “No, Graeme thought it best if I stayed here in Scotland. Said England was full of judgmental blue bloods who would look down upon me because of my Scottish roots.”
“Lies, all of them. You would be readily accepted. You could dress in the finest of fashions.” He held his arm out. “Feel the fabric on my sleeve.” Dougal did as he was instructed. “Do you feel the difference, feel the luxuriousness of the silk? These are the sorts of clothes you would purchase for yourself. And warm, heavy coats so that you would never again be cold.”
The Raven watched the boy’s expression soften. The anger disappeared, and in the place of the hard lines, wistfulness filled his eyes. “Then you’d have your own fleet of carriages and drivers willing to take you anywhere you so chose,” The Raven continued. “Not to mention a bevy of servants waiting for any command you could give them.”
Dougal’s eyes glazed with dreaminess. “What of London itself? Is there much to do there?”
“More than any one person can do. There are lavish parties every night with gourmet foods and the finest of liquors. You would never have your fill,” The Raven said. “And you could have your choice of any number of beautiful women.”
Dougal’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his hands. He picked at the dirt clumped beneath his fingernails, then he folded them in his lap, out of sight.
“It could be yours, but instead, all of it belongs to your brother,” The Raven said.
“And he doesn’t appreciate it. Doesn’t even want it,” Dougal said, the anger seeping back into his voice.
“Quite true.” The Raven lit another cigar. “But your brother would have to die in order for you to inherit it, and then only if he doesn’t get his new wife pregnant with his heir.” He held out a cigar for Dougal, which the boy greedily accepted.
Dougal inhaled on his cigar, coughing a few times but managing to get things under control. He was quiet for several moments, then he nodded slowly. “You know, he used to let me help him with his research, but not anymore.” He shook his head. “Not since she came along.”
Dougal was quiet for several moments before he asked, “Do you truly believe, now that he’s married, Graeme won’t return to Scotland?”
“Chances are he won’t. They’ll be awfully busy in London. English dukes are very important, and he has his duties to Parliament. And now his wife is a duchess, and she’ll have many parties and other functions to be involved with. Not to mention the children they’ll have. Scotland is…” he let his words trail off.
“Dirty,” Dougal supplied, his jaw set at a tense angle, resentment simmering just below the surface.
The Raven shrugged. “I would never be so unkind. But it is rougher than London. Not the place for genteel ladies. It is unlikely he’ll leave her in London and travel up here. So it is quite probable that this is his last trip.”
The Raven barely suppressed his smile of satisfaction. Resentment, he could use. Resentment was as familiar and comfortable as an old friend.
“You know, I am a second son as well,” The Raven told him. “My older brother was the heir and didn’t appreciate any aspect of it. He was given every opportunity, and instead of seizing them, he simply whiled away his life, content to dangle from his wife’s apron strings.” The Raven took a sip of his tea. “Of course, I’m certain your brother is quite different from that.”
Dougal made a noncommittal sound, so The Raven continued. “Second sons never have an easy path. We aren’t given anything; nothing is handed to us. We have to create our own destiny. Have to work and scrape for the things we want. And sometimes, we have to make tough choices. Make sacrifices for the greater good.”
Dougal nodded, and then was quiet for several moments before admitting, “I wish he wouldn’t have married her.”
“Indeed. Not much you can do about her. Unless,” The Raven said, then shook his head. “No.”
“What?”
“If they weren’t married any longer, but you can’t very well do away with her, now can you?” He laughed a casual laugh to plant the seed, but not allow Dougal to know he was quite serious.
For several moments, Dougal was quiet, his mind obviously running with ideas. The Raven watched the boy intently. He couldn’t risk saying too much and having the boy run off to Graeme. The last thing The Raven needed was for the men of Solomon’s to descend upon Scotland in search of him.
The following afternoon Graeme found Vanessa in the study poring over the notes that Jensen had given him. She was clearly unrepentant about sneaking in here the other night. She glanced up, then went back to her reading, but at least she was doing so without hiding it from him.
“What did you say to him?” Vanessa asked.
Graeme crossed the room to where she sat at a reading table. He leaned against it. “To whom?”
She smiled up at him. “Your cousin.” She marked her place in the notes with her hand. “I assumed you went to confront Niall on his reckless behavior.”
“Indeed?” Graeme felt his brow rise with his surprise.
“It seemed a logical conclusion.” She shrugged. “Did you convince him he’s behaving the fool?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“I do hope he’ll be more careful. He could destroy countless fossils with his haphazard explosions.”
“Or get someone killed.” Graeme paused while she considered his words. He nodded to the notes. “Find anything of interest?”
“Not particularly. I was reading through the information on the Kingmaker again. To refresh my memory. More important, though, I was waiting for you to arrive back home so we could put that decoder to use.”
That simple word seemed to stand out among all the rest. A stab to his gut. Home. He’d always considered this house as his home, this country, these people. The pull to his Scottish heritage had always been greater, yet he spent so much more of his time in London. Vanessa, though, seemed quite comfortable no matter where she was.
He mentally shook himself. The decoder, the Stone of Destiny: that was his focus. But the business with Niall and the dynamite and then Braden and his men had pulled his attention away. He withdrew the metal decoder from his coat pocket.
The Magi’s Book of Wisdom lay on the table with the rest of the materials Vanessa had been perusing. She reached over and pulled it to her. Gently she opened the book to the inscription that required the decoder. He’d looked at the message hundreds of times. At first glance the writing appeared to be nonsensical, random letters, both Roman and Greek.
“Ready?” she asked with a smile. The enthusiasm in her expression tugged at him, drew him in. What other woman of his acquaintance would express such joy at deciphering an encoded message from a dusty old tome?
Graeme leaned over her, medallion in hand. “Hell, I’ve tried to decipher that damned message for years now.” The decoder was a metal disc comprising of three smaller discs soldered to it. Letters were engraved on each disc. All they had to do was figure out where to start it, then spin the dials until they lined up. That would reveal the code.
“It’s a basic coded inscription,” he said, “and I tried every combination of letters I could think of. But without knowing which letter corresponded with what, it was impossible to figure out.”
“It certainly didn’t help that there was a page that had been forcibly removed from the book,” she added. She stood to pace the room, her tall, willowy figure walking back and forth past him. Her wool skirt billowed as she moved, flaring slightly at her rounded hips. She was lovely.
Graeme examined the decoder once more. A symbol of a lion hovered between two of the Greek letters. They could try every possible formation with this and see if together they could decipher the message. He tried to turn the wheel, but it would not budge. “This should be able to move,” he said.
She smiled. “I thought the same thing earlier when I’d examined the thing. The wheels should spin, and once you know your starting point, you should line
up the letters to reveal the code.”
He tried again to spin each dial, but none of them would shift even slightly. “It’s as if a piece is missing.” He tapped on the center of the medallion. “Something right in here that would allow the joints to turn.”
She walked over to him, and, mimicking his earlier actions, she leaned against the desk. With determination, she picked up the book to re-examine it. Her teeth caught her bottom lip as she contemplated.
Desire surged through him. There was something about the way she stood there, holding his book, concentration furrowing her brow.
He cradled the decoder in his palm, frustrated that the damned thing wouldn’t cooperate. Hell, he’d searched for this for years, and now it didn’t even matter. It wasn’t useful.
Vanessa still stared at the book, her index finger following along as she read. There was nothing particularly seductive about her stance, yet she beckoned to him.
He moved to stand in front of her, so close their thighs touched. His mouth hovered a breath away from hers.
She looked up. He became trapped in her blue eyes. “What are you doing?” she asked. There was an innocence to her direct gaze that called to him more strongly than a thousand seductive glances.
He removed the book from her hands and placed it on the wooden chair she’d been sitting in earlier, along with the decoder. He leaned forward, and her arms fell backward until she was bracing herself on the desk. Still he was caught in her stare.
“I’m trying to read that to assist you,” she told him.
His mouth found her throat, her collarbone. He nibbled and kissed, the feel of her soft skin sultry against his tongue. Her head fell back, relishing the feel of his lips. She caught herself and tried to stand straight, pushing slightly against his chest.
“Graeme, we have work that needs to be done,” she said. “What of the decoder? Certainly we can take a closer look, see if there isn’t something we can do to fix it.”
He agreed. There was work to be done. But first he needed to have her. Needed to touch her, to love her, every last silken inch of her. With his hand, he tilted her chin up, then met her lips. Slowly he kissed her, a gentle but passionate seduction. She stopped pushing against his chest. Now her hands clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him more deeply.
It was enough encouragement for Graeme. God, he wanted her with a bone-deep need that startled him.
He left her lips, trailed kisses down the column of her throat, and bit her where her neck met her shoulder. Vanessa released a little moan, then craned her neck, giving him better exposure. He continued kissing her while his hands worked the back of her dress, one button at a time, until the fabric gaped open. Slowly, intentionally, he slid the wool down her arms.
He wanted it to rub against her skin, to increase the sensations as he undressed her. The other night when she’d come into his room, removed her dressing gown, and stood before him as God had made her, he’d responded with lust as any man would have. Tonight, though, he wanted to see her, look at her, as his wife. Memorize every line and curve of her flesh.
With the bodice at her waist, he was able to pull the dress completely off her body. Impatience ate at him, spurring his desire and fueling his urgency. Without another thought, he took her shift in his hand and pulled. The fabric gave way with a tear as he ripped it from her body. He nuzzled her close.
“I’ll buy you another,” he managed to say.
Next he pulled off her drawers until she stood before him, still pressed against the desk, in nothing but her shoes and stockings. He bent and pulled one nipple into his mouth. She didn’t have large breasts, but they fit perfectly into his hands. He cupped one, suckled the other.
Suddenly her nimble fingers were at the fastenings of his trousers, deftly unhooking them as if she removed men’s trousers all the time. The unexpected expertise was a sharp contradiction to her clumsy seduction from the other night, and he realized that, seductress or virgin, he wanted her any way he could have her.
He pushed her down onto the desk. Her loose hair spread behind her like a russet waterfall. She arched up to him, her pert breasts beckoning him.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he gritted.
He stepped out of his trousers and plunged into her. The desk was a perfect height, and with her lying back like some Grecian nymph, he pounded into her. With one hand, he cupped her right breast, flicking her nipple. With the other, he found her center and ran his thumb across it.
Her eyes widened and then fluttered closed. With every thrust, he brought her closer to release—he could see it in her abandoned expression, hear it in her labored breaths. His own climax approached, boiling inside him and threatening to explode. And then hers hit. She slammed her hands against the desk, arched upward, and whispers of “yes, yes, yes” fell from her lips.
He was lost to her then as his own release thundered through him.
Chapter Twelve
Vanessa lowered herself to her bed. She sat on the edge, the soft coverlet cushioning her, but she felt no comfort. The envelope was clasped in her hand, as yet unopened. Before she’d left Graeme’s study, he’d handed it to her. Vanessa had instantly recognized the graceful, swirling penmanship. It was a letter from Violet.
It shouldn’t come as a huge surprise considering Graeme had written to her family and told them they were married. But Vanessa had never guessed anyone would write. Least of all Violet. She must have somehow sent the post by special courier to get it here so quickly.
Vanessa released a puff of air. She could sit here all afternoon and try to imagine what the letter said, but she may as well simply read the bloody thing. With renewed fortitude, she tore open the envelope.
My dearest sister, it began. Vanessa rolled her eyes. Dearest sister, indeed! Where was that affection when Violet had been stealing Vanessa’s fiancé?
I began this letter the day after you ran away. I’ve re-written it so many times, I believe I’ve used all of Mother’s fine stationery. But now thanks to your new husband, we have your address. We were all so relieved to hear that you are safe. Mother worried so.
Vanessa set the letter down. Mother would only worry about how Vanessa’s actions would reflect upon their family. Still, Vanessa could not deny there was a hope that perhaps her mother had shown true concern for her welfare. She went back to the letter.
A mere apology seems incapable of expressing my sincere regret. But please know, dear sister, that it was never my intention to hurt you. My relationship with Jeremy started innocently enough. I had gone to him because I’d always longed for a greater understanding of what Papa had worked on. You and Victoria knew him well, but I was so young when he passed. And I’d always been curious about his research and studies, but knew Mother would never approve of my curiosity.
I went to Jeremy simply so that he could explain a few things to me. The more he explained, the more intrigued I became. Truly, I understand more than ever your desire to be a scientist, dear sister. But the more time we spent together, the more drawn to him I was. Not simply because of his charm—
Vanessa snorted. What charm? Vanessa had appreciated Jeremy for his intellectual pursuits, and he had been pleasant to look upon, but the man had no discernible charm.
—but also because of his mind and his passion for his work. The love between us developed quite rapidly and without either of us fully realizing what was occurring until it was too late. And it pains me so how you discovered us. What you must think of me, Vanessa. I do hope someday you will begin to understand and forgive me. Perhaps since you are married now, you have found the love and joy that I have found. Perhaps you now know what it is like to have your every waking thought consumed by the presence of another person. I hope you too have experienced the bliss of the true joining of souls that comes with finding the love of your life.
With all my love, Violet.
Vanessa dropped the letter onto the bed, then she stood and made her way to the opposite side of the
small room. She rubbed at her arms, a vain attempt to warm herself. Even standing so near the hearth, she felt a coldness deep inside. So Jeremy and Violet had not simply been together that one night in a fit of physical passion. No, it sounded as if they were still together and that they believed they were utterly in love.
It was bothersome, though, how Violet had gone to Jeremy looking for an explanation of her father’s work. Vanessa had studied her father’s notes for years, and she was the one that was most like him, whether or not he’d accepted that while he was alive.
Why, then, had Violet not come to her for guidance? Was she such a foreigner to her own family that they would choose a stranger over a conversation with her? If Jeremy was going to mistake himself in love with any of them, why, then, would it be Violet, whom he had to teach in the ways of research when Vanessa had already been his intellectual match? How was it possible that Vanessa had so completely misjudged both her sister and her fiancé?
Part of Vanessa wanted to pity them, that they could continue to fool themselves. Of course she certainly knew now what it was like to get lost in the passion, to have someone touch you and make the rest of the world disappear from your vision. But that was lust, purely a physical reaction. Love, though, was fleeting, and soon enough Violet would realize that.
Even now Vanessa’s skin tingled from Graeme’s lovemaking. She wondered if in these moments she looked different to people. Could they take one glance and know she had shared passion with her husband? She knew it wasn’t wrong; intercourse was a part of any marriage.
It wasn’t so much the act itself, but her reaction to it. For so many years she’d believed herself above those baser needs, believed that if given the opportunity, she could pass on something so primal as lust. That hadn’t been the truth at all. Her first taste of it, and she’d devoured the entire plate. Several times.
It wasn’t the lust per se that frightened her, but what would come next. If she could allow herself to stumble, be so susceptible to a simple touch from her husband, what more could he evoke from her? She wasn’t a believer in romantic love, but she hadn’t thought herself capable of lust, either. Was she so different from her sister?