Kate itched and burned and grieved for her impossible yearnings. Alasdair was a very dangerous man, she thought with sorrow and trepidation.
And she’d given her word to keep seeing him.
Well, she muttered as she gave her pillow a vigorous thump and turned it over to a cooler side before she laid her troubled head on it again, her word was her bond. And that was that. She’d help him, then clear out of London as soon as she decently could—in every sense of the word. She could only hope she could clear him out of her head someday.
Kate lay absolutely still in the hopes that sleep would eventually find her, because she was fairly sure she wouldn’t find it very soon herself.
Alasdair strolled home from the ball alone, head down as though in abstracted thought, body tensed, waiting for another attack. He wasn’t looking for trouble, precisely. Only looking to see if there’d be any. He could have taken a coach or walked with Leigh, but he was using himself as a lure to see if anyone was still interested in obliterating him. This time he’d be ready—and eager. The streets were empty, so there was ample opportunity, and he was giving anyone interested even more by seeming to be so lost in thought. He wasn’t entirely healed, but mostly so, the thing that hurt most now was his pride. He was a master of revenge. He’d been surprised once, and wanted a chance at reprisal.
There were streetlamps on each corner and a lantern in front of every house he passed, still, as Alasdair knew too well, it wasn’t really safe. London was a city of shadows at night no matter how wealthy the district. Streetlights and lanterns didn’t dispel the dark. Instead, they actually lent deeper shallows in which to hide. He ambled onward. He had to go more slowly than he usually did, because the damned patch on his eye gave him a one-sided look at the world. It was there for cosmetic reasons, the eye didn’t look good, though his sight was normal again. But he wanted to look unconcerned, and whipping the patch off when he left the ball would make him look too mindful of his surroundings.
He left it, and walked on. To anyone who might be watching him he looked unarmed and unaware. He was neither. But as he paced down dark streets nothing troubled him but his thoughts.
Those thoughts were of Kate. She was walking out with the likes of Fitzhugh and Markham? Alasdair scowled. Markham was rumored to have killed his wife. No one could be sure of that, but everyone in the know knew he enjoyed beating the women he bought for temporary pleasure. And Fitzhugh had a hot temper and a cold heart. Surely Kate’s cousins knew they weren’t the sort of men she should associate with. What was their game? Were they so starved for companionship they were willing to compromise their cousin for a chance at a few moments in her reflected popularity? Or was it something else? He’d have to watch that situation more carefully.
It felt strange to be worrying about someone else. Strange, but somehow right. In fact, he’d felt impelled to warn her about another danger. He’d tried to caution her about her other cousins, the Scalbys. Instead, he’d only hinted at danger and warned her away from himself. He hadn’t meant to do that. Hell, he hadn’t meant even to touch her, but she’d looked so damned touchable.
He’d seen her upturned face, her lovely body, the way she waited for him to make the next move after he’d led her down into the darkness. She’d grown as still as he had as the possibilities of their situation became clear. He’d heard muted snatches of conversation from strollers in the garden, the music from the house faint and far away. But he clearly heard Kate swallow, as she waited for him to make a move.
He’d had to touch her. He simply had to feel the texture and quality of her skin. He’d never kept such steady company with a woman he hadn’t touched. It was ridiculous to see her so often and have to keep his hands to himself. She must have thought so, too. She stayed still, her eyes wide and her breathing rapid, obviously waiting, complicit.
Her skin was cool and smooth. And so then he couldn’t resist the impulse to feel what her mouth was like. Her lips were pliant and warm, very sweet indeed. She hadn’t responded. She’d only stood there quiescent, submissive. Thank God the very artlessness of her reaction had awakened him to danger, or he’d have gone further, though he’d never meant to. If she’d responded with ardor, he’d have been lost.
Alasdair’s shoulders tightened at the thought. Passion not only muddled a man’s thinking, it destroyed his ability to react to his surroundings. It was dangerous, it distracted a man, distraction disarmed him, and that could kill him. Fortunately his passions never overwhelmed him, because he never gave himself over completely, always reserving a part of his mind, always aware of where and who he was. Desire had always been a simple urge for him to satisfy, like being thirsty and taking a glass of water. He’d see an attractive woman, and react to her. She’d let him know by word or gesture if she was available. That was that.
His reaction to Kate tonight was different. It was swift, unexpected, irresistible. He’d found her attractive when he’d first seen her, but he hadn’t felt an overwhelming spike of lust. He’d never have enlisted her help if he had. Alasdair smiled grimly. He would have. He’d have enlisted the Devil himself if it got him closer to his foremost desire in life. If she’d been of easy virtue he’d have used that to his benefit, too. But she wasn’t, she was respectable. He’d accepted that, and thought that in enlisting her help he was safe from any entanglements.
Instead, he found her more alluring every time he saw her. He liked her, had come to know her, and liked her even more. And wanted more, though he hadn’t thought of acting on it. Until tonight.
That was so untrue that he frowned fiercely. Things had come to a pretty pass if he was beginning to deceive himself. He’d been thinking about doing more for some time. Contemplating how good it would be to make love to a woman he liked. How nice to wake with one he still desired the next morning, and then make slow tender love again by the light of day so he could see as well as hear every breath of pleasure he gave her.
Nice? Good? Tender? Alasdair shook his head. Those words had never stirred his desires before. But Kate had. She’d done it to the point that he’d reacted without thinking. It startled him. And interested her. He was sure of it.
He wanted her, and that wasn’t something he’d anticipated. He’d given his word not to harm her, and an affair certainly would do that. He smiled at his folly. An affair would likely be the last thing he’d get from Miss Kate Corbet—in every meaning of the word. Even if he’d given in to his inconvenient desire and had taken her in his arms to discover more, she’d have been upset and remorseful the moment she stepped out of his embrace. One didn’t have affairs with women like her, one married them. Only this one man couldn’t do that until his mission had been accomplished.
But it almost was, wasn’t it?
Well, well, well, Alasdair thought, his steps slowing as he was struck with the notion. Once his lifelong mission was done, what better thing than to start a new life with a wife at his side? His reputation was tarnished, not utterly eroded. It was the plan he’d spelled out to her, he really hadn’t lied to her about that. He was redeemable. And she was…
Alarm shot through his brain, his shoulders leapt. A streetlight was behind him and he saw a wavering shadow thrown in front of him—a shadow carrying a long stick.
Alasdair spun around, the pistol he’d kept in his pocket now in his hand, pointed straight at…an old man in baggy clothing. Who gasped when he saw the pistol, clapped a hand to his heart, and gave off a terrible loud clang that startled them both.
A clang? Alasdair froze. Stared. He was trained not to fire without thinking. That was a lucky thing. Now he saw that the poor old fellow carried a huge cowbell in one hand, the hand that he’d struck his chest with. He held a long truncheon in the other, which shook as he stared wide-eyed at Alasdair and his pistol.
“I ain’t harming you, sir,” he cried, throwing both hands up in the air. Alasdair winced at another loud clash of the bell. The old man dropped it and the truncheon. “I was just about to give you a good
evenin’, ’tis all,” he cried. “I vow ’tis so.”
Alasdair recognized him. The Watch. He’d seldom seen him off his high stool in the watchman’s box on the corner.
Alasdair straightened, the pistol disappeared under his jacket again. “I wonder which of us frightened the other more,” he said ruefully. “I heard your footfalls and thought you were about to attack me.” But it was clear the only thing the old man had that could attack anything in any fashion was his heart.
The Watch, seeing that Alasdair wasn’t going to shoot him, bent and picked up his bell and stick with unsteady hands. “A fellow was attacked hereabouts t’other week, and I bin keepin’ a sharp eye. I was goin’ to tell ye to do the same.” He squinted. “Why, ’tis you, sir! How are you keepin’? No permanent injury, is there?”
“None,” Alasdair said. “I sent a small token of my appreciation round to you for frightening away the villains the other day. Did you get it?”
“I did, sir, and I thanks you.”
“No, I thank you. Have you seen any men loitering here tonight?”
“Nah. Not since the crime, sir. And I bin watchin’! Close.”
Since it was all the old man could do, Alasdair nodded sagely.
“I carries a bell now ’cause some young rascals stole my rattle t’other night,” he told Alasdair with some grievance. “How else am I gonna alert the populace?”
“Good point,” Alasdair said, noticing that the populace hadn’t poked one head out any door this time in spite of all the clangs and clattering. “That’s the sort of thing that makes me sleep better at night. Carry on.”
The Watch put a shaky finger to his forehead in a salute, bowed, and scuttled back to the safety of his box. Which would only be safe if some young bucks didn’t come along and tip it over while he was sleeping. They always thought that was particularly hilarious because they were usually too drunk to see how vicious it was. At least Alasdair hoped so. He’d done violence in his time, too. But always for good reason.
He strode on, not as interested in mayhem as he’d been moments before. The incident had unsettled him, and now he felt strangely empty and cold.
It took another street for him to understand why he felt quite so empty. He’d stopped thinking of her. She’d glowed in his mind like an ember, warming him to the remnants of his soul, dangerously diverting him by utterly occupying his thoughts. That was why he felt so bereft. But that was easily remedied, he thought with a smile. Now he could at least plan on more than he’d imagined.
That would have to be later.
For now, he was anxious to be home. He walked faster, keeping alert. And so he saw a glimpse of a shadow that couldn’t be cast from a bough of a tree in the wind or a cat slinking by. It was the size of a boy or a small man, and quickly dipped and disappeared back into the darkness as he looked at it.
Alasdair felt a shiver of expectation, a jolt of exhilaration. So, he was being followed. He doubted there’d be any attack. Whoever it was had surely seen he was fully prepared, and was probably wondering what other preparations he’d taken. And he was almost at his own door. He walked on, signaling his intent to his unseen footman, who, on his orders, had also been keeping silent pace with him in the shadows all the way home from the ball.
His footman opened his door for him when they arrived at his house. “I saw the Watch coming toward you, sir. But he wasn’t dangerous, and you said as to how I shouldn’t reveal myself unless you were in danger,” the big young man said as soon as the door closed behind them. “Did I do right?”
“You did,” Alasdair said. “Did you happen to see who was shadowing me?”
“Sorry, sir. He was too quick for me, but I think it was a lad. There’s one who watches the back entrance most nights. It could have been him. We didn’t do anything, because you’d told us to only watch. But if you want…?
“I do not. Continue merely to watch him,” Alasdair said. “How else can we be sure of where he is? Thank you, Paris, that will be all for tonight.”
When the footman left, Alasdair went to his study to pour himself a glass of brandy in silent celebration. His body was weary, but his mind was racing. He was exuberant, and very pleased.
Love was now possible, and that was a small miracle, but it could wait. If it was there at all, it would have to wait its turn.
For now, the important thing was that his plan was working, and the game was still on.
16
Alasdair studied the fading bruise under his eye, in the mirror. Unattractive, he decided, but no longer terrifying to small children and sensitive young women. Or so he hoped. At least now he could leave the damned patch off. Both eyes were clear at last and matched in size again. The rest of his face still showed evidence of battering, but looked much better than it had a week before. At least now when people stared at him he’d know they were gawking at him, not his wounds, and maybe that look of pity would vanish from Kate’s eyes. A man wanted a woman to look at him many ways, but not in sympathy. At least not this man, and that woman.
He smiled with anticipation. He was going to an art exhibition today. He frowned. He was pleased to be going to an art exhibition? He shook his head. But it would be amusing, because he’d be with Kate.
He inspected his jacket, his linen, his trousers, his hair, his fingernails. All immaculate. As he, himself, was not. But if skin could heal without scarring, he reflected, if human tissue could mend itself so nicely, surely then, a man’s past could also slowly vanish…. No. It could not. But his outlook on life could be mended. His future could be cleaner, purer, better, so he could get on with his life, if he seriously wanted to.
Alasdair seriously wanted to—with Kate.
He hesitated, meeting his own sober gaze in the glass. Was it really Kate he wanted? He had to be sure before he committed himself to something so profound as marriage, because that was the only future he could have with her. Was Kate the one woman he wanted for life, for wife, friend, companion, and lover? Was she the one he wanted to give his life and word to, and then never have another? Or could it simply be that he hadn’t associated with decent women for so long he’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to deal with a female as an equal?
Could there be other women who…
He smiled. Nonsense. It was Kate, he was sure of it. She was unique. She’d none of the practiced lures of the elegant women he’d met, and none of the coarseness he’d found in women who were not ladies. She had more than manners and education, charm and allure. Because, strangely, honest and pure as she was, still she matched him in some weird way. She awakened something long hidden in him. Something he’d once been. Whatever that was, he was the best he could be in her company. He found he liked that man, wanted to know him better, and be him all the time.
All for you, then, is it? he asked himself wryly.
Yes. And no. He wanted only the best for her, too.
How quickly she’d captured him…
He turned from the mirror. How quickly he’d have to move now to get on with the future. He hadn’t counted on that. He’d been dragging his revenge out for maximum excitement. Now he realized he’d done it partly because he’d no idea of how to live his life without his omnipresent goal. Now he did. And so now he had to finish it, end the past, and start the far more exciting future life with Kate promised him.
Of course, other plans had to change, too. The grand denunciation scene he’d been playing over in his mind since he’d met Kate would have to be rewritten. Yes, the Scalbys had to be disgraced, but now not in public. Certainly not in front of Kate. He’d planned to call on them and let them see their denouement in her eyes as well as his own. Now that idea was impossible. It would hurt Kate. It would make him look bad in her eyes. And she might find out more than he wanted her to know.
She hadn’t seen the Scalbys in years, and it was best that she never saw them again. Better that they learned they were through and crept out of town without her ever knowing—or meeting with them. It wou
ldn’t be as dramatic, not half so satisfying for him; it wasn’t the delightful scenario that had comforted him through countless nights. But it was one that wouldn’t haunt her, so it would have to do. He was surprised to discover that though he disliked giving up the ultimate revenge, he could live with it. Because the Scalbys still couldn’t.
Since the thing was nearly done, it was time for it to be entirely done. He’d set events in motion.
But as for today? Today he was going to an art exhibition. It was a fine day. Soon he’d be wandering around a stuffy studio in the center of London, crowded in with a bunch of fatuous people making inane comments about inferior paintings. Wonderful, he thought, and strode away so he could call on Kate, and do it.
“Gone?” Alasdair asked. “Where?”
“I thought you knew,” Lady Swanson said. “The truth is that I was vexed with you, Sir Alasdair, for sending a hackney carriage for her and not calling in person to take her to the exhibition yourself. But Kate said you might be feeling ill after all your recent trials and so we oughtn’t stand on ceremony. The messenger said she was to go in the coach and Sibyl should wait, because Lord Leigh would come for her on his own, and so he did, a half hour later, and now they’ve gone, too.” Her eyes grew wide when she saw his expression. Her voice shook as the idea occurred to her too. “That wasn’t your messenger?…or your coach?”
“Or my message,” Alasdair said grimly. He looked around the salon. Chloe, Frances, and Henrietta Swanson were there, standing strangely still. Their faces showed excitement, not concern. That could be because of who they were and not what they’d done. Or it could not. Alasdair grew deathly still, though the blood beat loudly in his ears. He had to think clearly and carefully now. “But a maid was with her?”
“Of course,” Lady Swanson said, “We are not lost to the proprieties.”
“Neither am I,” Alasdair snapped. “You might have done better to trust me on that score, madam. I wouldn’t treat her so shabbily. My reputation may be dark, but I’ve never been said to lack manners.” He brushed off stammered apologies. “That doesn’t matter now. I’ll go to the art gallery. If she’s not there, I’ll be back immediately. Don’t leave this house, any of you,” he said over his shoulder, because he was already on his way out.
Edith Layton Page 19