Andrea Kane

by Music Box

  “Ummm.” Gaby hadn’t the strength to open her eyes. She merely smiled, snuggling against her husband’s chest and pressing her body close to his.

  She winced at the resulting discomfort.

  “Dammit.” Bryce began to ease away, but Gaby would have none of it.

  She caught at his arms, her eyes flying open as she shook her head. “Stay inside me. Please.”

  “I’m hurting you. I already hurt you. God, I lost every shred of sanity and reason I possess.”

  “In that case I hope you never regain either.” Raising her chin, Gaby gave Bryce a melting smile. “What just happened between us was like touching heaven.”

  The harsh lines on Bryce’s face softened. “That isn’t surprising. Because heaven is what I’m holding in my arms.” He kissed her with aching tenderness, a soft, reverent caress that whispered through Gaby like a summer breeze.

  “Was it the Wonderland you expected?” she breathed against his mouth.

  “Not even close.” Another, deeper kiss. “Wonderland pales in comparison.”

  “I’m glad.”

  As if remembering something crucial, Bryce drew back, frowning as he touched the fading bruise on Gaby’s forehead. “Damn. I could have made this worse. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “You weren’t. Nor was I.” Gaby caressed her husband’s clenched jaw. “Stop berating yourself. I forgot all about my wound.”

  His anxious gaze searched hers. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m euphoric.” Gaby twined her arms about his neck. “In every way. It’s as if my body is singing. And there’s no pain—not in my head, not anywhere,” she added meaningfully. “You made our first joining perfect, everything a bride could wish for.”

  “I hurt you.”

  “I scarcely felt a twinge. You made sure of that. What I did feel was …” She broke off, searching for a way to describe the sensations she’d just experienced, and finding none. “There are no words,” she whispered, awe reflected in her eyes. “None but these: I love you, Bryce.”

  Emotion darkened his gaze to a deep forest green, and he gathered her closer, enfolded her against his heart. “Not nearly as much as I love you.”

  They lay like that for a timeless time, their bodies joined, their hearts beating as one. At last—and amid Gaby’s protests—Bryce disengaged himself from her clinging warmth, but only to cross over and pour some water into a basin, dampen a towel and bring it back to the bed. That done, he eased Gaby’s legs apart, cleansing away the evidence of her lost virginity, then gently stroked the towel between her thighs, soothing away the minor aches caused by their lovemaking.

  “Better?” he murmured.

  “Ummm … yes.” Gaby sighed, her entire body glowing from his tender ministrations.

  Seeing the slumberous look in her eyes, Bryce tossed aside the cloth, peeled back the bedcovers, and settled Gaby and himself beneath them, her body curved into his. “Would you like to sleep?” he asked.

  She glanced at the window, saw the last filaments of daylight still drizzling through, and shook her head. “It’s not even dark yet. Why would I sleep?”

  Bryce chuckled. “Some people rest during the day as well,” he informed her, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. “In fact, most people need more than your scant four hours of slumber each night.”

  “Then I pity them. Sleep is such a waste of time.” Gaby stretched like a contented kitten. “There are so many inspiring things to do that are precluded by long hours abed.” Her eyes glinted mischievously. “Then again, I might reform now that I’m wed.” She pressed closer—and was rewarded by Bryce’s sharp intake of breath, his already aroused manhood surging against her. “In fact I’m certain of it. The bedroom is looking infinitely more alluring as of today.”

  “Is it?” Bryce pulled her over him, drew her mouth down to his.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed, shivering as Bryce’s hands began to work their magic. “More alluring by the minute.”

  They made love for endless hours—exquisite, passion-drenched hours—until dusk was transformed, first to evening, then to night. Gaby’s senses shimmered with the wonders Bryce introduced her to—wonders that seemed as astonishing to him as they did to her.

  She didn’t need to ask why. This was as much Bryce’s night of discovery as it was hers.

  Sometime before dawn, Bryce cradled her against him, threaded his fingers through her tangled mane of hair, and softly said, “Now you really must sleep. You’re still recovering from a concussion.”

  With a resigned sigh, Gaby nestled against Bryce’s chest. “I know. Well, at least now I have some beautiful memories to dream about—and many more to make.”

  Bryce smiled against her hair. “Your music box is at Nevon Manor. Shall I hum ‘Für Elise’ for you?”

  “There’s no need,” Gaby replied solemnly. “As I told you once before, with you here, I need no music box. I’ve simply traded one melody for another.”

  Her husband’s smile vanished, and his voice grew husky. “You, my love, are all exquisite melodies combined. You fill my life and my heart with music. You’re my symphony, and I love you.” He paused, and Gaby could actually sense his mood alter, feel his thoughts shift back to the ugly realities that today’s joys had held at bay.

  His next words confirmed it.

  “Gaby, these past few nights you’ve taken laudanum for the pain. Tonight is your first night without it.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “I realize that, and I’m thankful. But I want you to realize it was the laudanum that induced your uncommonly prolonged hours of sleep—the kind of drugged sleep that bars any chance of sleepwalking. Tonight that benefit will be absent.” Bryce tipped up her chin. “I’m not trying to frighten you. Quite the opposite. I’m trying to remind you that from this moment on, I’ll be beside you. Every night. All night. If you so much as stir, I’ll feel it. You’re not going anywhere. What’s more, nothing will ever hurt you again. I intend to see to that.”

  “I know.” Gaby swallowed, a knot of apprehension gripping her stomach. “And I’m not afraid of the sleepwalking—or of anything else—when I’m with you. But, Bryce, we both know this is no longer a matter of simply protecting me from a painful memory. What I overheard as a child was a murderer, someone who—it’s becoming increasingly likely— killed Dowell. It’s also likely that the same man murdered Mr. Delmore and tried to kill me. So hiding me away is not the answer. We need to find this savage, find him and see him punished for his crimes, before he can hurt anyone else. And it’s obvious I’m the key to his identity, if only I could remember everything I overheard. So, yes, I’m afraid—not of being hurt but of the unknown. I’m also frustrated, because it’s clear that I’m getting close. Why else would he have risked his neck by coming after me, in the open, at Nevon Manor?”

  “Sweetheart, don’t.” Bryce tightened his embrace as if by doing so he could ward off all the evil Gaby was describing.

  She shuddered, squeezed her eyes shut. “What happened the other day—it was like reliving my most terrifying nightmare. Not the assault, but seeing those flames, feeling trapped—and breathing that unforgettable musky smell. That deceptively sweet smell of death—I recognized it at once, knew I was amid a fire even as I lost consciousness. I inhaled, and I knew.”

  In the midst of sifting strands of her hair through his fingers, Bryce paused. “You recognized it before you lost consciousness? That makes no sense. Whoever attacked you didn’t start the fire until after he’d moved you and trapped your leg in the opening to Crumpet’s warren. So you couldn’t have smelled the flames as you fell. Your memory must be fuzzy on that point.” Bryce frowned, reconsidering. “On the other hand, now that I think about it, you described the events in that same order just after the incident occurred. You said that all you remembered was the masked figure who struck you and the sickening, musky smell of death—until you awakened amid the fire. I didn’t ponder the order of events then, but now
… I wonder.”

  Twisting about, Gaby gazed up at her husband. “Do you think it means something?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bryce replied thoughtfully. “But none of your memories have been inaccurate thus far. So my instincts say we shouldn’t ignore what your mind is telling you. And if you’re right, and if the timing of that smell does reveal something about the fire, we’ll figure out what it is. I promise you, we will.”

  With that, he kissed the worried pucker between Gaby’s brows, settled her against him. “But not now. Now I want you to rest, at least for a few hours.” She felt him smile against her hair. “After which you may awaken me in whatever manner you choose.”

  His teasing words had their desired effect, and Gaby relaxed in her husband’s arms. “In whatever manner I choose? Ah, the possibilities you’ve taught me tonight.” Her eyes widened as a new and wondrous prospect struck—one that eclipsed every iota of ugliness from view. “Bryce …” Her palm strayed to her abdomen. “Do you realize that at this very moment I could be carrying our child? Or, if not, that I could conceive any time from this day on?”

  Bryce’s smile vanished, and his voice, when he spoke, was rough with emotion. “Yes, darling, I realize that. And it enthralls me almost as much as it humbles me.”

  Tears filled Gaby’s eyes, and she reached up, drew his mouth down to hers. “I want to give you a child,” she whispered. “I want that so much.”

  “Gaby …” Bryce’s arms trembled as they brought her against him.

  “What’s more,” she confessed breathlessly. “I don’t want our wedding night to end.”

  “Nor do I.” He rolled her onto her back, raising her arms above her head, interlacing their fingers as he covered her body with his. “And I did promise to make it last, didn’t I?”

  Gaby’s nod was solemn. “Yes, you did.”

  With that, the notion of sleep was forgotten.

  Chapter 17

  “THAT WAS BREATHTAKING!ˮ

  A full twenty minutes after leaving the concert hall, Gaby was still enchanted, her blue eyes bright with wonder as Bryce steered their carriage toward his town house. “Oh, Bryce, even my most vivid dreams couldn’t conjure up the exquisite blending of sounds, the richness, the emotion …” She turned her glowing face toward his. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  Bryce pressed her head to his shoulder. “Watching your face was all the thanks I need. It was like watching a child at her first Christmas.” He kissed Gaby’s shining crown of hair. “Just as the music surpassed your wildest expectations, so did your reaction surpass mine.”

  “I’ve never felt more alive, more exhilarated …” She broke off, tossing him a mischievous grin. “At least not during occasions where I’m clothed.”

  A husky chuckle. “Which you haven’t been for almost three days, except during our drive to London. I’ve kept you abed nearly every breathing instant.”

  “I’ve attempted sleepwalking only twice in all that time,” she pointed out.

  “You’ve slept only twice in all that time.”

  “Ummm, that’s true.” Gaby smiled dreamily, even the sleepwalking and all its ramifications unable to dim the pleasure of the past three days.

  While awaiting Banks’s summons, they’d taken full advantage of their time alone, spending long, lazy hours in Bryce’s bed, talking, laughing, and of course exploring au the dazzling nuances of passion in each other’s arms. Tonight had been their first venture out, and Gaby had been so enthralled by the music and its splendor that it had nearly driven away the anxiety she experienced over making her initial appearance into Bryce’s glittering world. But the episode hadn’t been nearly as frightening as she’d expected. The people had been cordial, even welcoming. By the end of the evening she’d grown quite accustomed to the introductions, the polite how-do-you-do’s. Why, she’d even survived the awkward meeting with Lucinda Talbot and her newest escort during the concert’s brief intermission.

  “She’s lovely,” Gaby had whispered to Bryce the instant they were alone. “And extremely gracious, given the circumstances.”

  Bryce had shrugged. “That’s Lucinda, always gracious.” He’d taken Gaby’s hand in his. “Thank you for making the situation bearable. You were warm and charming—your usual exuberant self.”

  “I can afford to be,” she replied with her customary candor. “I have you.” A twinkle. “However, if you’d actually taken her to any of those private spots I questioned you about, my behavior would have been far less courteous.”

  “Speaking of those private spots”—Bryce’s fingers had tightened about hers—“the instant we leave here, we’re returning to my bed. It’s been hours.”

  Gaby’s heart had thumped wildly. “Definitely.” She stepped closer, murmuring in a voice only Bryce could hear, “I’m glad we’re moving to your room at Nevon Manor. It’s not only larger than mine, but farther away from the other wings and from Aunt Hermione’s room.” The look she gave him was sheer seduction. “I’m not very good at staying quiet.”

  “I’ll swallow your cries of pleasure with my mouth,” Bryce vowed huskily.

  “And yours?”

  He sucked in his breath. “You’ll do the same.”

  “That’s not always possible,” Gaby reminded him, her forefinger tracing a line down the front of his waistcoat. “Sometimes our mouths are otherwise—”

  “That did it.” Bryce had drawn her closer, kissed her then and there, in front of anyone who happened to be watching.

  All in all, the evening had been perfect.

  Gaby’s smile vanished as they approached Bryce’s house and saw the messenger sitting patiently on the doorstep.

  “Bryce?” She sat up straighter, peering around to study the man. “Do you think Mr. Banks sent him?”

  Bryce, too, had seen the messenger, and his entire demeanor changed. “I assume so,” he answered, bringing the horses to a stop. “Let’s find out.”

  Sure enough, the message was indeed from Banks, informing Bryce that he’d spent the entire week poring over old files and had, at last, uncovered all the papers in William’s possession that pertained to the late Duke of Whitshire’s yacht.

  Bryce sent a return message, thanking Banks and saying he’d be at his office the next morning at nine o’clock sharp.

  The clock in Banks’s office was chiming nine when his clerk ushered Bryce and Gaby in.

  “Bryce.” Banks greeted his colleague with a bit more energy than he had the last time, although his eyes were bleak, puffy from lack of sleep. “I just heard about your marriage.” He smiled in Gaby’s direction. “Congratulations. I see now why Hertford held so much appeal.”

  “Frederick, this is my wife, Gabrielle. Gaby—Frederick Banks.”

  “A pleasure,” Banks said, half bowing.

  “I’m happy to meet you, sir,” Gaby replied. “And I’m terribly sorry about Mr. Delmore. Bryce told me how many years you two had been partners. I’m sure this is very difficult for you.”

  “It is. Thank you for your sympathy.” Banks turned to Bryce. “I won’t keep you long, since you’ve been married a scant few days. But I knew how eager you were to have those papers.” He offered Bryce an envelope. “In there you’ll find the original title to the yacht, along with the letter that accompanied it when Whitshire forwarded the title to William several months ago. Both those papers are authentic. The title was signed by the builder, conveying the yacht to Whitshire, and the letter of correspondence was penned by Averley, Whitshire’s steward, since the duke was on his deathbed. As I suspected, both those pages were in William’s desk.”

  “And the other, older documents you mentioned?”

  “That was the tedious part. I had a great deal of searching to do, years of old files to pore over. And I wanted to be thorough, to make sure I found every pertinent letter or document that might aid your investigation. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. The only other papers I came upon were letters between Whitshire’s steward
and the builder who constructed the yacht.” A questioning look. “That was what you wanted, anyway, wasn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” Bryce tore open the envelope, scanning the pages within, his jaw tightening fractionally. “Robert Smythe. Is that the builder’s name?”

  “Yes. He was an established fellow, well past middle years. He retired about eighteen months ago, turned the business over to his sons.”

  Bryce tensed. “But he’s still alive, and in England, I hope.”

  “The answer to both questions is yes.” Banks pointed at the envelope. “I thought you might want to talk to Smythe. As luck would have it, he lives in a little cottage right in Hertford. The address is written on a slip of paper behind the correspondence. I verified it and, at the same time, requested Smythe’s permission to give it to you. He had no trouble saying yes.”

  “We’ll go there immediately. Frederick, I appreciate this more than I can say.” Bryce clasped the older man’s hand.

  “You can show your thanks by determining who killed William,” Banks replied. “The police still have no clues and no suspect. So if there’s any merit to your theory that William’s business at Whitshire and his death are somehow connected, find out what that connection is. And then find out who killed him.”

  “I intend to.” Bryce caught Gaby’s arm, headed toward the door.

  “Again, the best of luck to you both,” Banks repeated. “I hope this investigation doesn’t detract from the joy of your new marriage. I wish you great happiness.”

  “Thank you.” Bryce guided Gaby through the doorway, his entire body whip-taut. “I’ll let you know the instant I learn anything.”

  In the waiting area he stopped, intently examining the letters still peeking out of the envelope.

  “Bryce?” Gaby murmured. “What is it?”

  “The date on these letters. And the one on the deed.” He shoved all the documents back inside, facing Gaby with a purposeful expression. “Whitshire’s yacht was built in March 1862.”