My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Kit.”

  “Don’t worry, Father Abbot. I’d as soon not incur my bride’s wrath by spilling another’s blood today,” Kit said with a grim smile and left, heading into the chapel.

  Inside it was cool and dark, the smell of incense still hanging subtle and smoky in the air. It took a second for his eyes to adjust and—

  —the point of the épée pressed lightly against the side of his throat.

  “And here they’d told me you’d become a soldier,” a once familiar voice drawled. “God help the country if this is the best—”

  Kit sidestepped, ducking his head and lifting his elbow at the same time, knocking the small sword away as he moved in closer. Within a split second the small sword was back at his throat, but this time his own dagger’s point was pressed hard against his antagonist’s belly.

  “Touché,” Ramsey Munro said softly, his brilliant blue eyes glittering.

  “You look bad, Ram,” Kit said conversationally. “Worn out.”

  Ramsey shrugged apologetically. “I fear you are right, Kit me lad. But you look blooming with health. Must be the bride’s influence. Bonny girl there. My blessings on the union.”

  “Does that mean you don’t intend to try to kill me?”

  One of Ram’s black wing-shaped brows rose. “Well, now, that would depend on whether you were trying to kill me. It’s a miserable life, I confess, but mine own.” He smiled with the same urbane suavity he’d possessed even as a lad.

  Slowly, Kit withdrew the tip of his dagger from pricking Ram’s stomach. Just as slowly, Ram dropped the tip of his épée.

  “Tell me, Ram. I won’t kill you if you did, for the love I bore you as a lad and for the love I know you once bore me. But I need to know, did you betray us to the French?”

  Ram cocked his head. In the shadowed confines of the chapel his face looked unworldly beautiful, like a weary warrior saint. “No.”

  “Good.” Kit tucked his dagger away.

  “I suppose this means that you too are blameless.”

  Kit snorted. “Hardly, but of that particular sin I am innocent.”

  “Then that means—”

  “Dand.”

  “Or Toussaint.”

  Ram nodded thoughtfully.

  “Kate and I board a packet out of Portsmouth next week. By month’s end I will be on the continent with my new command. I don’t have time to go looking further for answers.”

  “I have the time.” Ram smiled. For a long minute the two men met each other’s gaze. Whatever they saw there pleased them both.

  “If you should ever need me…” Kit said gruffly. “You know how to contact me?”

  “Aye.” Ram smiled suddenly, and his face softened, and he was once more recognizable as the brother of Kit’s youth. “I missed you, Kit.”

  “And I you.”

  “So much for sentiment. Now, you’d best get back to your bonny bride, Kit MacNeill,” Ram said, “before she finds a better man.”

  Kit grinned. “Luckily all the men at St. Bride’s are sworn to a life of celibacy.”

  “Not all the men,” Ram said. “Luckily for you I have a penchant for the fair maidens.”

  “Luckily for you,” Kit corrected him smoothly.

  With a laugh, Ramsey Munro disappeared back into the shadows.

  The monks had turned the small shed at the back of the rose garden into a bridal bower. Thin, gauzy curtains of linen hung across the front opening, wafting in the gentle drafts. The interior had been cleared of everything but a soft, down mattress set upon the tiled floor, piled high with plump pillows and fitted with sheets of brilliant sun-bleached linens. A single table stood beside this, set with a pitcher, two goblets, and a platter heaped with wrinkled brown pears brought up from the cellar.

  The last rays of the late afternoon sun turned the glass roof overhead into a prism, spangling the greenery around them with myriad colored lights. The scent of living things, green and rich and loamy, mingled with the fragrance of clove, cinnamon, and other exotic spices mulling the warm wine in the silver pitcher.

  “No bride has ever been so well fêted,” Kate murmured happily. Her sisters had been led to the guests’ apartments on the other side of the abbey and she was alone with her husband. Finally alone. After nearly a month. She felt a little thrill of apprehension—but it was not unpleasant.

  “I could fete you in more elaborate surroundings,” Kit said. “We could afford a castle if you wanted.”

  The star map had proved authentic. As soon as Kit had mended well enough to ride, they had followed the map miles up the coast to a place where a monolithic rock stood sentry some distance out in the churning surf. There, in a hollowed out watery grotto, they had found the French treasure. Even after turning it over to the marquis—who acted as magistrate for the area—the finder’s portion had been a fortune. They were rich.

  But then, Kate thought, she had been rich before they’d found the treasure. Behind her, she felt Kit move closer. His hand looped around her waist, and he drew her back against his muscular chest. Aye, she was a veritable queen if riches were counted by the fortunes of the heart.

  “I thought this last week would kill me for want of being with you,” Kit whispered in her ear. His breath was warm, his voice like honey. “Of wanting you.”

  Her heart tripped into a faster beat as he nibbled her earlobe. “Not for want of loving me?” she asked, knowing the answer full-well but wanting to hear the words.

  With exquisite care he curled his broad hand around her neck, and tipped her chin up with his thumb, tilting her head back against his shoulder. He looking deeply down into her eyes. The look in his own silvery green eyes took her breath away. She could hardly concentrate; his gaze was so avid, his feelings for her so naked.

  “Do you want words? Or will you let me show you?” he whispered urgently, pulling her slowly around, his lips seeking hers.

  “Both,” she answered breathlessly.

  “As you wish, ma’am.” And he obliged.

  And obliged.