When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  “I heard Father Vickers. My husband was killed there, Sir James. I am very aware of the dangers to be found. You’ll note, however, that it is a particularly sad kind of woman who is being killed. I hardly fit the description. Though my brother might have accrued some debts, my type of female is not the one being slain.”

  “Your ‘type of female,’ as you label yourself, is not usually to be found walking the streets of the East End. The point is, your carelessness can make you a victim.”

  “I can’t turn into a hothouse flower,” she said.

  “Perhaps for just a while. Besides the obvious, as I said, typhoid and other fevers plague the area as well. Think of it this way. You could return to the house with a wretched flu that might not do too much to you, but would kill Charles.”

  Her lashes fell. He realized that she had not considered such a possibility.

  “I must hail a cab,” she said. Her chin rose and she met his gaze again. “I am grateful that you were there. You did save our lives.”

  “That was certainly my pleasure. We don’t need a cab. We’ve Newton.”

  She glanced at the horse, flushing. “Riding astride in a dress is hardly very proper.”

  “A little late to think of that now, eh? Look, I can’t leave the horse, and I don’t wish to leave you until I see you safely home. I’ve already had quite a fantastic view of petticoats and ruffles.”

  She swallowed silently, not looking away.

  “Turn about.”

  She did so. He spanned his hands around her waist once again, wincing as he felt the temptation to hold tight, and just remain as he was. He lifted her, and her skirts swung once again. He leapt up behind her. His chest to her back. The warmth . . . the vibrance. . .

  The veil in his nose.

  “This has to go!” he said, and pulling the hat and wig from her head, he tossed both to the breeze.

  “Wait!” she cried. “I need—”

  “In light of this evening, I think you owe me at least the pretense that you’ll not be about such business again!” he said.

  The veil was gone. Now all that teased his face was a whisper of her own glimmering hair, the scent of it, sweet and clean. And once again, his arms around her, he felt it the most natural thing in the world, and it would be more natural still to pull her back into his embrace, run his hands down the length of her arms . . .

  “Time to move on, Newton!” he said, nudging the horse.

  The ride took perhaps ten minutes. He kept to the back roads as they headed for Mayfair. He was anxious that they should get there quickly, yet everything in him wanted the ride to go on forever. She angered him, infuriated him, and played at being a fool. Dangerously so. But he was aware now as to just why he so often felt such wrath rising in her direction. He had wanted her, yes. Few living, breathing men could not look at such a stunning woman and not feel a rise of desire. But there was more—that fire he had known from the beginning, and now, the fierce pride in her heart, the passion for what she believed in, the conviction of purpose that would make her so determined on a marriage with a man three times her age.

  At her house, he dismounted quickly. “You should go in. Your brother will be home soon.” He reached up for her, glad to span her waist with his hands once again, and certainly not so pure of heart and mind that he didn’t relish the moment when she slid against his body to reach the ground.

  She gripped his upper arms for a moment, gathering her balance to stand on her own.

  Their eyes met. “Have you . . . been spying on Justin, too?” she asked.

  He thought she sounded a bit breathless.

  He shook his head. “I happened to run into him.”

  She nodded, stepping back. “Thank you, again. You are quite resourceful, actually.”

  He swept her a deep bow. “I do my best. And yet, I fear, with you, I may not always be resourceful enough.” His tone became serious. “Quite seriously, you might well give my uncle heart failure, you know.”

  She seemed to stiffen. “The wedding is but days away, now.”

  “You really must consider your position as the wife of such a man.”

  She sighed deeply. “I swear to you, I have found him to be an exceptional man, noble in his words, thoughts, actions, as well as title and appearance. I mean to be absolutely loyal, and do everything in my power at all times to insure his happiness and good health.”

  He nodded. “Good night, my lady.”

  “Good night, Sir James.”

  And yet neither moved, and the distance between them might not have been, for he felt her heat and the burning energy and passion that were so much a part of her. Wild imaginings flooded through him; he pictured a world in which his uncle did not exist, in which they were just two people who had met, who had felt that burst of electricity in just a moment when their eyes had first met. He saw a mist of silver in which he was free to draw her into his arms, ravage and explore with the passion of his kiss, send clothing scattering to the winds of time, and sink into clouds of floating wonder where naked flesh burst into a glory of sensuality, touch and taste....

  “Good night,” she said again, and there was a strange and desperate sound to it.

  Silver clouds evaporated.

  She turned and started up the walk.

  * * *

  They would pay!

  Crouched in an alley, his shoulder bleeding, the man who called himself Adrian Alexander kept himself from passing out again by concentrating with a fervor on the extent of his wrath.

  The three of them—the fake Irishman, the so-called lady with her brother. He had considered himself such an astute judge of human character! And they had taken him down in one night, despite all his precautions, his simple resolution that he would prevail, even if it meant murder.

  All dead, his own people, dead—or in the custody of the police. Jane! His beloved Jane. They’d have her in Newgate, awaiting trial, and he’d have no way to reach her.

  But he would. Oh, yes, he would. He’d find a way. But first . . .

  “Gar-dez the loo!” someone cried from a window high above him in the darkened alley.

  And then, a pile of foul-smelling slop fell atop his head.

  Urine and fecal matter crept down his forehead to his face, and he nearly screamed aloud with a terrible rage.

  They were dead! They were all dead! The two men, and the woman.

  The woman . . .

  He’d have a few surprises for that wretched beauty, indeed. She’d wish she were dead, long before he delivered the coup de grace!

  * * *

  “Maggie!”

  Maggie had nearly reached the steps, nearly reached what was becoming in her mind a simple place of salvation. Her house. Just her house. And still, then when the door had closed between them, with walls around her, she would be all right.

  Go, go! she urged herself. She had never know a fear like the one suddenly seizing her, not even tonight, when a bullet might have burned through her flesh at any instant.

  Go, go . . . run. Run into the house, as fast as you can!

  “Maggie!”

  A curious tone in his voice brought her to a halt. She turned. He hadn’t moved. He remained where he was, a slight breeze lifting the shoulder capes of his coat, his stance still and strong, the great horse at his side.

  “Yes?”

  She hated herself. The word sounded like a whisper, almost a plea.

  A plea for what?

  She was walking back to him. She hadn’t in the least suggested to her feet that they carry her back, and yet . . .

  She walked. She almost felt him as she did so. Almost felt . . .

  Lord help her. She couldn’t begin to understand all the emotions seething through her as she stood there. Anger, regret, longing, admiration, perhaps grudgingly given, a strange kinship, more, longing.

  More.

  Desire. As strong as any she had known in her life, as strong as she had felt for . . . a man long buried. Dearly loved, b
ut long buried. While this one . . .

  Was alive. Very much alive. Vibrant. Vital. A wealth of heat and seduction, even as he stood, not moving, just his eyes touching her, and that look . . .

  Dear God, the visions that look brought to her mind’s eye.

  She came to a halt before him and fought the images of what might be with such a man.

  Still, he hadn’t moved, and he didn’t speak.

  Despite the fantasies sweeping through her mind at the wicked pace of a blustering wind, she was startled when he touched her. His forefinger first, touching slightly against her chin, lifting it, then his hand, stretching out, cradling her jaw. His thumb ran down the length of her cheek, then brushed over her lower lip. Then suddenly she was closer still, not at all certain if his touch manipulated the angle of her head, or if she had stepped forward herself. His mouth formed over hers, and it was no subtle, hesitant, brushing kiss, but a consuming invasion. Rockets exploded within her mind as she felt the reckless, passionate sear of his tongue, the thrust and sweep, a molten, liquid fire, heating her blood to pure lava. Her heart thundered, she heard and felt the cacophony. His arms seemed a shelter of iron, the pressure of his body a torment that teased down into the very essence of her, stirring within her breast, a shattering reawakening of sensuality that stroked and teased from her breasts to her thighs, and her very center. His hand, so large and capable, fell at the base of her spine, pressing her closer, and she didn’t realize till long after that she hadn’t taken a single breath in all the long seconds that he held her so.

  God help her! How she wanted this! How wonderful to be in his arms. She was so ridiculously familiar with his eyes, voice, scent.

  She could have stayed forever, feeling the sensual sweep of his tongue. It evoked so very much, led her to imagine what could be. She had really believed herself immune to such feelings ever arising again, and yet this was as if they were born entirely anew. It wasn’t nostalgia, loss, the memory of something gone before. It was James, this man, this touch, this feeling, and she was stunned to feel that the wanting inside her was shatteringly deep and desperate, that there was longing, physical, and in her heart, and . . .

  Physical.

  A burning, a desire that was more than just hot and urgent and . . .

  Then, quite suddenly, he stepped away, and staring at her, swore. She didn’t stumble, nor did her knees buckle, yet she stood there, just staring at him, stunned, feeling the dampness remaining upon her lips, the swell of them from his touch, and as if she would blow away like a leaf were the slightest breeze to arise.

  “You are a witch!” he said softly. And he wiped his mouth suddenly with the back of his hand, as if he had indeed tasted something evil.

  Silver clouds evaporated.

  She turned at last and headed up the walk, and into the town house.

  Chapter 6

  Jamie stayed by Newton several long seconds, gathering his equilibrium. His muscles hardened, stiffened, and chilled, and his jaw locked. Good God, what was the matter with him? He loved Charles, owed him so much.

  If he believed in it, he’d say that he was indeed bewitched!

  But he didn’t believe in such things. And it hadn’t been all the raw hungers she evoked simply by looking the way she did that had seemed to mesmerize him that night. It had been in those few moments when he had seen the pain and the passion within her, the hurt that had led her to the type of reckless action she had carried out tonight. It had been something in her voice, something in the glimpse of honesty.

  He swore aloud.

  Did he blame her? Not with any sense of right or dignity. She’d taken her leave. He had called her back.

  Ah, but she’d fallen quite easily into his arms! No protest there. And she was the one getting married. He had rather just proved that she was far too young for Charles, that she would eventually hurt him, taking on a lover.

  Or was it just him? Had she found something so incredibly unique and special in him?

  “Nice conceit, eh, Newton?” he said to the horse. “Bit of ego on my part, there, eh?

  “Well, let’s head home, shall we, Newton? It seems there’s little else to do tonight.”

  He mounted his horse, and turned the animal from the house and the woman who would haunt him forever.

  His mind was set. He had intended to keep her from danger, and yet, it seemed, he was the greatest danger she might encounter at the moment. Darby would have to look after her on his own until the wedding.

  The wedding.

  A taste of acid nearly choked him.

  Hopefully, she would lie low and keep her peace for a week, at the very least! Because, if he could help it, he didn’t intend to see her again until after she was duly wed to Charles.

  * * *

  “Here we are at last. Moorhaven,” Jamie said, looking at Arianna, trying to smile. The carriage they had taken from the rail station drew to a halt at the end of the estate’s long drive.

  Arianna didn’t respond. She’d been dour the entire trip—except when they had first approached London. Then she had started quizzing him relentlessly on news regarding current events in the city, and she’d had a morbid curiosity when he’d talked about some of the private individuals trying to improve conditions for the poor in their own country.

  Then, entering the countryside, she’d fallen silent again.

  As the cabbie came around for their baggage, he caught Arianna’s hand. “I’ve never seen your father so happy, or look so well. Try to be pleased, for his sake.”

  She stared at Jamie. “I will never let him know how I feel.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel differently. You’ve not met Lady Maggie yet.”

  She gave him a frighteningly icy smile. “You’re so right.”

  Jamie sighed, shaking his head. Mrs. Whitley was rushing out to greet them. Darby followed her, ready to get Arianna’s bags.

  “Welcome home, welcome home!” Mrs. Whitley almost hugged the girl. Not quite. She stopped short. She was a no-nonsense woman, but kind enough, even if she appeared remote.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Whitley,” Arianna said. Then, looking around Mrs. Whitley, she smiled with honest warmth. “Darby!”

  “Little Miss!” Darby said, and he didn’t seem to have a problem in the least accepting Arianna’s enthusiasm as she threw herself into his arms.

  Uncomfortable himself, Jamie watched the proceedings.

  “Sir James, will you come in for tea? Your uncle will surely expect you to do so.”

  “No, I’ve much to keep me busy today, I’m afraid, Mrs. Whitley. Please tell Uncle Charles that I will be here bright and early tomorrow.”

  “Indeed, Sir James, I’ll tell him,” Mrs. Whitley assured him.

  He nodded, and turned back to the cab.

  Arianna let Darby loose, turning back to him. “Jamie!”

  “Yes?”

  She flew the distance between them, hugging him suddenly as she had Darby. “Thank you . . . I wouldn’t have been able to do this if you hadn’t come to France for me yourself.”

  He nodded. “Until tomorrow.”

  Then, still feeling the urgent need to leave Charles’s house, he hurriedly climbed back into the cab. He’d been restless the entire trip to France, and uncomfortable with Arianna, whom he’d known since she’d been a wee babe in his arms. He’d always been the older cousin, like a tolerant, amused, brother.

  But this time he’d been as anxious to be rid of her as he was anxious simply to be done with the whole of it!

  A drink might be in order.

  Hell, a slew of them might be in order.

  * * *

  “This, my dear, is Arianna!”

  The day before the wedding, Arianna had come home at last.

  They stood in the grand salon at Moorhaven, Charles’s estate on the Thames. Tomorrow, the salon would host the wedding reception, and already, it was festooned with candles and flowers.

  Maggie had just arrived, driven there in the new coach tha
t her marriage portion, paid to Justin, furnished.

  Clayton had loved driving it.

  Mrs. Whitley, Charles’s elegant head housekeeper, had seen her in, bringing her here, straight to the salon, where, at one of the tables not yet set for the reception, Charles and his daughter were having tea, awaiting her arrival.

  And here, at last, was her stepdaughter-to-be. She hoped that she could win the young girl over, but she herself was not in the best of moods.

  First, there was the matter of the strange moment of intimacy she had exchanged with Jamie. She had thought that she loathed him.

  She didn’t dare think of the man. She didn’t know what she felt, or perhaps she did. Horror, sadness. A terrible sense of if only.

  She had disliked him so intensely. Because of his feelings for her. And surely, those hadn’t changed, they had only intensified. Now, he must think so much worse of her, that she had allowed such a kiss.

  A kiss only.

  No, a kiss that hinted at so much more. A kiss that had made her feel more than any simple touch of the lips should do.

  She had to clear her mind. When she thought of that moment, she started to shake. There were other matters, very serious, to be worried about as well.

  In the last few days, she had anxiously read the papers, praying that there was no speculation at all that she had been “the woman in black” who had been present at the séance where one man had been seriously injured, with a gunshot wound to his shoulder, a young woman had been found with a serious bruise to her forehead, and another big fellow had been discovered unconscious. The three were under arrest—Lady Marian, Duchess of Chesney, had given the police detailed information as to the proceedings that night, but she was entirely unaware as to the identities of the others who had attended the séance.

  Adrian Alexander himself had not been found. It was his cohorts who sat at Newgate, awaiting trial on serious charges, including those of attempted murder.