Bian’s heart thudded hard, hurting her and she realized she was clutching at her chest.
Patrick carefully removed the pince nez he wore and polished the lenses on a fold of his jacket. “I have learned a little more about the pair of them.”
“Then you are doing a better job of this than I am,” Bian said, sitting back. “Richard sent me flying for England so fast, I barely had time to learn Stuart’s name before I arrived. It was a shock to see he had a brother—and a twin brother, at that.”
“Aiden is the younger,” Patrick said. “Stuart stands to inherit all the titles, although I believe his father has agreed to provide Aiden a living, at least. That must gall a man who is the younger by only a matter of minutes.”
“Then you believe my theory, that it is Aiden we should be watching?”
“You’ve never been wrong before now, Bian. Why would I doubt you now?”
Because I doubt myself. She bit her lip, unable to speak of her doubt aloud. “This task is not like any other Richard has ever set me.”
“So I have gathered.” Patrick grinned and got to his feet. “Come and eat.”
She allowed him to chivvy her along to the dining room, where the perfectly-made sandwich sat waiting for her. He poured her a glass of Madeira and sat beside her, keeping her company as she ate. She was grateful for his thoughtfulness. She knew he hovered because he was worried. She was not behaving like herself.
As it was, he had to keep prompted her to bite and chew, for her thoughts distracted her from the task. They lingered over the information Patrick had provided. Aiden was also a member of the diplomatic corp. He had also been in China. And he had only returned a week ago.
What did that mean? How did it fit in with all she had learned about Stuart?
She struggled to find the pattern in it all.
Heavy thumping on the front door made her jump in her seat and Patrick laid a calming hand on her forearm. “Peace. The butler will see to it.”
She nodded and emptied her glass of Madeira and pushed it toward Patrick, mutely asking for a second. He filled it slowly, with his head cocked. He was listening for who was at the door, just as she was.
The murmuring became clearer. “…somewhere here. Either you produce her, or I go find her myself.”
It was Stuart. She looked at Patrick, suddenly terrified. She wasn’t ready for this. She could not go to Stuart while his innocence was still in question. Not now that there was hope. Her hope would blunt her reactions, make her vulnerable.
But his voice was getting closer. Louder.
He was coming to her.
Chapter Seven
The butler hovered in front of a closed door, clearly trying to protect it and hide that fact as well, but he was not as good a poker player as Backman was.
Stuart stepped around him, knowing the butler would not dream of touching him unless he had specific orders from his master. The door was not locked and he stepped inside, barely surprised to find Bian sitting at the well-appointed dining table there. Baring’s secretary, Kirkham, shot to his feet as Stuart entered and with a neat half-step, put himself between Stuart and Bian.
Bian also rose to her feet. It bothered Stuart more than he cared to analyze right then that she stayed behind Kirkham.
“Your home away from home,” he told her, not attempting to hide the contempt in his voice. The anger was provoked by the way she hovered behind Kirkham, as if he might harm her in some way. The idea offended him. It hurt. “I might have saved myself the trouble of enquiring after you at your own residence.”
“It isn’t what you think, Stuart.” Her voice was quiet but without weakness. He had not frightened her in the least. “Patrick is—”
“Bian, no,” Kirkham snapped. He looked Stuart in the eye. “What do you want? And how dare you barge in here like this?”
Stuart looked at the two of them, puzzled. “Another secret, Bian? Is that all there is to you? Secrets and falsehoods? What lies between you and Kirkham that I cannot know?”
The accusation pulled her out from behind Kirkham. Bian took another step toward him and stopped. “Nothing lies between us that Patrick will care for me to admit aloud. For his sake I will not speak of it. But it is nothing I am ashamed of, or that you need to fear.”
“And I am to take your word for it?” Stuart pushed his hand through his hair. “What am I to do with you, Bian? I cannot bind you to me. You run away as soon as I try. But I will not let you slip out of my life as easily as you arrived. I refuse.”
He saw her swallow and the sudden glistening of tears in her eyes. The tears startled him. And they injected a large shot of guilt into his anger, making it roil inside him like a restless beast.
“Sometimes the world has a way of deciding for you, have you noticed?” she said and the tears slid down her cheeks. She did not move to wipe them and Stuart fisted his hand against the need to take her in his arms and remove them for her.
As suddenly as the fury had arrived, it departed. He took a deep breath. “What must I do, Bian? Tell me. I am upon your territory now and the game is unknown to me. But I would play your game if that is the way to keep you with me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do this. Not now. Please, you must give me time.”
“Time for what?” he demanded, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice.
There was a cough behind him and he whirled, caught by surprise. The butler stood there with a silver tray and a white letter upon it. Stuart hadn’t heard the door open, or the butler approach. He had been focused completely upon the dismay in Bian’s face.
Bian gave a small gasp. “The response! Already!” And she stepped around Stuart and reached for the letter.
“Begging your pardon, Miss. The telegram is for Master Kirkham.” He held the tray out to Kirkham.
“A telegram for me?” Kirkham’s brow lifted as he unfolded the letter. He walked over to the tall window for better light, adjusted his glasses and read. Stuart clenched his fist, fighting impatience. A telegram meant urgent news. He could hardly intrude on Kirkham’s attention until it had been dealt with. He glanced at Bian. She was watching Kirkham with peculiar intensity.
He recalled her words when he had first entered the room. It isn’t what you think. If they were not lovers, then what were they, precisely? There was something between them, something that included shared secrets.
Kirkham made a small noise, almost a gurgling in the throat and reached for the window frame, which he leaned against weakly. His face had turned very white.
“Patrick!” Bian hurried to his side. “What is it?”
He swallowed and pulled himself together. He curled his hand around her elbow and his hand trembled. “I have bad news, Bian. It would be best if you seated yourself.”
“Just read it!” Bian said shortly, pulling her elbow from his grip. “Tell me. Don’t leave me waiting like this.”
He stared at her and Stuart guessed he could not find the words. Finally, Kirkham held the telegram out to her and turned away.
Stuart watched her read the telegram, feeling a strange helplessness. He knew that grave events were upon them but could not guess their shape. Instead he was filled with a shapeless sense of doom, which gave him no course of action. So he stood and watched Bian grow as pale as Kirkham. She reached for the nearest chair and lowered herself into it, still reading. Until, finally, she let the telegram slip from her fingers and flutter to the floor.
“Dear God,” she whispered. “He is dead!” And she buried her head in her hands. Kirkham squeezed her shoulder, even as he stood staring sightlessly out of the window.
Unable to simply stand by while disaster afflicted her so, Stuart strode forward and scooped up the sheet that had bought such despair and put it on the table beside Bian. “What is it? Tell me,” he pressed Bian, picking up her cold hand.
“You’d better read the telegram yourself,” Kirkham said. “It says everything.”
Bian picked up the
telegram and handed it back to him and her big eyes were limpid with unshed tears. “I know you respected him too,” she whispered.
His heart already racing, Stuart read the telegram.
Regret to inform that Nathaniel Richard Kirkham II, Duke of Pemberton, Baron Kirkham, was arrested by Chinese authorities last Thursday and charged with acts of espionage against the empire. Documents found in sea chest. After short trial, he was executed by beheading yesterday morning. Regrets. Piggott-Smythe.
Stuart read the telegram twice, trying to absorb the wealth of information it conveyed. “Who is Piggott-Smythe?” he asked.
“My father’s secretary,” Kirkham said, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion.
Stuart absorbed the fact. “So…he was the Royal Talisman.” The fact filled him with immense sadness. “I cannot believe that he is dead. But this…must have been a price he was willing to pay for his country, Kirkham. He was an honourable man.”
Bian lowered her hands to her lap. “I don’t believe it. He was no more a spy than the Queen of England.”
Her fierceness prompted Stuart to ask the question that had been pushing at him. “You knew him,” he said. “You knew him very well.”
She nodded. “He was my father.”
As shock slammed through him, Bian fell back against the chair, biting her lip against tears as she stared up at Kirkham, who stood staring steadily out of the window, his face still pale with shock.
Stuart found himself on his feet again, backing away from the pair at the window.
Her father.
The fact unlocked a wealth of information—secrets—about Bian, that he might have seen for himself if he had watched just a little more closely instead of simply railing at her for her secrecy. Of course she was surrounded by secrets! Her whole life was a secret.
He looked from Bian with her Asian features, to Patrick Kirkham, a fine sample of British manhood. Nathanial Kirkham sired them both but they had different mothers. Therefore, Bian was a bastard—a love child…and a secret one. Kirkham had seen to her raising and her education but her place in society was of necessity undeclared.
Miss Bian.
Although, considering the company she kept and the lifestyle she enjoyed, Kirkham had championed her and made sure she was accepted by society despite her heritage, and despite never being able to claim his name.
I am Bian, she had introduced herself. No last name. She did not have one that she could use.
She and Kirkham were half-sister and brother. No wonder she had sheltered here whenever she needed a bolt-hole. Who could she trust more, with her father still posted in China?
Her father, the spy. Despite Bian’s protest, Stuart knew his guess had been right all along. Nathanial Kirkham was the Royal Talisman, the hero who had kept Britain out of the war with France, who had been building such a glowing reputation for his abilities to acquire information that served his country so well.
Bian rose to her feet and rang the bell for the butler. When he appeared, she held out the telegram. “You may read this, so you can grasp your master’s situation. Then would you find him a large decanter of brandy? Thank you.”
The bewildered butler took the telegram, staring at it as if it were a hissing snake.
Bian turned to Stuart and took his hand. She looked up at him. “Will you come with me?”
“Anywhere,” Stuart said truthfully.
She led him up the stairs to a small second bedroom, cosily appointed but bereft of personal details. Her room, when she sought sanctuary here, Stuart guessed.
He had no time to take in more detail, for Bian turned to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Please, just hold me,” she murmured.
Willingly, he held her. He rested his cheek against her hair, which smelled faintly of lilies. The scent suited her perfectly. He could also smell her own special essence and it stirred him. He tried to push the desire away. Now was not the time, although it was curling through his body insistently.
Bian moved restlessly against him and looked up. She tried to smile. “Kiss me.”
“Bian, you are not yourself.”
“Actually, I have never been clearer in my heart or my mind. My father died before his time. He had so many plans…” She swallowed. “So many things he did not do, that he held himself away from because of duty. I will not make his error.” And she reached up to slide her fingers into the longer hair on the back of his neck and pull him down to her level.
He let her have her way. Willingly. And he found his hands on her waist, sliding around to her back, to tug at the dress strings, as her lips pressed against his mouth and her warm tongue swept against his.
They undressed each other as fast as the cumbersome clothing would allow, their fingers trembling, as they whispered reassurances and encouragements to each other. Finally he had her naked and picked her up to cradle her against his chest. She rested her hand against his chest. “The bed, yes.” Her lips curled up into one of her smiles that made her eyes dance. “For the first time, the bed.”
The reappearance of that smile made his heart sing. He laid her on the bed and covered her with kisses. He left her breasts until last and lavished attention upon them with his hands, teeth, lips and tongue. After a few minutes of the concentrated torture, she was writhing and moaning beneath him, her hips pressing against his thighs where he straddled her. The soft push of her hips was an erotic signal that seemed to surge straight to his cock. He had never been harder in his life. Everything he did to Bian seemed to build his own desire.
For the first time he understood that he was not simply about to have intercourse. He was going to make love—in the way the maidens’ forbidden novels described.
Bian reached for him, curling her small hand around his shaft and pulling him down between her legs. He positioned himself above her and slid into her slick, waiting channel. The heat of her enveloped him and for a moment he thought he might orgasm purely from the delight of being inside her.
Her legs lifted up around him, settling him deeper inside her. He rocked against her, building the delightful rhythm of stroking and she encouraged him with little cries.
Her pleasure was the greatest goad. He watched the building of excitement in her face, in the little crease between her brows and the way her hips moved in helpless thrusts beneath him. He knew a moment before Bian when her orgasm was upon her, for the tight sheath of muscles surrounding him spasmed and tightened in a hard ripple. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Ohh!” she gasped, her fingers flexing against his shoulder. Then she was caught in the peak, shuddering through it, her breath taken away.
Stuart bent his head to breath in her scent and let his own climax take him. It was the sweetest pleasure he had ever experienced.
He did not want to withdraw from her, or for the moment to end. He settled his weight on his elbows to protect her and so that he could linger a while longer. With his face buried in her hair, the heat of her surrounding him and the echo of her heart in his ears, it was easier to speak the terrifying words that had haunted him for three days.
“I love you, Bian. God help me, I do.”
She did not pull away from him, or gasp in shock or distaste. She caressed his neck but was otherwise silent.
“I would not have you leave me,” he finished. “The other terms are yours to arrange to suit yourself but that one is mine and I will declare it to the world.”
“The world will punish you for it.” Her voice was thick with some emotion and he looked at her then, surprised into it.
Tears glistened in her eyes but she blinked to rid herself of them. “I am a bastard, Stuart. You understand what that means to your peers, better than I do. If you associate yourself with me in any permanent way, they will ostracize you for it. They will hound you to the ends of the earth.”
“Not if you married me,” he said. “That is a union they cannot dispute.”
She was very still. “You cannot marry me,” she said at last.
> “Are you married to another?”
“No.”
“Then I can. I will.”
Her tears escaped her, then. They slid from the corners of her eyes. He licked the salty pearls, kissed her temple.
“I can’t say yes, Stuart. It would be the ruin of your reputation, your career. Your family—”
“Can all go hang,” he finished. “I will not insist on having your agreement right now. I said I would take you on whatever terms you care to dictate and I mean it. But I will never stop asking. Not until the day you say yes.”
“And if that day never comes?”
“Then I will have enjoyed my life with you in it, regardless.”
She reached for him, pulling herself up on top of him so that she looked down and the ends of her hair tickled his chest. She was a featherweight and his cock stirred, still buried inside her. This way, he could see where he penetrated her and it was an erotic view. He gripped her slim hips, moving her above him, eager once more.
“You have a man’s appetite,” she said with one of her smiles, as her hips shifted to stroke his swollen member.
“You enhance it,” he breathed.
Then there were no more words but the long slow ascent to climax again. This time it was deeper, more satisfying. Moving.
* * * * *
Later, as the long afternoon shadows spilled across the counterpane, she curled up inside his arms, her body cupped by his, while he learned of her childhood in Vietnam. He knew she lay that way because just like him, she could not speak the words while looking at him, because she feared his reaction to them. But what Bian spoke of seemed to be the stuff of legends and fairy tales…except that this was Bian’s personal history and very real.
“Thieu Triu, the second-last emperor of my birth country, had many sons, including Prince Nguyen Công To. The Prince was a favourite of the emperor, so the emperor consulted with his mandarins and Nguyen Cong To was made king of a land in the south, near Cambodia. Cong To ruled wisely and listened to all who came to his lands and eventually, he became a Christian and changed his name to Nguyen Christopher.” Even the way Bian was relating the story of her life made it sound like a fairy story. Her voice had taken on a cadence and rhythm that made her sound like a narrator of a play.
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