Bombshell

by MacLean, Sarah

  “I was in the shadows. And here I am.”

  “Of all the shadows in all of London, you had to lurk in mine?” she quipped.

  “The stars aligned.”

  She turned at the words, the movement sharp and angled, devoid of her easy grace. He cursed the darkness and the way it hid her eyes, leaving him with nothing but her words. “Stars have nothing to do with it, Mr. Calhoun,” she said. “Tonight, I make my own luck. And yours, too, if you play your cards right.”

  His pulse began to pound. What was she up to?

  “At least let me help you dump it.”

  “Shows how useful you are. I’m not dumping it; I’m collecting it,” she replied dryly before poking her head around the side of the carriage and calling up to the driver on the block, “Ready.”

  In response, the driver knotted the reins and stood, turning to face the vehicle. A scraping sound came from within, and Caleb watched as the back wall of the carriage opened, allowing for the driver to scramble inside.

  “You’re keeping it?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Fucking hell, Sesily.” Didn’t they have enough problems already without adding a dead body to the mix?

  “You know, the rest of London somehow finds a way to use my name without profanity.”

  “I imagine you don’t test the rest of London the way you test me. Who is this?”

  “I believe you mean was.” This, from the driver, now inside the carriage, followed by a low feminine grunt as something slid across the darkness, stopping with a thud against one side of the now gently rocking vehicle. Something heavy. And unwieldy.

  Caleb’s eyes widened and he looked to Sesily. “How many bodies are inside this thing?”

  “None, yet.” She did not look away as she reached inside the yawning blackness and found what she was searching for, grasping the latch on a sliding ramp that was attached to the floor of the carriage and hinged in such a way that it easily dropped to the ground.

  “Alright,” he said, “how many bodies have been inside this thing?”

  “A few,” she said casually, as though it were perfectly reasonable.

  “And how many of them have been dead?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “Not all of them.” She turned away and stepped back from the shadows and into the moonlight that finally gave Caleb a chance to look at her, her beautiful face like air. He itched to reach for her, to pull her close and press his face to her neck and breathe her in, rich and lush and perfect.

  Caleb could not resist cataloguing the rest of her—all strength and shape—lush curves and soft lines and temptation that he knew better than to linger with. Because if he allowed himself to linger on Sesily Talbot’s temptations, he’d be lost for good.

  And she, with him.

  So, instead, he committed her to memory, suddenly desperate to have her close.

  One last time.

  When that was done, his gaze tracked to her toes, peeking out from beneath her skirts, and he found himself staring at the body on the ground.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Really, Caleb. I should be offended. I was with you not three hours ago.”

  He raised a brow in her direction. “Never say you’d need longer than that.”

  “Are you going to help? Or not?”

  He leaned down and hefted the heavy body under the arms. A man, nearly his age, nearly his size. “This isn’t an old body.” If Caleb had to guess, the man had been dead no longer than six hours.

  “Of course it isn’t,” she said, as though he’d offended her. “I don’t deal with graverobbers.” She reconsidered. “Not tonight, at least.”

  “And to think,” he said, hefting the weight. “For a moment, I wondered if you might be involved in something nefarious.”

  She gave a little laugh as though they were at ladies’ tea, and she was indicating a plate full of tea cakes rather than a mysterious ramp attached to a custom-made carriage.

  He hated that sound, light and airy, as though she weren’t in danger. “What are you up to? Tell me the truth.”

  She looked directly at him, then, her eyes glittering like starlight. “Tell me something, Caleb Calhoun,” she whispered, and the sound of her soft, curious voice twisted through him like sin. “What are you up to?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  It was a lie, and she knew it. She could see it in him, somehow, even as the rest of the world had never seen his lies. Never heard them. She could.

  She nodded, and he imagined it was sad. She pushed past him, around the corner of the carriage, toward the driver’s block.

  Caleb resisted the urge to say something, to defend himself, instead moving the body as easily as one could, placing the head at the uppermost portion of the board as Sesily leaned down to shift two booted ankles onto the ramp.

  He rubbed his palms on his trousers and redirected the conversation away from the whisper of guilt that ran through him. “At least tell me what you did to him.”

  “I told you. He’s not mine.”

  “Odd, then, how you seem to be the only one with any semblance of interest in the poor bastard.”

  “Suffice to say,” she replied, “he’s the kind of man who is more useful after death than he was in life.” She nodded into the darkness within. “He’s on.”

  A nod from the driver, and Sesily reached down to lift the ramp, which went flat with ease, and slid without hesitation back into the conveyance. Once it was inside, Sesily threw three latches, presumably locking the ramp into place. “Right then,” she said, with two short raps on the metal floor.

  Three soft clicks from within the carriage indicated that the driver had done the same thing at the head end of the ramp, and then she was out onto the driving block, sliding her secret door closed as Sesily closed and latched the rear doors.

  “And you’ve got the driver in on whatever trouble you’re causing?”

  “She’s not just a driver, and she’d never dream of missing out on trouble,” she replied, raising her voice. “Alright, Adelaide?”

  “As ever,” came the happy reply from the driver’s block, as though Miss Adelaide Frampton dealt with dead bodies on a regular basis.

  He looked to Sesily. “Truly, your gang’s unique skill-set grows more fearsome by the hour.”

  “Caleb is afraid of you, Adelaide,” Sesily said happily, as though they were somewhere brighter. With fewer corpses.

  “If there’s a happier sentence, I’ve never heard it,” Miss Frampton quipped, poking a head around the edge of the carriage. “Are you coming?”

  Don’t go.

  He knew he couldn’t say it. Knew he didn’t have the right to ask her to stay. Especially not here. On the banks of the river, where anyone could stumble upon them.

  “Give me a moment,” she called to her friend, taking a step toward him.

  Caleb held his breath, the air between them shifting, throwing him off balance. What had been frustration was now anticipation. What had been concern was now desire. What had been fear was now need.

  She was close enough to touch, her presence almost overwhelming for what a gift it was. For how he ached for her—to reach for her, pull her close, and breathe her in, sunlight and almonds, sweet like her tongue.

  But he had to resist the temptation if he was going to do right by her.

  He had to survive this—the last moment with her. Cloaked in darkness and the silence of a city that passed them by, Sesily coming toward him, unbridled, like fire.

  When she pressed herself to him, her curves a welcome memory, what could he do? He touched her, his arm snaking into her cloak, where it should not be, wrapping about her waist. Tightening, pulling her close as her arms came around his neck, making him forget all of it, everything he should not do. Everything he should not want. Everything but her, this woman, the most luxurious temptation he’d ever faced.

  Irresistible.

  How was he to resist her?
How was he to walk away from her, this woman who was more than he’d ever imagined. Whom he’d watched for years, for whom he’d ached for years and now, finally, claimed.

  Only to have her stolen from him, by his past. By the knowledge that they had no chance at a future. That she had no chance at one as long as Caleb was free.

  “Sesily—”

  “Shh,” she said, softly, tipping her face up to him.

  She was going to kiss him, and he was going to let her, and then he would stop this madness and leave. But he wasn’t a fool. She was soft and strong and lush and perfect in his arms, and she would taste of spice and sunshine and he wanted her.

  He’d never wanted anything so much.

  Kiss me, he willed her. One last time.

  She did, and it was as magnificent as the first time. No. It was better. Because it was not simply soft and hot and sweet and sinful. It was full of her. Of them. Of the two years they’d ached for each other and the last few days, when they’d finally given in to that longing. It was full of knowledge.

  It was full of love.

  He pulled her close and poured himself into it, knowing it was the last time he’d ever be able to kiss her. Knowing it was goodbye.

  When she ended it, pulling away from him, Caleb resisted the urge to roar his frustration. He didn’t want it to be the end. They didn’t deserve this to be the end.

  They deserved a beginning.

  His gaze flew to her eyes—the night disappearing their uniqueness—the ring of black around deep blue, and there, in her gaze, he saw that she’d felt it all. All his love and frustration and desire … and sorrow. A bone-deep sorrow that he would carry for the rest of his days.

  Regret. That he hadn’t had more time to love her.

  But there was something else in her eyes. Something light. Like a secret. Like hope.

  “Caleb,” she whispered, “don’t you recognize him?”

  Who?

  The body. He’d forgotten that she had a dead body in the carriage.

  He pulled away, her little dissatisfied sigh nearly—nearly—succeeding in summoning him back to her. But he was a man who had control, dammit.

  Caleb stepped back and gave her his sternest look. “Who is it?”

  She tilted her head, considering him, and for a moment he thought she might not tell him. And then she smiled—full and honest and … happy. As though he should have known the answer. As though the truth would set them all free.

  That smile—Christ. Wide and winning and dazzling—like a blow to the head.

  “Sesily,” he repeated, her name tight on his lips, his blood roaring in his ears. “Who is that man?”

  “Caleb,” she said, simply, as though he should already know the answer. “He’s you.”

  Poor man. He didn’t know what had hit him.

  “I swear, I didn’t kill him.”

  His brow furrowed as he stared down at her. “What do you mean, he is me?”

  “He isn’t, of course.” She waved a hand in the air. “He was the brother-in-law of one of the boys who works at Maggie’s.” A boy who’d come to the duchess for help getting his sister out of a marriage that too many women would understand. The duchess and Adelaide had formed a plan to relocate the girl to a trusted estate, owned and managed by a mistress willing to employ women without verifying letters of reference.

  “But, fortunately for everyone,” she added, “the brute turned out to have a bad heart, which gave out mere hours ago in”—she waved a hand in the direction of a dark building in the distance—“that absolutely disgusting tavern. And so, we collect the body, the wife stays in London, and the husband, well … perhaps this final act will keep him from the deepest level of hell.”

  “You stole his body.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, feigning affront. “I paid handsomely for it.”

  Now, all she had to do was convince Caleb to let her finish the job, and they could live happily ever after. She’d never gone in for a fairy-tale ending, but if it meant loving this decent man until the end of her days, she’d take it.

  He watched her for a moment, his jaw set, his eyes unreadable.

  “Caleb,” she said. “Don’t you see? This is the solution. No matter what happens. Peter Whitacre, turned up dead in the Scotland Yard morgue, a hastily written confession in his pocket. Caleb Calhoun, innocent of everything except putting Johnny Crouch into the dirt … and everyone knows Crouch deserved it.”

  “And what, we just hope no one ever notices that this man isn’t me?”

  “No one will notice.” She looked away, frustration etched on her pretty face. “It’s been eighteen years. You’ve been in hiding, afraid to see your sister. To know your family. To—”

  To love.

  She held it back.

  “And what of Coleford?” he asked. “He won’t believe it.”

  “He’ll be in Newgate after the whole world discovers he’s taken tens of thousands from rich aristocrats and orphans.” She laughed. “Don’t you see? It’s time for you to be free.”

  He went quiet, thinking, and for a moment, she thought she might have convinced him. She did. There was a light in his eyes. Something like hope. Something like relief. Silly man. Didn’t he know what it was like to be part of a team? He would. She’d show him.

  For the rest of their lives.

  He shook his head. “It’s too easy.”

  Panic flared, and frustration. She forced a little high-pitched laugh. “I realize I made it seem like a dead body is easily turned up, Caleb, but I wouldn’t exactly call it eas—”

  “Stop,” he said. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He shook his head. “This … if it worked tonight, tomorrow … a week. A year …” He paused and looked out at the boats again. “It’s a week, a year, that I am on the run, constantly looking behind me. Waiting to be found.” He reached for her, his fingers tracing over her cheek. “And what, love, you come with me?”

  She hated the endearment she so desperately wanted to hear in his beautiful voice, a word that should have been full of adoration, of wonder—now full of regret and sorrow and disappointment. “Yes,” she said. “Wherever you want to go. Back to Boston. Around the world. Whatever you want. You did it before, and with less power. Less money. Fewer connections.”

  “I didn’t have you.”

  She nodded. “You would have me. That’s a week, a year, that we can be together. Maybe a lifetime.”

  Those fingers, stroking over her cheek, back and forth, the pad of his thumb rough and wonderful, making her want to grab his hand and hold her close. “We leave your family? Your friends? The work—the world—you are building? What kind of man would I be if I took that from you?”

  She swallowed around the frustration in her chest. “The kind of man who knows it should be my choice.”

  He smiled, sad and so handsome, that dimple flashing in his cheek like a lie. “You’re right. It should be. But you forget, I know this life. I have lived it for as long as I remember. I have run and looked over my shoulder and dreamed of the day when I could stop and have what I wanted.”

  He was looking at her like he’d never seen her before. Like he’d never seen anything so beautiful as she was. Like she was the sun. “Me?”

  His touch changed, cupping her cheek, tilting her face into the light. “You.” A pause. And then, “You wouldn’t love me if I let you choose that life.”

  Sesily did grab his hand then. “Caleb—”

  “No.” He cut her off. “For two years I have watched you. I have ached for you. I have basked in your sun for the handful of days I was with you, and savored the warmth of it for all the others. And that’s the thing—you are made for full sun. Not a woman for a life lived in the shadows. And perhaps it’s selfish, but I could not bear to see that light in you dimmed by life on the run. I would hate myself, and one day, you would hate me, too. And that, Sesily, is a fate worse than all the rest.”

  Tears came, hot and angry and devastatin
g. “No—”

  “Yes,” he said softly. The words barely there. “Yes. If I take what you offer … Christ, Sesily. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want what you offer. But if I let you love me—”

  “Let?” She let the word fly. “You cannot stop me from loving you.”

  “You think I do not know that? You think I have not watched you love others for two years? You think I have not burned with envy for the same? You think I would be able to let you go if I let myself feel the full force of your love?”

  Sesily loves with her whole heart.

  What an idiotic thing to do.

  He was still talking. “If I take what you offer … Sesily … you will be dragged into the muck with me.”

  “I don’t care about the muck.” Her temper snapped and she pushed his hand from her cheek, storming past him to the stone wall that blocked them from the swirling water below. She looked down into the inky blackness for a moment before spinning back around to face him. “So there is muck. In my thirty years on this Earth I have discovered that we all find ourselves in it at one point or another. My God, Caleb, for my entire life, people have called my sisters and me The Soiled S’s. Because we were born in muck.”

  His words were like steel. “I’ll destroy anyone who calls you that.”

  “Well we’re going to need a bigger carriage for all the bodies, because it’s half of Mayfair,” she retorted, turning back to face him, the lantern light from the carriage beyond casting him into shadow. “You idiot man, I don’t care what they call me. I don’t belong to them. They cannot touch me. Not when I am here. Not when I am with you.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Dammit, Sesily. Every minute with me puts you in danger.” The other hand slid down his chest to the place she’d found at the cottage at Highley—the puckered skin of a healed wound. “He put a bullet in me before we ran. I won’t think about what he might do to you.”

  “So, what … you leave and I live a half life? Having loved you, but no longer able to do it out loud, as you asked? So I spend a lifetime a widow at heart … wondering what happened to you? If you’ll ever turn up again?”