by Lynn Kerstan
“We can assume Mr. Garvey’s hired bullies didn’t find them when they searched Tallant House?”
Michael shrugged. “That seems logical. But we needn’t make this more complicated than it is. The message I received was from Varden, who knew of Garvey’s financial problems and his uncontrollable temper. Varden witnessed an explosion of that temper shortly before setting out for India. Garvey threatened his colleagues, including my brother, and Hugo Duran as well. I see no reason to question what we have learned. Jermyn made a great many enemies, and it was always likely that one of them, pushed beyond reason, would act against him.”
“Temper,” she said, “does not accord with slow-acting poison. And why would a man bent on suicide hire killers to eliminate you, a man he’d never met?”
A harsh laugh. “When you were born female, Duchess, England lost a splendid chief magistrate. The two men who came for me had been hired some weeks ago, on speculation. I presume that when their search of Tallant House failed to turn up the papers Garvey wanted, he reckoned I would at some point come upon them and foreclose on his property, as Jermyn had intended to do. So he put a price on my head. Or perhaps he meant to punish me for my actions against the Consortium in India, which bankrupted him in the first place. Clearly he felt backed into a corner, and with the poison to hand, swallowing it must have seemed an escape from his troubles.”
It all sounded logical. There was a suicide, a letter of confession, and plenty of motive for Mr. Garvey to kill the duke. It did not require a great villain to do great harm. Only a man with a grievance, and really, she ought to be honoring the memory of poor Mr. Garvey. He had taken action and eliminated the evil duke while she, obsessed with vengeful plots for a dozen years, had done nothing more than devise imaginary schemes.
And yet . . . “What if he had an ally? Or was being used by someone else? What is to prevent you being a target in the future?”
“I’m used to being a target.” A small, heart-stealing smile. “But now I have an incentive to stay out of harm’s way. In the event there is more to the story than we presently know, I’ll see to it the authorities follow every trail to its end. That’s one reason for the London trip, and no, you may not come with me.”
Her pulse speeded up. “I’ll not be left out of an investigation.”
“Yes, you will. As will I. If someone else is involved in Jermyn’s death, and we have little reason to believe there is any such fellow, we’ll be dealing with a master intriguer who won’t be stopped by ordinary means. We first need to make it clear I pose no immediate threat, which ought to hold off another attack and give us time to track him down. But the investigation must be clever, and secret, and conducted by someone else. Someone unexpected.”
“You could ask Lord Varden’s help. He—”
“No.”
“But surely you can’t imagine he is guilty. And he has all the right connections, while we have none at all.”
“Varden is the last man on the planet I will permit to be involved in my affairs. On this, Duchess, there will be no compromise.”
“Very well,” she said, the lines of weariness around his eyes and mouth telling a story of their own. She had pushed him as far as he would go, for now. At some later time, if the niggling sense he was still in danger persisted, she would wheedle him into a long wedding trip to the Continent. “As you may recall, Your Grace, I played rather a significant part in today’s adventure. How is it that no one has bothered to interrogate me?”
“What for?” His brows went up in mock astonishment. “You are a mere wife. The law directs husbands to speak for their mere wives. Resign yourself to subservience, Duchess.”
“I never shall, you know. But as it all sounds quite tedious, this legal folderol, you have my leave to do the speaking. I will confine myself to the rescuing.”
“Ah. I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”
His grin sent ripples up and down her back. “Not any time soon. But I will spare you a little, if you will stop protecting me from hard truths. When you leave me to speculate, my imagination conjures every sort of disaster.”
“I’ll try to do better.” He squeezed her hands. “But if you wish honesty from me, you must return the service. You came out of nowhere this morning. How did you travel so far, and so quickly, without your horse? And how the devil did you find me?”
Oh, dear. But she could scarcely demand what she refused to give. “I got there by running. It was only a mile, perhaps two. And I’m afraid I always know where you are, within limits. That was a few hundred yards, until today. I had no difficulty tracking you much farther when it mattered.”
His jaw tightened. “How?”
“It’s impossible to describe the sensation. A vibration, of a kind. A soundless humming. Disturbing at first, but not any longer.”
“Not for you. I’m bloody damn disturbed. Are you vibrating now?”
“It stops when we’re together.” His hands were fisted. She’d known he wouldn’t be pleased to learn she could pinpoint his location, but he’d insisted on knowing. And it wasn’t as if she could help doing it.
“Is it like that summons you told me about, the one that sent you to Berkeley Square?”
“A different feeling, but equally strange. Inexplicable. I didn’t ask for this, you know, and I cannot simply make it go away. But if you do not wish me to be able to find you, the solution is obvious.” Only her new confidence made the next words possible. “Keep me always with you.”
His eyes, fixed intently on her, flashed with the humor she loved in him. “You know what will happen if I do?”
“I think I know.” She saw the wariness shadowing his gaze, and the longing. “You want me naked, and under you, and open to you.”
A muscle twisting at his jaw. A light rising in his eyes. “And what do you want?”
The answer was diamond bright. And with its coming, the last of the ice imprisoning her winter heart melted away, leaving her exposed. She felt a jolt of fear at the promise of a future with happiness in it, and with love. Did she dare believe this could be true? That it could endure? His gaze burned into her.
“Mira?” Softly—“Tell me what you want. Whatever it is, if it is in my power, I will put it in your hands.”
And he would. He had proven it again and again. In the heat of his passion, she unfurled like a flower. “Michael,” she said, speaking his name for the first time. “I want you naked, my love, and over me, and inside me.”
Instantly, strong hands swept her up. Strong arms carried her swiftly to the house, and into the small room she had prepared for them.
Firelight, candlelight, and a bower of blankets and pillows laid out near the hearth. She was on her back then, her skirts up around her waist, his mouth on hers. The kisses deepened, his tongue mating with her tongue in an act of love she had never imagined. Wonderful. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
Mindless with desire, she clung to him as he moved quickly to enter her. Plunged into her with a sigh against her mouth. Raised her knees to his waist and filled her with himself and his need, and then she began to feel a burning urgency where her flesh was joined to his. He drove into her, and she pulled him back and back and back again, wanting more.
Small sounds in her throat. His tongue at her throat, his manhood at her core, his heart pounding against her heart. She knew herself powerful. Confident. Seductive.
The pleasure mounted, like the beat of the dohl drum, like the rhythm of the bhangra dance. She strained against him. Something new, his finger on her, just where she needed it. She flamed in his embrace. Felt him explode with her, go still as the waves of pleasure washed over her, and finally turn onto his side, drawing her with him.
Silence then, save for their breathing and the sparking of the fire.
After a time, she dared a question. “Why did y
ou want me, Michael? From the first, I was sure that you did, and that it would pass. Other men have wanted me as well, but with you, it was different. I don’t wish for compliments. I have always been more trouble than I was worth, so why was it, when I kept turning you away, that you never gave up?”
His eyes opened, inches from her own. A hand lifted to stroke her hair. “Because you forbid me to tell you that you are lovely, and intelligent, and honorable, and brave, I can tell you only that we have met before. You won’t believe me, and I never admitted to believing it either, but it is nonetheless true.”
“Met when? Here in Kent, when I was a child?”
“Half a year ago, in India, on the Path of the Tiger. I know, you weren’t there. And I’ve always been a practical man, about as spiritual as a fencepost. But when I saw you, blue-eyed and silver-haired, you held my life between your teeth. And when I saw you again, at the Palazzo with the river at your back, I recognized you immediately.”
His hand moved to her face, cupped her chin. “We were brought together, fated to be together. I thought it was for a short time, only long enough to protect you, but it seems I was wrong. Here we are, and perhaps you will be forced to put up with me for a lifetime. Pardon me for hoping so. And that’s all I know. I’m not sure what I believe.”
She was still on the tiger’s path. “You saw me? Like a vision of some sort?” She regarded him cautiously. He didn’t appear to be teasing her, but—“What was I wearing?”
“Fur.” A smile. “You were a tigress then. Hell, you’re a tigress now. And a goddess. Dea certe.”
Assuredly a goddess. She felt his hand at her back, undoing the buttons on her dress. “This is all exceedingly odd. I’m not sure I care for it.”
“Nor I. Come here. I can’t reach where I want to reach.”
He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him, stretching her on top of him. Rumpled clothes where there were still clothes, hot flesh where they’d been pulled up, or down, or open. She could tell, from the determination in his eyes, that naked was next on his agenda.
“If I can stay out of trouble,” he said, “we shall have a great many years to decipher all these puzzles. Or let them remain a mystery, if you prefer. That would be my choice. For now, I still need to prove to you that making love can take longer, much longer, than you have imagined. And that you will enjoy it.”
“I already did enjoy it. But first, before you proceed, I have something more to say to you.”
“Words, words, words,” he said, proceeding. “Have we not said enough, negotiated too much? I will always love you with actions, Duchess. It’s the only way I know.”
“That’s . . . Oh.”
He sat her up, pulled her gown over her head, and then her chemise.
“Fine,” she said. “Now wait a moment. There are one or two things remaining to be settled.”
“You settle them,” he said, not waiting. His gaze, and then his hands, went to her bare, fire-lit breasts. “I’ll agree to anything.”
“No divorce, then. Not ever.”
He paused. Looked into her eyes, took a deep breath. “Thank you.” Then he returned, with avid concentration, to what he had been doing. This time it was his mouth on her breast.
“And . . . ah. Michael. I am losing myself in you. You must stop for a moment.”
“Very well,” he murmured, not stopping. “Don’t worry about being lost. So am I. But you will be safe with me, always.”
“Yes. What I am trying to tell you is that I know I have much to learn, and I hope you will instruct me, but it may be a while before you find me satisfactory.”
“You are eternally splendid. At present, we are waiting on me. It requires a few minutes to reload the artillery.”
She gave an exasperated laugh. “I mean, Your Grace, that I am withdrawing my previous offer. In future, I intend to leave you neither the time nor the strength to require the services of a mistress.”
He paused then, and placed his hands on her face, and gazed with unmistakable love into her eyes. “Thank you, brave Miranda. Beloved Mira. Duchess. Goddess. Tigress. Wife. You may be sure that I shall exclusively and forever devote myself to the lot of you.”
(Continue reading for more information)
Acknowledgements
Special regards to the redoubtable Eve Sinaiko, who knows more than any one person should, and who is funnier than any one person ought to be. I have drawn shamelessly on her eclectic store of information.
And my deepest gratitude to Candice Kohl of Savannah, writer and intrepid carriage driver, who taught me the difference between tackle and tack and showed me how harnesses are attached to horses.
To Margaret Evans Porter, doyen of all things British and Regency, thanks for the shooting lore.
I had lots of help and advice from kind friends. All mistakes are my own.
About the Author
Lynn Kerstan, former college professor, folksinger, professional bridge player, and nun, is the author of sixteen romance novels and four novellas, all set in Regency England.
A five-time RITA Finalist (one win), she is regularly featured on awards lists. Since Romantic Times launched its Top Picks feature, every Kerstan novel has been a Top Pick. The Golden Leopard and Heart of the Tiger were selected by Library Journal for its Best Books of the Year list (2002 and 2003), and Dangerous Passions was named to Booklist’s Top Ten Romances of 2005 list.
Formerly a teacher of English literature and writing at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C. and the University of San Diego, Kerstan now conducts online popular-fiction workshops for writers groups and speaks at conferences. An internet junkie, she blogs about life, books and travel at StoryBroads.com, where her cat’s posts are far more popular than her own.
When not roaming the world, Kerstan lives an exemplary life in Coronado, California, where she plots her stories while riding her boogie board, walking on the beach, and watching Navy SEALs jog by.
Visit Lynn at lynnkerstan.com.
