Savage Desire

by Rosemary Rogers

  “You can renew your acquaintance tomorrow night at this damn soiree we’re committed to attending. I’ll be glad to leave London. It’s become nothing but a round of social events.”

  “Yes, my only regret is having to leave the children here for a while. Oh, Steve, what if they feel abandoned?”

  “Your aunt has been with them so long, they won’t feel abandoned. And it’s only for a few months, until I’m sure the danger in Mexico is over. We can live at Hacienda de la Nostalgia, if you like, or investigate my new holdings in Chihuahua, then decide where to live with Laura and Franco.”

  “So you think the rebellion will end that quickly?”

  “I won’t know that until we arrive, but from what I know of Díaz, the man is an excellent military leader. I rode under his command for too long to think he will lose a military conflict to Lerdo. But politics is another arena, one not as natural to him as to Lerdo. The outcome is uncertain at this point.”

  Ginny bit her lower lip, remembering too well the last revolution in which she’d been involved, and the horrors of it. Could she go back and take the risk of becoming caught up in it again?

  As if guessing the direction of her thoughts, Steve leaned forward, and his tone was soft. “If you’re having doubts, green-eyes—”

  “Maman!” The childish interruption dragged her attention from Steve to the impetuous Laura, who burst into the room with Franco at her heels, an indignant expression on her small face, while Franco’s eyes burned with frustration.

  “Maman, Franco said you’re leaving us again, and I told him that was not true. Tell him, Maman, tell him that we are staying together!”

  Dismay made Ginny’s hand shake as she set down her teacup and folded the little girl into a warm embrace. “Franco is right, my darling, but only for a little while. Oh, don’t cry, Laura, my sweet girl. Papa and I are just going to get our new home ready for you and Franco to join us.”

  Her wailing cry brought tears to Ginny’s eyes, and she pulled Laura onto her lap, cuddling her close as her throat closed with emotion. Steve sat like a stone, his face closed and impassive. Franco was a smaller version of him, the round features of a child blurred with the effort to mimic his father’s stoicism.

  Laura’s sobs slowed to an occasional sniffle as Ginny described some of her favorite places in Mexico, told the children how warm it was there, and how their great-grandfather would be so glad to see them again.

  “He has missed you so, and writes long letters asking when we will bring you back to see him. You don’t remember Mexico, I know, but it’s your home. Our home. There is lots of sunshine, and wide-open spaces where you can ride your ponies and play with your dogs. Yes, my sweet, you can take Silky with you, of course! She will be happy there, too.”

  “But why can’t we go with you now?” Franco asked suddenly, and in his green-flecked eyes, Ginny recognized the return of anxiety.

  “We have to make arrangements, son,” Steve said when Ginny floundered. “There is a lot to do, and it’s best that you come later with Tante Celine.”

  “Besides,” Ginny said then, smiling, “you love to go to the seashore, and I heard Tante say that she is taking you to Brighton next week. You will like that, won’t you?”

  Both children brightened; the tension in Franco’s face eased and he turned to his father as if for confirmation of the promised treat.

  It was a small reaction, but that her son filtered any of her promises with his father’s corroboration still pierced her to the heart. Would Franco always be so wary of her? Had she ruined any hope of his ever trusting her again?

  Ruffling Franco’s dark hair, Steve assured him that it was true. “Tante Celine and Pierre are taking you on the train to Brighton.”

  “Will Miss Prendergast go, too, Papa?” Franco’s gaze was hopeful, a reminder that he had formed an admiration for the lovely Lorna since she had been so much in Pierre’s company of late.

  It rankled that her own son would prefer Lorna to her, but Ginny betrayed nothing of her feelings as she said, “If Pierre should invite her, I am certain she will go, too.”

  “Then I shall talk to Uncle Pierre and tell him to invite her,” Franco said, “for she likes to play with us.”

  “Perhaps because she is still so near your age,” Ginny couldn’t resist saying, and saw the amusement spring into Steve’s eyes at her spiteful comment.

  It wasn’t true, of course, for Lorna Prendergast was nearly twenty, but still too young for Pierre in Ginny’s opinion. She was beautiful, well-mannered, and certainly came from an excellent background if her mother’s demeanor was any indication, but Ginny found Lorna to be far too immature and overindulged to care much for her company.

  It was obvious that Lorna resented her as well, though that had more to do with Steve than anything else. After all, the girl had made it quite plain that she had been interested in Steve as more than just an escort from New Mexico to London. There were times Ginny felt very much like boxing her ears, but as her father was good friends with Sam Murdock, Steve’s partner, that would never do. Too bad. It might help knock some sense into her head if Lorna realized that the world did not revolve around her own desires.

  Yet even feeling as she did, Ginny was glad that Franco enjoyed Lorna’s company; it was important for a child to feel wanted and appreciated.

  “Come,” she said impulsively, rising to her feet with Laura in her arms, “let’s go for a ride in the park. Your papa has a fine new phaeton and pair of matched bays that need to be exercised. Shall we?”

  “May we take Silky with us, Maman? Oh, and a basket, as we did last time? I love to feed the swans on the lake.”

  Meeting Steve’s gaze, she saw him nod, and laughed. “Yes, you may, my little duckling. We shall have Cook prepare a basket of food for us, and bread for the swans.”

  It was a beautiful day, with soft sunlight and a fresh wind that smelled sweet and clean once they were free of the congested streets. Steve handled the horses with careless competence. Hyde Park, with its majestic trees, serpentine roads and winding streams, was unexpectedly peaceful in the midst of the chaotic city. Flowers cascaded in tended beds, and a fountain spewed torrents of water that glistened in the light like diamond drops. London was decked in summer finery, with masses of lavender, forget-me-nots and roses spicing the air with fragrance and brilliant color.

  Ginny, garbed in a light gown of green-striped cotton, trimmed in grosgrain green ribbons to match her gown and Laura’s, thought that she had never been as happy as she was at that moment. With her children and her husband at her side, she could conquer anything the world might toss her way….

  And indeed, they made a lovely spectacle as Steve, so darkly handsome in his casual jacket and trim trousers, handled the reins with relaxed expertise. Ginny was the very image of a doting mother, an exquisite creature laughing with her children as they sped past pedestrians.

  “Do you see them?” inquired an observer of his comrade.

  The second man, taller than his companion, did not take his eyes from the phaeton as it passed them where they stood in the encompassing shade of a towering oak. “Yes. I know him. It is the woman who interests me, however. She is the one we need.”

  “They are all tools, my friend. Weapons in our battle against injustice.”

  As the phaeton sped past, none of the occupants noticed the men watching them with such intense scrutiny. One day, they would notice them—but by then it would be too late.

  6

  It was to be their last official social event before leaving London, and Ginny took great care with her toilette. Berthilde, looking distracted and harried, scurried from the dressing room to the bedchamber with another gown, finding at last the one that they both liked, while Steve waited impatiently.

  “If we are to get there before the late supper tonight, you’d best choose a gown, Ginny.”

  From amidst the bouquet of crimson-and-yellow silks scattered on the wide tapestried bed like wilted flowers
, Ginny’s voice sang out, “I chose the one I’m wearing. I’ll be ready in just a moment!”

  By the time she emerged, Steve considered the results well worth the wait. Standing in the entrance hall, he heard her coming down the sweep of stairs and turned to comment on her tardiness.

  A shimmering copper skirt floated around her legs, reflecting lamplight, and the snug bodice clung to her breasts and small waist with cunning efficiency. A filmy wrap seemed to drift around her bare shoulders.

  She wore a necklace of gleaming topaz, stones of a rich amber set in gold filigree, with matching earrings so long they brushed against her shoulders.

  Berthilde was still fussing around her, following and straightening folds of the skirt, rearranging one of the ribbons that streamed down the back, tucking another flower into the mass of curls atop Ginny’s head, clucking under her breath when she was finally told to stop.

  “Enough,” Ginny said, tugging at an elbow-length glove, “the ribbons will only be crushed in the carriage. You may have the rest of the night off, Berthilde. We’ll no doubt be quite late returning.”

  “Oui, madame.” Berthilde looked pleased, and pursed her mouth primly.

  Ginny seemed to sparkle. When they reached the sprawling mansion that was brilliantly lit, even in the gardens where Chinese lanterns dangled like fireflies above neatly clipped yew hedges and overflowing urns of fragrant flowers, she stood out vividly in the sea of more sedate gowns. As usual, Ginny received admiring glances from the men as they entered the house and were announced in dulcet tones. They made their way down the receiving line, where the Prince of Wales greeted them with gruff good humor.

  “Ah, Ambassador Morgan, it is pleasant to see you again, as always. Will you be visiting the racecourse tomorrow? I hear Lord Hartsfield has a prime bit of horseflesh entered.”

  Bowing slightly from the waist, Steve reminded the prince that he was leaving for Mexico in two days.

  “But I am certain you will be back, Ambassador Morgan! You cannot deprive us of your beautiful wife’s company for too long. Or is she remaining here, perhaps?”

  The profligate prince regarded Ginny with an avid admiration; it was no secret that he conducted many affairs, not bothering to be discreet despite his wife’s chagrin. It did not matter to Prince Edward if the object of his desires was married, as long as the husband had the good sense to look in the other direction.

  Steve Morgan gave no indication of being that kind of husband, and Ginny had no intention of being another Alice Kepple. She tactfully rejected the prince’s suggestion that she accept English hospitality while her husband was away on business, and moved gracefully along as those behind her moved forward.

  Then Steve felt her falter, heard the strained note in her voice as she greeted the man standing next to the prince in the line.

  “General Ignatiev, I see you did not return to Russia after all.”

  “Not yet.” Tall and spare, with vigorous mustaches that swept out to the sides, the Russian general who had helped arrange Ginny’s flight from Stamboul regarded her with icy eyes that held no hint of welcome. “And I see that you did not go to Saint Petersburg though you professed such eagerness to see the tsar again.”

  “Plans change, or are changed by fate.”

  “And did you find Colonel Shevchenko…efficient?”

  “I am here, so I would say that he was most efficient, General.”

  Ignatiev’s gaze moved to Steve. He nodded in recognition and then shifted away as they moved along.

  “I got the distinct impression that the general wasn’t very happy to see you, my love,” he said when they reached the crowded ballroom. Strains of a waltz were playing, barely discernible over the noise of the crowd. Ginny’s face was pale, her mouth stretched into a taut line as he moved her toward the windows that opened onto a wide verandah.

  Her shoulders lifted in a light shrug. “He wasn’t very pleasant when I last saw him, so I don’t think his opinion of me has changed greatly.”

  Steve studied her for a moment. Incongruous color that had nothing to do with cosmetics brightened her cheeks. It wasn’t like Ginny to get upset because of rudeness. Damn, he had seen her face an entire room full of hostile men with a composure he wouldn’t have been able to manage under similar circumstances.

  “Ignatiev often travels with Tsar Alexander, but he’s here as an envoy to assist in making travel arrangements for the prince to visit Saint Petersburg.” He paused, then added, “Lord Tynedale will be in the entourage traveling with Prince Edward.”

  “Will he?” She turned luminous eyes to him, a faint smile lifting the corners of her lush mouth. “Russia is lovely in the summer months.”

  It was a noncommittal reply, but what had he expected? Ginny had always been adept at hiding herself from him, as he had always been just as proficient in concealing his own thoughts from her. It was a vicious cycle at times, neither of them quite ready to relinquish old habits, to fully trust the other’s intentions. It would take time to ease the habit of licking old wounds, he thought wryly, and he was as guilty as she of harboring mistrust.

  He snagged Ginny a glass of champagne punch from a passing footman’s silver tray, pushed it into her hands and said casually, “Lord Tynedale approaches.”

  Ginny’s eyes widened slightly, dark pupils expanding as she lifted her champagne glass. If not for the slight quiver of her hand, he would have thought her completely unaffected by Tynedale’s presence.

  It was hard-earned composure that kept the smile on her face as Ginny turned to greet Richard Avery.

  “Richard, you’re looking quite well,” she said lightly when he took her free hand and bowed over it in a courtly, old-fashioned manner that was so indicative of his nature.

  He straightened, dark-blue eyes so similar to Steve’s holding her gaze.

  “You are more lovely than ever, though I once thought that impossible. I see that life with Esteban agrees with you most heartily.”

  “Yes. It does.”

  “I am so glad, Ginny.”

  The sincerity in his tone was unmistakable, and she drew in a soft breath of relief. There would be no constraint or silent reproaches between them now, for after all, each had chosen the path more suitable for their lives.

  “Will you dance this waltz with me, Ginny, with Esteban’s permission, of course?”

  Steve took Ginny’s empty champagne glass from her hand as Richard escorted her onto the crowded floor. The music was loud, but not deafening, so that they did not have to speak loudly to be heard.

  “Ginny, are you as content as you seem?”

  “I am very happy, Richard. I have my children with me at last, and Steve and I are trying to work out all the problems of our past. It’s not easy, of course, but I knew it wouldn’t be. So much has happened between us, and to us, that it will take time to sort out our feelings, to come to terms with everything.”

  “Ah.” His hand on the small of her back flexed as he guided her in a sweep across the floor. “You may not recall, but when I used to ask you if you were happy, you always said you were content. Now I ask if you are content, and you tell me you are happy. Oh, do not look distressed, Ginny, for I always knew I didn’t have your heart, not the way I wanted it. And I suppose it’s just as well, after all that happened.”

  She thought of Gulbehar, the wife Richard had taken at the sultan’s wishes, and the vindictiveness of her attempt to kill Ginny and her unborn child so that she would be the first wife, and her child, his heir.

  “I do not see your wife with you tonight. I presume she is still in Persia?”

  “Steve didn’t tell you—Gulbehar and our son died of a fever.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” It was a reflexive sympathy, murmured automatically, but she was sorry, for Richard’s loss if not for the woman who had tried to kill her.

  She should have known Richard would perceive her true thoughts, for he squeezed her hand, smiling sadly.

  “You are not sorry she cannot
hurt you anymore, I’m sure, Ginny, for what she did to you was truly terrible. There are no pardons for it, no penances to atone for her actions. You lost our child, and nearly died as well. Now she has died, and so did our child.”

  She looked up at him, saw in his eyes the sorrow he felt, the loss, and said, “Yes, but I have forgiven her. If she had not poisoned me, perhaps I would not have regained my sight, and perhaps I would not now be here, but still in Stamboul instead of—”

  When she halted, he smiled. “Instead of with the man you love. Yes, I know. I always knew.”

  He sounded so sad. Ginny searched his face, the fine features that were so like Steve’s yet so different; his skin was paler, slightly pockmarked with old scars from a bout of the pox as a child, and his eyes, so dark a blue like Steve’s, but that held none of the ruthlessness, only compassion.

  “It’s true, Richard. I do love Steve. I’ve always loved him even when I didn’t want to. I’m not sure why, except that he and I have been through so much together now.”

  “There are ancient beliefs that say a man and a woman must find the one true love, that when they do, that love will last for all time, through strife and even death. I think that is the sum of your relationship with Esteban. No matter how many others you might think you love, he is your only true love. You were fortunate that you found one another while you were so young. Now you have the rest of your lives to be together.”

  “Oh, Richard, I knew you would understand. How I wish you would find your true love.”

  “Perhaps I will. One day. Perhaps I will even find her in Russia, a woman with green eyes and copper hair.”

  His smile was teasing, his hand on her comforting, and Ginny felt at ease in his arms as the waltz took them around the floor. Another barrier had been hurdled, another avenue chosen, another chance offered on the path to happiness. It was as if pieces of a puzzle were falling into place.

  Steve, standing beside a pilastered column and talking with a man she recognized as Lord Beaconsfield, the prime minister of England, was her fate. She had always known it, even in the darkest of times.