The Greatest Challenge of Them All

by Stephanie Laurens

  Luckily, Hamilton never showed up when Drake used his alternative route. His hand locked about Louisa’s, he led her up to the first floor, inwardly debating whether Hamilton’s absence was due to the lack of an alarm on the side door or…

  His mind was rambling. After the shock, now that the demands of the moment—of dealing with getting them there, removing her to a place of assured safety—were past, the inevitable impact of the night’s terror was making itself felt and doing a passable job of scrambling his usually reliable faculties.

  He was accustomed to dealing with shock. He knew the best—the fastest—way to absorb and move past it was to simply let it roll through him as it would.

  In that respect, Louisa lacked his experience. He assumed that was why she hadn’t uttered a word for so very long; for her, ten minutes was close to infinity.

  He had to admit that when she was silent, he noticed her—focused on her—more intently. In his experience, her being silent usually indicated she was plotting something, and therefore at those times, she was at her most dangerous.

  Except, of course, if her speechlessness was due to shock.

  His mind was still rambling.

  They reached the suite of rooms that was his; at the end of one wing, his bedroom overlooked the gardens at the rear of the house. He opened the door and, finally drawing his fingers from hers, guided her through, then followed.

  Putting back her hood, she walked in a little way, then presumably realizing that large though it was, the chamber was his bedroom, she turned to face him. The gaslights on the wall had been left turned low. In the soft light, he could see her face.

  Could have easily read her expression had there been anything he understood in it.

  She studied him for a moment, then sighed. “I’m…annoyed that we had to leave that little black notebook behind. Who knows what clues it contained?”

  That was what she’d spent the past half hour and more dwelling on?

  He froze for a second, then he pushed the door closed and walked, slowly, toward her. He knew she wouldn’t shift, wouldn’t take a step back. He stopped with less than a foot between them, ensuring she had to tip up her face to meet his eyes.

  And that she could see them.

  Her eyes had widened fractionally, but she met his gaze without any evidence of nervousness—even of awareness…

  His brain felt overheated. “When I saw the bomb hit that wall and the flames spring up, cutting you off, trapping you in that room…” His tone was equable, even gentle, giving no hint of the turmoil raging inside him. “Do you know what I felt?”

  She opened her eyes slightly wider, wordlessly inviting him to tell her. She knew perfectly well he intended to regardless.

  “I would have predicted,” he continued, his eyes locked with hers, “that I would feel battered by myriad emotions, but the truly curious thing was that there was only one. One compulsive feeling. A need to get you out of there safely—it threw every other thought, feeling, emotion, or need out of my head.”

  His voice hardening, he stated, “That single feeling trumped everything.” Fractionally, he shook his head. “Nothing else mattered. The black book didn’t matter. The mission didn’t matter. The realm—even my honor—didn’t matter when measured against that. When measured against you.”

  He paused, then more evenly reiterated, “In that moment, nothing was more important than getting you to safety.”

  Peridot eyes wide, she stared at him as if, for once, she saw him clearly, without any screens, any shields, without any sophisticated veil to mute his personality.

  Several heartbeats passed, then she simply said, “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.” His tone said it all—all he’d given up trying to hide. He’d already faced their reality. Now she could face it, too.

  He stared into her eyes as they stood there, all but toe to toe in the soft gaslight, and as he’d expected, he saw not one iota of a suggestion that she was rethinking her—now their—direction.

  Good.

  He forced himself to turn and walk to the door to the adjoining bathroom. “We’re soot-streaked, bedraggled, and we reek of smoke.” He hadn’t realized how dreadful they looked until he’d seen her in better light and had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece; small wonder Henry had looked appalled. “We’ll both need to bathe before I can take you home.”

  She followed him and, crossing her arms, leaned against the doorframe, watching as he turned up the lights, then set the gas burner on the big copper boiler roaring. He gave silent thanks for the plumbing his mother had insisted be installed; at least they could bathe without involving half the staff fetching and carrying water up the stairs.

  He dropped the plug in the bathtub, then set the taps running. Water gushed, and steam rose.

  He waved her to the tub. “Soap, towels. There’s a bathrobe there, too. While you’re bathing, I’ll get Finnegan to fetch one of my sister’s gowns.”

  She studied his face for several seconds, then straightened and pulled the ties of her cloak undone.

  He moved to take the heavy, scorched, and smoke-drenched garment from her.

  She half turned, allowing him to lift the cloak from her shoulders. “I doubt it’s salvageable, but if someone could bundle it up, I’ll take it home and let my maid decide what to do with it.”

  He nodded and carried it into the bedroom.

  He laid the cloak on a chair against the wall. When he turned, she’d come back into the bedroom and was walking to the other side of the massive four-poster bed.

  Across the rich, old-gold silk tapestry that covered the expanse, he watched as she unhooked the pearl drops from her ears and laid them on the small table beside the head of the bed.

  “I’d better leave my pearls here. I don’t want any swirling down the drain.”

  Instead of watching her unwind the long string from about her throat, he walked to the bellpull hanging beside the fireplace and tugged. Then he moved to the door.

  Less than a minute later, Finnegan’s rap fell on the panel.

  Drake had already grasped the doorknob, preventing the Irishman from flinging open the door and theatrically waltzing in, as was his wont.

  But when Drake opened the door, using his body to block Finnegan’s view of the room, he saw Finnegan, his expression attentive and spuriously innocent, standing back a good yard from the door.

  To have arrived so quickly, Finnegan had to have been on the first floor when Drake rang the bell; there was a maid’s station at the top of the stairs in which the bells rang, as well as ringing on the main board in the servants’ hall.

  Finnegan had, of course, been tipped off by Henry, with whom Finnegan worked hand in glove, that Drake had returned with a lady—with Lady Louisa Cynster—in tow.

  So Finnegan, being the very shrewd servitor he was, was on his best behavior.

  Henry knew, and Finnegan knew, that Louisa was in Drake’s bedroom.

  Drake decided he didn’t need to do anything about that; he would—and frequently had—trusted both men with his life.

  He met Finnegan’s innocent gaze with a very direct look. “Go to Meredith’s room and fetch one of her walking dresses. One of the gray ones. Do not ask her maid or anyone else for permission.”

  Meredith was his oldest sister and most similar in height and build to Louisa. Unfortunately, there the similarity ended; their coloring and style were very different, and no evening gown of Meredith’s would do for Louisa. But a walking gown in one of Merry’s favorite grays would do for a short time.

  Finnegan couldn’t resist. He blinked owlishly. “You want one of Lady Meredith’s gowns?”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t fit you.”

  Drake narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to the gentle tone that to those who knew him screamed a warning. “I know. Just fetch it.”

  Struggling to hide his grin, Finnegan saluted. “Yes, my lord.”

  Drake shut the door
in Finnegan’s face.

  He turned to find Louisa, in her petticoats and what remained of her gown—just the bodice—ambling around the room, apparently idly studying this and that.

  He—his nerves, his senses, and his emotions—had had enough.

  He glanced into the bathroom and judged by the steam that the deep bath was half full. Enough for her to sit in while it continued filling.

  She’d stopped by the wide window and was peering out, into the dark of the garden below. Jaw firming, he strode across the room. He’d intended to capture her hand and tow her to the bathroom, but she turned as he reached her.

  Her expression serene and untroubled, she pointed to the back of her head. “There should be three more pearls, but I can’t find them. Can you?”

  She turned and gave him her back.

  The three pearls were easy to see even in the low light; surrounded by the dark mass of her black hair, they glowed with an unearthly radiance—highly reminiscent of her skin.

  He gritted his teeth and plucked the pins free, shaking each loose from the clinging tendrils of her hair. The curls brushed his fingertips, silky soft and curiously warm, and he couldn’t stop his mind from leaping to the image of her hair brushing over his naked skin, his naked—

  Ruthlessly, he dragged in a breath and shut off such thoughts. With her there, in this setting where she really shouldn’t be, he didn’t need the extra aggravation.

  “Here.” He offered her the pins on his palm.

  She picked them up, then walked—glided with her customary almost-floating gait—to the bedside table and added the three to the small mound of her jewels.

  Then she swept back to him. Her eyes on his, as she drew closer she murmured, “The bath must almost be ready.” She halted before him, swung around, and presented him with her back. “You’ll need to undo the buttons. I can’t reach.”

  He stared at the row of tiny buttons that ran down her spine from below her shoulder blades to just below her waist. She could probably reach them if she tried, but not easily. He clenched his jaw and set his fingers to the task.

  He couldn’t count the number of times he’d performed the same office for some other lady, yet for some unfathomable reason, with her…

  Gritting his teeth harder didn’t lessen the impact.

  Only when the last button slid free did he realize the inevitable result. The bodice had no sleeves.

  No longer anchored about her, the bodice slithered free…with a practiced movement, she caught it in one hand.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, in that sultry tone that told him very clearly where her thoughts were roaming.

  Then she glanced over her shoulder, met his eyes for a heartbeat, then her lips curved slightly and she looked forward and walked—slowly—away from him.

  She swung the ruined bodice from her hand. As she neared the bathroom door, with a flick of her wrist, she sent the bodice flying to land on the chair with her cloak.

  Drake barely noticed. His gaze had fixed on the delicate bones of her shoulders and upper back revealed above the low line of her corset’s back. Fascinated by the play of light over those sleek curves, he couldn’t drag his eyes away. By the time he did, she’d reached the bathroom door. There, she paused and looked back at him. All but purred, “I won’t be long.”

  Then she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Leaving him debating whether or not he was glad she wore corsets that laced up the front.

  A knock on the main door dragged him from Louisa-induced distraction.

  He crossed to the door, opened it, and found Finnegan with a gray gown draped across his arms.

  “Best I could do.” Finnegan handed the gown over. “It has some green in it.”

  Drake grunted. “Thank you.”

  Finnegan reverted to his innocent look. “Will you need me to assist you to bed, my lord?”

  Drake just looked at him, then closed the door.

  In the spacious bathroom, Louisa sank into the water with a sigh. For long moments, she focused on what she was there to do, lathering and rinsing her hair, then picking up a sponge and setting to work cleansing her body, uncaring that Drake’s shampoo and soaps carried the distinctly masculine scent of sandalwood.

  Yet as the soot sloughed from her skin, she grew aware of a burgeoning feeling that she was shedding other elements, too—not her past, for that was an intrinsic part of her, but certainly past beliefs. Past restrictions, inherent restraints that, even as Lady Wild, she’d accepted and obeyed.

  No longer.

  That moment when, lying on the bed in that tiny room, she’d looked back and seen a wall of flames cutting her off from both past and future was etched in her mind, never to be lost or erased. Then Drake had burst through the fiery screen, intent on rescuing her.

  Whatever the cost.

  She’d seen the raging flames, had felt their hunger and violent heat. She couldn’t quite imagine the steely resolve one would have to have, viewing that wall from the other—the safe—side, to race through it into life-threatening danger.

  Yet without hesitation, Drake had come for her.

  And the declaration her bemoaning the loss of the black book had provoked had set the seal on his direction. For a man like him to so determinedly and deliberately set her above his honor? More, for him to tell her so? His words had communicated all she needed to know regarding his decision about her, about them.

  Nothing could have been clearer.

  She rose from the water, wrung out her long hair, bent and released the plug, then stepped out of the bath. The towels were fresh and soft. She rubbed her hair, then wrapped a towel turban-like around her head. Using another towel to dry her skin, she stared into the bath, watching the soot circle the drain, then vanish.

  She reached for the cold-water tap, turned it on, and sluiced the last remnants of soot down the hole.

  Gone. Just as her reserve regarding him, regarding them and their future, was gone.

  Washed away by the events of the night.

  A piece of advice her grandmother had once offered her echoed in her mind. In order to make a dream into a reality, you have to reach for it—with your hands, with your heart, with all you have in you.

  Active, unquestioning, unconditional commitment. That was what a wealth of experience had stated was needed, and that was what she would give.

  It was time to convert her most precious dream into a reality.

  CHAPTER 43

  Drake sat on the end of his large four-poster bed, with Merry’s dress spread on the counterpane beside him, his gaze fixed on the bathroom door and his mind…circling, wanting to dwell on what was happening behind the door, if only he would let it.

  He was determined not to—to keep his wits his own, under his control. He still had to get Louisa home.

  Then he heard her approach the door, saw the knob turn, then the door opened, and he had to fight to keep all reaction from his face. He couldn’t stop his eyes from devouring the mesmerizing, enticing, delectable sight of her. Even though she was engulfed in the folds of his bathrobe—more of her would have been visible had she been wearing a ball gown—the flush on her skin, the alluring promise of warm limbs and curves, the way the turban pulling her hair high revealed the sculpted lines of her jaw and cheekbones and drew attention to the upward tilt of her large eyes, all combined to make him itch with the desire to unwrap her.

  Like a present.

  One he was due.

  But not tonight. They still had a mission to complete.

  Later. He promised himself that. And when the time came, he was certain she wouldn’t argue.

  She moved diagonally across the space between them.

  He rose from the bed and waved at the gray walking dress. “Merry’s dress.”

  She glanced at the gray gown and regally inclined her turbaned head. “Thank you.”

  He finally registered her expression—untrammeled and serene. She halted in the middle of the room and
swung to survey the fire. Then she turned her head and arched a brow at him. “I’ll need to dry my hair.”

  Without a word, he crossed to the fireplace. The fire was already burning nicely; it was the work of a few minutes to stoke it into a roaring blaze.

  He rose and was about to turn toward her when he sensed her drawing near. He—everything in him—stilled, then he felt her hand on his upper arm.

  “Thank you.” Gently, she pushed him toward the bathroom. “Now go and get clean.”

  He dropped an iron gate in the path of the impulses her being so close provoked, then turned and went.

  Louisa watched him go; after the bathroom door had closed behind him, she allowed a slow smile to curve her lips. Even with the fire, her hair wouldn’t dry enough to allow her to put it up; while damp, the mass was simply too heavy. And she certainly couldn’t risk being seen slipping into her home with her hair down—she glanced at the clock—not at two o’clock in the morning, at any rate.

  Not that it mattered; she wasn’t going home any time soon.

  After unwinding the towel from about her head, she knelt before the blazing fire and, with her hair over her head, drew her fingers through the heavy strands, holding them out to the warmth.

  While the heat from the flames took the worst of the dampness from her hair, she weighed and considered how best to return the gauntlet Drake had flung at her feet in the wake of Lady Cottlesloe’s ball.

  CHAPTER 44

  Drake rushed through his ablutions. The instant he was dry, he reached for his robe and remembered Louisa had taken it.

  He glanced at the pile of his discarded clothes—unwearable even for a minute—and that was when he noticed hers.

  Her petticoats, her corset, and a pair of fine lace-trimmed drawers were neatly draped over a low stool in one corner.

  If her underthings were there, what was she wearing at that moment?

  His mind supplied the most likely answer, but he refused to accept it—to leap to that conclusion—not until he’d seen the evidence.