Nightingale

by Cathy Maxwell

  She could shut her eyes and breathe in the scent of him. The years had changed both of them . . . but some things were the same. He wore an expensive sandalwood fragrance that in no way detracted from his masculinity; however, beneath its tones, she could smell the scent of fresh air and promises, of warmth and safety, and of everything she’d once thought of as Dane.

  For a second, she was tempted to place the palm of her hand on his chest. When they’d been together, she’d done that often because she’d liked to feel his heart beat against the hard muscles of his chest. The years had been good to Dane. She had no doubt he was as strong as he’d been the last time they’d been this close.

  And there was something else here, too. Something that had always been present whenever she’d been near him: Passion. Desire. Hunger.

  “Jemma.”

  The hoarseness in his voice surprised her, and she realized she’d been staring at his shirt front in the area of his heart. She blushed, both embarrassed and confused. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  There, she’d said it.

  Years ago, she’d not had the opportunity. Her father had packed her off to London to marry Mosby posthaste. He’d told her Dane would forget her easily. He’d told her she would forget Dane.

  Now she knew her father had lied.

  She expected Dane to reject her apology. It was only what she deserved. She could not meet his eye . . . and realized the longer she prolonged leaving, the more difficult it would be for both of them.

  Jemma started to take a step back, but then he leaned forward, slightly closing the door and barring her way.

  Surprised, she raised her head and found him staring at her lips with an intensity that increased her own pulse. Her breasts grew full, her nipples hard.

  He seemed to know exactly what effect he was having on her. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers. Gone was the glittering hardness, and in its place was a sure intensity that made her knees weak.

  Dane smiled, and her toes curled in her shoes, just like they used to when they were younger.

  Her toes had never curled for her husband. Ever.

  Dear God, what memories this moment brought back! What bright promises had she once shared with this man? They had both been so young and so in love.

  And then his smile changed. He became more knowing, more predatory.

  More intriguing.

  He leaned even closer and in a low voice that hummed through her asked, “Why did you really come here tonight, Jemma?”

  Chapter 3

  Dane wondered what madness he practiced.

  He should ring for a servant and have Jemma summarily escorted from his house. He didn’t trust himself to do it. Not while he stood so close to her that he could feel the warmth of her skin.

  And he had the urge to touch her.

  Too clearly, he remembered a lazy summer afternoon when they’d both fallen asleep on a blanket after a picnic. He’d woken first. The others in their party had been exploring some ruins, their shouts far in the distance. The horses had been grazing nearby. He could still recall the exact sound of them moving through the grass and the hum of bees busy chasing buttercups.

  He’d turned to see if Jemma was awake and, for the first time, had been struck by an awareness he’d not had before. They’d always been childhood friends; however, he’d just returned from his first year at Cambridge, a confused student without thought of direction or purpose, while still thinking himself a man of the world.

  She was seventeen and becoming a woman.

  He’d always thought Jemma attractive, but now, lying beside her, he’d suddenly discovered her to be beautiful. Her nose was up tilted and her chin too sharp, and yet the combination of the two gave her face character.

  Then, there was her glorious hair. It was the color of mahogany, a rich, vibrant brown with gold and red woven through it in a way only God could master. He’d yearned to touch it, to see if it was as silky as it looked. . . .

  He’d clenched his fist and focused on the other things he liked about her—like her laughter. And her dogged determination to see the best in the world no matter how bleak. Certainly, she had her share of troubles. No one could stand her father. He was overbearing and rude, and her mother was the most grasping creature in the county.

  Around them, Jemma shone like the rarest jewel. Everyone liked her, and, in spite of the precarious fortunes of her family, she was always included in outings like today.

  Furthermore, Jemma had presence. He always knew when she was about. He could sense her. Maybe it was the vital scent of roses that lingered in the air around her, something reminding him of the exotic. Perhaps it was something else . . . something he could not name—yet.

  That afternoon, Dane had begun to ache in ways he’d never known before. It had been a need inside him. A hunger.

  Almost shyly, he’d given in to impulse and lightly run his finger over the curve of her cheek. Her skin had been downy soft—softer than he could ever have imagined—and unlined by the cares and worries of the world.

  She’d wrinkled her nose in her sleep, stretched, and curled toward him while opening her eyes. Smoky eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes gray, but always expressive beneath their heavy fringe of black lashes.

  Jemma had smiled at him then, pleased he had woken her. . . . and in that moment, Dane had fallen in love. The horses, the bees, even the calls of their friends had faded from consciousness. All he’d ever wanted had been centered here, with this woman. The realization had been so sudden and so certain that he’d been surprised he hadn’t been struck blind like Paul on the road to Damascus.

  A more incredible miracle had been that Jemma had returned his regard. She’d fallen in love with him in spite of his imperfections and doubts. Through her, he’d begun to believe in himself. He could have scaled mountains, fought dragons, found the Holy Grail.

  They’d spent the rest of his holiday completely involved in each other. She had encouraged him to follow his calling to the Church. With her love to brace him, he’d found the backbone to inform his father of his vocation, and he’d received his approval. Dane had returned to school a new man, one with goals and the desire to forge a good life for Jemma.

  He’d believed she’d shared his hopes and dreams.

  He’d been wrong.

  Before Michaelmas, she’d married another. A man with a title and wealth. A man twice their ages. A man who’d gained the right to touch her and see her wear her hair down.

  Dane had hated that man without ever knowing him.

  Rightly, Jemma had refused to see him when he’d stormed Mosby’s estate to demand answers. He’d been out of his mind, sick with jealousy and a rage that had frightened even himself.

  He’d begun to be the butt of jokes from his comrades. He’d acted the part of a lovesick fool until no one had wanted any part of him. That’s when he’d decided to leave. He’d taken a clerk’s position with the East India Company and had left for the Orient.

  Now, he was discovering that those smoky eyes that had intrigued him in his youth still had the power to beckon him. But this time, he would make the rules of the game.

  “What did you really want by coming here?” he repeated, angry now by her silence and the flood of memories that reminded him of how vulnerable she’d once made him feel.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, her brows coming together in confusion—and yet he knew she was not impassive to him.

  The signs were there. The parted lips, the shallow breathing . . . the tightened nipples that pressed against the thin material of her bodice. Had she deliberately dressed to provoke his desire? He wanted to believe so. In this moment, he wanted to believe so very much.

  He leaned closer, shutting the door. His chest was mere inches away from her breasts, from those tight nipples, and he caught the scent of the soap she’d used. Not something heavy and cloying but light, fresh, and as fragrant as fields on a sunny day.

  His reaction was swift, strong, a
nd completely masculine. He wanted her. He’d always wanted her. He was glad the dark shadows could conceal his obvious arousal.

  She shifted back but did not move her feet, almost as if she was naïvely oblivious to her effect on him. Otherwise, she could use it to her purpose. And then, she said, “I stated my reason for this call. I asked you to spare my brother.”

  “At the expense of my honor.”

  “No,” she quickly denied. “I would not do that. I didn’t know it had been Cris who had made the challenge.”

  “Probably because you and your mother never talked to him, did you? You assumed I was the guilty party,” he rightly surmised and shook his head. “He’s passed out in his cups, isn’t he? Dead to the world until his seconds wake him for the duel and as oblivious to his responsibilities to his title and his family as he ever was.”

  “He’s young—” Jemma started.

  “He’s a drunk,” Dane said, “and behaves as drunks often do—saying and doing things they regret once they are sober.”

  He expected Jemma to challenge him, and that would be good. Her irrational defense of her family in spite of their numerous failings would make him angry. Anger would put distance between them and allow him to send her out the door.

  Instead, she said, “Yes, he will wake at dawn and wish he’d not been so foolish as to challenge you.”

  “Then let him cry off.”

  Her eyes turned sad. “He won’t.”

  “Then I promise not to kill him. It is the best I can offer. I will not cower.”

  With a soft cry, Jemma covered her ears with her hands and took three swift steps away, moving toward the circle of light surrounding his desk. For a second, she stood, head bowed. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands, her fists clenched as if strengthening her resolve.

  She looked to him, her face half in shadows. “Cris will press.”

  “He will attempt to kill me,” Dane agreed. “He made his intentions very clear this evening, and he is the sort who believes death is honor.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Dane didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The golden candlelight highlighted her full curves and turned her muslin dress into a shadow box that emphasized the indentation of her waist and the flair of her hips. He’d once dreamed of possessively placing his hand there, of pulling her to him and not having to hold back the heat of desire.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation. “I was enjoying a game of cards until your brother started taunting me.” He added brutally, “His words were molded out of jealousy. He hates the fact that my fortunes have soared while your family’s have floundered. When he became completely obnoxious, I said the real pity was that he had squandered a settlement his sister had sold herself for in marriage. He took offense.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “As do I.”

  “Good,” Dane replied evenly, almost hating himself for his coolness. “Then the outcome on the morrow will be of no matter to you.”

  “You are wrong,” Jemma responded. Her chin came up. “But then, you have formed your own conclusions about all of us. Everyone in town knows Sir Dane Pendleton takes pride in handling matters in his own way. You could have avoided the confrontation tonight if you had wished, but you didn’t.”

  Dane didn’t reply. He couldn’t. She was right. He had egged on her insolent brother . . . and maybe for reasons he didn’t feel comfortable examining at this moment. Later, once she’d removed herself from him, then, perhaps, he could examine his conscience.

  Jemma didn’t seem to expect an answer. Instead, she accused, “You have held a grudge against my family for the last ten years and more. So let us have it out between us, Dane. Now, and be done with it.”

  Her bold willingness to confront the past made him uncomfortable. It was one thing to nurse a grudge, another to flush it out in the open.

  Her lips curved into a cynic’s smile. “What? Have you nothing to say? When I first arrived you were very free with your opinions of my brother, but let us not mince words, sir. I’m the one who angered you. And for what? Because I chose to marry another?”

  The walls of the room suddenly closed in around Dane. “You . . . chose?”

  Yes, he’d blamed her, but he’d always assumed her parents had forced her to abandon him. He’d wanted to believe she’d had no choice.

  And he hated what he’d just revealed to her.

  Worse, she knew.

  She pressed her lips together as if swallowing words she feared to say. Her eyes filled with her own pain. “I would not hurt you.”

  “You haven’t.” But she had.

  “I wanted to wait for you . . . to tell you myself.”

  Dane didn’t speak. He feared he would break.

  “Lord Mosby was kind. . . .” She didn’t continue.

  He reached deep inside to the hard resolve that had helped build an empire, the resolve he used as if it were armor.

  “Never mind,” he answered. “My life has gone on without you.”

  Jemma nodded, obviously struggling with tears—and why not? She’d chosen the wrong man. If she’d married him, he would have moved heaven and earth for her. Instead, she’d chosen the title, and her family was now close to ruin. In her shoes, Dane would cry too.

  He opened the door. “I believe we have nothing more to say to each other.” The hall was dark. “I’ll call for the footman. He shall see you home.”

  But Jemma didn’t move. She stood silhouetted by candlelight. “What is your price?” she asked, her voice tight with pent-up emotion.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, uncertain if he’d heard her correctly.

  “Your price, Sir Dane,” she reiterated, and now he could not mistake the anger in her tone. “I’ve heard you believe everything has a price. They say you are part of the new age, the one that creates its own fortunes. I want to know your price for crying off from the duel with my brother on the morrow.”

  “There is no price large enough for me to forfeit my honor,” he said coolly.

  “Really?” she asked. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then she said, “I believe there is something.”

  “And what is that?” he asked, certain of himself.

  “It’s what you want, what you’ve always wanted.”

  Dane smiled grimly. “I have everything I want.”

  “Do you?” she replied. She dropped the shawl from her shoulders and, reaching up with both arms, pulled the pins from her hair.

  It came tumbling down around her shoulders, almost reaching her waist. It was thick and vibrant and shone with a life of its own.

  “Here,” she said quietly, “this is what I’m offering. My honor for yours. We’ve an old score to settle. Let us settle it now.”

  Chapter 4

  Jemma dared to risk all. And yet, what choice did she have?

  Or so she told herself.

  She stood in front of Dane, her heart pounding so hard against her chest that she was certain he would see her fear. Other than her family and her husband, no one had ever seen her hair down. She expected him to say something, to move, react. Instead, he stood as if turned to stone. Her shadow blocked his expression, and she shifted so the wane candlelight highlighted the hard planes of his face. His mouth had a grim set, and his brows formed an angry vee.

  “You would abase yourself for your brother?”

  If he’d struck her he’d not have caused more hurt. But then Jemma faced the hard truth. “If you’ve lived as long as I have with men whose lives are dictated by the bottle, you’d have little pride left. I’ve learned in this life one does what one must.”

  Those words caught him off guard, and she felt as if she’d gotten a bit of her own back. She pressed on before she lost her courage. “Do we have a bargain? My honor for yours?”

  Dane leaned back so his expression was once again hidden in the shadows. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. There was a moment of silenc
e, and then he asked, “Why?”

  There was a wealth of understatement in that one word.

  “What choice do I have?” It was hard to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  Without Cris, she and her mother would be thrown into the streets or, worse, forced to depend on relatives who had nursed numerous grudges against her family. Her father had burned many bridges, and now she and her mother paid the price.

  Over the last two years, she’d sold everything she could to keep the estate going. Heirlooms that had been in the Carson family for generations had gone for a song to pay off mounting debts. If her husband had been a better steward of his own money or if his heir and family had been more generous to his young widow, Jemma’s circumstances would have been different.

  She’d learned not to indulge in “what ifs.” Recently, she’d even made discreet inquiries about her finding employment—but no one wanted a governess with a title. Her mother had suggested that she remarry, but Jemma was happier in her own bed.

  And then, tonight, her mother had begged her to come to Dane.

  He was right. The weak were cunning creatures, and Jemma had no doubt her mother had known matters between them would come to this, to her bartering all she had left to offer. The only question was why had Jemma herself been so naïve? Why did she always trust too much? Or had there been a secret desire on her own part to see him again?

  She shoved the idea from her conscience and straightened her shoulders. “Do we have a bargain?” she demanded before she lost her courage.

  He slowly circled her.

  Jemma forced herself to stand very still while she was inspected as if she were livestock. She clenched her fists at her side, digging her nails into her palms.

  Dane stopped behind her. He stood so close that she could feel the heat from his body. He was tall, much taller than Mosby, and yet she knew they would fit together well.

  His deep voice said, “There was a time when all I ever wanted was you.”

  Her knees went weak. She didn’t want to be reminded of the choice she should have made. A choice she’d already paid a price for. A dear, dear price.