“No.”
She pushed Durling toward the stairs. “Mr. Durling, have a look.”
“Right-O!” But he didn’t move until Anne prodded him yet again.
“What the devil is going on here?” Thrale demanded, looking daggers from Cynssyr to Durling on his way to the stairs.
Ruan saw Anne to a chair before drawing one of the heavy curtains. Late afternoon bathed the room in gray light. “Much better.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. His fingers gently caressed the nape of her neck.
Hands on his hips, Thrale glared at the open door. “This just tears it. I oughtn’t to be surprised. Do come in, Bracebridge.”
“Thank you.” Devon came in and arranged himself on a chair, not bothering to uncover it. He slouched, a deceptively casual position, Ruan knew. “Thought I’d come in when I saw Anne come with Durling there.” Dev spared a look for Thrale. “As for him, I lost him. Don’t know how he slipped away, or even when.” He lifted a hand. “Now, Thrale, I don’t mind if you do answer Cyn’s question. What are you doing here?”
“I own this house.”
Ruan took up position behind Anne’s chair. “Do you, indeed?”
“I own this house, but as you can see, I do not use it. It is presently let out. The family to whom the house is leased has gone to Scotland to sit vigil at the side of a relative I was given to understand was quite ill. This afternoon I received notice someone had broken in and might be living here illegally. I came to investigate. And find you.”
From upstairs, Durling shouted, a high-pitched cry of alarm that made Anne’s blood run cold.
Thrale, Devon and Cynssyr rose as one. “Mr. Durling? Where are you?” She led the way upstairs.
Durling met them near the top of the stairs, white-faced. “It’s Cyril Leander’s girl.” He stopped Anne from going past him. “There’s nothing to be done for her.” His voice tightened. “Nothing.”
“I’ll fetch the constable,” Devon said.
“I had a message,” said Thrale. “From a child off the streets who said he was from my solicitor. Said I needed to come right away.” He sat on the stairs, palms on his knees. “But I was late getting here.”
“Your hands are bruised, Thrale,” Ruan said. “Mind telling us what happened?”
“What?” He lifted his hands and flexed his fingers. The skin was broken in several places. “I was at Gentleman Jack’s.”
“True enough,” Dev said. “That’s where he was when he disappeared.”
“Got the worst of my bout, I’m afraid. I was relieved when that dashed boy interrupted.” Slowly, he looked from Durling to Ruan to Anne. His brows drew together over tempest grey eyes, but he calmly shook his head. “No. I did not do this.” Every word came out clear and distinct.
“Take the duchess home, Cynssyr,” Durling said in a shaking voice. “She doesn’t need to see this.” He came down a step looking ready to collapse himself.
“I shall deal with this,” Ruan said.
Thrale shot to his feet, body taut, fists clenched. At the very moment Anne was sure he would strike out, he suddenly controlled himself. With terrible effort, he said, “I have never struck a woman. Ever. But I won’t say as much about a man.”
“We arrived at the same time, Ruan,” Devon said.
“He could have left and come back.”
“Could have.”
Anne was grateful for Cynssyr’s hand on her shoulder, for she could not imagine Thrale was so vile a man, and yet it seemed she must.
“Look at his hands,” Durling cried. “They’re bruised and bloody, and that poor girl—”
“If you want to look for a man capable of such a monstrous act,” said Thrale, “you needn’t look any further than John Martin. And you, Cynssyr, have more reason than most to understand why.”
At Anne’s look, Cynssyr explained. “As I said, he was briefly under my command in Spain. If he’d not cashed out on his own, I’d have had him cashiered. Not after being discovered rifling the pockets of the dead or near dead, though I argued that was grounds enough, nor for his acts of brutality against the Spanish, particularly women, but for failing to lead a charge after a direct order. Worse, I found him drunk afterward and upon interviewing several of his men could only conclude that he’d been drunk during battle, too.”
“I often thought my father would have preferred him for his heir.” Thrale looked at the three men, then at Anne. “Martin is his natural son. But you know that.”
“Yes,” said Durling softly. “But it was not Martin who did this.”
“His mother was married.” Thrale examined one bruised fist, running fingers along the ridges of a gash with an oddly languid care. “A farmer’s wife. Common as they come, but my father always did like them close to the earth. They passed off the child as legitimate issue of her marriage. My father paid for his education and then for his commission, too. I was glad to see him in the Army for it got him out of the parish. Nor was I surprised to learn he’d cashed out. He wrote me for money a while back, a few months since. I replied his commission was inheritance enough, and t’was not my fault if he’d squandered it. My father had been giving him money off and on for years and once he passed away, that stopped.”
“But he’s in Town now.” Anne thought of the exquisite clothes. “How does he afford it?”
“He was a charming boy,” Thrale supplied. “Carefree, a daredevil with whom no one could long stay out of sorts, and I expect that’s not changed. There’s always someone taken in by him. But it won’t last. For all his gifts; charm, wit, education beyond his station, John is a wastrel. Just like my father. My father paid to get him out of several unfortunate scrapes, most of them involving women.”
“Just so,” Cynssyr said. And Anne could not help thinking of the girl upstairs, the life forever gone from her.
“Yes.” Thrale glanced at the top of the stairs. “Just so.”
Until now, she’d been able to think of what lay upstairs as an abstraction. A regrettable death for which she was very sorry. It no longer felt abstract. That young girl’s life was tragically gone, and Anne wondered how her parents were to survive the loss. She thought of her own child, as yet unborn, of her sisters and how her heart would break if anything happened to them.
“Anne?”
She turned her heard in the direction of Ruan’s voice and found she could not clearly see him for the tears. She reached for him but his arms already surrounded her. “Cynssyr.” And then she was ill.
“My wee wren,” he whispered to her. He gave her his handkerchief. “Henry will see you home,” he said when she had done what she could with the handkerchief and a pitifully small amount of water. Before she could protest, he held up a hand and said in a voice so cold and so utterly lacking in compassion for that poor dead child, a chill went up her spine, “Wait for me at Cyrwthorn, Anne. I shall come home presently.”
“Yes, sir.”
The dinner hour had long passed before he returned. She was in the front parlor embroidering more roses on a shawl for Lucy. The work provided a way of keeping her thoughts from wandering to Thrale and what he might prove to be, or to her husband and the sort of man he was. Or wasn’t. Her hands stilled on the fabric as she listened to Cynssyr mount the stairs. Then, just when she was certain he would walk past, he was there. A tall, lithe shape in the doorway. “Have you dined?” she asked, heart pounding because that was always the effect he had on her.
He came in. Every stitch of his clothing was perfect, every movement of his body indisputably masculine. His eyes alone betrayed his only flaw. They were cold and hard. “I’m surprised you’re still up.” Even his voice felt cold. His slow entrance eventually brought him to her side.
“That poor girl,” she said in a choked voice.
“I don’t want you ever to take such a risk again. You must promise me you’ll let me manage this affair from here on out.”
“You asked for my help.”
“I was wrong to involve you
in this,” he said, lowering himself to the sofa on which his wife sat. Though no stranger to grief and sorrow, he didn’t think he’d ever reacted so strongly to someone else’s emotions. Anne wasn’t ever to hurt like that again. He wouldn’t permit it. He couldn’t bear it. The horror of the Leander girl’s death still resonated in her. At Fargate Castle, she would be safe. She peered at him, and after a moment, he heard her catch her breath, a sound of recognition, of what he’d no idea.
“Were you the one to tell her parents?”
“Yes.” He took a section of the shawl in one hand and let the silk flow through his fingers. Tiny stitches formed roses so perfect he half-expected them to move. “Exquisite work, Anne.”
“Cynssyr.” She touched the edge of his jaw, and Ruan felt the now familiar leap of passion. “Has there ever been anyone to comfort you?” A pair of tiny scissors fell to the floor. “Leave them.” But he bent to retrieve them for her anyway. She took them. “I’m glad you involved me,” she said fiercely. “We will find this monster and stop him.” She leaned her head against his chest, placing one hand over his heart. “Promise me vengeance, Cynssyr.”
Cornwall. Yes, he would send her to Cornwall just as she’d asked. But even as he planned how and when he would tell her of his decision, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to make so selfless a move. “Yes, Anne,” he breathed into her hair, “we will have vengeance.” He slipped his arms around her and brought her close.
Anne listened to his heartbeat. She knew exactly the danger she was in from him, but if he would hold her like this, tenderly, as though he cared and felt deeply for her, she might just walk headlong into the inevitable heartbreak. Taking one of her hands in his, he kissed her palm. Her body reacted, she opened to him like one of her embroidered roses come to life.
Then he kissed her, not opening his mouth until she leaned into him and opened hers. The warmth flamed into heat. She didn’t care if he did break her heart. When at last he drew back, she said, “How can we, when that poor girl lies cold and alone?”
“How can we not?” Gently he covered the back of her neck with one hand. “No, love, don’t close your eyes. Look at me.” She could scarcely breathe. His fingers stroked over her. “Does this frighten you?”
She shook her head. Not in the way he meant, anyway.
His fingertip brushed across the aching peak of her breast. She felt melting, bone-deep heat in response to that touch. “This material is very thin. I can feel you almost as if you were naked in my hands.”
Every nerve in her body was on fire. His thumb rubbed over her nipple. Her eyes popped open. A familiar panic rose when she saw the half-lidded green eyes and his sleepy, almost drugged, concentration. She would lose herself to him if he made love to her now and that frightened her enough to pull away.
“What?” He gazed at her with a lazy curiosity but she saw smoldering fire underneath.
“I don’t like the way that makes me feel.” Lord, his hand was still on her, still touching.
He stopped his caress. “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Are you afraid I will hurt you?”
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me.” In fact, she feared she understood all too well.
“Anne,” he said softly. “Anne, you are a passionate woman who denied her nature for too long. For years you had to. No longer. You’ve no need for dreams, now.” He took her head between his hands. “Let go, my dearest heart. Let go and I will catch you however far you fall. Let go, and I will show you a whole other world.”
She could only stare mutely, brought low by frank longing.
“Anne,” he whispered as he lowered his head for a kiss. He edged her toward pure sensation. An existence where she knew only the heat in her blood. His hand slipped between them, searching and finding, it seemed to her, every part of her body that might respond to him. “Hold still. I don’t want to tear your gown.” He laughed, a low rumble of private amusement. “Unless I have to.” Quite suddenly, he was inching her gown down her arms. “Sweet Christ. You truly are magnificent.”
The sleeves of her frock trapped her arms at her sides. She wasn’t anything now but a mass of longing. His fingers touched her bare skin, lightly skimming her shoulders. She could only pray he would not stop. Fingers caressing along her collarbone. Sensation. Nothing but sensation. First one, then both his hands at once, molding her, teasing her into mindless submission.
“When I made love to you at Corth Abbey, Anne, you moaned just like that. And when I touched you like this—” His fingertips touched her breast briefly, oh so briefly, catching “—I was in heaven. I had to have you, and so I took you. Because it’s what I wanted.” Then his mouth was there, where his hand had been, through her chemise tongue sipping, teeth nipping, her own body dissolving. “Are you well enough for this?” In response, she pulled his head to hers. He picked her up and pulled her onto his lap. Her head swam when he bent over her for a long, deep kiss that seemed to go on for forever and then, when he stopped, not at all long enough. “Open your legs, darling,” he whispered.
His hand under her skirt slid determinedly up her thigh. Molten lightning streaked upward from her toes to her belly. His tongue flicked out, touching her breast. Desire filled her to bursting. She arched toward his mouth.
“That’s it,” he crooned. She didn’t know or even care what he meant by that until his fingers touched the curls between her legs. “Trust me,” he whispered. “I will take care of you.” A finger pressed there, circling gently.
Pleasure of exquisite depth stole over her. Cynssyr continued to kiss her, a long, sensuous kiss while his hand stroked. Once, he stopped but only to bring up her knee so that she was opened further for him. Her legs were exposed to the air, the very core of her was open to him and the magic he worked on her. “Let go,” he said. “I am here.” His finger slid inside her. Her breath hitched in the back of her throat. And then, before she could do anything to prevent it, an incredible tension broke over her like a wave and sent her spinning onto a tightrope of desire. She couldn’t stop any of it. “My love,” he whispered. “My love. I am here.”
“Ruan.” That long, anguished moan came from her. He had a hand on her breast again. She lay across his lap, her legs bare to nearly her thighs while his fingers stroked between her legs. Her arms reached to catch him and hold on because he had her balanced at the cliff’s edge and she really was falling. When he gently tugged on the peak of her breast, she came apart, fractured into a thousand pieces.
He pulled back to look at her. “Darling,” he whispered, not to her, but to himself. “Exactly so.” She felt the heat of his eyes on her, as green and bright as any gem could ever be, and was surprised when he reached to wipe tears from her cheeks.
She wasn’t sure how long they held each other, each wrapped in their shared silence. But even when someone tapped on the door, Ruan did not release her.
“Your grace?” came Merchant’s muffled voice.
“No,” Anne moaned, still bespelled by what he had done to her. The sofa, positioned as it was to face the fireplace, was at least partially hidden from someone standing in the doorway.
He lifted his head, but his hands continued a soothing stroking of her. “Do not come in, Merchant.”
From the doorway, the butler cleared his throat. “Your engagement with Lord Eldon?”
“Thank you for the reminder. Tell Dobkin I must have the charcoal suit.”
“Very good, sir.”
Ruan helped Anne fasten her gown, then took her in his arms. “I prefer to tarry in your warm embrace, my dear, but I can hardly put off the Lord Chancellor at my convenience.”
Anne pushed away from him, rising. Emotion paralyzed her, suffocated her. The feelings were so big and so dangerous she didn’t dare acknowledge their existence. “I told you once,” she said. “I do not wish to feel. We get along quite well without any of that. You’ve said so yourself. We are two entirely different people, Ruan. We’v
e nothing in common, and I am trying my hardest not to fail at this.” Her breath caught in her throat. “And you persist in this...this... In breaking me to your will.”
“Breaking you? That’s absurd.” But Ruan felt more than a small twinge of guilt. Wasn’t that his intent?
“That’s what it feels like.” She dissolved into sobs. “Leave me alone. Stop making me feel this way.”
“And what way is that?”
“Like your current diversion soon to be discarded. You have no right to be so tender when you do not mean it for me.” She rapped her chest with her fingertips. “You do not mean it for me, Ruan, and I cannot bear it. Save such words for Mrs. Fairchild, for she at least wants to hear them.” She clasped her head. “My God. Listen to me! I’m raving. Stark raving.” She looked into his face. “What have you done to me?”
His mouth twisted. “What have you done to me?”
CHAPTER 24
Ruan’s meeting concluded earlier than expected. Castlereagh was there, among others, along with lord Sather, who’d also fought in the war. The subject concerned a suitable candidate to send to Aix-la-Chapelle. Whoever went would conduct the negotiations concluding the division of Napoleon’s failed Empire. Before Anne, Ruan would have expected to go and been more than eager to put forward his name were he not approached. Had someone else been chosen in his stead, he would have felt slighted. His reluctance now even to be considered surprised him. A bit.
“Cynssyr,” Sather said, “I’ve heard you might welcome an opportunity to go abroad.”
“You have misheard.”
“Indeed?” said Sather.
“I am but recently married.” With a meaningful glance at Castlereagh, he said, “Even if I were not, there are men who will more ably represent Britain’s interests.”
“You might take along your bride,” Eldon offered.
“My heir will be born at Fargate Castle. On English soil. Not foreign.”
“Quick work.”
Ruan shrugged. If Castlereagh or anyone else was annoyed at him for yet another reason, he didn’t give a tinker’s damn. His decision was made. He would not willingly leave Anne. They danced around the issue a bit longer, but at last it was agreed Castlereagh himself would go. By three in the morning, Ruan was back at Cyrwthorn. Early for him and far too late to hope Anne was awake. He dismissed Dobkin once he’d changed from evening clothes and had a glass of brandy and a book in hand. His intention was to sit before the fire until dawn came and went but compulsion took him into Anne’s room.
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