Zach’s hands were suddenly shaking. Jesus Christ, where had his brain cells been hiding when Inspector Harris told him that the gun belonged to a woman called Gloria? He found the detective’s phone number, and dialed, totally oblivious to the fact that it was three-thirty in the morning.
For once, luck was on his side. In Dorset, it was already eight-thirty and Inspector Harris was at his desk. The switchboard operator connected Zach immediately.
“This is Inspector Harris.”
Zach didn’t bother with any preliminaries. “Gerry Taunton, one of my senior managers at the Gallery, has a sister,” he said. “Her name’s Gloria and I know she lives somewhere near Starke. I believe Gerry mentioned to me a couple of years ago that she was going through a difficult divorce and had spent time in a mental hospital. Something about her husband having an affair with a much younger woman. Do you think Gerry’s sister could be the woman you’re looking for?”
“Good Lord, I certainly do.” For once Inspector Harris sounded almost excited. “I’ll start making inquiries at this end right away. It’s so much easier to find information when you know more or less what you’re looking for. Any idea why Gerry Taunton might have chosen to change his name from Hasskins?”
“I’ve no idea,” Zach said. “He’s been Taunton ever since he arrived in the States, and that must be at least twenty-five years ago.”
“Do you have any clue as to why he might be involved in a scheme to fake antiques? Does he gamble? Live the high life?”
“None of those things,” Zach said, and his stomach lurched. “It makes no sense for Gerry to be involved in the faking of those antiques. He’s one of America’s foremost experts on eighteenth-century furniture. He knows, better than most, that what he was doing would destroy the Gallery.”
“Hmm, interesting. Do you have any reason to think that this Gerry Taunton might have cause to dislike you, Mr. Bowleigh?”
“Gerry’s almost one of the family,” Zach said. “He’s not only my right-hand man, he was a good friend of my grandfather’s from the first moment he arrived in New York.”
“That’s interesting. And how did your grandfather meet him?” the detective asked.
Zach thought a moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Gerry was just always around.”
“Make sure he stays that way,” the detective said. “The last thing we want him to do is get wind of our investigation and start running.”
The thought of Gerry on the run because he and Gloria had shot Robyn Delaney was even more absurd than the thought of Gerry as the criminal who had faked a dozen or more valuable antiques and almost destroyed the reputation of the Bowleigh Gallery in the process. Zach tried to orient himself to a world that seemed to have shifted its perspective to a new and almost unrecognizable angle.
“I’ll take care not to give Gerry any hint of what we suspect,” he said.
“You’d better be sure you mean that,” Inspector Harris said curtly. “If this man was involved with the antiques scam at your Gallery and with the shooting attack on Miss Delaney, there’s one thing that’s clear.”
“What’s that?” Zach asked.
“Gerry Taunton doesn’t like you very much,” the inspector said. “He doesn’t like you very much at all.”
The inspector, Zach thought wryly, had a terrific gift for understatement.
Chapter 19
She knew the instant William came into her bedroom, although he moved so quietly that she sensed rather than heard his presence. Her pulse started to race, the inevitable consequence of his nearness, but she kept her eyes closed and gave no sign that she was aware of him. After what had happened earlier, she needed him to speak first, if not to explain his lack of trust, then at least to apologize for it.
But he neither explained nor apologized. He stood at the side of the bed, silent and unmoving, although she could feel his gaze roaming restlessly over her face and body. After two or three minutes the tension was coiled so tight inside her that she thought she would explode if he didn’t speak, especially when he reached out to caress her cheek with exquisite, aching gentleness. The pretense of sleeping became impossible to maintain, but just as she opened her eyes, he turned to leave, his departure as silent as his arrival.
Despite her anger at him, she found that she couldn’t let him go. “William,” she said softly, pushing herself up against the pillows. “I’m awake. What do you want?”
“You,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “What else? It seems that I always want you.”
“Is it such a disaster to desire your wife?” Robyn asked.
He swung around, his eyes a fierce, glittering blue in a face white with fatigue and stress. “I wish that I knew,” he said. “Is that not the ultimate triumph for you, Arabella?”
“I feel no sense of triumph,” she said.
“How can you not? ‘Tis more than three years since Clementine’s birth, and in all that time, I visited your bed but once. And yet, in the past few weeks, you have woven a spell of such potent magic that I can no longer even pretend indifference, much less feel it. I want you to the point of insanity, and so I ignore the feeble protests of my conscience, just as I ignore the warnings from my brother that you will betray me. Tonight, when you spoke of Prince Charles Edward’s escape, every instinct I possess cried out in warning that I must not trust you. But to no avail. I want you still, and my body craves the release that only you can provide.”
“Zachary doesn’t know me,” Robyn said quietly. “And you mistake your own feelings. It is your reason and not your instinct that warns you against me. In your heart of hearts you know full well that I will never betray you, or your brother. And in matters of trust, the heart is a much more reliable guide to truth than the intellect.”
He laughed, a grating, mirthless sound. “My compliments, Arabella. You have just given me the one answer guaranteed to ensure my total confusion—and thus the continuation of your spell.”
“I don’t weave spells,” she said. “If I could, I would weave one to stop you using the name Arabella. Why are you so unwilling to call me Robyn?”
He shrugged. “Once I told you that you were too beautiful to be called by the name of such a common little bird. Now I know you are not only too beautiful, you are also too dangerous.”
She stared at him, genuinely shocked. “Dangerous? Me?”
“But of course you. Before the accident you used your beauty as a cold, destructive weapon. Now you use it as a soothing, welcoming lure.” He walked over to the window, drawing back the heavy draperies and staring out at the frosty, moonlit landscape. “You have become frighteningly clever since your accident. Somehow, during those days and nights of raging fever, you learned that tenderness and warmth are far more potent weapons than mere physical beauty.”
“But, William, I don’t even like the way I look—”
“I’m not the only fool to have fallen prey to your charms,” he interrupted. “I have seen how the servants all run to do your bidding instead of cowering in fear as you walk by. The twins hide from their tutor so that they can spend time playing with you. Clementine laughs all day instead of whining, and even the baby has learned to smile the minute he hears your voice.”
“Surely you don’t regret that the children and I take pleasure in each other’s company?” she asked, joining him at the window. “Or that baby Zach is contented and thriving?”
“I feel not regret but fear. Fear that you will revert to your old ways and our children will suffer all the more for having known what it’s like to have a mother who is kind and cheerful and interested in their daily concerns.”
“If I behave with tenderness toward the children, it’s because I feel tenderness toward them, not because I’m working on some dastardly, secret plan to betray them.”
“And toward me?” he asked, his words clipped. “What do you feel toward me, Arabella?”
She looked up at him, her heart pounding as she acknowledged the truth. “I l
ove you,” she said. “Although I don’t expect you to believe me.”
He swung around, his eyes dark and mocking in the moon-silvered darkness. He took her hand, circling her wrist with strong, slender fingers. “You are become a mistress of pretty words, my dove, but I am not yet willing to surrender every last vestige of my common sense. Your trap is well baited, but I am not quite besotted enough to walk in.”
“William, for heaven’s sake, I’m not setting traps—”
“Are you not? You whisper to me of love, and my heart races with joy. You offer up your hands to my caress, and I shudder with need. You cradle your head on my shoulder and I am undone.” Smiling cynically, he carried her wrist to his mouth and pressed his lips against the throbbing beat of her pulse, but when he raised his head, he was no longer smiling.
“I want you beyond bearing,” he said. “And so I gaze deep into your eyes and tell myself that yes, you can be trusted, and no, you will never betray me.”
“Then you tell yourself nothing but the truth,” she said.
William’s mouth twisted in wry self-mockery. “Truth, trust, honor, duty—what are they? In the end, it seems that my lust for you is stronger than any of them.”
“You know, I’m getting a bit tired of hearing you wallow in self-pity simply because you want to take me to bed,” Robyn snapped. “Self-pity is a very boring emotion.”
He swept into a bow. “‘Zounds, my lady, I offer my apologies. God forbid that I should be boring. I see that I must take a leaf from your book and instead of complaining, whisper only the sweetest of rose-scented compliments.” He unfastened the buttons of her nightgown as he spoke, parting the lacy collar and trailing expert, titillating kisses along the slope of her shoulders and the hollow of her neck.
Robyn turned away. “Don’t,” she said. “William, I can’t bear it when you kiss me like that.”
“How so, my lady? With finesse? With elegance?”
“No,” she said. “With disdain.”
He looked at her blankly, and she realized she had shocked him into silence. She jerked her hand out of his grasp and was halfway across the room when his voice came from behind her, low and strained. “Arabella, don’t go.”
She closed her ears to the reluctant note of pleading and kept on walking. He spoke again. “Robyn... please don’t go.”
She paused, but she didn’t turn around. She heard him draw in a deep breath. “Robyn,” he said coaxingly, “you cannot abandon me now. Have you forgotten that I am a wounded man in sore need of your mercy? My injured thigh is aching so badly that I can scarcely hobble. Have you no pity for my sufferings?”
Was his injury really hurting? Had infection set in? She whirled around in a flurry of silk, lace, and muslin. “Does the dressing on your wound need attention?” she asked. “Show me your leg.”
He smiled wickedly. “With the greatest of pleasure, my lady.” He dropped his breeches.
Robyn blushed bright scarlet, simultaneously hiding a treacherous gurgle of laughter. One swift glance at William was sufficient to reveal that any problems he might have at this moment were visibly not related to his wound.
“You’re not a wounded hero,” she said, trying to sound angry rather than weak with longing. “You’re a dishonorable scoundrel, prepared to resort to any tactic, however despicable, to gain my sympathy.”
He seized her hand, pulling her into his arms, his eyes gleaming with rueful laughter. “Robyn, I am everything that you say, and worse, but don’t banish me from your bed. Not tonight. Perhaps, with a little care, you can reform me.”
“Why should I bother?” she asked, determined to ignore the near-irresistible attraction of his smile.
“Because I am your husband?”
“Hah! That’s no reason to waste time and energy on a wastrel.”
“Then, because—you love me,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “That was a low blow.”
“Is it? Tonight it seems that I am not in the mood to play fair.” His hands grasped the curve of her waist, pulling her high and hard against his body. He bent his head, ravaging her mouth with a kiss that left her hot and shaking. Then he leaned back and looked at her, eyes glittering with satisfaction when he saw how quickly he had aroused her.
So much for his promised sweet talk, Robyn thought acidly. But then, why would he waste time seducing her with honeyed words when night after night she offered him indisputable evidence that he had only to take her into his arms, and she was helpless to resist him?
But it seemed he had told the truth about at least one thing. He might not be ready to trust her, but he could no longer pretend he was indifferent. His hands trembled as he reached for her, and he fumbled as he eased her nightgown down over her shoulders. It fell to her waist, exposing her swollen, milk-filled breasts. He rasped his thumbs across her nipples and tension vibrated between them: erotic, carnal, unbearably exciting.
He drew in a shaky, ragged breath. “I am envious of my son,” he said thickly, and bent his head to her breast.
At the touch of his tongue, desire arrowed through her, so swift and so fierce that she cried out, the air forced from her lungs as she clung to him for support. Her body was so sensitized that when his long hair fell forward and brushed against her skin, she shivered.
“Come to bed and I will warm you,” he said.
She could have told him that she didn’t need to be warmed because her blood already raced hot and fast in her veins, but she said nothing because she wanted him to lie beside her, to thrust into her with passionate, fierce possession, to shudder helplessly as he climaxed into her. She gave him her hand and he led her across the room to the bed, holding her wrists captive as he pushed her into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. He parted her legs and stood between her thighs, kissing her with a ravenous hunger that drove her backward into the tumbled sheets.
He positioned himself over her and she folded her arms around his neck, arching her body beneath his. He was already fully erect and throbbing with need. She was soft and wet with longing. He reclaimed her lips in a dark, seeking kiss, his tongue thrusting into her mouth with deep, questing strokes. Then his hand was over her, his fingers inside her, and she was gasping out a mindless, incoherent plea for release.
For a moment longer she felt him strain to withhold his climax, but control was spinning away from both of them, and when she tilted her hips upward he plunged into her, sending them both tumbling over the edge. The dazzling flame consumed her.
William collapsed on top of her, his face pillowed in the valley between her breasts. His voice came low and muffled. “God in heaven, Robyn, I love you so much.”
Pleasure washed over her in a pounding, surging wave. She touched his cheek, too exhausted and too replete for anything more. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I will always love you, William.”
It wasn’t until she woke up and found herself alone in the bed that the warm afterglow of her delight faded. In the clear gray light of dawn she wondered if it had been lust or truth that prompted him to speak the longed-for words of love.
She doubted if even William himself knew for sure.
* * *
Hannah Wilkes made the cold and uncomfortable drive from Oakridge to Starke especially to inform the baron and Lady Arabella that she was planning a shopping expedition to Bristol. She would be visiting many of the shops, warehouses, and merchants in order to supervise the final purchases for her father’s refurbished drawing room, and she offered to run any errands on behalf of the baron and his lady that they cared to entrust to her.
William was out with his steward when she called, and she made her offer in the children’s day nursery, where Robyn had impulsively suggested that they should go to drink dishes of afternoon tea and eat almond macaroons. Mrs. Wilkes had barely been able to conceal her astonishment at the suggestion, but she had agreed with alacrity. They had now been in the nursery for well over an hour, and Robyn suspected that Han
nah Wilkes would be willing to stay there forever. Having bestowed a box of Christmas marzipane on the twins, thus earning their eternal gratitude, she had taken Clementine onto her lap and was showing her the illustrations in a book designed to acquaint children with the blissful rewards awaiting good little boys and girls in heaven. Children’s literature in the eighteenth century, Robyn had discovered, tended to be long on sermons and very short on entertainment.
Despite her homely, down-to-earth appearance, Robyn soon realized that Mrs. Wilkes possessed a vivid imagination. Instead of reading the pious and boring text, she was inventing exciting adventures for the insipid-looking children and the languid angels who graced alternate pages in the book. Clemmie was entranced.
“You tells betterer stories even than my mama,” she said.
Mrs. Wilkes smiled, closing the book. “I am sure that is high praise. Thank you, my dear.”
“Thank you for bringing me the book,” Clemmie said. She slid off Mrs. Wilkes’s lap, bobbed a curtsy, and immediately transferred herself to her mother’s lap. Robyn, preoccupied with admiring baby Zach’s stunning new accomplishment of sucking his toes, gave Clemmie an absentminded hug in praise of her good manners, and simultaneously warned the twins that they were going to be sick if they ate another single piece of candy.
A child clutched in each arm, her silk gown crumpled and damp from the baby, she looked up from her exchange with the twins to find Mrs. Wilkes staring at her in openmouthed wonder. Robyn blushed, realizing that she had vastly overstepped the level of informality her guest was likely to find acceptable. Eighteenth-century etiquette was still so alien to her that she was never confident of behaving correctly. Mrs. Wilkes had seemed happy to come upstairs with the children, but perhaps she was simply too polite to say that she preferred chilly formality in the drawing room to cozy familiarity in the nursery.
“I’m so sorry,” Robyn said, remembering how angry William had been with her behavior the last time Hannah Wilkes came to call. Her relationship with William was so problematic these days she didn’t want to give him cause for another complaint.
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