by Olivia Drake
She spoke with wrenching finality. Unsure of what else to say, he arose and donned his clothes. Norah remained curled on the bed in the self-protective pose. The unguarded bow of her back deepened his vast regret.
He ached to hold her close and murmur words of comfort. But their magical evening had burned to ashes. The ghost of her dead husband loomed between them, now more than ever.
Kit picked up the soiled cravat and stuffed it into his pocket. She would feel better come morning. Once she had the chance to think and accept, she would be ready to talk again. They could get on with their life together.
She didn’t realize it yet, but this revelation about her husband’s sexual preference shed disturbing new light on the mystery of his murder. Grimly, Kit conceded that he, too, needed time alone to reflect and plan.
Beset by yearning, he reached out to lightly stroke her soft hair. “I’ll be nearby if you need me. Good night, my love.”
Norah heard the heavy tread of his departing footsteps and the click of the door closing. Only then did she raise her head. The bedroom looked the same. The yellow-and-blue silk bed hangings. The fire burning low on the grate. The wing chair where Kit had so patiently guided a virgin to her first glimpse of heaven. It was she herself who had changed.
Virgin. The notion was incredible. Unbelievable.
Yet undeniable.
Those years of feeling pain and disgust came rushing back in nightmare waves. Dear God, Maurice had misused her. Having been raised among nuns, she had been too unschooled to know better.
Her numb gaze focused on the small table beside the chair. There lay the necklace from her parure. In the midst of the silver and moonstones, a circle of gold glittered.
Her wedding ring. Symbol of everlasting fidelity. Symbol of cruelty. Symbol of lies.
Rage broke her rigid reserve. She flew off the bed, scooped up the ring, and hurled it into the fireplace. The circlet bounced off the back tiles and rolled into the cinders, where it disappeared into blackness.
She sank to her knees and wept. She wept from shock at her own naïveté . She wept from grief for the lost years of her youth. She wept from anger at the husband who had defiled her.
And she wept because Kit knew she had been soiled.
At last the well of tears ran dry. She rose on shaky legs, picked up her nightgown, and blotted the moisture from her cheeks. The black eyes of the windows seemed to mock her stupidity.
What she had perceived to be her marital duty had in fact been an unnatural act. The shock of it still reverberated inside her. But how could she have guessed that Maurice hid a dark side? She had scarcely known such things existed. Ladies spoke little of intimate matters.
A bittersweet ache lodged inside her breast. No wonder she had felt so pure and new when Kit made love to her. But the revelation about her marriage tainted even that precious memory.
Tears burned the back of her throat again. Norah swallowed. She felt unclean from the accumulated grime of years. The desperate urge to flee suddenly consumed her. She needed time to think, to reconcile herself to the grim reality of her marriage. Even more, she needed to escape the horrid notion that she had been at fault somehow, that her coldness in bed had spurred her husband to seek out men, that perhaps she might have changed him if only she had been a more loving wife.
Her rational mind rejected the fear, but doubt kept it alive. Regrets clamped around her, like a deadly serpent squeezing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t give herself to Kit again until she sorted through this awful tangle inside herself. Yet the need for him lay warmly inside her, tempting and enticing.
She must leave here. Now. For if she waited until morning, Kit would try to stop her.
In reckless haste she ran into the dressing room and dragged out a small leather case. She packed a few garments, then dressed herself in warm clothing and sturdy shoes. The routine of her toilette felt alien, performed on a body that had become a stranger to her.
In the bedroom she added the parure to her bag, letting the delicate jewels sift through her fingers. She hadn’t adequately thanked him for the gift, the gift that came from his heart. How astounded she had been, how fearful that it was merely a spoiled aristocrat’s method of wooing a woman into bed. Now Norah knew her mistake. Kit had grown into an honorable man. Yet tragically, she felt tarnished beside the luster of his love.
Her hollow-eyed reflection stared back at her from the oval dressing-glass. The black gown hugged the familiar contours of her body, yet she felt inexorably changed. She looked like a woman weighted by sadness yet strengthened by resolution.
Tonight while the household slept she would depart. She knew precisely where she would go, a quiet place where she could be alone to heal her soul. And in that same place she might also find the treasure that would establish her as the foremost jeweler in the land.
If she planned well, she would accomplish her task before Kit even guessed her destination.
Chapter 15
“She’s about chin high to me, with beautiful red hair and green eyes,” Kit said, his white-knuckled grip on the desk belying his calm tone. “She may have registered under another name.”
The hotel proprietress folded her sturdy arms and looked him straight in the eye, an easy task since she matched him in height. “Seems peculiar she’d go to such lengths to avoid you.”
He reined in his temper. This formidable Valkyrie with her iron-gray hair and excess of chins had to be the fiftieth hotelier he’d questioned today. He had wasted two agonizingly fruitless days tramping all over London before a flash of inspiration had propelled him to the Isle of Wight.
Norah had to be here somewhere. The Maharaja of Rampur’s abdur had reported seeing an irksome memsahib, but claimed no knowledge of her present whereabouts.
Beyond the window, gulls swooped through the sea mist. Kit felt cold and out of sorts. Christ, he would kiss the hairy wart on this hostel keeper’s cheek if it meant finding Norah. “She’s my wife,” he lied, leaning over the desk as if to share a secret. “We’re newlywed, you see, and we quarreled when she found a note from another woman in my coat pocket—”
“Hah! You look like the sort. Indeed you do.” The Valkyrie peered over the desk at his wind-tousled hair down to his sand-encrusted shoes.
Kit set his jaw. “Norah stormed off before I could explain that the note was from my cousin. I must tell her it was all a terrible misunderstanding.” When the proprietress merely fingered the bog oak brooch pinned to her shield-like bosom, he added in desperation, “Please, ma’am, might I look at your registry? Today’s the one-month anniversary of our wedding and I couldn’t bear to spend it alone, without my beloved Norah.”
“You bring me to mind of me late husband. The smooth-talking devil could coax me into the sea during a January ice storm.” She reached beneath the desk, brought out a ledger, and pointed to an entry. “I’ll even save you the trouble of looking.”
Midway down the list of guests, familiar feminine handwriting graced the ruled page: Mrs. N. St. Claire.
Elation and fury and pain detonated in his chest. Kit took a moment to master himself. “What room?”
“Number ten, end of the passage.” She jerked her thumb toward the corridor beside the cramped staircase. “Been in there all morning, quiet as a church mouse.”
He came around the desk and kissed her cheek, the bristly mole brushing his stubbled face. “Thank you. I’m eternally grateful.”
Amazingly, a blush stole over the woman’s no-nonsense features. “Go on with you. The lady’s looked powerful melancholy these past few days. Seeing you would perk any woman up.”
“I’ll do my best.”
His own fervent words dogged Kit down the dim passage. At the door labeled number ten, he checked the urge to burst inside. He combed his fingers through his untidy hair and faced his fears. God help him. Norah might hate him for destroying her illusions about her marriage. She might refuse to speak to him. Worst of all, she might regret the expre
ssion of their love that gleamed in his memory like a glimpse of paradise.
He knocked. He paced. He knocked again, harder.
The door opened. He stood transfixed by the solemn-faced woman in the entryway. Color kissed her pale cheeks. Loosely styled red hair framed the face of an angel. Norah. His beloved Norah. The violet smudges beneath her eyes gave evidence to sleepless nights. The black mourning gown enhanced the delicacy of her features. One hand was hidden in her pocket; the bracelet from his parure glinted beneath her other lace cuff.
He couldn’t stop himself. He swept her against him and buried his face in her hair. Roses and sea salt perfumed her, and joy brought tears to his eyes. “Norah. Oh my God, I found you.”
For one heavenly moment she melted against him; then she extricated herself from his embrace. “I’m surprised you found me so soon. You’re becoming quite the detective.”
Her cool wall of reserve shut him out. He followed her inside and closed the door. The bedchamber had plain oak furnishings with autumn-toned chintz curtains. The brisk March breeze wafted through the opened glass door, which led onto a small stone terrace. He could see a tea tray on a table beside the wrought-iron garden chair where she must have sat watching the white-capped waves roll onto the rocky beach.
The image of her calmly ensconced in a seaside room, as if she were on holiday, uncorked the anger bottled inside him. “Why the devil did you run away?” he demanded. “Didn’t you consider how frantic I’d be? I scoured the city of London looking for you.”
She stood stiffly by the bedpost. “I left a note saying I was somewhere safe.”
“Safe? Here, alone? For Christ’s sake, Norah. You have more brains than that. St. Claire could have tracked you down, just as I did.”
She brushed past him and went to the terrace door. The muffled crashing of surf covered her footsteps. “I might have known you were still accusing Jerome.”
“He’s our prime suspect, now more than ever. He said he was abroad the night of the murder, but we only have his word on that. He could have stolen Ivy’s brooch. He could have pushed you down the stairs at the museum.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t you be ridiculous.” Kit stalked after her and caught her shoulders. The delicacy of her bones belied the strength of her character. “Listen to me. What we found out about Maurice must be a vital clue in the murder investigation. His killer could have been a man. A man dressed as a woman.”
“I’ve wondered about that, too.” She frowned at the seascape, the wet beach where the mist had turned into a fine rain. Then she aimed an indignant look at Kit. “But if you’re suggesting that Jerome is the culprit, you’re mad. We’ve been through this before, and he had no motive to minder my husband. For heaven’s sake, Maurice still owed him six thousand pounds.”
Her heated defense made Kit’s blood boil. “Maybe he and St. Claire were lovers. Lovers who quarreled.”
Horror dulled the sparkle in her green eyes. “I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it.” She jerked away from him and hugged herself. “Only you would dream up so vile a suggestion, Kit Coleridge.”
Her disdain sliced his heart. “Why do you always trust him before me? You’re completely taken in by that suave schemer.”
“Jerome is not a schemer. He’s a loyal friend.”
“See what I mean? He could have knocked on your door with murder on his mind, Mrs. St. Claire,” Kit mocked. “And you’d have welcomed him with open arms. When it comes to Jerome, you don’t have the sense to protect yourself.”
“Well! I certainly don t need you to defend me.”
She thrust her hand into her pocket, yanked out a small pistol, and leveled it at Kit.
For one stupefying instant he feared she despised him enough to pull the trigger. He stood as vulnerable as a fly caught in amber. But only determination shone in her eyes, not the glitter of madness.
She waved the weapon. “You see? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“For God’s sake! Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”
“I’m only showing you I’m safe—”
“Do you know how to use it? Striking a moving target isn’t as easy as it might seem.”
“I can hardly miss from this range.”
“And what if the man wrested the gun away from you?”
“I’d shoot him first.”
“Shall we test your skills?” Propelled by his explosive emotions, Kit strode toward her.
She started to lower the pistol. “On you? I wouldn’t—”
He caught her forearm and thrust it outward, so the barrel pointed toward the beach outside. His other arm wrapped around her waist and snared her against him, soft breasts to hard chest, womanhood to manhood. Her muscles went rigid, yet she held still, the rise and fall of her bosom keeping rhythm with the song of the sea. A gust of cold moisture blew through the opened doorway. His fury abated, its heat sliding downward to his groin and sparking the memory of their naked bodies fitting together so perfectly. Norah’s green gaze held a wary confusion that told him she too remembered their closeness.
She let go of the pistol, and it thunked to the floor. Releasing her, he bent to pick up the compact gun. “Some protection. This is a muff pistol. It only fires one shot.”
She made a show of rubbing her forearm. “If I missed, I could have kicked you where you’re most vulnerable. So you needn’t worry.”
Her tone held a thread of teasing. The darkness within him lightened a fraction. “You’re wearing too many petticoats to do me any harm. But if you’d care to undress and try again...”
“No.” Tightening the shawl around herself, she retreated a few steps. “You’ve already proven your superior strength. That should satisfy you.”
Hardly, he thought morosely. Her bitterness reminded him of a wounded bird, withdrawn, mistrustful, and afraid of being hurt again. He regretted letting his anger override his patience.
He lay the pistol on the night table. “Where did you get the gun?”
“In Portsmouth, after I sold the brooch from the parure.” Norah caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry I had to break up your gift. I only had enough money to pay for the train.”
Kit shook his head. “The piece can be replaced. Your life is far more precious.” His tone mellowed into quiet intensity. “Norah, tell me why you ran away from me.”
She gazed down at her linked fingers. “I wanted to get the diamond, Fire at Midnight. When I left, I went to London to mislead you, then came south and took the ferry here. But the maharaja has stayed in seclusion. I’ve gone back every morning, but I haven’t been able to gain an audience.” Her nose wrinkled. “I’ve a suspicion the servant hasn’t been passing on my messages.”
“You should have invited me to come with you. We’re partners, remember?”
“I needed to be alone. To do this alone.”
“Why?”
“Because...” Still she avoided his eyes, gazing anywhere but at him. “Because my career is important to me. I spent a fortnight at your parents’ house when I ought to have been working. Ivy and Winnifred depend on me for their livelihood. And the competition is only six weeks away. I thought it was long past time to finish the tiara.”
Determined to ferret out the truth, Kit crossed to her and grasped her hands. The shock of her cold skin distracted him. “God, you’re freezing! Come sit over here while I make a fire.”
He settled her into a chair by the brown-painted mantelpiece, wrapped a blanket around her, then closed the terrace door. Returning to the fireplace, he crouched before the coals stacked in the grate.
Watching him strike a match, Norah felt a hunger so great it sparked tears in her eyes. The sight of him fed her starved senses. His face was as darkly alluring as that of a foreign prince. His hair looked charmingly tousled, as if he’d raked his fingers through the ebony strands. The dove-gray suit outlined the muscles in his back and arms and thighs. Her bod
y remembered his with stunning accuracy, the taste of his mouth, the breadth of his chest, the tautness of his loins.
A heated shudder coursed through her. Not even during the agonizing loneliness of the night had she experienced so poignant a yearning. Praise God he had come after her.
He held the flame to the tinder, but it failed to light. As he tried another match, the sharp scent of sulfur drifted to her. Finally the wood shavings caught. He blew gently on the tiny blaze until the coals began to whiten and glow.
Grimacing, he rose and brushed at the black smudges on his hands. “I’ve watched the maids light fires a thousand times. Now that I know how difficult it really is, I’ll have to raise their wages.”
His wry humor in the face of her reticence, his willingness to dirty himself for her comfort, brought home to Norah his kindness and consideration. Yet how diverse their backgrounds were. He had been born to privilege while she had had a humble upbringing in a convent, where lighting the morning fires had been her duty. Odd, how their differences made him all the more appealing.
He walked to the washstand and poured a basin of water. Removing his coat, he rolled back his sleeves and soaped his hands. The quiet sounds of his splashing held an intimate quality, and for one heartfelt moment she let herself fantasize that Kit was her husband.
Dear God. If only she could so easily cleanse herself, body and soul. She wanted to be new and untainted for him.
As he dried his hands, she said, “I think you deserve to know the true reason I ran away.”
Frowning at her, he replaced the towel on the hook. Then he pulled up a stool and sat close to her, his elbows propped on his knees and his fingers loosely linked. “I’m listening.”
She hesitated, not because she thought he wouldn’t understand, but because she feared her own weakness for him. She feared opening her heart when her emotions were still so fragile. “I left you because I was confused. I felt...soiled and unworthy of you.”
