by Candace Camp
The cloth of her dress impeded his progress, and impatiently his hand went to the buttons that marched down the front of her dress, unfastening them with fingers that trembled slightly. He slipped his hand inside her bodice, skimming over the lush tops of her breasts and delving beneath her simple cotton chemise. Megan jerked, sucking in her breath at the feel of his fingertips upon her skin.
His finger slid over the tight, prickling flesh of her nipple, and Megan quivered at the touch, heat flooding her loins. She had never imagined a man caressing her this way, never dreamed how her body would respond. She wanted to moan, wanted to move against his hand. She wanted, she realized with some astonishment, to feel his hands all over her body.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and found him gazing at her. His eyes stared deeply into her own, holding her as surely as if his hand had gripped her face, as he caressed her breasts, shoving down the thin cotton of her chemise and lifting each orb from its confinement. His thumb circled one nipple lazily, his eyes darkening. He saw, Megan thought, the desire that swelled in her as he teased at the small bud of flesh, and her hunger stirred his even more.
Her breath came hard and fast in her throat. She wanted to touch him, she knew, wanted to slip his buttons from their fastenings and slide her fingers inside his shirt. Her fingers ached to feel the texture of his skin, the heat that burned her flesh even through their clothing.
“Megan,” he murmured, his breath a caress on her cheek, and just the roughness of his voice spiraled her passion.
Startling them both, she moved up and kissed him. A small moan escaped him, and he kissed her back hungrily. His hand moved restlessly over her body, sweeping down and bunching up her skirts, pulling them up until he could slip beneath them.
Megan quivered at the touch of his hand against her leg, separated from her flesh by nothing more than cotton. He moved up her leg and over her buttocks, smoothing and squeezing, his fingertips digging into her flesh. Then his fingers slipped between her legs, pressing against the very center of her desire. Megan shuddered, lost in a maelstrom of sensations.
He tore his mouth from hers, kissing his way down her throat and onto the soft tops of her breasts. His fingers moved rhythmically between her legs, rubbing the cloth against her sensitive flesh, even as his mouth closed gently around her nipple.
Megan choked back a groan. The heat inside her coiled and tightened with each lash of his tongue, each pull of his lips. Her loins ached, and she wanted to move against his hand, to rub herself wantonly against him.
In another moment, she knew, she would be sliding down to the floor with him, opening herself to him, and the thought shook her. This was her enemy, the man who had killed her brother, and she was on the verge of giving herself to him like a wanton!
With a gasp, Megan tore herself from his grasp. She grabbed the sides of her bodice and held them together over her bared breasts, staring at Theo in horror. His eyes were fiery, his skin taut over his facial bones. His nostrils flared, his mouth tightening, and he took a step toward her.
Megan stepped back with a low, wordless cry, holding up her hand as if to stop him, and he halted, frustration stamped on his features.
“Megan…”
“No. No. I cannot. We cannot.”
He cursed softly and turned aside. “I am sorry. Go. Now.”
He shot a glance at her, and Megan saw in his blazing eyes the effort it took for him not to reach for her.
She whirled and ran blindly from the room, not stopping until she had gained the sanctuary of her own bedchamber. There she collapsed in a heap upon her bed and thought with dismay of what she had almost done.
Her body still throbbed with the passion he had aroused in her, the pulse hot and deep within her. She drew a finger across her nipples, still hard and aching from his touch. She could not understand how she could have responded so to him, knowing what he had done to her brother. It was wicked, worse than wicked, she told herself, and still she could not turn aside the yearning that twisted through her. There was nothing she could do, she realized, but lie there as the passion gradually ebbed from her body and wonder what she was going to do next.
She did not know how she could face Theo again. Indeed, given the way she felt right now, she did not know how she could look anyone in the house in the eyes again. She felt as if shame must be stamped clearly upon her face.
Megan got off her bed and went to the mirror above her vanity, peering into it. Her hair was tumbled about her face, wild and curling. Color stained her cheeks, and her lips were lush and faintly bruised looking. Her bodice hung open down the front, exposing a strip of her white cotton chemise. She could feel the scrape of the material of her bodice against her sensitive nipples, each breath gently abrading her flesh.
She looked wild and foreign to herself, someone she hardly knew. She remembered the feel of his hand between her legs, and the ache there throbbed into life again. With a soft groan, she turned away.
This could not continue, she knew. She had to get control of herself. The only question was how.
Sighing, she undressed and stood for a moment, savoring the feeling of the air on her naked flesh. It was distinctly unnerving, she thought, to know that she wished Theo were there with her. Heat pooled deep in her loins at the thought of him watching her.
Feeling decidedly wanton, she did not pull on her nightdress immediately, but moved about the room as she was, putting away her clothes and brushing through her hair. Finally she slipped on her nightgown and lay down. The window was open, admitting the soft summer breeze. Moonlight slanted in, silvering the furniture and carpet, and Megan lay staring at it, thinking of what had happened tonight.
It was a long, long time before she slept.
* * *
MEGAN WAS CAREFUL to keep out of Theo’s way the next day. She oversaw the twins’ lessons, which were always light on Saturday, giving them the afternoon off to do as they wished. The duke and duchess were attending the opera with Reed and Anna, and they were all four dining beforehand at Kyria’s house, so the twins were eating supper in the nursery, and Megan was able to join them there. She worried throughout the day that Theo might come into the nursery to visit with the twins, but as it turned out, he did not—a circumstance that, she admitted to herself, left her feeling both relieved and perversely disappointed.
The next morning she ate a hurried breakfast and left, walking briskly to the house her father had rented. It would be wonderful, she told herself, to be out and free of responsibility. To be able to be herself again. It was somewhat disconcerting to find that as she walked, she spent most of her time thinking not about being with her family again, but about what she was going to tell them about the Morelands—more specifically, Theo.
Of course, she could not let them get a hint of anything that had happened between her and Theo. Da would explode and Deirdre would worry. And, she told herself, it wasn’t really pertinent to what she had learned, anyway.
A few blocks from Broughton House, as she cut through a small park, Megan became aware of an odd sensation, a sort of prickling along the nape of her neck. She told herself not to be foolish, but she could not dismiss the feeling that she was being watched.
She picked up her pace, crossing a street and walking rapidly to the major thoroughfare that ran perpendicular to the one she was on. There she turned and slowed down, idling along, looking into the windows of the shops along the way. She stopped at a millinery store and sneaked a look back down the street. There were one or two people strolling along the street behind her, as well as a man who was gazing into a store window himself. None of the people looked out of the ordinary, and certainly none of them were looking at her.
It was nonsense, she told herself, just her nerves. After all, who would be following her? No one in London knew her except the Morelands and their servants, and she was certain that none of the people behind her were any of the residents of Broughton House. She knew that Theo had suspicions about her—how
could he not, after the other night?—but he was nowhere around.
Megan turned and started down the street again, relieved to find that the odd feeling had dissipated. When she arrived home, she found her father and sister sitting in the kitchen, tucking into a hearty breakfast, having just returned from early mass.
“Megan!” Deirdre cried, jumping up from the table and coming to hug her. “I’ve missed you. It’s been so long.”
Megan smiled fondly at her younger sister. She had never before been away from Deirdre for as long as two weeks. “I know. I missed you, too.” She hugged Deirdre and turned to her father. “Da.”
“Ah, Megan, me love, it’s good to see you again. I cannot help but worry about you in that den of vipers.”
“They’re not all vipers, Da,” Megan felt compelled to say. “The duchess is a very nice woman. They all are, really. And I truly like the twins.”
“Megan, me love, what are you saying?” Frank Mulcahey regarded his daughter with something akin to horror. “Have you let those British bastards corrupt ye?”
“No, of course not. Don’t look at me like that,” Megan replied, and sat down at the table with a sigh. “Deirdre, I would dearly love some coffee, if you have it. I am heartily sick of tea.”
“Of course you are. Here.” Deirdre patted Megan’s shoulder sympathetically and went to pour her sister a cup of coffee, saying over her shoulder, “Da, stop badgering Megan. I am sure she has a good reason for saying what she did. After all, just because Theo Moreland is wicked, it doesn’t necessarily mean his whole family is.”
“His father’s an English duke,” Mulcahey replied, as if that settled the matter.
Megan rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t make him wicked, Da. Trust me, I am sure that the Duke of Broughton has never done anything to harm anyone, including the Irish. He is a sweet man who is interested in nothing but his ancient pots and statues.” At her father’s doubtful look, she said, “I promise. If you met them, you would realize that it’s true. They are not at all what I expected. They don’t act like aristocrats. They are friendly and down-to-earth. I feel wicked deceiving them—and it’s going to be even worse when I expose Theo.”
“Are you still planning to do that?” Mulcahey asked.
“Da!” Megan’s eyes flashed. “How can you ask that? As if I would give up on our plan.”
“It’s soft you sound about these people. I figure the next thing you’ll be telling me is Theo Moreland is innocent.”
“No,” Megan said, with an unconscious sigh. “I don’t think he is innocent. But I have not been able to prove it yet. I haven’t found a trace of a pendant or anything else that he might have taken from Dennis. I have tried to ask him a few questions about the trip, but he’s very close-mouthed about it.”
She related their trip to the museum and the way he had acted there, the few things he had said about his trip up the Amazon.
“Where have you looked in the house?” her father asked.
“Everywhere,” Megan replied dispiritedly. “Well, everywhere I could get in. There is a locked room by the butler’s pantry where they keep the silver, I think, and there is a safe in the duke’s study, but I don’t know how to break into either of those. I did check the duke’s collection room, which seemed the likeliest place to me, but everything there is Greek or Roman.”
“What about his bedroom?” Deirdre asked.
Megan looked at her sister, hoping that no blush would creep into her cheeks to betray even a hint of what had happened in Theo’s bedroom. “Yes, I looked there, but I found nothing. I—I didn’t have much time. It’s difficult to find a chance to go in there without getting caught. But I will go back some night when he is out of the house. I just wish we knew more about what I’m looking for.” She paused, then asked, “Have you had any more dreams?”
Deirdre nodded. “Yes, Dennis has come to me twice more. But he said nothing more than what he’s already told me.”
“Couldn’t you ask him a question?” Megan asked. “What this thing is we’re looking for, maybe?”
Her sister gave her a disparaging look. “Megan, it’s not like that. I’m not even conscious. Mostly I just feel these emotions coming from him—grief and loss and a need for our help. Believe me, I wish it was all clearer.”
“I wish I could talk to Mr. Barchester again,” Megan mused.
“Why, we can ask him,” Frank said. “Next time he comes over. What is it you want to know?”
Megan looked at her father in surprise. “Mr. Barchester has been here?”
“Yes. He has come to call three times now.” Frank smiled, casting a glance over at his other daughter. “I’m thinking ’tis Deirdre he’s coming to see, not me.”
Megan’s gaze went to Deirdre. “The man’s courting you?”
Deirdre blushed. “No, of course not. Da…don’t exaggerate.”
“What? Exaggerating, is it? Why else would he keep popping in?” Frank Mulcahey’s eyes, so like his daughter’s, twinkled merrily.
“Are you interested in him?” Megan asked Deirdre, happy to be diverted from the subject of Theo and the search for incriminating evidence.
“I scarcely know the man,” Deirdre protested, but the small smile that played about her lips belied her attempt at indifference.
“You are interested in him!” Megan cried and leaned closer to her sister. “All right. Tell me everything.”
Deirdre chuckled. “There is nothing to tell. Really. He’s come over here a few times, and he is very nice and polite. But he’s done nothing to indicate any particular interest in me.”
“I should think not, with your own father sitting right here,” Frank said.
“His coming here three times when there was no reason for him to come even once is a pretty clear indication of a particular interest in you,” Megan retorted. “What I want to know is whether you have any particular interest in him.”
“Of course not. Don’t be silly,” Deirdre admonished.
“What’s silly about it?”
“He lives in England, for one thing,” Deirdre pointed out. “I’ll be going back to New York soon, and that will be the end of that. So ’twould be foolish to have feelings for the man.”
“Sometimes you have feelings whether it’s foolish or not,” Megan responded, and was aware of a sudden small stab of pain at her own words. She knew all too well how difficult it was to control one’s feelings.
“Well, I don’t and I won’t,” Deirdre said firmly. “But I will ask him something for you, if you like. What is it you want to know?”
Pulled back to the subject of Theo’s crime, Megan said, “I’m not sure. I would like him to think it over again and see if any more thoughts occur to him. Any more memories. If I just had some idea what the pendant looked like, or any more details of how Dennis was killed, maybe I could ask Lord Raine some pertinent questions. It would help a great deal if I knew exactly what I was searching for.”
“I will ask him,” Deirdre promised. “Now…let’s just put all this away and have a nice afternoon together. It has been so long since I’ve seen you.”
“I know. I’ve missed you terribly,” Megan agreed. “Both of you.”
So they settled down to a hearty meal, followed by an afternoon spent talking. The time passed quickly, and all too soon Megan had to start back to Broughton House. She bade goodbye to her father, and Deirdre followed her out the door.
As soon as they stepped outside, Deirdre laid a hand on Megan’s arm and said in a quiet voice, “I have to tell you something.”
“What?” Megan turned to her, concerned by the tone of her sister’s voice. “Is something wrong? Is it Da?”
“No, he’s fine. I just didn’t want him to hear.” Deirdre cast a quick look back inside the house and moved a little farther away from the door. “I have not told him, because I didn’t want to worry him. But I have been having dreams—about you.” She looked at Megan, her blue eyes dark with worry.
“About
me? What do you mean? What kind of dreams?”
“Frightening ones,” Deirdre replied, frowning.
Megan’s heart sped up a little. “Deirdre…”
“I don’t know what they mean,” Deirdre said quickly, taking hold of her sister’s hand. “I’m not sure whether they are visions or just nightmares. But they scare me. I am worried about you. I think you are in danger, or will be. And knowing that you are there in that house with the man who killed Dennis scares me. What if he discovers who you are? What would stop him from hurting you?”
“He doesn’t know who I am,” Megan told her firmly. “How could he?” She paused, not sure if she really wanted to know, then went on, “What did you dream? What did you see?”
Deirdre sighed. “I’m not sure. There was a fire burning in a sort of brazier and—a hideous face, bright…glowing. I cannot describe it, but it terrified me to see it. You were there, and—and Dennis was there, too. And there was an odd instrument. I’m not sure what it was. There was a hand holding this thing and slashing at you with it, but it wasn’t exactly a knife. It was a figure of some sort, and at the end of the figure there was a small, rounded thing that looked like a miniature shovel. A sort of semicircular shape.”
Ice crept up Megan’s spine. She stared at her sister, speechless. How could Deirdre know what that knife looked like? Megan had never seen anything like it before she saw it at the Cavendish, and she was sure that Deirdre had been equally ignorant of it.
“What?” Deirdre’s voice rose in anxiety. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do you know what it is? Is it in that house?”
“No. No. It isn’t at Broughton House. It sounds like something I saw at the museum.”
“The museum?”
“Yes. The Cavendish Museum, where Julian Coffey works.”
“You have been there?”
“Yes, and there is a ceremonial Inca knife that is shaped like that.”
“But what does it mean?” Deirdre asked.
