What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

When this was over and they were apart, which would she name it?

  Had fate blessed her or damned her? Only time would tell.

  And time for her, for them, had run out.

  Amid the pervasive happiness, the festive cheer, her heart suddenly felt like lead.

  As if he sensed it, Dillon looked up—looked at her, met her gaze, his own suddenly intent.

  She summoned a light smile, forced her lungs to work and drag in a breath, then moved past Adelaide to join him and Barnaby. “Have you decided how to approach them?”

  She tried to sound eager; Barnaby grinned, and answered.

  Dillon continued to study her; she didn’t dare try to read his dark eyes in case he read hers. She didn’t know what he was thinking, why he’d suddenly looked at her like that, why he was now so quiet, leaving Barnaby to outline their plan. “Do you really think they’ll give you Mr. X’s name?”

  “Not readily,” Barnaby quipped. “But persuasion is my middle name.”

  She managed a laugh, then turned as Rus came up, Adelaide on his arm. He was still bubbling with delight, still barely able to believe his good fortune.

  Dillon watched Pris twit Rus on his unbounded enthusiasm, laughing when he jokingly attempted to disclaim, saying he was only behaving so in order not to hurt Flick’s feelings. He listened as she, Rus, and Adelaide turned their attention once more to Barnaby and the upcoming interrogations…he’d almost convinced himself nothing was wrong—that the disturbance he’d sensed, some nebulous elemental ruffling of his instincts, had had no foundation—when he caught Rus glancing at Pris, and saw the same uncertain anxiety he himself felt mirrored in her twin’s green eyes.

  He focused more intently on Pris, but no more than Rus could he see past the shield she’d erected, one of easy good cheer, of transparent happiness that was simply too bright, too polished, to be true.

  Something was troubling her, and she was hiding it from him. From Rus, too, but he didn’t care about that. What he did care about was that she was doing it deliberately, that she was shutting him out of her life—he didn’t care how small the matter bothering her was.

  Barnaby turned to him. “We should go. If we manage to get a name, I’ll head straight to London—we’d better get to it so I can be away before dark.”

  Dillon blinked, looked at Barnaby, then nodded. “Right.”

  Stepping back as Barnaby turned to the door, he glanced once more at Pris, but she was looking beyond Barnaby, toward the door…

  He waited. She looked his way, and her smile was back—but that wasn’t what he wanted to see.

  A chill touched his soul. He didn’t know what she was thinking, feeling—how she thought and felt about him, about them. He’d assumed…but he knew better than to assume he understood how women thought.

  Summoning a smile, he inclined his head to her. He was about to turn and leave, then suddenly knew he couldn’t. Not without…

  Rus and Adelaide had turned away; stepping closer to Pris, he caught her green gaze. “To night?”

  Her eyes, fixed on his, widened. For an instant, she ceased to breathe. Then she did, and whispered, “Yes. To night.”

  Her gaze dropped to his lips for a fleeting instant, then she turned away.

  He forced himself to do the same, and follow Barnaby to the door.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. What man?”

  Belligerent and bellicose, Harkness glared at them.

  They’d spoken to him first; he was the greater villain, therefore more likely to grab what he could from the situation. However, he’d got his second wind and had reverted to denying any part in any wrongdoing what ever.

  Dillon ambled to the wooden table behind which Barnaby sat studying Harkness, seated in a hard chair on the other side; he touched Barnaby’s shoulder. “Leave him. Let’s go and chat with Cromarty and see what he has to say.”

  Harkness’s beady eyes blinked. Until then, he hadn’t known they’d brought Cromarty in for questioning, too.

  Glancing back as he followed Barnaby from the room, Dillon saw Harkness, staring straight ahead, start to gnaw a fingernail.

  Leaving his stewards watching over Harkness, he and Barnaby walked to another of the small rooms reserved for interviews with jockeys, trainers, owners, and occasionally the constabulary.

  He followed Barnaby in. As with Harkness, he introduced Barnaby as a gentleman with connections to the metropolitan police. All perfectly true, although from the way Cromarty, seated on a similar chair to Harkness, before a similar table, blanched, he’d leapt to the conclusion that Barnaby wielded all sorts of unspecified powers. Precisely what they wanted him to think.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Cromarty.” Sitting behind the desk, Barnaby placed an open notebook upon it. Withdrawing a pencil from his coat pocket, he tapped the point on the page, then looked at his lordship. “Now then, my lord. This gentleman who went into partnership with you—your silent partner. What’s his name?”

  Cromarty looked acutely uncomfortable. “Ah…what did Harkness say? You’ve asked him, haven’t you?”

  Barnaby didn’t blink. He let two seconds tick by, then said, “This gentleman’s name, my lord?”

  Cromarty shifted; he darted a glance at Dillon. “I…um.” He swallowed. “I’m…er, bound by privilege.” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, that’s it—bound by commercial privilege not to divulge the gentleman’s name.”

  Barnaby’s brows rose. “Indeed?” He looked down at his notebook, tapped the pencil twice, then looked at Dillon. “What do you think?”

  Dillon met his gaze for an instant, then looked at Lord Cromarty. “Perhaps, my lord, I should tell you a story.”

  Cromarty blinked. “A story?”

  Pacing slowly behind Barnaby’s chair, Dillon nodded. “Indeed. The story of another owner who had dealings with this same fine gentleman.”

  He had Cromarty’s full attention; he continued to pace. “This owner’s name was Collier—you might have met him. He was registered and raced for more than twenty years.”

  Cromarty frowned. “Midlands? Races out of Doncaster mostly?”

  “That’s him. Or was him, I should say.”

  Cromarty swallowed. “Was?”

  His fear was almost palpable. Dillon inclined his head. “Collier…

  He told Collier’s tale, using his voice, his tone, to deepen Cromarty’s unease. Cromarty stared, pale as a sheet, the whites of his eyes increasingly prominent. Concluding with a description of Collier’s body being found in the quarry, Dillon met Cromarty’s starting eyes. “Dead. Quite dead.”

  The only sound in the room for the next several seconds was Dillon’s footsteps as he continued to pace.

  Once the full implications had sunk into Cromarty’s panicking brain, Barnaby said in his most reasonable tone, “That’s why, my lord, given the outcome of today’s race, we would most strongly advise you to tell us all you know about this gentleman, most especially his name.”

  Cromarty had dragged his gaze from Dillon to Barnaby; he swallowed, then, in the tones of a man facing the hangman, simply said, “Gilbert Martin.” Cromarty looked at Dillon. “He’s Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they had what amounted to a full confession from Cromarty, extracted by Dillon, assisted by Barnaby’s musings on the likely reaction of the less-reputable bookmakers once they fully absorbed the dimension of the calamity that had befallen them; Cromarty had told them everything they’d wanted to know.

  Thus armed, they returned to Harkness. His resistance lasted only as long as it took Dillon to inform him that Cromarty had told them all. Harkness confirmed Gilbert’s name and direction, and also the man’s description—tonnish, well turned out, tall, dark-haired, of heavier build than Barnaby.

  Harkness confirmed their reading of him as the more experienced villain; unlike Cromarty, he didn’t beg for leniency but dourly stated that if there was a choice between Newgate and transportation to the colonies, he�
�d rather transportation.

  About to leave, Barnaby cocked a brow his way. Harkness simply said, “More chance of surviving on the other side of the world.”

  In the corridor, Dillon motioned to the constables sent by the magistrate, who he’d notified earlier. Leaving them to deal with Cromarty and Harkness, he led Barnaby to his office.

  Sprawling in the chair behind his desk, he watched as Barnaby subsided into the armchair, a silly, beatific smile on his face. Dillon grinned. “What?”

  Barnaby flashed that smile his way. “I didn’t believe we’d get a name—I hadn’t let myself believe it. Mr. Gilbert Martin of Connaught Place.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No.” Barnaby shrugged. “But he shouldn’t be hard to locate. Tonnish gentlemen have a tendency to overestimate their cleverness.”

  “Speaking as a tonnish gentleman?”

  Barnaby grinned.

  Dillon glanced out of the window. It was nearly four o’clock; soon the sun would sink and the light would dim. “Are you still set on starting for London immediately?”

  “Absolutely.” Barnaby sprang to his feet. “It just seemed right to spend a few minutes here, where this more or less started.”

  Dillon rose, too, and came out from behind his desk. “What are your plans once you reach town?”

  “Home.” Barnaby flung the word over his shoulder as he made for the door. “The pater’s there—he’ll be the first I tell. Tomorrow, I’ll call on Stokes. He’s already very interested in the whole business—I’m sure he’ll be keen to be in on the kill.”

  Flashing Dillon another smile—this one of predatory intent—Barnaby led the way out of the door. “Who knows? Once we catch our spider, we might discover there’s even more to his web than we already know.”

  “I sincerely hope not.” Dillon followed Barnaby into the corridor. “I’ve had a surfeit of our spider’s coils. I’m just glad to be free of them.”

  At last. As he strode from the Jockey Club by Barnaby’s side, Dillon let that fact sink in, let himself embrace the notion of devoting his mind, and all his considerable energies, to dealing with coils of an entirely different sort.

  Those he could use to bind one wild and recklessly passionate female irreversibly to him.

  17

  It was a strange night, mild, but the wind had turned waspish, unpredictable and unsettled, whipping past in gusts one minute, dying away to nothing the next. Clouds had rolled in, heavy enough to trap the day’s warmth beneath them; slipping away from the house, Pris didn’t need more than a light shawl.

  With the moon well screened, the night closed darkly about her. She found it comforting. The route to the summer house was engraved in her mind; she walked quickly along, keen—incipiently desperate—to reach her destination.

  “Damn Rus.” She muttered the words without heat; she didn’t truly begrudge her twin his jubilation, but he’d chatted and laughed over the tea tray until she’d thought she’d scream—or even more revealingly plead a headache. She never suffered from headaches; such a claim would instantly have focused all attention on her. So she’d been forced to wait patiently until Rus had run out of words on which Adelaide and Eugenia could hang and everyone had at long last retired before she could attend to her own urgent need.

  The need to see Dillon again.

  The need to be with him again, alone in the night. To be in his arms, to feel them close around her, to feel again—live again—for what might very well be the last time.

  She hurried on, her feet silent on the grass as she ducked into the shrubbery. It wasn’t as well tended as a shrubbery ought to be, yet wasn’t impossibly neglected, not overgrown so much as escaping from the confines gardeners had sought to impose—she’d always felt at home in its less than stringently correct surrounds.

  Thanks to Rus, she was late, later than she’d ever been. She could only hope Dillon had waited, only pray that he hadn’t thought she’d forgotten, or simply decided not to come to him…

  Why wasn’t she running?

  Grabbing up her skirts, she did just that. Weaving past branches, leaping over steps, surefooted she raced down the narrow paths lined by thick bushes, screened by high hedges. Her heart raced, too, not in panic but in desperation—yes, definitely desperation. An emotion she didn’t appreciate feeling, yet accepted she did. Accepted that she had this one night, this one time, and that would likely be all.

  Ever.

  Quite when that truth had slid into her mind and taken up residence she didn’t know, but it was there now. After Dillon, instead of Dillon—she couldn’t imagine any man taking his place. She ran on, faster, more frantically, needing to grasp this last night, this last moment—to have it shine, and then enshrine it in her heart.

  She pelted into the central grassed court—and ran straight into a wall. A warm wall of muscle and bone.

  Dillon caught her, steadied her. Instantly alert, he looked over her head, scanning the path along which she’d come. “What is it?”

  Finding nothing, he looked down at her. His hands remained locked about her upper arms, holding her upright, protectively close. “Why are you running? What from?”

  She couldn’t tell him why, but…she moistened her dry lips. “Not from. To.” She stared into his face, drinking in the dramatic beauty, visible even in the poor light. “You.”

  Reaching up, she cradled his face; stretching up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his.

  Told him why with her lips, with her tongue, with her mouth. Told him why with her body as he gathered her in, as his arms slid around her and locked her to him.

  Above them, the wind gusted, then abruptly rose to a wail, a wild, elemental power unleashed. It raced through the branches and rattled them, whipped up to the sky and set the clouds roiling.

  In the grassed court, her hands framing Dillon’s face, Pris heard it, sensed it, felt it. She drew the power in, let it fill her, flow through her. Let it take her own wildness and fashion it anew, into something finer. Something shining and glorious. Something infinitely precious.

  It was she who drew away to sink to the ground, to the lush grass, a sweet-scented bed as it crushed beneath her.

  His hand locked about hers, Dillon looked down at her, through the darkness trying to read her eyes. “The summer house…” When she shook her head, he drew in a ragged breath, his chest rising and falling. “Your room, then.”

  “No.” Reaching up, she caught his other hand; exerting a steady pull, she drew him down. “Here. Now.”

  Under heaven.

  He came down on his knees, let her draw him into a kiss, another heated exchange that set their pulses racing. The next time he drew back it wasn’t to argue; his face etched with passion, his expression one of stark desire, he shrugged out of his coat, spread it behind her, then followed her down as she lay back upon it.

  Dillon sank into her arms, let her welcome him, let her hold him and trap him—let her dictate. Her, only her. Only with her—for her—would he do this, cede control and let her lead. Only she made him feel like this—that nothing was more important in his life than having her, appeasing her, worshipping and possessing her, doing everything in his power to keep her forever his.

  So he gave her what she wanted, let his wildness free, let it mate with hers and drive them. Let the sparks flare, let the flames ignite, then roar—let the conflagration take them and consume them.

  She wanted to rush, to race, to greedily grasp and devour; he held her back, forced her to slow—forced her to know, to feel, to appreciate every iota of worshipful strength he had it in him to lavish on her, every last scintilla of passion he tithed to her, every last gasp of surrender he laid at her dainty feet.

  How would she know if he didn’t tell her?—and for this, he had no words. So he showed her instead.

  Showed her, as the wind raged overhead but left them untouched, cocooned in the long grass, protected by the shrubbery, to what depths passion could descend, to what heights
it could reach—to what bliss it could lead.

  Clothes…he shed them, his, and hers, until she lay naked beneath him, until their bodies met, brushed, touched, and caressed without restriction. His hands, his mouth, his lips and tongue played upon her beauty, possessed her, claimed her anew. She was his, became his in even more wondrous ways as about them the night deepened and cooled, while in the drifting, shifting shadows of the grassed court they burned with incandescent fire.

  With heat, with longing, with a bone-deep raging need.

  She cried out as with lips and tongue he sent her reeling over the edge, over the precipice of sensual abandon into the abyss of exploded sensation. Cried again as he drove her further, sobbed as he spread her thighs and settled between, gasped when he lifted her long legs, wound them about his hips, then drove into her.

  Again, and again.

  Pris writhed beneath him, clutched tight and sobbed, let her body beg and caress and drive him on. Drive him to take more, to seize and possess to the limit of his nature, to the depths of his passionate soul, to give all she wanted, to surrender and be hers—to be all she needed in this, their last moment out of time.

  Reaching beneath her, he tipped her hips to his, and thrust deeper, harder, more brutally explicit as he claimed her, exactly as she wanted, exactly as she wished.

  She arched, desperate to match the undulations of her body to the plundering rhythm of his, to appease and be fulfilled, to gather all that was her due, and reach her sensual limit, too.

  To find where that was, and go beyond, with him.

  He bent his head and his lips found the furled peak of her breast. The wind caught her scream and whipped it away, greedily gathered every sob and moan, every sound of her surrender, and hoarded them. Gloated over them as beneath him, breathless with ecstasy, she shattered again, but he still wasn’t content, wasn’t finished with her.

  Wasn’t yet ready to cede and be vanquished.

  But it was his turn now.

  His turn as he rose above her in the dark night, a primal figure, some primitive god, arms braced, holding himself above her, looking down on her, passion deeply etched in the hard lines of his face as he watched her body rise to each powerful thrust, as with total abandon she took him deep within her, as he lost himself in her.