The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  Once again he lifted her in his arms, and this time he carried her to the bed, leaving the silk and lace and linen of her wedding clothes discarded on the Persian carpet.

  She was the only good thing in his life, the only pure and unsullied part of him. And she was, already, a part of him.

  "I want to make this, and every other part of our life together, perfect."

  From her place in the center of the silk-covered bed, she smiled up at him. “I know."

  He lowered his body over hers, kissed her waiting mouth again, and lost himself in the feel of her flesh beneath his. She was soft and giving, warm and yielding, so tempting it took every bit of discipline he could muster to maintain this leisurely pace.

  Eager as he was, he would not rush this. It was a moment to be savored, a memory of a lifetime. He allowed his fingers to trail a leisurely path up her side, over silken curves until she quivered. Her breasts he stroked gently, brushing his fingers over nipples that hardened at his touch.

  "Maximillian.” She whispered his name with damp and swollen lips that brushed his own.

  "Yes, my love."

  Her hands rose from the satin-covered bed to rest upon his arms, the fingers light and tentative. “I do love you.” She breathed the words that brought a smile to his face. “I do."

  "I know."

  This was not what she'd expected. Maximillian's hands dancing over her body, his lips loving her with words and touch, her own body responding in the most wonderful way.

  She was warm—no, hot—all over, to her bones and her very heart. Her body quivered everywhere, inside and out, and with every touch and kiss she wanted more. With every word whispered she became more Maximillian's wife. She was apprehensive, still, but her nervousness had gradually changed to a rather pleasant anxiety—an anxiety that was developing into eagerness as each moment passed.

  She meant the words she'd whispered moments earlier. Love. A connection that couldn't be denied, the realization that without Maximillian her life was empty and meaningless. The knowledge that this was meant to be, that it was genuine. Together, she and Maximillian were on the threshold of something wonderful and unknown.

  The fire that burned on the opposite side of the room threw off just enough light for her to see Maximillian's face clearly. The aristocratic lines, the hooded eyes, the wide, wonderful mouth. A few locks of his perfectly groomed hair, gold in the half-light, fell from his queue to brush his cheek, and she reached out to touch a strand. He caught her hand and brought the wrist to his mouth, kissed the tender skin there and then allowed his mouth to travel up her arm, kissing, tasting, teasing as he went, leaving behind tremors of pleasure that lingered warmly on her flesh.

  And then that mouth stilled over her breast. His hot breath touched her, and then Maximillian closed his lips over her breast and gently drew the nipple deeper into his mouth.

  Her body's reaction was intense and uncontrollable. She arched off the bed as bands of power shot through her body, cried out softly in a plea for more.

  When Maximillian lifted his body from hers, she missed the divine heat and pressure. Her hands reached out and found him, his sleeve and his hair, the silk and linen he shed quickly until her searching hands found hot and hard flesh.

  He was magnificent, warm skin over finely sculpted muscles he hid beneath his fine clothes. Hard and hot and beautiful. Penelope found she loved to touch her husband, to trace the curves and dimples of his skin, and he responded to her gentle touch with a moan that came from deep within.

  When he returned to her they lay together flesh to flesh, heart to heart, and his mouth came to hers with a new frenzy. She could see and feel him losing control, and it excited her to know that she had this kind of effect on him. She welcomed the impatient kiss, relished it, and answered in kind.

  With his knees, Maximillian gently spread her legs until she cradled his body between her thighs. His mouth didn't leave hers as his hand swayed gently over her skin, as he slipped his hand between her thighs to caress her intimately. She was shocked for a moment and her body stiffened, but Maximillian didn't still the fingers that stroked her flesh and fanned the flames of the blaze that had already taken control of her heart and soul.

  "Yes,” she whispered as she felt the first push of his manhood against her quivering flesh. He pushed inside of her, slowly, gradually, driving deeper as her body adjusted to his. She was aware of the moment he broke through her maidenhead, but there was no pain. Just pressure, and a surprising fullness.

  Her body adapted quickly, accepting the fullness more easily than she'd imagined was possible.

  Maximillian began to move, above, within, stroking tenderly and plunging deep. He rocked his hips, finding a rhythm that was slow and easy and perfectly wonderful ... but soon it seemed too slow, too easy. Her hips rocked as his did, searching, swaying.

  Ribbons of pleasure as bright as any light shot through her. The golden ribbons began where she and Maximillian were joined, and then trailed through her body like rays of the brightest sun.

  Maximillian began to move faster, to plunge deeper, and Penelope lifted her hips to accept all of him. The ribbons quivered and tightened, and without warning a burst of intense pleasure washed over and through her. She held onto her husband as if for dear life, afraid to let go, at the same time afraid that if she didn't, this furious response would destroy them both.

  She clung to Maximillian as he pushed deep one last time, held on as the waves of her response died and he allowed himself his own release. Her clasp was strong as he shuddered above her, and he gave her everything he had to give—his seed, his joy, his love.

  Depleted, they collapsed on the bed, arms and legs entangled, hearts beating wildly.

  She was exhausted and elated, complete in this hot entanglement. She'd been so nervous, so afraid, when Maximillian had carried her into this room, but at this moment there was no fear within her.

  Penelope found her breath, a true feat. “So"—she exhaled softly—"that's how it's done."

  Maximillian laughed. Not a twitter or a silly chuckle, but a low rumble from deep within his chest. “Yes, that's how it's done,” he said, coming up onto one elbow to look down at her. “At least, that's one of the ways in which it's done."

  "There are others?” She couldn't imagine ... but then she'd never imagined anything like the act that had just occurred.

  "Yes,” Maximillian whispered. “My love, we've just begun."

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  Chapter Eight

  "Max."

  It was his whispered name that woke him, as a large, stilling hand was placed on his shoulder. Garrick stood above, leaning slightly over the bed, his solemn face lit by the flame of the single candle he carried.

  Max was immediately awake. “What is it?"

  "Come with me.” Garrick spun away, leaving Max in the darkness with a sleeping Penelope. She hadn't so much as stirred as the whispers broke the silence, she was sleeping so soundly. He kissed her shoulder and then pulled up the coverlet to conceal that bared temptation before he slipped from the bed.

  Garrick wouldn't disturb him on his wedding night unless something momentous had occurred. Max dressed quickly, stepping into his breeches and pulling on the wrinkled linen shirt he'd tossed to the floor a few hours ago. He glanced at Penelope once more as he left the room.

  It wasn't only Garrick who was waiting in the passageway. They were all waiting, and there wasn't an easy face in the lot. Not even the normally jovial Lewis was smiling. Dalton played with his knife ominously, and there was pure thunder on Fletcher's face.

  They didn't wait for him to ask what had happened.

  "Chadwick got his hands on Heath Lowry early this morning,” Garrick said lowly.

  Max nodded solemnly. “In the study. I don't want to wake my wife.” Fletcher and Dalton exchanged a cryptic glance.

  "I'll stay here,” Dalton offered, sheathing the knife in his belt and nodding once to Fletcher.

  "No.
” Max didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like the mood, and he didn't like the thoughtful way Dalton had caressed his knife. “I want everyone in the study. Now."

  He worked his way through them and led the way down the spiral staircase. It wasn't necessary to look back. Though they followed silently, he knew everyone was with him.

  Inside the study, Max lit a pair of candles and placed them on his desk. Garrick set his candle on a table by the door as he entered, and the soft light flickered over solemn faces as the League of the Indigo Blade filed, one by one, into the room.

  They surrounded the desk Max stood behind, and for a long moment, all were silent.

  "Well?” Max prompted.

  Garrick glanced to one side. “I can't do it,” he whispered.

  "I can,” Beck said indignantly. “Your wife,” he all but spat the word from his mouth, “handed Heath Lowry over to Chadwick."

  Max's first reaction was staunch disbelief. “And who told you this? Chadwick? He's angry because Penelope married me."

  "It was Lowry himself,” Fletcher said darkly, “who denounced her."

  There was a surge of disgust and disbelief within him, a cracking apart of everything he believed—everything he wanted to believe. Penelope was the one untainted aspect of his life, of himself, a pure and good and decent woman he'd taken to his heart. Lowry must've lied—they were all lying. “Are you sure?"

  "Without question,” John mumbled. “Lowry said Penelope Seton tended his wounds and promised not to betray him, and then she turned around and gave him over to Chadwick."

  Max still didn't believe it. His sweet, innocent wife wouldn't turn a wounded man—or any man—over to Chadwick. Her uncle was a loyalist, true, and Chadwick was a family friend, but Penelope didn't care about politics. And he knew, with everything he was, that it wasn't in her heart to send a man to prison.

  "We'll just have to liberate Lowry and see what he has to say."

  "It's too late,” Lewis whispered. “He's dead."

  "What?” Max could barely force the words from his mouth.

  "A few hours ago, by the light of a bonfire.” Garrick spoke up at last. “Lowry accused your wife as they tied him to the whipping post outside the prison. He damned her to hell as a sergeant with hamlike arms delivered a good number of the hundred lashes Chadwick had ordered. The lashing continued even after he'd passed out, perhaps even after he'd expired.” Garrick's voice grew progressively colder and harder. “The lad was sorely wounded to begin with. He never had a chance."

  "It's a mistake,” Max insisted softly, though already he didn't believe his own protestations.

  Fletcher stepped forward, so that the light from the candles on the desk gave his face an eerie cast. “It happened like this. Lowry stumbled about, wounded, hiding where he could and trying to make his way to a place of safety. He didn't know where to go, who to turn to. It was pure chance that he ended up on the grounds of the Seton house. Penelope discovered him, tended his wounds, and then went to her good friend Victor Chadwick for advice."

  Max shook his head. “She wouldn't."

  "Lowry declared it and Chadwick confirmed it,” Dalton said. He touched the blade of his knife again, caressing the handle, and Max now realized why he'd wanted to stay behind. His bride might very well be dead if he'd left Dalton above stairs alone. “What else do you want? A signed confession from your wife?"

  No one had said the name aloud, but Max knew Jamie was on the minds of every man in the room. Jamie was certainly on his mind, at the moment.

  Jamie, who had been the romantic of the crew, a young man who was generous with his smiles and his dreams.

  Jamie, who'd died a horrible death, tortured and lashed by command of the nawab of Bengal. Jamie had lost his life because a seductress—the daughter of the nawab and a woman Jamie swore he loved more than life itself—had betrayed him.

  Revenge on the nawab had been the first true mission of the League of the Indigo Blade. They'd taken his palace, put his ambitious brother in his place, and watched as the usurper beheaded the former ruler. Justice was done, the new nawab had gratefully rewarded the league with treasures to add to their already substantial wealth—but it hadn't brought Jamie back.

  The woman who had divulged Jamie's hiding place to a vengeful father had pleaded for her life, crying, sobbing that she'd only betrayed Jamie because she'd been so very frightened. She didn't know, she said, that her father would kill him. She'd even professed to still love him. They'd allowed her to live, and her uncle, the new nawab, promised to see her wed to a strict husband who would keep her humble.

  But Jamie was still dead.

  Max cradled his head in his hands, hiding his eyes, trying to shut out the images from the past and the present. Try as he might, he couldn't shut out the truth. While he'd loved Penelope, while she lay entwined in his arms laughing and declaring her love, a man she'd betrayed had died. While he'd dreamed impossibly of love and family and new beginnings with Penelope, a man had gone to the whipping post by her hand. He knew too well what a horrible death that was.

  "Have you told her who you are?” Fletcher whispered, with a coldness that sent a chill up Max's spine.

  "No, and she can never know now who we are or what we do,” he said softly. He could feel his heart hardening. How else could he survive and do what had to be done? “We must watch her at all times.” The words he had to speak were more difficult than he'd imagined. “She can't be trusted."

  The men were silent as they waited for him to continue. “She'll need a ladies’ maid. John, doesn't that tavern owner in Cypress Crossroads have a widowed daughter?"

  "Helen,” he confirmed.

  "Would she be interested in the job?"

  John nodded once.

  "Good."

  He wanted to believe that there was no malevolence in his wife's heart, only ignorance and a lack of concern. He wanted to believe that she didn't know what would happen to Heath Lowry—but she knew Chadwick as well as anyone else, and surely she'd known of his ambitions and his hatred for the colonial rebels.

  "There's one more thing you should know,” Fletcher said. “Lowry's body still hangs on the whipping post, a message to those who would oppose the king. There was a protest when word got out that Lowry was dead, but no one dares approach the body."

  "Then we'll cut him down.” He couldn't save the man his wife had condemned, but perhaps he could give Lowry some dignity in death.

  Garrick shook his head slowly. “Impossible. The soldiers are watching and waiting, a dozen of them. They're waiting for the Indigo Blade."

  There was something yet they had not told him, Max could see it on their faces. “And how do you know that?"

  "The note you fixed to the prison door—Chadwick pinned it to the post above Lowry's head in much the same fashion. He even used your knife."

  Max placed his hands against the desk and let his head drop so that he stared at them. So, this was his fault as much as Penelope's. She'd turned the boy over, that much was true, but Chadwick had wasted no time in sending him to his death. Chadwick hadn't waited a day or two before carrying out the sentence, because he couldn't take the chance of losing this prisoner. Max knew, with a sinking heart, that his arrogant challenge had cost Lowry his life.

  What a fool he'd been to believe that he could find peace here, in a new country, in a new home, with Penelope. He was a bigger fool even than the one he pretended to be, a blind, besotted imbecile.

  No more.

  "I want Helen in place by the end of the day,” he said without emotion. “I want to know exactly what my wife does, who she speaks to, what she reads, what she eats, and when she sleeps. Mrs. Broderick will not make a move without my knowledge."

  John nodded in agreement.

  Max fixed his eyes on Dalton. “You won't harm her,” he insisted lowly. “And that goes for all of you. I will kill any man who touches my wife."

  With those words a wedge was driven between him and his comrades. Max
felt it, as surely as he felt the hardening of his heart, a distance that had not been there before, a breaking of trust. Not only did he no longer have his dreams of peace with Penelope, he no longer had this family he'd made for himself.

  "She offers us a valuable link to the loyalist community in Charles Town,” he continued without emotion. “I imagine Victor Chadwick will be a frequent guest for dinner in this house."

  John grumbled.

  "And we won't kill him, either,” Max insisted. “Not just yet."

  Her entire body ached, but it was a wonderfully satisfying ache, more a reminder of the night that had passed than a true pain.

  Penelope lay very still in the rumpled bed, wondering where Maximillian was and fully expecting him to come happily through the door at any moment. She took the quiet minute to study her surroundings, the bedchamber she'd had little chance to survey last night.

  It was, true to Maximillian's personality, lavishly furnished. The four-poster bed was of finely carved mahogany, as were the wardrobe and the dresser. Tall windows were dressed in gold satin that pooled on the floor, and the bedcover that was rumpled and askew matched the draperies perfectly in color and texture. There was a huge gilt-framed mirror on one wall, a landscape on another. The rug was most certainly Persian.

  Penelope finally rose from the bed, deciding that Maximillian hadn't simply stepped out of the room for a moment. She was disappointed, but surely this was a sign of kindness and not neglect. He'd slipped away quietly and allowed her to continue sleeping. Perhaps he knew how tiring the night had been, how exhausted she was.

  Exhausted but happy.

  For most of her life she'd expected little and taught herself to be happy with what she had. After all, she was a poor relation who owed everything to her father's brother. The roof above her head, the clothes on her back, the safety and care of her little brother. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to find love so quickly. Never had she expected that a man like Maximillian could love her so completely. And now, everything she could possibly want awaited her. A devoted husband, a wonderful home, children.