The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  He raised up to glare down at her. “Not sure! Do you know how it felt to watch you seduce another man?"

  "But you're not another man,” she said defensively.

  "You knew very well what I'd think when I came into this room."

  "And what of last night?” she countered. “You were testing me, weren't you?"

  "Well, you seemed quite taken with a man not your husband,” he said defensively. “What was I to think when you wept for a wounded stranger and did not see fit to share your pain with me?"

  She kissed him easily, a tired, satisfied kiss. She'd had enough of fighting with this man, enough of accusations and arguments. More than enough. “Shall we make a pact, my darling?” she suggested. “You don't lie to me anymore, and I won't lie to you."

  He hesitated before answering. “I won't tell you anything that might put you in danger. When it comes to the league, there are some things you simply cannot know."

  "In those particular cases,” she said thoughtfully, “I will be satisfied if you withhold certain information or simply tell me the truth, that it would be dangerous for me to know. Yes, I would be satisfied with that. But in our marriage, in our personal life together, I cannot bear another lie."

  "Agreed."

  "Maximillian?” She tightened the arms around his neck. “Do you truly love me?"

  He grinned at her, an unrestrained smile that she somehow knew was more Indigo Blade than Maximillian Broderick. “With all I am and all I ever shall be, I love you."

  She felt him growing inside her, hardening and lengthening quickly. Her body responded, pulsing around him, coming to life again. Penelope was well aware that she did not know her husband—not as she should. Aristocratic Maximillian, dangerous Indigo Blade, he was a mystery to her and perhaps always would be.

  She would happily spend a lifetime searching for the true nature of the man she'd married.

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  Chapter Twenty-three

  The sun was rising as they rode toward home. Penelope was seated in front of Max, leaning back against his chest and taking in the breathtaking view before them. She was warm against him, snuggled securely in his embrace. This was surely heaven.

  "When will you take me to see Tyler?” she asked sleepily. “We have to get some rest first, but I can't wait to see my little brother and hug him and wring his neck for making me worry so."

  "I'm not taking you to see Tyler,” he said, his voice revealing that he was as weary as Penelope. They hadn't gotten a moment's sleep in William Seton's house, but had passed the night making love, laughing, arguing, and making up. He imagined he'd have to apologize a few more times for not trusting Penelope, for not telling her who he was ... but then again he expected another apology or two for her behavior last night. He couldn't help but smile. His wife had more strength and nerve than he'd ever expected.

  She twisted her head to look up at him. “What do you mean you're not taking me to see Tyler? He's my brother, and I insist—"

  "No,” he said gently before she could argue any more. “It's too dangerous for you to know where he is."

  "Too dangerous! That's ridiculous."

  Through the night, she'd agreed easily that she did not expect him to reveal such secrets to her, and it would be dangerous—to her and to the people who'd agreed to hide Tyler—if she knew where her brother was. In reality, she was not taking this refusal well.

  "Will you not take my word that he's well?"

  Penelope didn't move. She was nestled cozily against him, and in spite of her displeasure on this one subject, she remained secure and content. “I haven't seen him in such a long time."

  "Will you not trust me with your brother's safety?"

  She took a moment to consider the question. “Of course I trust you,” she finally said. “Goodness, you don't know what it's like to worry this way. I imagine the worst, always. One day you'll understand, when we have children and they behave foolishly and endanger themselves."

  Max found himself smiling. “I want lots of children,” he said softly. “Do you think you might already be ... that perhaps we..."

  She saved him from his babbling, answering serenely and surely. “Perhaps. I think I'd like a son first, and then a girl."

  Ah, he could see it. Penelope carrying his child, a house full of babies, toddlers on his knee and in his arms. He'd never really thought of it before. He'd experienced a fleeting knowledge that one day his wife would bear a child, but he'd never imagined it so clearly that his heart reacted this way, thudding in his chest.

  "I think I shall like that very much,” he said thoughtfully.

  As home came into view, Penelope shifted in his arms and glanced up, bestowing upon him a soft smile. “Do you realize we've never had this conversation before? Next I imagine we'll be discussing names for our firstborn.” Her smile widened.

  "Katherine,” he said solemnly.

  "Richard,” she countered.

  "Elizabeth."

  "Anthony."

  "Daisy."

  "Horatio."

  "Horatio! I think not."

  Penelope laughed, and they continued the game until they stopped in front of the stable. Fletcher appeared, as if he'd been watching and waiting all night, and took the reins Max threw him.

  "Fiona,” Max said as he dropped to the ground and lifted his arms to his wife.

  "Thomas,” Penelope said as she came to him.

  Fletcher shook his head in obvious disgust, and with a wide smile Max turned to his friend. “We're naming all the children we haven't had yet."

  "Saints preserve us,” Fletcher said in his most pointed Irish accent.

  "Marguerite,” he said as he took Penelope's arm and led her toward the house.

  "Percival."

  Max threw a glance to Fletcher. “Inform the rest of the staff that we're not to be disturbed today. If anyone knocks on my chamber door, there had better be fire or flood directly behind."

  Fletcher grumbled his profane response.

  Mary knew she couldn't tell Penelope what she'd learned about Dalton, but she had to speak to someone. She'd kept too many secrets, and it was beginning to weigh on her mind. Maybe now was the time to apologize to her cousin for her part in the deception surrounding Heath Lowry's death.

  Not yet, Mary decided as she faced Penelope's chamber door. Perhaps never. She could only imagine what her cousin's response to the truth would be, and Mary found she was much too cowardly to risk losing Penelope's love and friendship—a love and friendship she'd once been so eager to throw away, but now treasured.

  Penelope was usually up and about by this time of morning, but of course on this morning when Mary needed desperately to talk, her cousin was still abed.

  Mary knew that if she'd spent the night in Dalton's arms, she wouldn't be feeling so restless. He hadn't come to her last night, but she understood. The Indigo Blade had more important tasks at hand, responsibilities that would take him away from her at night. She wasn't yet ready to confront him with her knowledge, but she wanted—she needed—to see him.

  She rapped on the door, easily at first and then, when she got no response, a bit harder. Nothing. She swung the door open and peeked into Penelope's bedchamber to see that the bed was untouched, the gold satin coverlet in place, the many pillows fat.

  Disappointed, she stepped into the room anyway. Penelope had apparently spent the night with her husband in his chamber. In his bed.

  Penelope and Maximillian sometimes seemed so distant it was as if they weren't husband and wife at all. Perhaps they were just reserved around others, saving their loving glances and words for when they were alone. Goodness knows Penelope had never been overly demonstrative.

  Mary knew that one day she would have what Penelope had. A husband, a fine house, any frippery her heart desired. She went to Penelope's bed and ran her hand over the coverlet. Never before had she touched such fine and heavy satin as this, until coming to the Broderick house. Her father had mon
ey, but he was unerringly frugal. All her life she'd been reprimanded for burning too many candles, for choosing the most expensive fabric, for always wanting more.

  She could imagine very well Dalton as her husband, the two of them living in a big, wonderful house like this one. Sleeping together every night, ordering around their own household staff. Dalton Archer was a great man. He would not play the butler forever.

  Mary sat at Penelope's desk and ran her fingers over the ribbons there, satin ribbons in every color, bright colors that always looked magnificent in Penelope's dark hair and gaudy in Mary's red curls.

  The drawer was partially open, and Mary reached down with the intention of sliding it closed. But a hint of blue ribbon caught her eye, a thin band of pale blue wrapped around a small bundle of letters.

  She slid the drawer open and removed the bundle.

  If she had not seen the seal—a wax seal bearing an image much like the tattoo on Dalton's thigh—she never would have continued. She slipped the letters from the blue ribbon and opened the first one. Why was Dalton sending messages to Penelope?

  She grew cold as she read the letters. Meeting?

  And then she read Penelope's note, a message Dalton had no doubt read and returned to her. Your place in my heart can be filled by no other. Mary was suddenly ill. Tomorrow night, my love.

  The truth came to her with a painful clarity. Penelope wasn't in her husband's bedchamber, and Dalton wasn't fulfilling his duties as the courageous Indigo Blade. They were together. Kissing, touching, sleeping with their arms and legs entwined. Laughing at her. Laughing at her foolish dreams and the way she so easily gave her love.

  The note that disturbed her the most was not the one Penelope had written, but the very short note that read simply, The grand hall. Now. She could envision too clearly Dalton waiting in the cavernous room, she could see Penelope sneaking down the stairway in the dead of night to meet him, to kiss and hold him silently where no one would see or hear. She'd probably been asleep in her bed, dreaming of Dalton while he loved Penelope as wonderfully and thoroughly as he'd ever loved her.

  Penelope had stolen everything Mary ever wanted. Everything. Her own father's affection, Victor's admiration and love, the attentions of the wealthy Maximillian Broderick, and now Dalton.

  This most recent loss hurt her more than any other, and she couldn't understand why. Dalton had never promised her forever, and he'd certainly never promised to be faithful. He'd used her, just as Victor had. He'd simply done a more adequate job.

  Tears came to her eyes, but she refused to break down, refused to weep.

  She didn't blame Dalton. This was all Penelope's fault, of that Mary was certain. Penelope, who presented an innocent face to the world but was a monster at heart. Penelope, who had taken everything Mary had ever wanted. She'd somehow discovered how much Mary loved Dalton, and she'd purposely set out to seduce him, to take him and his love away. Penelope.

  Mary slipped the letters into the bodice of her linen dress, secreting the cold bundle near her heart, and then she studied the face in the mirror before her. She'd never seen her skin so ashen, her eyes so unnaturally wide and bright.

  She had nothing. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose. She had no one to love, not her family, not Victor ... not Dalton. All she had was a sudden and burning desire for justice.

  Everyone had to pay for their sins, eventually. It was time for Penelope to pay for hers.

  It was most likely afternoon, though the dark and heavy drapes of Maximillian's bedchamber were closed against the sun so it was impossible to be sure.

  Penelope found she did not care what time of day it was, not even what day it was, as her eyes drifted closed once again. She and Maximillian had curled up together beneath the covers hours ago, clinging to one another and the love they'd lost and found, and here they'd slept.

  For Penelope, it had been the most restful sleep she'd found in a very long time. Questions were answered, and her life and her husband had been successfully reclaimed.

  They still had so much to discuss, so many problems to solve, but none of those problems seemed terribly important at the moment. It was only important that she was here, with him. Love wouldn't solve every problem, she knew. But goodness, it made them all seem less important.

  "Why are you awake?” Maximillian mumbled, pulling her close.

  "I didn't mean to wake you,” she whispered, snuggling against him. “Go back to sleep."

  "I will,” he answered. “Faith."

  "What?"

  "Faith,” he repeated.

  She came up to look at her husband, to stare fixedly at his closed eyes and tousled golden hair. “Faith, what?"

  "Just Faith."

  "Oh.” She settled herself comfortably against his side. “James."

  She'd never seen Victor's office before. It was, like the man who worked there, masculine and orderly and cold.

  Mary paced before Victor's desk, the four condemning letters clutched in her hands. How dare he keep her waiting this way? Likely he was repaying her for refusing his last several requests for a late-night meeting.

  "What a pleasant surprise,” he said as he came sauntering through the open door. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

  Mary turned to face Victor, a man she'd loved and hated, a man who had encouraged her to participate in his intrigues and his so-called pleasures. He had a wide, humorless grin on his face, a grin so familiar it chilled her to the bone.

  "Close the door,” she said sternly.

  The smile on Victor's face changed from mocking to lascivious as he slowly shut the door.

  "So finally you come to me,” he said smugly. “Do you miss me now, Mary?"

  She stopped his advance with a raised hand. “Don't flatter yourself,” she said indifferently. “Business brings me here, nothing more."

  "I find that hard to believe."

  Perhaps he found it hard to believe, but he wisely kept his distance.

  Mary smiled at him, but she made sure it wasn't an encouraging smile. “You taught me well, Victor,” she said, drawing on all her reserves to remain calm. “As you said you would."

  She saw the gleam of hope in his eyes, and was more than happy to extinguish it. “You taught me that no man can be trusted, that every man will lie to get what he wants. You taught me that men are selfish lovers who allow their rod to lead them from one woman to another without a qualm."

  Dalton had cemented that lesson, and in the process had hurt her more than Victor ever could.

  "You taught me well,” she finished.

  All semblance of hope was gone from Victor's eyes. “Then why are you here?"

  She offered him the letters, four notes still bound in a blue ribbon. “Your precious Penelope is having an adulterous affair."

  He waved the letters before him. “I'm surprised, but how does that concern me?"

  Mary wanted to enjoy this, to savor the moment when she would bring about Penelope's destruction. She couldn't tell Victor that Dalton Archer was the Indigo Blade. That shared knowledge would end the contest too quickly. She had a plan in mind, one Victor was sure to enjoy.

  "What's the punishment for adultery?"

  "It can be the death penalty,” Victor said softly, outwardly confused, “but no one's actually been put to death for committing adultery in a very long time. A fine can be levied, perhaps a whipping ordered for a repeated offense."

  "Something should be done. Why, I believe Penelope only married poor Maximillian for his money,” she declared.

  "I'm not surprised to hear that,” Victor said sternly. It seemed Penelope's rejection still stung his pride.

  She didn't care anymore how deeply Victor's feelings for Penelope were, how hurt he'd been by her marriage to another man. Mary's voice remained even and cool. “They rarely even talk, Penelope and Maximillian. They lead separate lives, each following their own direction.” She sighed deeply. “It's no wonder poor Penelope was forced to turn to another man for affectio
n."

  "I still don't understand why you've brought this information to me,” Victor said impatiently.

  Mary smiled and took a single step closer. This was as close as she ever cared to be to Victor Chadwick. Even this was too close. He didn't make a move, but there was a kernel of fear inside her that he would lunge forward and grab her, touch her. If he touched her, she'd scream. She'd scream and she likely wouldn't ever be able to stop.

  But in spite of that fear, her smile remained steady. She hesitated, not because she had doubts about her plan, of course, but in order to savor this moment. Victor waited, impatient, irritated, curious. Mary enjoyed making him wait, and more than that, she enjoyed the sudden surge of power she felt, knowing she held Penelope's future in her hands.

  "The man she's cuckolding her husband with is none other than the Indigo Blade."

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  Chapter Twenty-four

  The knock at his door was soft, but insistent, and after ignoring the intrusive tapping for several long seconds, Max rose, leaving Penelope sleeping peacefully in their warm bed.

  "I said,” he insisted as he opened the door a crack, “that we weren't to be disturbed but for fire or..."

  "Flood,” Lewis finished. “Fletcher informed us of that order, but this won't wait. We received word that Chadwick has arrested James Terrence."

  "The man who puts out that weekly newspaper?"

  "The very one. Chadwick's charging the man with libelous sedition against the king for an editorial he ran in last week's paper."

  Max rubbed his face, tired, unable to think clearly. “Tomorrow we can..."

  "Tonight,” Lewis interrupted. “Terrence is sixty-two years old and in ill health. He won't survive long in Chadwick's prison."

  Max sent Lewis to inform the others that he would be in his study momentarily to formulate a plan to rescue the elderly Terrence. He lit a candle and quietly gathered together his clothing, dark shirt and breeches, worn boots, black coat, and leather gloves, and he dressed without making a sound.

  He shouldn't wake Penelope. She needed her rest, and telling her that he was leaving would only cause her worry.