Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  Watching his face, she tightened her hold, stroked her thumb over the top. She didn’t think it possible, but he grew even larger under her caress.

  “Stop.” He was breathing fast. “It’s my turn.”

  Laying her back on the cushions, he ran his hands over her silk-wrapped body, loosening, unwinding, revealing a bit of thigh, the curve of her shoulder, then her hip. Each new discovery was rewarded with a kiss. Her skin burned, sensitive to his every touch. Finally she lay naked on a swath of sea green. He moved his hands to her hair, combing through the long tresses with his fingers. She curled her arms overhead and sighed.

  James studied her. “I’ve wanted to see you like this.”

  She felt unfettered—free to follow her heart at last, to accept the sweetness life had to offer. To give herself to him, body, heart, and soul.

  He kissed her lightly, his lips feathering caresses over her throat, her arms, her breasts, down the curve of her stomach. Nudging her legs apart, he kissed her thighs, her knees. He left her breathless and tingling, her skin so sensitive she could almost feel the cool starlight washing over her.

  “More,” he said, kneeling between her legs. He bent and brushed his hands over the curls between her thighs. Lily sighed at the touch. At last—just when she thought she could wait no longer. His kiss touched her thigh, another her hip, then one even closer to where his hands were playing. Lily’s eyes opened wide. Surely he wasn’t going to kiss her there?

  But to her delight, he did—his lips moving, then his tongue lightly touching her. She gasped at the intimacy as he roused sensations she had never dreamed of. The flick of his tongue there, probing against her softness, made her writhe against the silks. He gripped her thighs in either hand, opening her even more, savoring, tasting her. Something began to tighten in her—she remembered the feeling, the tension and desire.

  “Not yet,” he said. “There is more—so much more.”

  He rose over her and guided himself to her entrance. She could feel the blunt tip parting her folds. Slowly he eased partway inside, and then stopped. He was over her and around her and within her all at once, her body opening to accommodate his hard length. He pulled back, and she clutched his shoulders. All her concentration was centered on the feeling of him between her legs.

  He entered her, pulled out, each time sliding a little deeper. His face was taut with desire, but he led her slowly until she rocked her hips up against him.

  “Don’t stop.” His even stroking was winding her up again. The stars brightened overhead.

  “Lily,” he murmured, dropping his head to take her lips again. Their tongues joined the rhythm of their bodies. She held tightly to him, hands splayed across his back, legs wrapped around his hips.

  Held on—even as her senses flew apart, lightning sheeting through her, coursing through her limbs. She was dimly aware that he, too, had tensed and was shuddering above her. They were two stars streaking across the sky, fiery tails burning the night around them.

  When at last they fell back to earth, he shifted off her and drew her against him. She had not known it could be like this—shaken, amazed, she was touched to her very core.

  “Ah, Lily.” He pulled a coverlet over them both and held her tightly against the shelter of his warm body. She was not sure, but as sleep rose up to claim her, she thought she heard him whisper, “My love.”

  ***

  The night breeze brushed Isabelle’s skin, making her nerves tingle. For a moment she fought the urge to slip back into her tent, but she could not turn back. She took a hesitant step forward, all her senses alert, then another, and another, until she was moving quickly away from the camp. It was for her family’s protection, after all. Someone had to save the expedition.

  Not that she didn’t long to see Lord Rowland again.

  How wearily the days had dragged since she had last set eyes upon him. The knowledge that he was following them was her only comfort. He was truly the most perfect man—dashing, kind, yet with an air of mystery that had drawn her to him from the first. His aristocratic features and elegant ways, not to mention the marked attention he had paid her, made her heart skitter with delicious emotion. Here, out in the wilds, she had often imagined him atop a promontory, mounted on a spirited Arab stallion and watching over her, protecting her from afar as he had promised.

  Her fingers smoothed the note in her pocket, the note she secretly reread several times a day, even though she knew the words by heart.

  Dearest Isabelle—what would I have done without your courageous actions? You have saved the day. Meet me the evening after you reach the village that James spoke of. I will come to you.

  —R

  She glanced about once more, then hurried down toward where animals were tethered. There was a sentry on watch there, but Isabelle had given the matter much thought.

  “Who goes there?” The voice was louder than she had expected.

  “Tom! Must you rouse the whole camp?”

  “Miss Isabelle! Beggin’ your pardon. I didn’t know it was you.” The gardener’s son doffed his hat.

  “No matter. I’m quite recovered.” Isabelle straightened her shoulders and stepped closer. “Tell me, Tom, has everything been quiet down here this evening?”

  “Aye, miss.” He cast a glance at where the horses were tethered, placidly lipping the night-dark grasses. “They were restless a wee bit ago, but everything is calm now.”

  “Good.” She kept herself from looking out into the night. “Then perhaps I won’t trouble you too much.”

  “What, miss? I’m sure it won’t be no trouble at all.”

  She clasped her hands together. “Well, it’s just that the roof of my tent is sagging. I think some of the ropes are not tight enough. I knew that since you helped put it up, you would know just what to do.”

  “That I do, and terrible sorry to hear it caused you trouble, miss.”

  “Yes, well, if you fixed it now, then it would be all taken care of.” Isabelle gave him her sweetest smile.

  “Right away, miss.” Tom turned toward the camp.

  There, it hadn’t been so difficult. Her lips curved into a secret smile as she gazed up at the stars—impossibly bright. Tonight was made for something more, something special; she could feel it in the warm, dark air stirring about her.

  Would Lord Rowland kiss her? She had thought he was going to twice before, but it seemed his gentlemanly instincts had not permitted him to do more than lean toward her, his black eyes dark with secrets and promises, his elegant fingers brushing a path down her cheek before he turned away. Tonight, though…

  “Miss?” Tom’s voice made her start.

  “What is it?” Could he not just go?

  “I should be escorting you back. Wouldn’t like to leave a lady unprotected.”

  She mustered up a smile. “Nonsense. I found my way down here, after all. And the night is so beautiful, I crave a few moments of solitude.”

  Tom wrinkled his brow as she spoke, then shook his head, as if the ways of the gentry were beyond him. “If you say so, miss.”

  This time Isabelle watched until his figure had completely disappeared up the hill. At last! She raised her hand to her face, gently touching her own cheek. Lord Rowland was out there in the night, waiting for her. She could feel it.

  A noise made her whirl—the crunch of dry leaves underfoot, the snort of a horse. There, in the shadows of the trees beyond. Her heartbeat quickened as she glided forward, just like some heroine in a book, her pale gown swirling, the starlight glimmering in her hair. In the darkness beneath the trees the air was still and fragrant. Isabelle turned, but could see no one. Her heart raced furiously, her entire body taut and listening.

  Despite the pitch of her nerves, she did not sense his presence until a large hand covered her mouth, muffling her involuntary shriek. Strong arms pulled her back against a tall, masculine form. They encircled her, pinning her arms against her body. For an instant mindless panic engulfed her, but just as qu
ickly the fear was transformed into pure joy. Lord Rowland! She would never mistake his scent—cloves and tobacco smoke and something else, something so warm and enticing that she did not know what to call it. He had come to her! It was impossibly romantic.

  Isabelle tried to turn, to drink in the sight of him, but he would not let her. Nor did he lift his hand from her mouth, only drew her with him deeper into the shadows.

  “Mmmf,” she said. This was not precisely how she had imagined their reunion.

  “Hush.” The command was a mere breath feathered against her neck, immediately replaced by the brush of his lips.

  The intimate sensation was almost enough to make her forget her discontent. Yet it was hardly a fitting welcome—even under the unusual circumstances. She dreaded to think what Mrs. Hodges might say of a young woman who allowed such familiarity. Why, Lord Rowland hadn’t even wished her good evening. How could he notice she was wearing the necklace he had bought her if he wouldn’t let her turn around? She needed to face him, to see the brilliant white of his smile, to hear him murmur her name, to recognize her own longing reflected in his dark eyes. No, this was not how it was supposed to be at all. She wrenched her head in a very unladylike manner, trying again to turn in his arms.

  For a moment the pressure of his arm eased, but before Isabelle could seize the advantage, he had caught her tightly again. His hand brushed upward over her stomach and, shock of shock, settled over her breast!

  The nerve of the man! Where were the tender words and sweet kisses? He might enjoy playing the wicked savage, but she needed the gallant gentleman she had come to adore aboard the Sidonia. His thumb began to stroke against her. Really, Lord Rowland was taking the most outrageous liberties. Without thinking, Isabelle kicked back with a move she had perfected on her brother in more innocent times. She was rewarded with a muffled grunt.

  The hand dropped from her breast, but Lord Rowland did not release her. She was preparing a second kick when another figure moved out of the darkness.

  “Tie her hands,” the man behind her whispered. His voice was rough—no sweet lover’s murmur. The night was suddenly too dark.

  He dropped his hand from her mouth and Isabelle drew in a deep breath. Someone would hear her if she screamed. But he was too quick. In an instant the hand was replaced by a length of cloth, pulled back, and tied roughly behind her head. The other man had hastened to do his master’s bidding, imprisoning her hands behind her with rough rope.

  Now she struggled in earnest, half in fear, half in rage at the betrayal and humiliation. She was strong for her size, and landed one more good kick, her hair coming loose and falling down about her face, but the two men hauled her to a tree and quickly wound the rest of the rope around her. Lord Rowland was careful to stay behind her the whole time. The coward! The utter scoundrel! Could he possibly think she had not recognized him?

  “That should keep her occupied.” A low laugh accompanied the words. “Now drive off the horses and signal the others.” The two men moved away, leaving Isabelle swallowing against the gag. Tears burned down her cheeks, the rough fibers cutting into her wrists as she struggled in the rope’s embrace.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  James sat upright, the sound of a gunshot pulling him instantly awake. Shouts carried up from camp along with the sound of clattering hooves. In a heartbeat he was up, scrambling into his clothes, pulling on his boots.

  Beside him Lily stirred, then sat, clutching the wrinkled sea-green wrap to her. Her eyes were dark with questions and alarm. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m going to find out.” He set his hand over hers, the brief contact waking a fierce protectiveness in him. “Stay here where it’s safe.”

  Her eyes flashed. “No! My family is down there.” She rose to her knees, the length of cloth only emphasizing her nakedness. “I’m coming with you.”

  James bent and took her face between his palms, though every instinct screamed for haste. She had to understand. “Lily. Stay here. Put out the light and wait for me.” He planted a fierce kiss against her lips, then was off, leaping boulders and sliding down the steep gravel slope.

  Below, a tent was burning, casting a wild, fitful light over the camp. Panicked horses were running loose, equipment and belongings scattered over the ground. James sprinted past the bathing tent toward a confused knot of servants.

  “You there!” he shouted as he approached, “All of you. Go as a group to the Strathmores’ tent. Arm yourselves with anything that can be used as a weapon.” The men remained where they were, looking fearfully into the darkness as if they did not understand.

  “Go, damn you!” James seized one of Sir Edward’s servants by the jacket, and pushed him in the direction of the Strathmores’ tent. “To your master.” The man stumbled in the proper direction and the others followed, several bending to seize stout sticks of firewood from the pile beside the fire.

  James cursed himself for a fool. What had possessed him? How could he have allowed this to happen! He turned toward his tent.

  “James!” Richard bolted up, his face pale. “Are we going after them?” Fear and excitement mixed in his young eyes.

  “Who did you see? Is anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t know—those bandits came out of nowhere. They drove the horses right through camp. I never thought we would actually be in danger this trip.”

  James winced. He had chosen the worst of nights to let down his guard. “Go to your father, and take anyone you can find with you. I’ll join you shortly.” He gave the younger man’s shoulder a squeeze. “Go now.”

  James sprinted in the opposite direction. There would be ample time for regret later. Right now he needed to secure the camp and retrieve Lily.

  A jagged rent in his tent greeted him when he arrived. Someone had hacked at it with a blade. He pushed his way inside. “Bloody hell.”

  The flickering oil lamp showed his cot tipped, the mattress slashed. Clothing was flung on the floor and his saddlebags were upended. He gritted his teeth. How obliging of him to leave the tent vacant so the thieves could do such a through job of plundering.

  A soft gleam from the table caught his attention—his gold pocket watch. It stood untouched where he had left it.

  An icy premonition threaded through him.

  What kind of bandit would ransack a tent and leave something so valuable behind? James turned in a circle, breath rasping in his throat. There—he could see the silver handle of his pistol protruding from beneath the cot.

  The letters! Where were his grandfather’s letters?

  He dropped to his knees, tossing aside a coat, a smashed stool. There was the wallet they had been in, gaping wide, empty.

  “Reggie!” The name left a taste like bile in his mouth. Who else would take those items and leave the valuables? It had to be Reggie.

  James snatched his pistol, tucked it into his waistband, and rushed out of the tent, half expecting to see his cousin retreating into the darkness.

  “Damn you!” he shouted into the empty dark.

  Reggie would be riding for the valley at this very moment, leaving the chaos of the camp and its scattered horses behind. By the time James followed there would be nothing left but a trampled meadow of purple flowers. He doubled over, his hands on his knees.

  Why had he dropped his guard when he was so close? Without the journals, how could he speak for Lily? How could he promise her a future? With the wealth the journals could bring, he could be Mr. Huntington to everyone and James to Lily. Without them he would be James to everyone and Mr. Huntington to her.

  In one night he had lost everything—everything he wanted, everything he hoped for. Everything he loved.

  James turned and sprinted toward the paddock. He had to stop Reggie. Surely there was at least one horse left for him. He would ride hard—unencumbered by folding bathtubs and Wardian bottles. He was twice the horseman Reggie was, and he needed this more. Cold purpose filled him.

  “Sir! Sir, wait!” One of the se
rvants was running after him. “Sir Edward—he has been wounded! Come quickly.”

  James turned on the man. “What the devil are you saying?” He hadn’t realized he was shouting until the servant stepped back, fear in his eyes.

  “Please, sir.”

  James took a ragged breath and lowered the pistol he held in his hand. “Tell me what happened—and be quick about it.”

  “They found Sir Edward lying facedown and carried him back to his tent. He don’t look good, sir.”

  James closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. With every beat of his heart, hope was slipping further away.

  The night seemed colder, the stars obscured. He glanced toward the paddock, toward fortune and respectability and hope. Toward a vanished future. His foolish quest was over before he had even caught sight of the cursed valley.

  “I’m coming.”

  ***

  Lady Mary looked up as he entered the tent, her face streaked with tears.

  “Thank goodness you are here, James!” She knelt on the floor beside Sir Edward, who lay prone and ashen on his cot. He was so still and white that for a moment James thought he was looking at a dead man.

  “What happened?” James laid a hand on Sir Edward’s forehead. A large bruise discolored his temple and the skin was broken, though the bleeding had stopped.

  “We had retired and Edward was writing up his notes when we heard horses and shouting. It sounded as though we were being attacked. Edward grabbed his gun and rushed out. It was so foolish of him. Then I heard a shot. They found him like this.” Lady Mary covered her face with her hands. A moment later she looked up, eyes filled with tears. “He had just been saying what a lovely holiday this had been.”

  Before James could find words to express his remorse, Isabelle burst into the tent. Her hair was tumbled around her face and her dress was torn. She took one wild look about, her gaze going to the still figure on the cot.

  “Father! Oh no!” She flung herself down beside her mother and began sobbing uncontrollably.