* * *
“I admit it. I am a mere sycophant to the womanhood that is you.” Exhausted by the long, slow, meticulous love-making Laurel had subjected him to, Max flung himself face down on the bed. “You make the earth move, the sun shine, the tides rise and fall. You are the living embodiment of a goddess.”
She rubbed her thighs and watched him with a knowing smile. “Damned right.”
She was proud of the woman she was. She had ridden him—tortured him—until he would have given her anything for the ecstasy of finishing hard and fast.
Not that she wanted anything. They’d done this, had wonderful sex, and she had not uttered one word about forever.
Not one word about love.
The man was going to have to tell her everything.
Chapter Fourteen
A harsh scraping sound brought Laurel from deepest slumber to tense awareness. Without opening her eyes, she knew Max was gone, and had been for a while. It was morning, very early morning.
And someone else—a stranger—was in the room with her.
Where was Max? She was in danger. She knew she was.
Her jaw was locked, her muscles clenched. Moving slowly, each joint aching with the effort, she peeked over the edge of the comforter.
The only light in the room shone on the spot where St. Albion’s cross had stood…but the cross was gone. Cradled in the arms of…
Holding the covers to her naked chest, she sat up. “Kenneth, what are you doing?”
The tall old butler spun around. “Why, Miss Laurel. I didn’t see you there in the shadows.” He hunched over the cross, trying to keep it from her sight. “What are you doing, sleeping in the Masterson Bed?”
“I was…” Wait a minute. She didn’t owe him an explanation, and she could never explain anyway. “Never mind that. What are you doing with St. Albion’s cross?”
“It…occurred to me…that this might be…the next piece the thieves would come after…so I’m taking it to a safe place.”
His hesitation told a different tale. He was thinking up the story as he spoke. “Kenneth, put it down.” She reached for the alarm panel at the head of the bed.
He pulled a pistol from his pocket and pointed it straight at her.
She gasped. Her heart gave a hard thump, then raced in panic. She clutched the covers tighter.
“Why did you have to be there? Why did you have to wake up?” His voice rumbled as it always had. He sounded no more and no less like the crabby old butler she’d come to know. But he looked…altered. Cold. Indifferent. As if he knew how to use the gun, and had no qualms using it on her.
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to do. Where was Max?
“You should have kept sleeping. What you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.” Kenneth apprehensively glanced around. “Where’s your man?”
“My…who?” Max. He meant Max. She glanced at the clock. “I don’t know. It’s five o’clock in the morning. He’s sleeping in his bed, I suppose.”
“That’s good. Now what am I going to do with you?” Kenneth glared as if his crime was her fault.
“Wh…why…are you…stealing St Albion’s cross?” She couldn’t believe it. “Why are you?”
“You know why.” His gray brows lowered, his bulbous nose quivered.
“Is it the gambling?”
“Is it the gambling?” he mimicked savagely. “Aye, it’s the gambling. I’m old. I’ve got no family. I deserve a little fun.”
Gun or no gun, that was nonsense. Such sophistry made her blood boil. “Not if it involves stealing your own English heritage and selling it.”
She’d seen Kenneth sneer many times, but never had his condescension been so openly directed at her. “Please, Miss! You’re a romantic.” His gaze sharpened on her, his thick lips grinned, and she knew he’d realized she was bare beneath the covers. “You should know only the rich can afford morals.”
“I should know nothing of the sort.” But he obviously had no morals of any kind.
He snorted. “I’ve been helping myself, a little bit at a time, for years. It could have gone on forever, only now the Manor’s sold to a mean as hell businessman.”
Yes. Max. Where was he?
“The bugger’s installing a good security system,” Kenneth said. “I’ve got no more time.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from that unwavering gun that pointed at her chest. “We thought it was Frank.”
“It is Frank. He helps me get the pieces past the inspectors. And Georgie from the pub, and Miss Kent, the school mistress.”
She found herself breathing hard. Panic had her in its grip. She was so afraid Kenneth was going to kill her. He had to kill her, or else be revealed. But there had to be a way out. And even if there wasn’t…she had to speak out. She had to. “Look. Kenneth. I’m responsible for making sure the manor and its contents are delivered to its new owner intact. You have to put the cross back.”
He laughed, a grating horrific guffaw. “A pretty girl like you isn’t going to get in trouble.” He stared hard, his faded brown eyes moving over her bare shoulders. “In fact, I’ll help you out. I’ll tie you up so they know you’re not involved.”
Her fingers tightened on the covers. Max had disappeared, she didn’t know where, but clearly she had to get herself out of this. She couldn’t allow Kenneth to tie her up, then shoot her. A germ of an idea took root and grew. “Yes. I suppose.” She had to appear reluctant. She had to bewilder him. It took a real effort of will to loosen her fingers from that one corner of the covers, but she did, and pretended not to notice when it slipped down her chest, almost off her breast. “That’s a good idea.” She glanced at the windows beside the bed. “Why don’t you use the tie-backs?”
“Aye, why don’t I?”
The lecherous old fraud was distracted, thinking he would get an eyeful—or more. He placed the cross back on the highboy.
Surreptitiously, she made sure the comforter was untucked and free of constraint.
Pistol in hand, the old fool swaggered toward the bed. Toward the window. He reached behind the curtains to loosen the tieback.
Comforter in her grip, she sprang on him, flinging it over his head.
He staggered under her weight. Windmilled his arms to rid himself of the comforter. Shouted in fury.
Another shout sounded near her ear. Something, someone— Max! —tackled them. Clad in only his trousers, he knocked her aside. Dragging the cover tighter over Kenneth, he threw him to the floor and landed on him.
Beneath the comforter, the pistol went off.
She thought she was going to die.
Chapter Fifteen
It was after eight when Max shoved Dennis, Dennis’s men, and the hand-cuffed Kenneth out the door and headed back to the Masterson Bed. To the bed, and to Laurel.
By God, when he thought of how she jumped on Kenneth, nude and armed with nothing but a comforter, he felt ill with fear. And when he heard that pistol go off…he pressed his hand to his chest above his poor, abused heart.
If the bullet had struck her instead of the bed, she would have died.
Instead feathers had flown across the room, the comforter had smoldered, and she … she had gasped and reached for him with the same panic and fear he felt for her.
She loved him. He knew she did.
But he loved her, too. If there had been any doubt in his mind, that bullet had cleared it away. He couldn’t survive without her. Now all he wanted was to hold Laurel in his arms, make sure that she was healthy—and his, in every way it was possible for a woman to belong to a man.
Running up the stairs, he burst into the room holding the Masterson Bed. Without even looking—and that was his first mistake—he announced, “I’m done with all this diplomacy and political correctness. You’re going to—” He stopped, and stared in a different kind of horror.
Laurel sat on the bed, her back pressed against the headboard, facing his mother on one side and Grace on the othe
r.
Without thinking, he blurted, “Mum! What are you doing here?”
His mother turned disapproving brown eyes on him.
At once he was aware he’d been less than gracious.
Also, his feet were bare, his trousers and shirt rumpled. He looked as if he’d been having a romp with Laurel.
In fact, he looked as guilty as he was.
Laurel was dressed in her sweat suit, thank God, but she looked harassed. Poor girl, she’d been dealing with both of those bloody-minded women…both of who believed sex must result in marriage.
He pasted on a belated smile. “Good to see you, Mum! Grace, you, too.”
“Good morning, Mr. Max.” Grace greeted him fondly—a lot more fondly than his own mother—and walked toward the door. “I’ll start your breakfast.”
Her departure left Max squirming beneath his mother’s glare and Laurel’s silent, panicked appeal. “Mum, really. I know that you’re an early riser, and I was trying to call you.”
“Why, son?” Mum’s deep, smoker’s voice demanded an explanation…for everything, and her toe was tapping.
“To tell you I’ve found the girl I want to marry.”
Laurel sagged against the pillows and covered her eyes.
Mum got to her feet. She came to him, embraced him, took his cheeks between her palms and looked into his eyes. “About time. Have you convinced the girl?”
He squirmed guiltily. “Almost.”
Laurel looked up and glowered.
He amended it to, “I’m trying. She’s stubborn.” He released his mother and walked toward the bed, attempting to tell Laurel how he felt without actually saying those difficult, impossible words. “She’s also brave and lovely and more than I ever hoped for, and unless she marries me, I can never be happy.”
Laurel lowered her hands and in an unloverlike tone, inquired, “Why not? You’re rich, you’re handsome, you own Masterson Manor. You’ve got a mother who loves you and I think banking suits you, so you must enjoy it. Why do you need me to be happy?”
“I rather like her, dear,” his mother said.
“That’s nice, Mum,” he said absent-mindedly. He knew someday he’d be pleased that his mother liked his wife, but right now Laurel demanded all of his attention, all of his tact…and those difficult, impossible words.
“I’ll be in the kitchen with Grace, cooking your breakfast,” Mum said. “Don’t be long.”
She left them, and he was alone with nothing but himself to offer to the one woman to whom he wanted to give everything. “Laurel…Laurel, please marry me. I need you.” He wanted to buy her gifts, take her in his arms, shower her with adoration, but he had only a single stark truth to offer her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Laurel whispered.
And at last, he could breathe again. He grabbed her, embraced her, as if he would never let her go.
Laurel laughed breathlessly. She kissed his chest, his wrist, anything she could reach. Then she stared into his eyes, touched his cheek, smiled tremulously. He held her as if she embodied every need, every desire of his body and his heart. And he…he was more than just love to her. He was safety and exhilaration. Family and sexuality. All at the same time. With him, she could be free and be wild. Together, the two of them could…she blinked.
His eyes.
Those brilliant, green eyes.
Where had she seen them before?
“My God,” she whispered. She glanced at the family portraits on the wall—the formal portrait of Lord Rion Masterson, the more carefree portrait of Lord Sterling Masterson, and even a darkened, stylized sketch of Sir Nicholas Masterson, the founder of the family. Astonished and more than a little indignant, she said, “You’re a Masterson!”
He dropped his head. “Damn.”
That was akin to a confession. “You are. You’re a Masterson!”
“Yes, I’m a Masterson.” The resemblance between Max and his ancestors was uncanny. “My father was a Masterson, but since he never married my mother, I have her last name.”
Laurel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Whether to tell him or not.
“I bought the manor to thumb my nose at the father and the family that rejected me. My whole purpose was a kind of vengeful satisfaction that I had done so well while they were decadent to the bone and scattered to the winds.” He kissed her hair. “Then I met you, and all that vengeance became unimportant. Only you mattered. Having you. Loving you. You’ve brought me home.”
Blinking against tears, she smiled at him. “I’ve brought you a lot more than that.”
He must have grasped her turmoil, for his arms tightened around her. “What? Tell me what’s wrong.”
The rope scrolling on the bedposts gleamed with dark walnut wood hints of light, and the open fretwork around the wooden canopy warmed her heart. This bed signified everything she loved about this great old manor, its contents, and the history enclosed within its walls. And it worked its own magic…as it throughout the ages.
Resting her head on his shoulder, Laurel started to laugh. “You’re a Masterson, and that last time…that last time we made love, we didn’t use birth control.”
“I know. Darling, I do know.” He tilted her head up to look into her eyes. “I lost my head. I swear to you, I’ve never done that before. I couldn’t think of anything but being inside you. And…I know I haven’t the right to make such a decision, but when I did remember, I felt pleased. Proud, like some strutting peacock. I want to have a family with you.” He lifted his brows questioningly. “Are you furious with me?”
“Stop blaming yourself. I was swept away, too.” She went off into a bigger gale of laughter. “It’s the bed. I’ve done a lot of research. A lot of research. About the Mastersons. And the bed.” She knocked her knuckles on the walnut headboard, then shook her bruised hand. “The Masterson bed.”
“Yeah?” He watched her warily.
“It has a reputation. There’s a legend…” She laughed helplessly at his guarded expression. He obviously thought she’d gone mad. “Whenever…whenever a Masterson and the love of his life unite in the Masterson bed, the result nine months later is…the Masterson heir.”
A hint of a smile curved his lips. “Really?” He unzipped her sweatshirt. He wrestled her out of her t-shirt. “Really?”
“What are you doing?” As if she didn’t know.
“The Masterson bed is old.” He slid her free of her pants and socks. He tossed everything onto the floor. “The charm is old. It might be worn out. We need to give it another chance to work. Now.”
“You are a wicked man. And a Masterson.” She looped her arms around his neck. “It worked.”
“We must make certain.”
He stared at her so proudly, and caressed her belly with such awe, that the last of her doubts slid away.
“I’m certain.” Laurel kissed Max, slowly, intimately. “As long as the Mastersons have a bed, the master will always have a son.”
The End
* * *
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Just the Way You Are
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delightful historical romance
No Place for a Dame
About the Authors
Christina Dodd
New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd builds worlds filled with suspense, romance and adventure and creates the most distinctive characters in fiction today. Her fifty novels—suspense, paranormals, and historicals—have been translated into twenty-five languages, featured by Doubleday Book Club, recorded on Books on Tape for the Blind, won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA Awards and been called the year’s best by Library Journal. Dodd herself has been a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle—her mother was totally impressed. Publishe
rs Weekly praises Christina’s style that “showcases Dodd’s easy, addictive charm and steamy storytelling.” With more than fifteen million of her books in print, her legions of fans always know that when they pick up a Christina Dodd book, they’ve found, “an absolute thrill ride of a book!”
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Keep reading to learn about Connie Brockway…
About the Authors
Connie Brockway
USA Today and New York Times bestselling author Connie Brockway writes both historical romance and women’s fiction and has twice won the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Rita award. An avid traveler, gardener, and cook, Brockway lives in Minnesota with her husband and two spoiled mutts.
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Steal a Sneak Peek at Christina Dodd’s
Just the Way You Are
the first book in her bestselling contemporary romantic suspense series
“Lost Hearts”, which includes Bonus Enhanced Material
Hope Prescott lives in Boston, far from the warm, southern home she recalls. She works hard with one goal in mind—finding her long-lost siblings. Yet her job at the answering service and her own loving nature create a family of friends, people she knows only by their voices. She especially likes Griswald, gruff old butler for mysterious, wealthy Zack Givens.
Once Upon a Pillow Page 28
