by Brenda Joyce
The notion was heartening. Finally calming, she opened her doors and stepped swiftly inside her bedroom, where it was dark and still warm from earlier in the day. She took another deep breath. Feeling much less shaken, she snapped on the lights-and gasped.
The lid of one of her trunks was open, and even from a distance she could see that someone had been rummaging through her things. She ran to the chest, kneeling beside it. All of her neatly folded clothes were rumpled and mussed. Just as they had been that day in the hotel in Templeton.
Regina froze, frightened.
She had not dwelled upon that first incident, feeling safe here at Miramar. Yet someone had trespassed again. Someone had invaded her bedroom and gone through her private possessions. But why? And, just as importantly, who?
She had to wonder if the culprit had thievery on his mind. She did not think so, because if that were the case, the thief would have taken all that he wanted back at the hotel and would not have needed to return a second time. Unless he had been interrupted the first time.
She shuddered. At least now she knew what she possessed and she could determine if anything was missing. She hurriedly turned to the trunks. A lightning-fast search through the compartment which contained her jewelry, all that she had of value, revealed that nothing was missing except for a small, worthless locket. The locket had contained an old and faded photograph of a young woman, but Regina had not recognized her. It had been engraved with the initials RS, causing Regina to assume that some family member had given it to her.
She was angry as well as frightened. Although she did not know anything about the locket, it had been the most personal of all of her possessions and she felt a distinct sense of loss. Obviously the locket had been of value to her or it wouldn't have been among her things. Slowly Regina stood up and went to a chair, where she sank abruptly down.
Why had someone been searching through her things if not to steal? And why had they taken the locket instead of the bracelets or the necklace? It did not make sense. And who was the culprit?
Victoria had not been at dinner, but Regina could not believe that she would bother to snoop and steal. Lucinda disliked her, but wouldn't a maid take something of value? Perhaps the thief had been someone she did not know, but someone who knew her.
She shivered. Someone had been here in her room, violating her privacy and rifling through her possessions. Someone had stolen the locket; she sensed that the thief was interested in her, not her belongings. She could not be more powerfully reminded of her vulnerability, trapped as she was in the mental darkness of amnesia, and she was afraid.
Regina realized that she had left her doors open, and that with the bedroom lights on, anyone might be watching her from the dark night outside. Quickly she crossed the room and closed them, her heart beating rapidly. She tried telling herself that she was being a silly fool, that no one was watching her, that her imagination was running wild because of the small theft. But the jittery feeling in her breast did not ease.
Her instinct was to run to Slade. He had said he would protect her and he had meant it. She was certain he would be angry that someone in his home had dared to steal from her. He had strength, strength that she would heartily welcome right now. But she knew better than to seek him out in his bedroom. Not after he had just left her in anger. She reminded herself that whoever had been snooping had apparently not meant to harm her, but she was not relieved. Tomorrow, first thing, she would tell Slade all that had happened.
Slade could not stand it. He jerked himself from the bed, standing very still, his head cocked toward the courtyard. He had his doors open but the screens were in place, a matter of habit. Inside the room he had one small lamp on which emitted a very dim light, and the night outside was terrifically black.
He was hot. Sweating hot. And it had nothing to do with the weather. A midnight fog had started to roll in, and this close to the ocean, there was nothing unusual about that. The night was cool, misty, and sweet. He wore nothing but a pair of short cotton drawers. Sweat left a sheen on his bare chest. Three months without a woman was more self-denial than he could handle. Especially now.
He closed his eyes. Every time he managed to shove her out of his thoughts, she invaded his mind again. This time he wasn't remembering her eyes or her hair, her gratitude or her graciousness. This time he was recalling how she had been clinging to him, her hands locked around his neck, kissing him back, openmouthed and eager, uninstructed and passionate. And after such a long period of celibacy, it only took an instant for him to become aroused. He could not stand it. He could not stand this.
There was a soft rapping on his door. Slade froze. He knew who it was. It was Elizabeth.
He wished she would go away. He wished she would stay. He did not move. He did not dare. When the knocking came again, more insistent, he turned slowly to face the screens. His eyes widened when he saw Lucinda standing there instead of Elizabeth.
Lucinda had the screen doors ajar. "Slade." She smiled, but it was questioning. "Can I come in?"
He should have guessed. This was not the first time she had come to his room. He was immensely relieved… he was vastly disappointed.
"Slade. Can I come in?"
His jaw flexed. She had been after him for years. He was the only brother who had not taken her. She did not interest him. She had slept with everything male that was human and capable of fornicating on this side of the county line. She'd slept with both of his brothers, although not recently. James had ceased dallying with her many years ago, way before his engagement, and Edward had found greener pastures before he'd reached fourteen. Still, boys talked the same as men did. He knew she was a good lay, an insatiable lay. Tonight he needed a woman, badly. Then he looked past Luanda's blurred features, toward Elizabeth's room. The dark woman standing at his door could not possibly substitute for his bride.
"No," was all he said, turning away. But even as he gave her his back, his body hurt, and his mind thought about the fact that he would never have Elizabeth, because he was not going to betray James. Not ever.
Yet he was human-a man. He was not foolish enough to think that he would become totally celibate after his marriage. He wished he could, but it was not in his nature; he wished he would not have the aching hunger inside him, now focused only on her. Elizabeth was a lady, and although he was not too familiar with ladies, he was a fast learner, and in this case he promised himself he would be even faster. He would treat her as she deserved to be treated to the best of his ability. When his body reached the breaking point and he had to seek comfort outside of their marriage, he would be discreet. He intended that she never know.
"Slade," Lucinda whispered, behind him.
Her eyes had a wild light. "You need me." She smiled, her hand cupping his stiff sex.
He knocked it away. Never, ever would he take a woman just days before his wedding to Elizabeth, even if that marriage would never be consummated, and certainly not under the same roof as his bride. "When I say no I mean no." He dragged her to the doors. He pushed her outside, into the cool, misty darkness. "Don't you dare come in here again."
Lucinda stared at him. "What's wrong with you?" she whispered. "I know it could be good, I know it! Why are you this way? Why do you have to make everything so serious? Why do you have to take everything so seriously?"
Slade had known her his entire life. Honest, he grimaced. "Damned if I know, Lucinda. Damned if I know."
She looked at him, somber and regretful, then turned and faded into the night. Slade stared after her, almost calling her back.
He had not chosen to live in a mostly celibate manner out of preference. But as a bachelor his choices were few. The gentlewomen who were available to him- the married ladies who took lovers behind their husbands' backs-disgusted him. He had never accepted an invitation from that kind of woman and he never would. Unmarried ladies were looking for marriage, and as they obviously would not be interested in him, they were out of bounds. For a bachelor, that left two alternatives, a mistress or a whore.
Slade had never kept a mistress. These women seemed no different to him than prostitutes or the married women masquerading as proper ladies. They were bought and paid for like the former, and as immoral as the latter. He did not want a woman in his bed who preferred the material favors he would give her over him. Not on a steady basis. That left prostitutes as a last and rarely pleasant resort.
He was a sexual man and he knew it. He'd known it since puberty. He did his best to ignore it. When the hunger got too great, he frequented the cleanest establishment he knew of. By then the need was out of control, but the resulting night of endless fornication was never satisfying. No matter how many times he found physical release, being with a prostitute was about as much fun as masturbating. Sometimes even less so.
Before he'd come home, he'd been about due for one of those long feverish nights. But James's death had effectively killed the lust in his body. Until the moment he'd laid eyes on Elizabeth Sinclair.
Unfortunately, that was all it had taken, one moment, and he'd felt the hot hard hunger begin to uncoil deep and low inside him. It had a different feel to it this time, enough so to frighten him and make him avoid thinking too hard about why it was different. Tonight he had reached the breaking point. Tonight he had almost thrown all his resolution to the wind, all his vows, all of his promises to James. And she would have been willing. Very, very willing.
He had come close to taking her. One kiss would have led to the final act. His hunger was that raw, that explosive. How he had wanted to kiss her! Even now, he could feel her lips soft and open and hungry but innocent beneath his. Slade cursed.
He paced away from the bed, his body lean and sinewed, his phallus hard and erect. He moved to the big oak bureau and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter there. He sipped it. It did not numb his aching body. He needed release and he needed it badly, he needed it soon. There was more frustration- and more need-than he'd ever experienced before.
God, how was he going to survive his marriage?
Again Slade looked toward the courtyard. She wouldn't leave him alone. Damn her! Or was it that he couldn't leave her alone? He could just barely distinguish the shadowy outline of the house on the opposite side of the courtyard. Soon the fog would be so thick he wouldn't be able to see even the fountain. But he didn't have to see clearly; just knowing she was so close-and so far- was enough.
He stalked toward the screen doors.
He paused in front of them. He stared hard through the tendrils of mist at her closed doors, as if staring hard enough and long enough might enable him to penetrate the thick wood with his vision and see within. She would be sleeping in that high-necked nightgown she wore, her hair loose and flowing, her mouth softly parted.
His sex reared up fully again, a partner to his imagination. For he had quickly stripped her naked in his mind, had quickly pushed her beneath his hungry body. Slade gripped the doorknob, for an instant about to wrench the door open and go to her. God, he needed her! But James was between them. He would always be between them. She was his bride, but it was a sham. She would always belong to James, even though he was dead. His hand tightened on the brass knob, and he pressed his tortured body into the screen mesh. His breathing came faster.
It was too damn easy to imagine Elizabeth in his bed, and it was hell. He saw her sprawled and restless and waiting for him, but it wasn't her beautiful body he concentrated on, it was her face. He'd be merciless. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't be able to stop. He would make love to her until they both dropped from exhaustion.
He would make love to her… His breath caught. He was afraid. He had guessed the reason why the lust was so different this time. He had never in his life made love to a woman before, but that's what he wanted to do to her. Badly. Very, very badly.
Slade closed his eyes, leaning hard against the screen. He couldn't stand being in his own body another moment, was ready to jump out of his own skin. Forget surviving his marriage-he wasn't sure he could make it through these next few days.
Chapter 13
Unable to sleep, Regina got out of bed just after sunrise.
She had watched it. It had been glorious. In the east the sky had begun to turn gray. Then abruptly it had glowed pink and a burning orange ball had emerged from behind the rim of wheat-hued mountains. For many minutes the canvas-colored sky had been splashed with rainbow colors of pink and green and apricot, as if assaulted by the mad hand of an abandoned modern artist, so vivid they had taken Regina's breath away. And the morning had become alive with birdsong.
Regina had spent most of the night tossing and turning. Her wedding was just three days away. And while she had gone to bed worrying about the intruder and wondering what his invasion signified, she soon forgot the theft of her locket, recalling Slade's promise, his declaration of loyalty. Her mind swam with his image, playing with the possibilities the future might bring. They were all glorious. Slade would gaze deeply into her eyes as they exchanged vows, and afterward he would take her in his arms, kissing her with the kind of passion she had only read about. And later, later when they were alone, before he would ravish her, he would tell her he loved her, and that he had loved her since they had first met.
Regina chastised herself for being as foolish as a dreamy young girl, but in her heart she was yearning
so hard for the realization of her dreams that she just knew they would come true.
She had heard that brides often grew so nervous before their weddings that they were afflicted with second thoughts. She was marrying a stranger, she had amnesia, and his family sometimes frightened her, but she was not hesitating at all. She could not wait for Sunday, the day they were to be wed.
The idea left her breathless. Slade beckoned her like a beacon light beckons a lost, wind-tossed ship in a dark and stormy sea.
Naturally she imagined walking down the aisle of a church, where Slade would await her at its end, magnificent in a black tailcoat. Her dress was every bride's dream, custom-tailored by Worth or Paquin, the bodice the most delicate lace, beaded with pearls, the abundant skirts frothing tulle and glinting with diamants.
Regina paused, frowning. Where was her wedding dress?
She grew very still. Her wedding was this Sunday, in three days. She had gone through all of her trunks. There was no wedding gown among her things. She knew that for a fact.
Regina sat down hard on a chair, stunned. She was getting married on Sunday, today was Thursday, and she did not have a wedding gown.
It must have been sent separately, she thought instantly. But that was so risky that it was utterly foolish. For if the trunk got lost, as it apparently had, she was up a creek without a paddle. But there might not have been a choice if the gown wasn't quite ready when she had left London. Or perhaps there were other trunks of hers that had been missed in the confusion that had ensued when her train had arrived in Templeton without her on it.
