The Missing Heir

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Nothing yet, just some rather odd coincidences. I’ll get back to you after I’ve found the name of your military attaché.”

  Adam mounted his horse, making a mental note to ask Grace who might have a grudge against her.

  Grace stood on the cobbles outside the Two Sevens, waiting for Mr. Dewberry to bring the coach around from its position on a side street. The avenues were still busy, but no longer crowded. Adam shifted restlessly beside her. She knew she’d surprised him when she’d asked to go to Belmonde’s next. At a little past midnight, she suspected he wanted to go home. So did she. But she hadn’t run into Lord Geoffrey tonight and she wanted to be certain he did not forget her, or her interest in gambling.

  She glanced sideways at Adam and smiled. In the short time he’d been back, he was civilizing nicely. The hollows beneath his cheekbones had filled in and now she knew those little indents when he smiled were dimples indeed, not just the result of a Spartan diet. When he’d taken up residence with them, she had ordered heavier fare than she and Dianthe usually ate—more sauces, gravies and meats—and Adam had taken to it like a babe to mother’s milk. He was so solid and strong standing beside her that she sighed with satisfaction that she’d had even the tiniest part in the restoration of his health.

  He must have sensed her attention because he looked down at her and returned her smile. “I must compliment you on your energy at this hour, Grace. You look so delicate, but you have the stamina of a lioness.”

  She laughed. “Have I worn you out? Would you rather go home?”

  He shook his head in denial, returning his gaze to a spot across the street. “I’ve spent longer days in a saddle.” He lowered his head slightly and narrowed his eyes.

  Grace turned to see what had drawn his attention. A man, dressed in a dark cloak, was crossing the street. His head was tucked down, his hands were in his pockets and he was headed straight for them. She had taken Adam’s arm and now felt his muscles tighten through the fabric of his jacket. He moved slightly in front of her and took a firm grip on her upper arm.

  Moving faster now, nearly at a run, the man began to withdraw his right hand from his pocket. She gasped as Adam spun her behind him and lowered his head. Releasing her, he rushed the man just as a pistol fired. A ball whizzed past her left shoulder, leaving a hot rush of air in its wake. Her knees weakened when she realized that, had Adam acted half a second later, she’d be dead!

  She watched with her heart in her throat as Adam knocked the man off his feet. They rolled across the cobbles amid the late night traffic. She feared he’d be trampled by a horse or passing carriage. Then the attacker scrambled out of Adam’s grip and staggered to his feet as Adam came up and prepared to lunge again. A horse and rider rounded the corner and, in the confusion, rode between them. The horse reared, causing Adam to jump back out of the way and allowing the attacker to disappear around the corner.

  Cursing explicitly, Adam scooped the gun up at a run. “Grace, are you injured?” he shouted, returning a long evil-looking knife to his boot.

  “No!” She could scarcely catch her breath and felt as if her knees would give out at any second.

  He turned and looked in the direction their attacker had escaped, then spun around, checking in all directions. “A horse!” he shouted to no one in particular. “Damn it, a horse!”

  Mr. Dewberry pulled around the corner in the coach and Adam intercepted him, reaching for the lead horse’s harness. Was he going to cut the leather leads? But how would he release the traces?

  With a shout of pure animal frustration, Adam dropped his arms and stepped away, allowing the coach to pass. He pocketed the gun and came to her as Mr. Dewberry drew up. “Thank God,” he said.

  Gripping both her arms, he held her so tightly that something of his urgency reached her. His breath came out in a low groan as he hurried her to the coach and practically lifted her in. “I want you off the street and out of sight before there’s another attack on you,” he explained.

  “Me? But who would want to injure me?” A sharp stab of fear shot through her. Adam had to be mistaken.

  Leaning his forehead against Grace’s bedroom door an hour later, Adam’s heart was still hammering—even after two stiff brandies. He could hear her moving about in her room, the swish of her gown as it slid to the floor, and he envisioned her gloriously naked. His body sprang to full readiness and he suppressed a groan. Was he doomed to a state of perpetual arousal?

  When he’d come upstairs from the library, he should have kept walking down the darkened hall, his discarded vest and cravat in his hand, but he still had so many questions, so many concerns. At this moment he’d give half his fortune to find the assassin and thrash him within an inch of his life. Unfortunately that was not to be. Getting Grace home and out of harm’s way had been more important.

  And even though he felt as if he were invading her privacy now, they had to talk. The incident outside the Two Sevens, coupled with Freddie’s and Barrington’s warnings, had taken an ominous turn. Someone wanted Grace dead. But what could she possibly have done to provoke such an attack?

  She’d been stunned to silence in the coach, but a tapestry of emotions had played across her face. Fear? Confusion? Doubt? Disbelief? Whatever she felt, she was obviously shaken to her core. God knows he was. And he kept coming back to one central question. Why the hell would anyone want to harm Grace? And could it have something to do with whatever secret she was keeping?

  In the course of his duties in the Diplomatic Corps, he had encountered assassins at work and would recognize their tactics anywhere. The singular way the man had fixed on Grace convinced him that she had been his target. But why?

  Through the wooden door, he heard a deep sigh and the sound of a poker stirring the embers of a fire. He imagined her illuminated by firelight and his stomach tightened with desire. Who? Who could ever want to hurt that sweetly vulnerable woman?

  Lord Barrington came immediately to mind. As far as he knew, Barrington was the only enemy she had. But even Barrington, whose position put him in the way of assassins, could not be angry enough to want Grace dead. Being jilted might sting one’s pride but was no cause for murder. And though he’d never been in love, Adam suspected one did not go from love to hate in the space of an instant. Barrington’s anger in his office earlier had likely come from frustration and jealousy, not hatred. Certainly not the sort one needed to commit murder.

  Putting a watch on Barrington would do little good. The man would not conduct his own dirty work, nor would he be seen meeting publicly with a hired assassin. Still, a reminder would not go amiss. Adam smiled grimly into the darkened hallway. Yes, he’d find Barrington in a private moment and remind him that, should anything happen to Grace, he’d better have his will in order.

  An object clattered to the floor and Grace’s muffled voice uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. He smiled to himself, relieved to know that she was human, after all, and not a goddess above the touch of mere mortal men. Thus encouraged, he knocked.

  “Come in,” she called.

  He pushed the door open and stood frozen, his every fantasy rewarded. Grace, her back to him, was dressed in a gossamer-white nightdress and bending to retrieve her brush from the floor. Luxurious dark masses of hair swirled around her. The soft light from the fireplace filtered through her nightdress, revealing her form in relief. Willow-thin, supple, elegant curves and delicate hues were all displayed with a subtlety that heightened her allure. His mouth went dry and he struggled to swallow.

  “I thought I told you to go to bed, Mrs. Dewberry. Truly, I do not want warm milk.” She straightened and pushed her hair back over her shoulder as she turned.

  Before he realized what he was doing, he took several steps toward her. Her eyes widened and her lush lips parted to say something, but the words did not come. Clearly she had not expected to find him in her room. She looked frightened and vulnerable. Dear Lord, could she see his hunger, his need? Did she understand
how close he was to falling upon her like a demon possessed?

  “Adam?” Grace’s soft voice pulled him from his thoughts and broke the hypnotic hold of her beauty.

  When he tried to answer, his voice had gone tight and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I should have announced myself.”

  She nodded, sweeping her dressing gown from the end of her bed and slipping it over her shoulders. “I thought…that Mrs. Dewberry had come back.”

  “We need to talk, Grace.”

  She tied the robe at her waist. “I’ve been thinking, Adam. I—I am not at all convinced that man meant to attack me.”

  “You think it was random?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Perhaps he was mistaken, or he could have… I think I was not his target. I cannot imagine what I could have done or who I could have wronged to make someone want me dead.”

  “Then…”

  “I think the killer wanted you.”

  That thought had crossed Adam’s mind and had been quickly dismissed. His duties with the Diplomatic Corps had put him in line of many tense, unpleasant situations. He’d forged truces, engineered deals, twisted more than a few arms and reasoned with the unreasonable. In the process he had probably made his fair share of enemies. But political assassinations were generally reserved for top-ranking officials and heads of state. And the more clandestine assassinations were aimed at secret agents who had infiltrated the enemy’s inner defenses. Who would target a midlevel diplomat? And why? No, he wasn’t at all convinced that he had been the assassin’s target. There was only one person he knew who might want him dead… Grace. He hadn’t been back long enough to make that kind of enemy.

  Exasperated, he rubbed the whiskers along his cheek. A fluke, then? Wrong place, wrong time? Pray so, but he doubted it. The attack had all the hallmarks of a professional assassination. It had been quite deliberate.

  He looked back at Grace, studying her for any betraying sign, any flicker of the truth. “The only person who might want me dead is you.”

  “I? But why would I want you dead?”

  “To circumvent the court decision on the validity of my uncle’s will? So you won’t have to return my property?”

  She looked stricken. “No, Adam. No. I would never… I couldn’t.”

  She couldn’t have pretended her surprise. She couldn’t be such a consummate actress. She looked so innocent with her hair falling loose around her in glorious dark curls, but there was nothing innocent in the lush curve of her breasts or the hint of darker flesh at the peaks. He lusted for her to the point of total distraction.

  Grace stood motionless. On some basic level there was a recognition, almost an acknowledgment between them, of what was growing and working its will with them. She knew what he wanted. She had seen it coming. She had even begun to prepare herself for it. She dreaded it almost as much as she wanted it.

  Every part of her tingled in anticipation. Her breathing deepened and she leaned toward him. Everything she was or ever would be hung in the balance. Step forward and risk everything, or step back and live her safe constricting lie? Neither seemed acceptable. It was insane—she knew it was—but she could not stop it. Terrified of what loving Adam would do to her, she froze in place.

  He made the decision, taking another step toward her. He was intently focused on her, as if trying to read her mind. He closed the distance between them with a low, hungry moan and pulled her into his arms with possessive strength. His left hand splayed across the small of her back, pressing her so close against him that she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth of his palm seduced her, lulled her into complacency. She looked up at him and was caught by the deep hunger in his eyes. There was something tortured, almost reluctant, there. Slowly, as if against his will, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  As soft and tentative as a bird taking flight, his lips touched hers. Not a kiss. Not yet. More of a promise. He nibbled her lower lip, speaking softly in praise of her mouth, using words like rich and full and plump and sweet. Then, when he finally kept his promise, her head swam with the sweetness of it—as surprising as their first kiss in the library and as overwhelming as the madness in the coach when he’d nearly ravished her.

  His fingers twined through her hair as he buried his face in the strands and inhaled deeply. “Like silk to the touch and as fragrant as cherry blossoms,” he murmured.

  Grace wanted to protest and to deny that there was anything admirable in her hair, but her knees had grown weak and she had to cling to his shoulders so she wouldn’t collapse. His muscles flexed and tensed as he bent over her to pull her closer, stirring her hunger for more. The heat of his skin seeped through his shirt and warmed her, infusing her with the certainty that there was better to come.

  He kissed her again, fastening his mouth to hers greedily. His tongue demanded, his touch defined, his embrace consumed—she’d never been so wholly possessed by a man, and the sensation was exhilarating. She wanted more, though she couldn’t have said what, precisely, it was that she wanted.

  Her robe slipped from her shoulders and Adam cast it aside. He swept her up and carried her to the bed, looking as darkly intense as she’d ever seen him. She ran her finger along his jawline, feeling the heavy rasp of his whiskers. How unlike Basil he was—how unlike any man she’d ever known. He was polished and smooth, but his edges were hard and rough. The contrasts intrigued and excited her.

  He placed her against the pillows and stood back to shed his shirt. Her heartbeat tripped as his bared chest came into view. His skin was the color of dark honey, tanned by the sun, and the corded muscles of his chest and arms told of strength and endurance beyond the ordinary. She’d seen engravings of the North American Indians in moccasins and breechcloths, and recalled how Adam had looked when she’d found him in her library. Who was the real Adam? Who did she want him to be?

  God help her, she wanted him to be a man strong enough to take her and foolish enough to keep her.

  Take her? Her gaze dropped to the bulge straining against the confining fabric of his trousers. Heavens! Not like Basil at all! Dare she take the risk that he’d be able to tell? She struggled upright and gathered the gaping neck of her nightgown in her fist, retreating to the safety of her lie. “No, Adam!” she gasped. “No…”

  He stood looking down at her, his jaw clenching and his hands fisted at his sides. His eyes had gone so dark that they were almost black. Had she pushed him too far?

  With an elegant dignity, he swept his shirt off the floor and stepped back from the bed. “I’m not made of stone, Grace. Next time you go this far, you’d damned well better be sure you want to finish it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Adam propped his pillows against the headboard and crossed his arms behind his head, watching the sunrise stain the sky with violet blending to pink nearer the horizon, outside his open window. Another night had passed. Another night of lying awake down the hall from Grace—Ellie, he called her in his fantasies. Whimsical, light-hearted Ellie York from Devon. Ellie, with the long, dark hair falling freely in ringlets. She danced through his dreams and resided permanently in the back of his mind. He found no rest with her there, and impossible to banish her, so alive, so alluring. She had come to embody all that was desirable in womanhood. The disturbing things he was beginning to uncover especially intrigued him, lured him like a siren’s call deeper into her life.

  He kicked his sheets aside, reveling in the sensation of the cool breeze moving across his skin. He missed the closeness to the elements he’d experienced in the wilds. Everything had been so basic there, so pure. Things were what they seemed. No intrigue, no hidden motives, no polite games. Theirs had been a harsh existence, sometimes cruel, but they understood the necessity of recompense as a deterrent. He’d reminded himself of that every time they’d caught up with one of the men who’d slaughtered the village. And before each bloody execution, he asked the same questions. Who ordered the attack? Who’d led them? Each time the answer
was unsatisfactory. Long Knife.

  He unfolded his arms and glanced at the beaded wristband he wore. A pattern of red, green and white beads sewn to the leather strap told the story of a buffalo hunt. It was his talisman, his raison d’être, his constant reminder of his obligation. Each time he looked at it, memories haunted him, nauseated him and colored his world a deep bloodred—memories that came upon him at odd times, waking and sleeping, and caused a mind-shattering fury to take control. Berserker, the Norse called it. His blood brothers respected it. His enemies feared it. And he was deeply ashamed of it, but incapable of stopping until the blood debt had been paid.

  He’d come close last night to forgetting the past and claiming a piece of happiness. But the gods had deemed him unworthy and snatched it back. Could hands stained with so much blood touch anything clean and pure without corrupting it forever? No, if he had any sense at all, he’d get as far away from Grace as possible, and with every bit of speed he could muster. No matter what she’d done, she deserved better than he could bring her. Until he found justice for Nokomis and laid her ghost to rest, the berserker part of him would always be waiting, ever vigilant, for the chance to assert itself. He was unpredictable and capable of things most men never dreamed of in their worst nightmares. His ruthlessness rose to haunt him when he dared to sleep.

  As unsettling as those dreams were, they were still almost preferable to his waking and sleeping thoughts of Grace. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun outside his window was rising. The look on her face and her abandoned responses last night were evidence of that. But she fought her own desire as fiercely as he’d fought his. She would have at least a dozen reasons of her own why a liaison between them was a bad idea. She was his uncle’s widow—may have been responsible for his death, she probably wished Adam had never returned from Canada, she had carved a place in society that had no room for him, she’d had powerful men—men of influence—as her lovers.