When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  She started to scream. The man behind her clamped his hand over her mouth. The one in front began to lift her.

  Then, another man in a Charles II wig and a huge-nosed mask stepped up from behind.

  “Whoa, there, my friends. The lady has been waiting for me.”

  The dancers were still. The new arrival passed a number of coins into one of their hands. “Share, my good chaps, but the lady comes with me.”

  “Wait! The lady doesn’t belong with anyone; she wishes to leave!” Maggie exploded.

  She was instantly released into the arms of the stranger. She stared up at him, wondering if her own mask hid the sheer panic, which must now be more than obvious in her eyes. “Let me go this instant! This lady isn’t with anyone!” she cried, and catching his shoulders, did her best to fiercely wound him with her knee.

  “Stop it, Maggie, stop it!”

  The voice was familiar. And so were the eyes. Steel gray now, glaring at her from behind the mask. His teeth were clenched.

  Jamie, she thought.

  But she was in a fever to get away. Out of this place.

  And he had either thought she would recognize him instantly—or not fight. She had struck gold. He was in pain, and for a moment, his hold had eased. Instinctively, she jerked free. For an instant, she was free. She tore back the way they had come to the table, discovering that now the staircase was dark. Still, she stumbled up, and in her wake, came . . . someone.

  She came to a landing and sought the door out. Darkness surrounded her. She slammed against the wall before her, but it was solidly closed, and she stumbled back.

  Into a body.

  The body of someone large and powerful. Fingers gripped her shoulders.

  She was pulled back.

  “No!” she cried, and threw herself against the darkness where the door should have been, and this time, when the hands came upon her, they plucked her up physically, and she started to scream in sheer terror, certain that she was about to be dragged back down into a true den of iniquity.

  Chapter 7

  “Damn you, shut up, they’re coming!”

  Jamie. It was Jamie there with her, surely intent on helping her out.

  She heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Others were definitely in pursuit. Instinct caused her to inhale to scream again, but his groping hand found her mouth, and a whisper shocked her to a further state of ice-cold panic.

  “Maggie! For the moment, may I suggest you pretend to be with me, and most happily so? Don’t you understand? They think that pursuit and force is part of what you want!”

  She managed to nod, her mind racing.

  How had he come to be here? Had he agreed with Cecilia’s invitation after all?

  She was shaking, aware that other footfalls were hitting the stairs, coming closer and closer.

  He set her down and his arms came around her. In the darkness she could see nothing, but felt him searching the obstruction they had hit for a secret catch. A moment later, the door sprang open.

  Maggie burst out, with Jamie in her wake. The place was a blur as she streaked through the hallway to the entrance. From the dance hall, she could hear raucous laughter and applause. The woman remained at the door.

  Ignoring her, Maggie caught the handle and ripped it open. She flew out onto the pathway to the house, racing for the street.

  “Stop! Damn you, Maggie, stop now, before you become the victim of a common thief or footpad!”

  She came to a dead standstill, chilled, and miserable.

  “My carriage is around the corner,” Jamie said, reaching her, turning her to face him.

  She nodded. Her own misery, the way that she was shaking, made her behave very badly. “So . . . you must come here often, sir.”

  “Just come and get in the carriage, Maggie.”

  Stiffly, she accepted his arm. She stumbled as he led her around a corner and down a gas-lit street to where his carriage waited. His coachman stood by the door, a tall, well-proportioned fellow with an easy smile and pleasant hazel eyes.

  With his assistance, she nearly tripped trying to enter the conveyance. Jamie, thanking Randolph, came up behind and caught her by the hips, keeping her from falling. He crawled in to take the seat opposite from her.

  “Ready, Randolph!” He tapped the roof of the carriage, and it began to move. Once it did so, he dragged the mask from his face, and the heavy wig from his head. She hadn’t stirred. He reached across the carriage, far too close, as he performed the same service for her.

  He sat back then. She knew that her own hair was tumbling down her face in a riot of dishevelment. The bodice of her evening dress was askew.

  “Well, it was good to see that you weren’t intent on enjoying all the entertainments of Madame Bridey’s salon,” he said dryly. “What was this tonight? Another of your causes? Your life does seem to be full of secrets. Have you done this before?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Never!”

  “You did seem anxious to leave.”

  “She . . . Cecilia . . . she said it was a supper club.”

  “It is, of a variety. Surely, you understood that variety?” he asked, his tone harsh, as if she definitely had.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh, come! From that conversation you were having with her this afternoon?”

  Maggie felt the blood rush to her face. “Evidently, you’re familiar enough with the place!”

  “I’ve been there before, yes.”

  “Do you know what?” she demanded icily. “Cecilia is actually quite right. Men are all really wretched creatures, thinking that their indecencies are acceptable—just because they’re men! You’re all horrid!”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to rescue you. Shall I bring you back?”

  “Yes, perhaps you should.”

  He arched a brow and made as if he were about to tap on the roof of the carriage. It was a bluff, but it worked, because she wasn’t quite certain. “No!”

  “You know what would have happened if I hadn’t been there?” he inquired.

  “Yes, I’d have broken the nose of one of those fools.”

  “A fool to the very end, no matter what, Maggie?” he asked softly.

  And to her true and absolute horror, she felt the sting of tears bite into her eyes. The champagne. She had swallowed too much too quickly. “Really, what difference does it make? It isn’t as if your uncle believes he’s marrying a chaste and naive innocent. I’ve been married before.”

  “So, it wouldn’t have made any difference—if the dancers hadn’t been stopped?”

  This was a lesson to her, of course. Another lesson about her willful life. She wondered if he would believe that she had never even dreamed of doing something like this in all her life.

  She stared at him, frowning, her temper suddenly flaring again. “You followed the two of us there, knowing we were going?”

  “That’s rather evident, isn’t it?”

  “So you were there all along. You were at the table with the Prince of Wales!”

  “I was there all along,” he said.

  She flew across the carriage suddenly, in such a whirl and rage that she managed to catch him with a firm slap against the cheek. He swore, catching her flailing arms so that she wound up sitting on him, captured on one side of the carriage.

  “What in God’s name . . . ?” he demanded, somewhat breathless in his attempt to keep her struggling arms from freedom.

  “You let me go into that panic! You let those men come up to me, trap me, terrify me . . . and you were there all along! You—rat, cad, bastard!”

  “You shouldn’t have been there! I remember you swearing what a good and loyal wife you intend to be.”

  “I’m no one’s wife at this minute!”

  “That’s not the point. You act rashly all the time. It’s amazing that you’ve managed to live so long. Down into the East End. Into the very homes of villains who are not at all averse to murder when the purpose warrants. Into every pes
thole in the city!”

  “I’d have never agreed to go anywhere with Cecilia tonight—if it hadn’t been for you!”

  “Oh?”

  “You dared me, you oaf!”

  “I didn’t dare you to do anything.”

  “Wait! I left the two of you together. Were you supposed to meet Cecilia there? Slide behind one of those curtains with her? Were you waylaid in your purpose by royalty? Am I saved tonight simply because you were outranked?”

  “What?” he all but shouted incredulously. She remained on his lap. Her wrists were painfully vised by his fingers.

  “It’s none of my concern, but you two were practically making arrangements when I left. But don’t you dare engage in such affairs and then behave as if I’m the one at fault!”

  He was silent for a second. The whole of his body seemed to be clenched so tightly that it was dangerously explosive. “Your friend Cecilia interests me not in the least, my lady. I was afraid of something like this, when I saw you with her today. She is usually cautious, but despite that, she has quite a reputation. Apparently, you are aware of all kinds of social evil, yet blind to many things taking place in your own circles. And I am really growing weary of rescuing such a nasty, ungrateful trollop!”

  “Trollop! How dare you!”

  “Easily—damned easily. Considering we have just left an erotic sex show!”

  “Oh!” she cried furiously, yet finding no quick comeback.

  The carriage jolted to a halt.

  “You’re home,” he told her.

  He wasn’t confining her anymore, she realized. She jumped back to her own side of the carriage, staring at him.

  She could see that Randolph had come down from the driver’s seat and awaited Jamie’s motion to open the door.

  Maggie stared at Jamie, disturbed.

  A glance out the window had assured her that Justin indeed was home; the carriage was in the drive, and the horse had been stabled for the night.

  A light burned in the parlor. It wasn’t late; whatever had made her brother choose to stay home tonight?

  She was a disaster. A complete disaster. Hair completely mussed, clothing all untidy. Her nerves were quite shattered.

  Staring at her, Jamie arched a brow. “Alas, this doesn’t look good, does it?” He leaned out the window. “Randolph, the lady had a rather bad night. I think we should take her home for a brandy before she tries to sleep.”

  “Ah, sir! Home, then.”

  Randolph returned to the driver’s seat. They heard his command to the horse and his flick of the reins. The horse jolted back into motion. “Does this suit you, m’lady? At my town house, you can take all the time you need to get yourself together. Don’t worry. This is my coach, and Randolph is my personal servant. He can pull around to the back. You’ll not be seen coming, or going.”

  She suddenly buried her face in her hands. “All right.”

  His “town house” was not a row house, but a single large dwelling, old, dating back to Tudor times, she was certain, and elegantly designed, as if it had been planned, perhaps, for the mistress of a king. A sweeping drive brought the carriage around to the rear, which was surrounded by lush vegetation. In fact, the house sat in its own private park, not far from Buckingham Palace, in the St. James area of the city. They exited in the carriage house, a generous structure with a passageway through to the manor itself. They came into an empty kitchen where lights had been left burning low.

  “Come along. There’s a guest room up the stairs; you’ll find all you might need,” Jamie told her.

  The whole of the house was darkened. She was certain he had live-in servants to keep such a large place so immaculate, but if so, they had long retired. She saw little of his home, but found herself curious, and tried, as they hastily moved along, to see all that she could. The parlor was elegant with oak furniture and damask coverings, and was warmed by a hearth that ran almost the length of a wall. A door stood ajar that led to a library with a large mahogany desk occupying much of the far center of the room and endless rows of books covering the walls. A staircase, curving handsomely against a back wall, was not terribly broad, but the old oak banisters were richly carved.

  Up the stairs, Jamie pointed down the hall to a door. “The guest room.” He turned. “My door,” he said, indicating the one at the end of the hallway. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll see you home.”

  She nodded stiffly and forced a “Thank you.”

  He didn’t respond, but walked the distance down the hall to his door.

  She hesitated, then hurried into the room he’d indicated to her. Quite nice, for guests, she determined. But then, he lived alone. Or, at least, she thought that he did. And certainly, if he was in the Queen’s service, in whatever capacity, he was making a fine income. And, of course, he was Charles’s nephew. Great nephew. But she didn’t think that he derived much income from his uncle’s estates. Then again, what did she really know at all?

  The bed was pleasantly large and had a canopy hung with fine white Belgian lace. There was a light wood wardrobe in the room, a small secretary against a wall, and a dressing room. There was also a very modern bathroom, the size of which indicated that it had recently been remodeled, perhaps from another small room that might have extended off the guest room.

  A sink offered running water, hot and cold, and she washed her face, then looked into the mirror above the basin, and saw her reflection with horror. Pins were escaping everywhere; she needed a brush badly.

  There was one out on a dressing table. She returned to the room and began plucking the pins from her hair. In a few minutes, she found that she couldn’t quite reach the tangle of hair and pins that had knotted in the back. She hesitated, gritted her teeth, winced, and then stepped into the hallway and hesitantly walked to the door he had indicated as his own.

  At her rap, she heard “Come in?”

  He had shed his greatcoat and made himself a brandy. His own quarters were both masculine and comfortable. The canopy on his bed was broad and in a deep crimson velvet. The bedroom itself was in an alcove, and beyond the minor arches was a sitting area, where he now sat casually on a small sofa, sipping the brandy, staring into the hearth, where a fire burned warmly.

  He turned as she entered.

  “Sorry.” She indicated the back of her hair. “If you would be so kind . . . ?”

  “Come here, then.”

  He set the brandy down on the small occasional table before him. She moved to the little sofa and gingerly took a seat before him, turning her back to him. She felt his fingers move expertly into her hair.

  “A fine mess you’ve made,” he murmured.

  “Of many things,” she agreed softly.

  “If you were going to be my wife, I’d probably see to it that you were locked in on a daily basis.”

  “Thank God I’m not going to be your wife.”

  “Thank God.”

  Pins were plucked from her hair and cast upon the table near the brandy glass. With his fingers, he began to work through the snarls, seeking more stray pins. She felt the brush of his fingers against her nape. She closed her eyes, but when she did, she envisioned the very graphic display she had witnessed that night.

  “Where do they get people willing to perform so?” she whispered.

  “Are you deceiving yourself, my lady? Haven’t you seen the poverty that afflicts so many? The young and poor consider themselves privileged to find work in such establishments. Surely you’re aware of what women sell themselves for on the streets? Nothing. The smart pocket their earnings, do their best to acquire very rich patrons. Those who are frivolous too often join their brothers and sisters in the brothels, and then, the streets and lowest gin houses. I need a brush.” He stood for a moment, striding across to his dresser, finding what he required, and returning. He remained standing, physically turning her to get to the tangles and working with what she thought was a rare patience for him. He set the last long, smoothed lock against her shoulder, a
nd his hands tarried there for a moment. “My God, you’re still shaking. Can this be the woman who gave whores a lecture on condoms in the dankest slum of the city?”

  He came around her, sitting so that he faced her then, looking into her eyes. She lowered her head and the mass of her freshly tended hair fell about her face like a waterfall. He smoothed back a side, tucking it behind her ear. “You need a brandy.”

  Did she? She’d already imbibed far too much champagne. But he was up, striding to the decanter on a table by a floor-length window that must have overlooked the rear gardens. He brought her a snifter of the rich amber liquor, handed it to her, picked up his own, clicked it to hers, and said simply, “Cheers.”

  She tried a weak smile and swallowed down a sip. Hot and fiery, it burned her throat. He shook his head. “I’m still at a loss. Surely, one couldn’t have been more blatant about their activities than Cecilia was today!”

  “You were eavesdropping.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I did crave something more, before, before stating vows before God,” she murmured. She looked up at him defiantly. “As I said, I’m not married yet!”

  “No, you’re not, are you?” he said, very, very softly, almost as if he hadn’t spoken at all. Then he reached down, catching her hands, drawing her up to him, and taking her into his arms.

  “Ah, lady, if there is something you feel you must have, then I am here.”

  It was incredible, it was bizarre, or perhaps it was merely the end of a night that had begun with such wicked suggestion. The minute he touched her, then drew her against him, she suddenly knew that Cecilia had, oddly enough, been right in a way. She had wanted something, needed something, as a last fling. But it hadn’t been the practiced display or manipulation of strangers. It had been this one and only sensation, coming into his arms, and feeling the uniqueness of this man’s scent and vibrance, stroke and taste. His fingers curled into the hair he had carefully tended, drawing her eyes to his, and though he didn’t speak, he waited several seconds, and then his lips touched hers, and he was oddly gentle at first, then that streak of pure fire and hunger that had gripped them once before took flight, and the way his tongue moved within her mouth was far more evocative than any act she had witnessed that night, far more intimate.