by Olivia Drake
Had she been afraid to come here before now? Afraid she might be tempted to return to her former life?
Jane unlatched the door and entered the dim interior. The place looked small, yet so familiar, the air musty from being shut up for so many weeks. There was the narrow staircase straight ahead, and on one side, her father’s tiny office, crammed to the ceiling with books and papers.
She walked into the opposite room, the parlor with its shabby wing chairs set on either side of the tiny hearth, where her father and aunt used to sit of an evening, Jane on the cushioned window seat. Nostalgia glowed in her, as warm as the sunshine that glinted on the clock that had stopped in their absence. She wound it with the key and listened to its friendly ticking.
Then she strolled around the room. “Look,” she told the baby. “There’s the window seat where I liked to curl up and read.”
Marianne gurgled and cooed.
“Properly awed, are you?” Jane said. “Let’s go find Auntie’s thimble.”
As always, the steps creaked and she had to duck her head a little beneath the eaves. In her aunt’s room, she found the thimble tucked behind a collection of long-empty bottles of medicine. Jane slipped it into her pocket, then peeked into her own bedchamber.
The row of empty hooks had held her three gowns. A straight-backed chair sat before a tiny desk with its quills and ink pot, the well-worn blotter. And there was the single bed where she had slept alone.
How long ago that seemed, the years before she had known the joys of a man’s embrace. Though she felt a sentimental attachment to this chamber, she had no wish to remain here. Her hopes and dreams centered on the new life she had built with Ethan.
All the confusion and grief of the past weeks vanished like smoke, leaving her spirit light and free. She knew what she wanted now. Her gaze wandered out the window, following the familiar view across the wild downs, the hills and valleys. Now that rocky pathway had a special meaning.
It led home.
She looked down at the baby. “I must write a letter to your papa. I’ll ask him to join us in the country. What do you think of that?”
Marianne smiled a toothless grin.
“I’m pleased we’re in agreement,” Jane said. “Come, darling. There’s little to keep us here.”
Heading downstairs and out of the cottage, she turned for one last survey of the stone walls and thatched roof, the garden that had gone to seed, the thicket of trees where Ethan had once fallen into a bramble bush. She smiled and then started down the pathway.
She composed her letter as she walked briskly, enjoying the sun on her face, one arm braced around Marianne’s compact form. She would tell Ethan of her decision and list all the reasons why she wanted their marriage, that he could keep his secrets and she would love him anyway. A tremulous smile rose from deep within her. She had a secret of her own now, one she longed to share with him. But it was too precious to put in a letter. She would tell him about it in person.
And if he didn’t come?
Pushing away the dark uncertainty, she took a deep breath. Well, then. She would go to London and fetch him.
By the time she reached the wrought-iron gates that marked the drive, Marianne had been lulled to sleep and Jane had every word clear in her mind. She could scarcely wait to put it all down on paper. How foolish she had been to think she could live without Ethan. The truth was, she didn’t know how she could wait even a few days to see him again.
As she walked up to the house, she recalled marching here one fateful morning on a crusade to make Ethan Sinclair face up to his responsibilities. The memory brought a smile to her lips. Never had she imagined then that she would live here someday, in this glorious, ivy-covered mansion with its long rows of windows and the broad steps leading up to a columned portico.
A single white orchid lay before the threshhold.
Frowning, she picked up the exotic flower and twirled it between her fingers. Were there orchids growing in the conservatory? Apparently so, and the gardener must have dropped this one. Or perhaps Mrs. Wiggins, the housekeeper, had been busy making a flower arrangement.
Jane pushed open the door. The foyer was cool and quiet, the crystal chandelier glinting in the sunlight. Unlike their London house, the reception rooms were comfortably situated on the ground floor. There were no servants about, as on that morning in April. She had been so determined, so distraught over Marianne, she had stormed past the footmen and gone straight upstairs to Ethan’s bedchamber.
She stopped at the grand staircase. More orchids scattered the pale marble steps, the blooms a mixture of pink and lavender and white.
Aunt Willy hurried out of the drawing room. “Ah, Jane. Did you fetch my thimble so quickly? What a dear you are.”
“It was no trouble.” Anxious to write her letter, Jane handed over the thimble. “Why are there flowers all over the stairway?”
“Why, mercy me. I can’t imagine.” Wilhelmina barely glanced at the stairway. “You must be weary from your long walk. Do let me take Marianne to the nursery for you.”
Jane blinked in surprise. Though her aunt had warmed to the baby, cooing at her from time to time, she had never offered to hold her. “If you’re quite sure.”
She unknotted the sling and carefully handed the slumbering baby to her aunt.
Wilhelmina awkwardly cuddled the baby to her maidenly bosom. Her faded eyes sparkled with an odd wistfulness. “Why don’t you go on upstairs, my dear? Perhaps you can solve the mystery of all these flowers.”
Her aunt headed up the staircase, careful not to tread on the orchids. Jane stared after her until she and the baby disappeared around the corner, on their way up to the second-floor nursery. There was no doubt about it. Wilhelmina was maneuvering her. But to what purpose?
Ethan?
Her heart leapt in wild, improbable hope. Jane closed her eyes for a moment, clutching the single white orchid to her breast and breathing a fervent prayer. Please, God, let him be here.
Lifting her skirts, she dashed up the stairs. The trail of blooms led down the corridor and to the master’s suite. She paused there, her pulse thrumming. A faint scent drifted to her. Something dark and rich, exotic. Memory flashed to her of the day she had burst into his chamber and found him naked in bed.
She would love to discover him there again. Alone. Waiting for her.
Awash in anticipation, she opened the door and stepped inside. And stopped in surprise. The large chamber was dim, the draperies drawn against the late afternoon light. An extravagance of candles flickered everywhere, on tables, the desk, the mantelpiece. The smell of incense was stronger here, enticing and erotic. And there were more orchids scattered across the carpet and over the bed.
The empty bed.
Candlelight illuminated the bank of tasseled pillows, the embroidered coverlet folded back invitingly. Where was Ethan?
Trembling with eagerness, Jane closed the door and hastened in search of him. The flower slipped from her fingers when she saw him.
One entire end of the room had been transformed into a tent with swaths of white silk. More candles glowed inside, illuminating the vases of orchids. Like a prince of depravity, Ethan lounged in a thronelike chair. He wore a dressing gown open to the waist, his nakedness visible between the lapels of the ruby silk. His fist rested on his lap.
With an imperious flick of his hand, he beckoned to her. “Come, slave girl.”
This was her fantasy. He had created this romantic scene for her. She wanted to weep. She wanted to be in his arms.
Wild for his seduction, she hurried toward him. “Ethan! When did you arrive? I was just intending to write to you—”
“Silence,” he said in a deep, compelling voice. “You will sit.” He pointed to the fringed hassock at his feet.
“But I want to tell you what I’ve decided—”
“Do not disobey the pasha. Defiance will be punished.”
“Oh.” Bemused, she sank down onto the hassock. His bare leg brushe
d her skirt, and a flutter of excitement took wing inside her. She pressed her palms together in a deferential pose. “What is your command, O Great Master?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I would grant you three gifts.”
“But I don’t need gifts,” she said softly. “I’m your slave. Yours to take as you will.” She wanted him to do just that, to draw her onto his lap and have his wicked way with her.
“Hush,” he said. “You will listen while I speak.”
She closed her mouth, happy just to be with him.
“Now there’s an obedient slave girl,” he said with an approving nod. “My first gift to you is this.”
He opened his fingers and held out his hand. In his big palm gleamed a bit of gold jewelry, a delicate chain and …
“Mama’s locket!” Feeling tears heat her eyes, Jane picked it up and smoothed a trembling finger over the scrolled oval surface. The gold held a trace of Ethan’s warmth. She fervently clutched the locket to her breast. “How did you find it?”
“Never question the ways of the pasha,” he said in a mysterious tone. “You will sit quietly now for my second gift.”
He reached inside his robe and drew forth a folded new-sheet, which he passed to her. Mystified, she opened the paper, scanning stories and headlines until her gaze riveted to the neat type enclosed in a fancy border. A poem, unfamiliar to her. Had he allowed it to be printed?
She glanced at him questioningly, but he motioned to her to read the poem, and so she did just that.
She Holds My Heart
by Ethan Sinclair, Lord Chasebourne
She holds my heart in bright of day,
In cloudy climes and moon-dark night.
Her smiles enchant, her kisses play
Tender music for my soul’s delight …
In a soft haze of wonder, Jane read every word and then slowly raised her head. She could scarcely believe the richness of emotion expressed by his words. “You wrote this … for me?”
“Yes.” No longer the arrogant pasha, he looked vulnerable, his gaze dark and solemn as if he feared her rejection. “I arranged for the poem to be published in the newspaper so that you would know … how very much you mean to me.”
“Ethan,” she whispered, her voice shaky.
“Shhh.” Leaning forward, he placed his forefinger lightly over her mouth. “And now, let me give you my third gift.”
She waited, afraid to hope, afraid even to breathe.
He cleared his throat. “Jane. These past weeks have been hell without you. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I want you with me, for always.” He paused, his face intense. “I love you.”
Brimful of exultation, she sprang up from the hassock and threw her arms around him, dropping the locket in her eagerness to hold him. She felt the strong beating of his heart against her breasts. “Oh, Ethan, I love you, too. So much.”
Their lips met in a frantic kiss, rich with promise and alive with need. Reveling in the knowledge that he was hers, truly hers, she moved her hands through his hair, down his neck and shoulders and chest, relearning his heat and strength. When she wrestled with his knotted sash, he chuckled at her eagerness and caught her hands. “The pasha does the seducing, slave girl.”
“It’s my fantasy,” Jane objected. “I can amend it however I like.”
“Ah, but I’m sharing your fantasy. And I will have you in bed where I can properly love you.”
Lifting her from his lap, he stood up and turned her around so that he could unfasten her gown. As each button was freed, he bent to nuzzle her upper back, his lips raising delicious goosebumps over her skin. The gown slithered to the floor. By the time she stood clad in only her shift, she needed him too desperately to remain docile. She whirled toward him and slid her hands inside his robe, caressing him. He sucked in a breath and laughingly groaned.
“You enslave me,” he murmured. “You and no other.”
“Oh, you do know my fantasies, don’t you?”
Leaving a trail of clothing among the flowers, they kissed their way to the bed. There, he knelt over her, his body bronzed by the light of the candles. She gazed dry-mouthed at the sheer male perfection of him, the brawny muscles of his chest and thighs and arms, the black hair that dusted his skin, the heavy thrust of his manhood. Heat pooled within her, a need so powerful she felt dazed by the force of it.
Parting her legs, she drew him down to cover her. She loved the weight of him, the rasp of his body sliding against hers. And oh, his touch, his lips on her breasts and his hands, caressing her inner folds until her desire reached a fever pitch. On a moan, she reached between them and guided him home. He took control then, making them one body, one soul. He cradled her face in his hands and said huskily, “I love you, Jane. For now and for always.”
She could only sigh, too aroused for speech. When he moved, she shattered at once, the pleasure explosive in its intensity. Caught up in sensual fury, she was only dimly aware of him thrusting into her, shuddering from the force of his release. She returned to awareness in leisurely degrees, replete with happiness.
His satisfied chuckle rumbled against her breasts. “I really had intended to take my time with you.”
“Mmmm. We have the rest of our lives to perfect this.”
“Jane, listen.” He shifted so that he could look at her, his fingertips touching her hair, as if she were infinitely precious to him. “I do wish to talk to you. To tell you all my secrets.”
“Oh, Ethan.” With a glad cry, she remembered the knowledge she hugged to her heart. “I have a little secret, too.”
“You?”
“Yes.” Taking his hand, she settled his palm over her belly. “It’s right here.”
His brows drew together; then as awareness dawned, his eyes went velvety soft, dark as midnight. “A baby?”
She nodded, smiling at his dazed look. “By next spring, Marianne will have a brother or sister.”
“My God.” Taking great care, he rolled onto his back, carefully bringing her on top of him. She could feel his hands tremble as he touched her cheek. “Have you been ill? Tired? And here I took you straight to bed.”
She laughed from sheer pleasure. “I’m perfectly fine. A bit of queasiness in the mornings, that’s all.”
He smiled, tears sheening his eyes. And this time, he made no attempt to hide his emotion. “My darling Miss Maypole. You’ve brought such joy to my life.”
“As you have to mine,” she said softly. “And to think I once considered you too wicked to love.”
Turn the page for a sneak peek at
Olivia Drake’s latest book
Stroke of Midnight
Available June 2013 wherever books are sold
Chapter 1
She had no reason to fear the constable.
Holding fast to that thought, Laura followed the burly officer through the graveyard. The cloudy afternoon cast a gloomy pall over the rows of headstones and wooden crosses. A few of the mounds had been carefully tended, though many others showed signs of neglect. Rough masculine laughter came from one of the gin houses in the surrounding slums. It was the only sound besides the squelching of the constable’s boots on the sodden ground and the patter of her own footsteps.
Though any woman in her circumstances might feel a bit nervous, Laura had more reason than most to be wary. She reminded herself that the constable could have no notion of her true identity. A decade had passed since she and her father had fled London. She had been someone else then, leading another life under a different surname. A lady garbed in silk and jewels rather than the drab commoner she was now.
No one in this vast city knew her anymore. Miss Laura Falkner, toast of society, was as dead as the poor souls in this paupers’ cemetery.
The constable glanced over his shoulder, the dark sockets of his eyes boring into her. “Almost there, Miss Brown.”
Laura kept her face expressionless. Had a stray curl escaped her bonnet? She hoped not, for the police surely had a description of her t
hat included mention of her distinctive tawny-gold hair. “You’ve done more than your duty, sir. If you’ll point me in the right direction, you can be on your way.”
“’Tis no trouble to take ye there. No trouble at all.”
His insistence increased her disquiet. He continued onward, his large head moving back and forth to examine the gravestones. What was his name again? Officer Pangborn. She had not wanted an escort, but he’d insisted that no decent female should venture alone into these crime-ridden stews.
Laura had acquiesced only because a refusal might arouse suspicion. She had taken a risk in going to the police in the first place. But she’d needed to learn more about her father’s recent death and also to discover the site of his final resting place.
Papa!
The wind tossed a spattering of icy raindrops at her face. Shivering, she drew the cloak more securely around herself. After so many years in the sunshine of Portugal, she had forgotten the damp chill of an English springtime. Or perhaps it was just that she’d suppressed the memory of her old life before she and Papa had escaped into exile.
Now he lay dead. Murdered by an unknown assailant in an alley near Covent Garden. The shock of it still numbed her. News of the attack had arrived while she’d been tending the garden outside their little cottage in the mountains of Portugal. How contented she’d been that day, trimming the camellias, weeding the arum lilies, while having no inkling of the disaster that was about to shatter her tranquility. Then a boy from the village had delivered a letter from the London police stating that one Martin Brown lay severely injured, that her address had been found in his pocket. She’d departed in a rush, traveling for many days over land and sea, only to learn that her father had succumbed to his wounds shortly after the letter had been posted.
Laura swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. At their last parting, Papa had told her he would be gone for a fortnight on business—she had presumed to Lisbon to buy and sell antiquities, their only source of income. Instead, he must have boarded a ship to England. Why?
Why would he go back to a place where he would be tried and hanged if captured?
