by Emma Wildes
It was all he could think of to say and it seemed grossly inadequate as he gazed into her dilated eyes.
“Are they dead?”
How she could ask, considering the gory condition of the room, was a testament to her shock. Ross said, “Let’s say they can’t harm you any longer. Come on, I can’t say I find the scenery very appealing and quite frankly, I want to get out of here as fast as possible in the unlikely chance that these two ruffians have any friends who might regret their passing.”
“Please, yes,” she responded faintly, averting her gaze from the two bodies littering the floor. “Oh, Ross, I want to go home.”
His sentiments exactly, though he knew he would still have to deal with Babcock and it sounded like that maniac was expected at any moment. Right now, though, getting his wife to safety was paramount. He took a moment to retrieve the pistol from the coat of one the hired thugs and they crept from the room. Downstairs, he could hear the dubious sound of raucous laughter and decided avoiding the taproom was probably the best course. Two bloody aristocrats in evening clothes would probably garner quite a bit of attention, and he wasn’t interested in any more confrontations. Cassandra whispered something about a back staircase and he found it, leading her quietly outside into the dimness of the ill-lit street.
Rats scurried past, uninterested in their arrival, rustling through piles of ill-smelling garbage. God knew where they were, Ross thought in resigned frustration, creeping along with Cassandra’s cold hand in his in a firm and hopefully reassuring grasp. He halted abruptly by the side of the building, draped in shadows, as a carriage rattled up and stopped.
Randolph Babcock alighted, wearing a dark cape and a hat pulled low. Ross caught the gleam of the man’s face in the thin illumination from a half moon, and he had to resist the urge to step forward and confront him on the spot. The dark consolation of battling that impulse was two-fold, he decided as he watched his Nemesis stalk into the squalid building. First, Babcock would find his two henchmen dead and know Ross had escaped. Second, they now had a convenient means of transportation.
They were no longer stranded in parts unknown. Lord Babcock could figure out instead how to get home in the middle of the night from this less than savory part of London. With a grim smile, Ross took the pistol from his coat and led Cassandra toward the elegant carriage.
Chapter 9
She would pay.
In the pale light of dawn, Randolph stalked up the steps of his townhouse and pounded on the door, roaring to be let in. His mindless screaming would be heard by the neighbors, and normally he had enough self-control to keep his formidable temper in check in public, but not now.
That fucking bastard Winterton had made a fool of him a second time.
His weakling of a brother hadn’t helped, hiring incompetent oafs to do a simple job. They deserved to be left for the maggots and rats in that disease-infested den of iniquity they chose for the murder, and Harold…well, if he wrapped his hands around his brother’s scrawny neck and choked away his life, that would also be well-deserved.
But first he would settle his score with Danielle.
Last year, when he realized she played the whore, he should have taken care of the matter right then. He’d been too soft, he told himself as the door swung open and a haggard-looking older man in his dressing gown stood aside. Nearly knocking the elderly butler over, Randolph stormed into the house.
“My…my lord—”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
That slut had better be upstairs like I instructed.
He took the stairs quickly, not even bothering to discard his cloak. When he threw open his bedroom door and saw the empty bed, he bellowed her name at the top of his lungs, the blood roaring in his ears.
“I’m right here.”
He turned, livid and shaking, and saw she stood by his dressing table, clad in her evening gown despite the fact it was the next morning. Her soft brunette hair was still neatly held at her nape in a chignon and her dark eyes were steady.
In her hands she held a pistol pointed directly at him.
His first thought through the red haze of his rage was that she had no idea how to even fire the weapon. When she lifted it slightly and he heard the click as she cocked it, he began to laugh derisively and took a step toward her.
“Is Ross dead?” she asked in a voice that was slightly unsteady.
He wanted to lie just to wound her, but she would find out the truth soon enough. Randolph snarled, “Not yet, things did not go according to plan. I knew I should have just dispatched him myself. Now, put that down. We both know you don’t have the backbone to use it.”
Relief washed over her fragile, lovely features. “Then this will not be for myself alone. Thank God.”
He laughed cruelly again, his tone mocking. “Do not be melodramatic.”
The sound of the shot was loud and rang through his bedroom. The laughter died in his throat as blood blossomed from his chest. Disbelief washed through his mind and he staggered slightly. “You bitch,” he choked out.
“That is the last time you will call me that,” she said softly.
* * * *
Bright sunshine poured over the room, making her smile as she snuggled deeper into the warm sheets. The aroma of coffee filled the air, mingled with cinnamon and the more savory odor of bacon. Cassandra rolled over and lifted her lashes, blinking several times as the room came into focus.
Her bedroom looked the same, lovely, civilized, with the rich carpeting and carved fireplace, a breakfast tray sitting on the table by the side of the big bed.
Perhaps it all had been some bizarre terrible dream…
Or so she hoped until she sat up and reached for the small, beautiful porcelain pot to pour herself a cup. There was a distinct dark bruise on her forearm, she saw with an inward shudder, the distinct imprint of five, grasping merciless fingers. Her stomach lurched, but whether it was because of the possible coming child or the events of the night before, she wasn’t certain.
“You’re finally awake.”
At the sound of the dispassionate statement, Cassandra looked up to see Ross in the doorway between their two rooms, one broad shoulder casually against the doorjamb. He was fully dressed and as immaculate as ever. The only evidence of their brush with disaster was a defined bluish area on his temple and cheekbone, and a certain regretful watchfulness in his vivid blue eyes. “I’ve been waiting for hours. I finally had them bring up breakfast even though it is nearly noon.”
“That was thoughtful.” Cassandra pulled herself up against the pillows and grimaced at the unsettled state of her stomach. “But it might have to wait,” she confessed. “It takes awhile for the queasiness to pass.”
“I’m delighted about the baby.”
Those softly said words were not expected, for though he’d asked her if it was possible she was pregnant, when she had confirmed it was, he hadn’t commented on his feelings one way or the other.
“I owe you an abject apology,” he went on in that same unemotional tone. “Last night, I think I realized how empty my life was before we wed. I equated social events and travel to exotic places as representative of my freedom as a man, exactly as I felt no compunction over casual sexual affairs. As if life were a game I could play and set my own rules. It took almost losing something I didn’t think I wanted in the first place to make me see it. Oh, yes, there is no doubt I wanted you, but I am talking about our marriage.”
Cassandra suddenly forgot about her upset stomach. “Ross,” she said softly in protest.
“Let me say this.” He shook his dark head and straightened in a restless movement.
Immediately, she subsided, clutching the sheets, her gaze riveted on the intense expression on his face.
“A year ago, when Lady Babcock first approached me in a flirtatious way, I was more than willing to take what she offered. After all, she is a lovely woman, and though I knew well enough she was married, of course, s
he presented her relationship with her husband as one of indifference. Had I taken the time to know her as a person in any way, I would have guessed there was something terribly wrong. But I didn’t bother. She was just another body warming my sheets, a diversion, pleasing but transient. Even as things were, I finally sensed her desperation, and confronted her about it. Quite frankly, it was a blow to my pride when she confessed she singled me out for an indiscretion because I had a reputation as being both a rake who would take what she offered, and had in the past been embroiled in more than one duel.”
“I doubt it was only because of that,” Cassandra murmured in faint protest.
His smile was brief and ironic. “Yes, Cassie, it was. She was too frightened and damaged to feel real desire. I was outraged she hadn’t been necessarily attracted to me, but to my usefulness in possibly ridding herself of her husband. What I should have seen was that I merely reaped what I had sown. I then did the unforgivable and walked away, leaving her to that swine, Babcock, and his insane anger. I told myself it was her fault for beginning the affair in the first place, and since my feelings were not engaged, I left for Africa and barely thought about her after my departure.”
Cassandra felt deep pity for the woman who had pressed that note into her hand. “He must be terrible for her to go to such lengths, and God knows what happened to us last night was the sign of a deranged mind.”
“He’s dead. I received a note from Danielle. She shot him this morning as he returned from that revolting inn where we were supposed to meet our demise. Fortunately, I hope any magistrate, when presented with his murderous plans for us, will agree it was self-defense. Unless you mind, I have every intention of using whatever influence I have to make sure she is not charged with a crime.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Cassandra shuddered when she thought about the two men who had kidnapped them. Most certainly Ross had proven he could be more than deadly if necessary; no wonder Danielle Babcock had chosen him.
His gaze was inscrutable. “I didn’t think you would, Cassie. You are generous and honest and more than brave. My actions almost cost me both you and our coming child. If I could erase my past, I would, but I cannot. The good that has come of this is that I am not the same man since that reckless moment when I coaxed you into my bed. That man desired you, I…I love you.”
She gazed at him, his image blurring slightly as warm tears filled her eyes. “Can a seasoned rake fall in love with a hopeless bluestocking,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
“Apparently so.” That underlying edge of amusement that was so familiar was in his voice, but there was also a reverent tone of wonder.
“Then come join me.” She patted the bed, shifting slightly. “Hold me.”
“Don’t you feel ill?” he objected, but he came over anyway and slid in, fully clothed, his fingers lifting to lightly trace the curve of her cheek after he took her in his arms.
“It passed the minute you said you loved me.” The state of her stomach was the last thing on her mind as she rested against his chest. In fact, she felt blissfully content like never before in her life.
“I’ll feed you your breakfast, then.” His smile was utterly beguiling, lighting his handsome face. “Just like the dutiful husband I have become. And afterwards, I’ll help you with your bath, waiting on you hand and foot.”
Cassandra laughed, resting her cheek against his lawn shirt. “That does sound dutiful. I suppose there are certain portions of my anatomy you would like to wash more than others.”
“Absolutely.” His grin was pure wicked promise, but the tenderness in his azure eyes was unmistakable.
“I see. So you haven’t completely abandoned your rakish ways, my lord.”
“No indeed.” He kissed her gently, with lingering pressure. “I am simply now saving all my reckless passion for my beautiful wife.”
“That,” Cassandra said with utter sincerity, “sounds marvelous.”
Epilogue
London, 1817
The open windows let in the drift of the summer air and there was the click of a glass against the decanter as Ross refilled his drink. His grin was both reminiscent and sincere as he surveyed his four companions. He concluded, “And that is how I met my wife.”
“Fascinating. Not your everyday tale,” Robert St. Claire remarked, his mouth curving in appreciation, his silver eyes gleaming. “Though I must say blood-thirsty, revenge-filled husbands are just the sort of thing I’d expect from you, Winterton.”
“I certainly hope Lord Babcock went straight to hell,” Gavin St. John remarked with feeling. “I’d hate like the devil to be summoned to deal with his vengeful spirit.”
In the soft glow of the lamplight, Jonas Maxim, Viscount Wilding, lifted a brow. “Remind me to never leave you behind if I am expecting some sort of vicious brawl with murderous thugs, Ross.”
“I second that.” Colin, his younger brother, smiled cheekily.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit tame these days,” Ross said, lifting his glass of claret. “No brawls, except between my two young sons.” He made a face, but he still smiled. “Good heavens, one second they are rolling around like little heathens, and the next the best of friends.”
Colin and Jonas exchanged a look and both laughed.
“At any rate,” Ross said congenially, “I believe that concludes this meeting of the Brothers of the Absinthe Club.”
Colin said smoothly, “I drink to that. Until next time, gentlemen.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emma Wildes
Emma Wildes has over sixty books in print; has received starred reviews from Publisher’s Weekly; an Eppie award for best erotic historical; was named one of the stars in historical fiction by Booklist in 2012; and has been twice nominated for a Reviewer’s Pick of the Year by RT Magazine.
She likes to write sexy stories with edgy heroes and strong heroines, and loves to hear from readers. Please visit her at: www.emmawildes.com.
For your reading pleasure, we invite you to visit our web bookstore
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
