This PDF is the website version of Monica`s free Decadent Bon Bons

This PDF is the website version of Monica’s free Decadent Bon Bons Sampler. It
includes the chapter excerpts for each book on this website. The sampler can be
downloaded for free at eBook retailers to help with your buying decision-making.
The Rockwood Family Series
The Self-made Men Series
Award-Winning & Best-selling Stand-Alone Books
Copyright © 2014 by Kathi B. Scearce
Kathi B. Scearce DBA Monica Burns – Maroli SP Imprints
P.O. Box 75072
Richmond, VA 23236
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or
stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
READER NOTE
This is a SAMPLER OF CHAPTERS from each of Monica Burns’
books. In this sampler, there are up to four chapters per book to give you
a strong taste of each individual book. The author is of the opinion that
book vendors do not provide readers with a long enough portion of a
book to make a buying decision that will ensure a reader’s enjoyment of
their purchase. In A DECADENT SAMPLE OF BON BONS, readers can
read the beginning of each of Monica Burns’ books for free. If the
extensive beginning of the story meets with your approval, there is a link
to each book at the end of each sample. Hopefully, once you read these
samples you will want to read the full book. Thank you for downloading
and reading.
Table of Contents
Chapters/Excerpts provided in this sampler
are provided based on the length of the specific book
Forever Mine - Four chapters
His Mistress - One chapter
His To Command - Short Excerpt
Love’s Revenge - One chapter
Love’s Portrait - Two chapters
A Bluestocking Christmas - Two chapters
Obsession - Four Chapters
Dangerous - Three Chapters
A Highlander’s Seduction - No excerpt available
Mirage - Four chapters
Pleasure Me - Three Chapters
Kismet - Three chapters
Assassin’s Honor - Four chapters
Assassin’s Heart - Four chapters
Inferno’s Kiss - Three Chapters
Forever Mine by
Monica Burns
Read Four Chapters
Novel Length - Plus
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
For fans of A Knight In Shining
Armor…“Forever Mine is the best time-travel
romance I’ve ever read, rivaling Jude
Deveraux for intensity and chemistry between
the hero and heroine.”
— Lucy Monroe, USAToday bestselling
author
When a bomb explosion thrusts Victoria Ashton
backward in time to 1897, she’s forced to
impersonate the Countess of Guildford. Despite
Victoria’s attempts to convince the earl she’s not his wife, her counterpart’s infidelity, lies, and
ill-tempered personality makes the task almost impossible. Worse, Victoria finds herself falling
in love with a man who loathes her. Only when the earl learns to trust her does she realize her
future lies in the past. But love always comes at a price, and she must make a painful sacrifice in
order for them to be together.
Nicholas Thornhill, Earl of Guildford has been searching for his missing wife for three weeks.
Rumors of him being guilty of murder make him unwilling to believe his wife’s latest in a
multitude of lies. But the changes in Victoria continuously surprise him. Despite his best
intentions, he finds the contempt he once felt for his wife turning into something deeper and
stronger. But when danger threatens to separate them forever, he must forge a bond with her
that crosses the boundaries of time.
A passion destined to cross the boundaries of time
§ § §
Chapter 1
Present Day
“I don’t believe it.”
“Which is precisely why you owe me fifty pounds, oh, ye of little faith.” From her seat on
the brown leather couch behind him, Nora snorted with laughter.
Nick Barrows ignored his sister’s gloating comment as he stared in amazement at the two
paintings set up on easels beneath the Barrows Art and Antiquities logo. Once authenticated, the
landscapes by Constable would be the biggest pieces the shop had ever acquired.
“And you found these in Nebraska?”
“I told you unclaimed property auctions were worth the travel expense.”
“Are you telling me there weren’t any other art dealers there? “
“A few. Like other states, Nebraska puts ads in the papers about their yearly sale, but most
of the time the items are jewelry, coins, electronics, and other collectibles. I don’t think anyone
realized what these were.”
“I suppose you’re going to want to go back,” Nick Barrows looked over his shoulder and
grinned before looking back at the paintings.
“Of course, and you know, I think this brilliant acquisition of mine deserves a raise.”
“Uncle Charles gave you a raise a year ago,” Nick chuckled at his sister’s teasing jab. A
second later, he realized his mistake and closed his eyes. He was an idiot. Filled with regret, he
turned to face his sister. “Damn, I wasn’t thinking, Nora.”
“It’s okay. He would have said the same thing.” She shrugged her shoulders then laughed
softly. “Then the next minute he’d be waltzing me around this tiny office of yours.”
Nora was right. Uncle Charles would have been overjoyed by her find and its impact on the
shop. The old man had loved this place as if it were his child. He’d always said the shop
possessed a soul. Nick had never understood his uncle as well as Nora had. The two of them had
often talked ghosts, past lives, and supernatural theories well into the night. It was one of the
reasons Nora had taken his death so hard. She’d lost the one companion who ‘got her’ as she was
fond of saying.
“Somehow I think he’d be more proud than excited,” Nick said. “We’ve come a long way
from those two angry American teenagers he brought to England and took into his home.”
“I don’t know how he managed it. Confirmed bachelors aren’t poster children for
parenthood.” Nora shook her head in disbelief. “And we weren’t exactly easy to live with.”
“He understood. We were grieving for mom and dad, just like he was.” Nick stared down at
his shoes for a second before he looked up at his sister. “It always amazed me how he seemed to
know exactly what we needed and when.”
“I miss him, Nick.” Sadness filled his sister’s voice.
“I do too.”
His gaze swung to the portrait of the Countess of Guilford on the wall across from his desk.
His uncle had taken him to the Brentwood Park estate sale years ago and the moment Nick had
seen Lady Guildford’s portrait he’d stopped dead in his tracks. Uncle Charles had simply
squeezed his shoulder then bought the portrait and given it to Nick with nothing more than a
simple statement that the portrait was his to do with as he wished.
How the elderly Englishman had sensed how much he’d wanted the countess’ portrait, he
would never know. But he’d worked hard to show his uncle how grateful he was for the
extraordinary gift. Emotion pushed its way to the surface, and he swiftly buried it. Determined to
lighten the atmosphere, he folded his arms across his chest and pinned his gaze on Nora.
“I imagine you’re going to be impossible to live with for the next month or two.”
“Oh, you can count on that.” His sister’s forced laughter revealed how close she’d been to
tears.
“Especially since a certain someone said my trip would be a waste of money.”
Nora eyed him with a scowl, and he released a rueful sigh. She was going to make him pay
dearly for having questioned her unusual gift at finding extraordinary pieces.
“Truce.” He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “From now on, your word is law
when it comes to acquisitions. Satisfied?”
“It’s a start.” This time her laughter wasn’t filled with tears, and she waved a hand at the
portrait hanging on the wall behind the couch. “What about her, are you going to start listening
to me about the countess as well?”
A familiar tension slid through his muscles, tightening his chest. His amusement
disappeared in an instant. His gaze flitted back to the portrait of Victoria Thornhill, Countess of
Guilford before he frowned at Nora.
“That implies I need advice, and I don’t. The woman’s been dead for more than a hundred
years.”
“But you have to admit your attachment to her portrait is a little extreme.”
“It’s not unusual for an antiquities dealer to have art work hanging in their office.” His
comment made Nora snort.
“Artwork yes, but not a portrait you’ve drooled over ever since we were teenagers.”
“You’re exaggerating again.”
“Am I?” She eyed him intently for a long moment. “Then prove me wrong. Sell it.”
“No.” Tension charged the air with electricity he glared at his sister.
“That’s what I thought.” Her matter-of-fact tone rubbed him the wrong way.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“If I tell you, you’re just going to tell me to fuck off.”
She was right. He knew what Nora believed, but he just wasn’t buying it. The notion that
he’d known the Countess of Guilford in a past life was just as crazy an idea now as it was every
time Nora broached the subject with him. Nick saw her sly look, and he clenched his jaw as he
refused to take her bait.
Without a word, he turned away from her and picked up several invoices off the top of his
desk. The figures were a blur as the image of Lady Guildford filled his head. What if his sister
was right? What if he was—Christ, if Nora could read his mind right now, she’d hound him until
the day he died. Who was he kidding, she’d do that anyway. He blew out a harsh breath of
annoyance. At the sound, Nora scrambled to her feet.
“Oh for Pete’s sake, Nick. Isn’t it time you took a really hard look at yourself and that
portrait?”
“Is there a point to this line of conversation?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible, while
continuing his pretense of studying the invoices.
“Yes. The point is—you’re in love with a ghost.” Nora had never confronted him so bluntly
before. He scowled at her over his shoulder then returned to his feigned review of the paperwork
in his hand.
“Don’t look at me like that, Nicholas Barrows. That bloody portrait is what keeps you from
leading a normal life. When was the last time you had a date? Even a one night stand?”
“My sex life isn’t any of your damn business,” he said through clenched teeth. The invoices
in his hand crackled in his tight grip.
“Right. Sorry.” The tense atmosphere hung between them for several seconds, before he
released a noise of frustration. Dropping the papers onto his desk, Nick turned around to face
her. Leaning back, he rested his hips against his desk then folded his arms across his chest.
“Look, you and Uncle Charles have always believed that old family legend. I never have.”
He didn’t flinch as his sister glared at him. “That damn necklace is a myth. Even if the earl gave
his wife those sapphires, they were either sold or stolen a long time ago. My money’s on the sold
theory. And I sure as hell don’t believe Lady Guildford is coming back from the dead to reclaim
the damn thing. It’s a story. Nothing more.”
“All right, if you don’t believe the legend, why do you keep the woman’s portrait on the
wall?
“For Christ’s sake. I like the painting. It gives me pleasure, how is that an issue?”
“It’s an issue because you’re pining after a dead woman.”
“God damn it, Nora. It’s just a portrait.”
“All right, then answer me this. Why is it you only date women with auburn hair and blue
eyes like the countess?” The accusation in his sister’s voice made Nick rolled his eyes, while
scrambling for an excuse that would stop her inquisition.
“I don’t only date women with auburn hair.”
“Oh please,” Nora snorted. “Shall I list them by name? Vivian, Viola, Veronica, Virginia,
and my personal favorite, Vickie. Notice a pattern here? And isn’t it ironic their names all start
with the same first letter as Lady Guildford’s name. Victoria.”
“Coincidence,” he snapped, glaring at his sister.
“The landscape painting? What about that?” Nora eyed him with that unnerving
shrewdness that always made him think she could see through him or anyone else she talked too.
“What of it?”
“It’s taken you almost twelve years to agree that we put it up for sale. Why don’t you ask
yourself why you’ve not been able to part with it or, for that matter, the portrait of the countess?”
“Fuck,” he snarled. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.
“And the third painting?” Nora narrowed her gaze at him. “The one Uncle Charles kept
stored away? The moment you discovered it in his things after the funeral, you took it home.”
“Christ almighty, Nora. I deal in art and antiques. What’s wrong with me admiring the
work of a man who painted two different portraits of the same woman as well asa landscape?”
Nick strode toward the window that overlooked the showroom. The second portrait of the
countess had been far more intimate than the one he kept in his office. Although discreetly
covered with a sheet, it was still a seductive, enticing portrait, one he’d not been willing to share
with anyone. Even allowing the framer to see the portrait had filled him with a possessiveness he
founded confusing. Hands braced against the waist high window sill, he stared down into the
gallery. There were a few customers studying various items, but they were nothing but blurred
images in his head.
“Fine.”
Nora’s voice echoed with irritation at her failed attempt to persuade him that he was
obsessed with the Countess of Thornhill. Deep inside, he knew it was a true assessment on his
sister’s part, but admitting that to Nora would open up doors he wasn’t willing to go through.
Nick fought to focus his gaze on the people in the gallery, but instead, the lovely features of
Victoria Brentwood Thornhill, Countess of Guildford filled his mind as clearly as if she were
alive and in front of him. Dark auburn hair framed around an oval face. Full lips curved in an
inviting, sensual smile. Brilliant sapphire eyes sparkling with mischief.
Nick tightened his grip on the window ledge. Nora was right. He was in love with a ghost,
or at least the image of one. A shrink would tell him he was avoiding personal relationships
because of some trauma in his past, but it went deeper than that. There was a knowing that filled
him every time he looked at the countess’ portrait. He couldn’t explain it, and he sure as hell
wasn’t going to tell his sister about it either.
About to turn away from the window overlooking the gallery, Nick’s gaze caught sight of a
woman standing in front of their collection of English pastoral scenes. When she tilted her head
to study one of the canvases, the muted light from the ceiling’s track lighting set her auburn hair
on fire. In the next moment the woman turned to face one of the sales clerks, and he inhaled a
sharp breath.
Almost immediately, his chest constricted and his heart slammed into his ribs. Only twice
before had he ever experienced this sensation, and each of those times it had been when he’d
found a portrait of the countess. Transfixed, he stared down at the woman.
“God, Nick, are you okay? You look like you’re ready to pass out.” Nora joined him at the
window. The moment his sister’s gaze landed on the woman, she gasped loudly. “Holy crap.”
Without a word, Nick brushed past Nora. As he headed toward the door, her hand caught
his arm. He paused to meet her gaze and shook his head in a silent order not to stop him.
Reluctance visible on her face, his sister released his arm. Nick wanted to run down the steps to
the showroom, but he forced himself to descend the stairs at a slow pace. He was insane to think
this was anything more than a coincidence. As he approached the woman, her distinct American
accent floated through the air as she spoke to the salesclerk.
“I don’t know—thirty-five hundred pounds is a little more than I can really afford.”
“Think of it as an investment, miss.”
“An investment in the exchange rate you mean.”
The dry note in her voice forced Nick to cough as he stifled a chuckle. She turned at the
sound, an impish smile curving her full mouth. But it was her eyes that made him stare at her.
They were the same sapphire blue as the countess’. Again, he marveled at the resemblance.
Without warning, she queried his opinion.
“What do you think?” she asked without warning.
Nick met the brilliant blue gaze twinkling up at him. If he didn’t know better, he would
have sworn Lady Guildford had stepped out of the portrait hanging in his office. The woman
tipped her head back as she returned his stare with equal intensity. In an absent-minded gesture,
her long fingers brushed a stray strand of auburn hair off her cheek. A quickening surged deep
inside him like the sudden stirring of a long lost memory. The sensation swelled.
Stunned by the force of the emotion, he realized somewhere in his past he’d experienced a
moment similar to this one before. The sensation grew in strength. The smile curving her full
mouth faded as confusion furrowed her brow. Mentally shaking his head, Nick forced himself to
answer her question.
“Like Robert says, art is an investment, but I like to think of it more as an investment of the
heart. Ask yourself if you can live without it.”
“No, I don’t think I can.” She turned back to the painting. Under the track lighting her
auburn hair shone like lustrous silk. She sighed. “There’s something so familiar about it.”
For the first time, he looked at the canvas she was interested in purchasing and went rigid.
He’d been so focused on her, he’d not even bothered to look at the painting she was standing in
front of. It was Lockwood’s oil painting of Goodman Cottage at Brentwood Park. The landscape
depicted a pond glistening in the afternoon sun as it played host to a pair of swans. Not far from
the water’s edge, the thatched roof cottage sat nestled in the warm embrace of a small grove of
trees. The sparsely covered trees with red, gold, and purple leaves indicated it had been close to
the end of fall when the artist had painted his picture.
Nick had found the landscape in his uncle’s bedroom after the man’s heart attack. A little
known artist, John Lockwood had painted both portraits of the countess as well as the landscape.
The barely legible inscription on the back of the Goodman Cottage canvas, for my wife, Victoria.
Nicholas – Christmas 1897, indicated the landscape had been a gift from Lord Guildford to his
wife.
“Have you ever been to Brentwood Park?” He clenched his teeth. Why the hell had he
asked her that?
“Brentwood Park?” She shook her head in puzzlement.
“It’s an estate a little southeast of the city. The cottage in the painting still sits on the
grounds.” He nodded toward the canvas on the wall, but kept his eyes on her.
“I’ve never heard of it. If I have time next week, I might be able to check it out,” she
murmured as she turned back to the painting and reached out to touch the frame. Uttering a small
noise of decision, she turned her head toward the sales clerk. “Well, I guess I can’t leave without
it.”
“Very good, madam. If you will come this way, I shall be happy to arrange the sale.”
“Robert, I’ll take care of the sale,” Nick said quietly as he reached out to grasp her arm and
hold her in place.
He never heard the sales clerk’s response as electricity shot up his arm. The strength of the
sensation barreling through him was as if someone was pummeling his entire body until he had
no breath left in his lungs. Images flashed through his head like a carousel of pictures careening
out of control.
Of all the faces dancing through his brain, she was always there. She was like the North
Star, guiding him to a place he didn’t know existed. He couldn’t explain it, but it was as if this
moment had happened before. As he stared down into her blue eyes, she shook her head slightly,
and he was certain she was experiencing the same sensation.
“What’s your name?” His voice was hoarse as he struggled not to say something bizarre
that would frighten her or worse make her dart out of the shop.
“Victoria Ashton,” she breathed as she reached up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead.
In the next instant, she jerked her hand away, clearly horrified by her action.
“Oh Lord, I’m sorry…that was incredibly rude of me.”
“No. It felt right.” He didn’t have the slightest idea why her touch seemed so natural and
perfect, but then nothing about the last couple of minutes made any sense to him.
“I…have we met somewhere before?”
“That’s my pickup line I think,” he said with a grin.
“Yeah, I suppose it was.”
Her laugh was as full-bodied as he remembered. The Freudian slip barely registered in his
head as he watched a flush of pink rise in her cheeks. Without thinking, he brushed his fingertips
across her face. The moment he touched her, her hand came up to cup his, and she turned her
mouth into his palm. The visceral emotion the action stirred in him made him pull in a sharp,
deep breath.
“I don’t know what the hell is happening,” he rasped. “But you better tell me to stop now if
you don’t want me to kiss you.”
Her sapphire eyes widened, before she closed the distance between and there was only a
hairs breath of space between. Her hand reached up to touch his brow and she smiled.
“I won’t stop you,” she whispered.
Locked in the grip of something he didn’t understand, Nick bent his head toward her. God,
all he wanted was to taste her again. He needed to know if she tasted as sweet as he remembered.
His mouth never touched hers as the explosion roared through the shop like a freight train.
The force of the blast threw him backward, and he fought to stay on his feet. A screech of
metal tugged his gaze upward. Before he could react, the ceiling’s track lighting crashed
downward then slammed into Victoria’s head and chest. He heard her grunt with pain as the
blow sent her staggering backwards. In an involuntary effort to remain standing, she flung her
arm outward to grab hold of something to save her from falling.
Before he could leap forward or shout a warning, she grasped the black wire dangling from
the ceiling. Agony contorted her features as electricity flowed through her then sent her flying
backward to hit the wall like a rag doll. The unframed landscape of the cottage fell from the wall
to the floor and landed beside her limp hand, the painting brushing against her fingers. Screams
of pain and fear from inside and outside of the shop filled the air.
Leaping past the live wire, he crouched down beside Victoria’s still form. His hands shook
as he gently rolled her onto her back sliding the painting away from her. She wasn’t breathing,
and he couldn’t find a pulse in her neck or on her wrist. A wave of helplessness rolled over him.
It had been like this the last time. He’d not been able to do anything to save her.
A growl of rage erupted from his throat. No. Not this time. He’d lost her in the past, and he
refused to lose her now. Without thinking, he began to administer CPR. He didn’t know if he
was doing it right, but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He’d failed the last time. He
couldn’t let it end like that again. Quick chest compressions then two strong puffs of air into her
mouth. Repeat.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of an ambulance. Panic set in as his efforts to
revive her received no response. In a voice he didn’t recognize as his own, he called out her
name then blew two hard breaths into her before increasing the strength of his compressions
against her chest.
“Fight, Victoria, fight,” he commanded in a savage tone. “Do you hear me? I saidfight.”
His command was harsh and inflexible, and he sensed a stranger slipping into his head.
Relentlessly, he alternated between breathing into her mouth and returning to the sharp cadence
of chest compresses. Deep within his memory, he recalled the pain and agony of a similar
experience long ago. The indefinable connection to her that he’d experience moments ago had
become something even more tangible. A gentle hand touched his shoulder.
“Nick, she’s gone.” His sister’s words ripped a roar from him throat.
“No. You’re wrong,” he snarled as he knocked his sister’s hand aside.
With renewed force he pounded on Victoria’s chest then breathed air into her lungs. Logic
disappeared to become raw, agonizing desperation. Unfamiliar images from a distant past
merged with the present to fill him with dread. The savageness of his anguish choked him and
threatened to push him over the edge as he worked to breathe and pound life back into her.
“God damn it, Victoria. Fight, damn you. Come back to me.”
The savage command went unanswered, and his anguish was an unbearable vise engulfing
his body. A wounded howl of grief ripped out of his throat. She was gone. He’d lost her again.
Life had lost its meaning.
Chapter 2
October 1897
The darkness of the dream enveloped Victoria as she spiraled downward to land on her bed
with a jerk as pain rippled through her. Thousands of razor sharp needles stabbed at every inch of
her. God, it was as if someone had doused her in gasoline then set her on fire.
The dream had become a nightmare of agony, and she ordered herself to wake up. She
forced her eyes open to see nothing but a white mist filled with gray shadows. Oh God, she was
blind. Panic flooded her veins as she tried to reassure herself it was a nightmare. Her eyes
fluttered closed for a fleeting second. When she opened her eyes again, but there was nothing
except the fog cluttered with dark shapes. Voices echoed nearby, but a loud ringing in her ears
made it difficult to make out what they were saying. Yet out of all the indistinguishable voices
there was one she recognized. It was
demanding. Arrogant. But she couldn’t remember where she’d heard it before.
Victoria tried to turn her head toward the voice, but the movement sent a stabbing pain
through her temple. She cried out. A dark shape suddenly blotted out the cloudy landscape of her
vision. A warm hand touched her forehead before the shape abruptly disappeared. Slowly, the
voices and ringing in her ears ebbed away. Victoria blinked several times in an attempt to clear
her vision then sat up.
The instant she moved, she uttered a cry of misery at the explosion of pain in her head. The heel
of her palm pressed against her forehead, she bit back the bile threatening to rise in her throat.
After several long moments of anguish, the pain and nausea eased.
This had to be the worst fricking hangover she’d ever had. Not that she’d had that many.
She winced. Had she gone to a bar last night? She didn’t remember going to one. Hell, she didn’t
remember much of anything over the last several weeks. The one thing she did remember was
her argument with her father a year ago and what had happened a few hours later. She pushed
back the tears. Images whirled and flitted through her brain. She was on vacation. She
remembered that much at least. But there was one thing she was certain of. This was not her
hotel room. Her gaze swept over the simplicity of the stark room. Despite the brilliant stream of
sunlight flooding through the window it was cold. She shivered. Someone had set the AC way
too low.
If it weren’t for the fire in the hearth the room would be even colder. It didn’t make any
sense why someone would have a fire with the AC going. Her gaze swept across the room’s
meager furnishings. Planks of rough-hewn wood served as the floor, while a white plaster
covered the walls. It looked like something out of a Jane Austen movie. Oh God, had she decided
to do one of those reality vacations? No, she couldn’t afford something like that, even if she’d
wanted too. What was the last thing she’d been doing? She breathed in a quiet breath as she tried
to ignore the hot needles that assaulted the back of her head. Where was she, and exactly how
had she gotten to wherever here was? She groaned as the headache spread to her temples.
Victoria tossed her blanket off to one side and swung her legs out of bed. Fire streaked
across her skin once more, while her chest hurt like someone had kicked her repeatedly. Had she
been mugged? Even though she was in pain, self-preservation had her on her feet the minute a
woman scurried into the room.
“Good heavens, my lady. You shouldn’t be out of bed just yet.”
“Who are you?”
Her words sounded hoarse, stiff, and stilted. Laryngitis. Could you get that from a
hangover? If you were shouting over loud music all night long? Maybe she’d been mugged and
choked in the process. It would explain her voice, the pounding in her head, and the way her
body ached. It would also account for not knowing where the hell she was.
“I’m Bessie, my lady. Thomas Goodman’s wife. He found you near the pond this morning.
You were like death warmed over when my Thomas brought you in.”
“Pond?” The hoarseness in her voice had disappeared, but it still sounded funny to her.
“Yes, my lady. Soaked through and through. If my Thomas hadn’t found you I fear the
worst might have happened.”
Victoria shook her head in denial and winced as she pressed her hand against her forehead.
She hadn’t been anywhere near a pond. She’d been in an art gallery. The sudden sliver of a
memory tantalized her before it evaporated and pain took its place.
“Where am I?”
“Why Brentwood Park, my lady.” Bessie patted Victoria’s arm in a comforting manner.
“Brentwood Park,” she murmured. Where had she heard that name before? Another stab of
pain erupted in her head, and she groaned softly.
God, jackhammers were going off inside her head. She looked down at the white cotton
gown she wore. She never wore nightgowns. Normally, she chose to sleep in the nude, although
she would occasionally sleep in a pair of pajamas. Nightgowns? Never. They were little more
than straight-jackets, and she never got a good night’s sleep with one on. Beside the bed, her
hostess poured water from a beige earthen pitcher into a matching bowl. Wringing out a cloth in
the basin, the woman turned her head to Victoria and smiled.
“Now then, my lady, let me see if I can clean that cut of yours.”
“Cut?” Victoria blinked with confusion.
“I don’t believe it will need stitching.” Bessie’s weathered features wrinkled up into a
reassuring look as she dabbed gently at Victoria’s forehead. “Lucky is what you were. Another
inch lower and you could have lost an eye.”
Baffled, Victoria gasped as cold water stung a tender spot just above her right eye. She
lightly touched the wound and drew in a breath of surprise as Bessie gently pulled her hand
away. When had she cut her head? Questions. Every time she answered one, half a dozen more
sprang to life. She pulled away from the woman who was clucking over her like a worrisome
mother hen.
“You said I’m at Brentwood Park. Is this a hospital of some kind?”
“Heavens, no, my lady. This is Goodman Cottage. Thomas and I are tenants of his
lordship.”
“His lordship?”
“Lord Guilford, my lady. Don’t you remember?” The woman stared at her with a worried
frown.
“I don’t know any Lord Guildford.” Victoria wanted to shake her head, but was afraid to
for fear of pain.
“Oh dear…you must have hit your head much harder than we thought.” Bessie clucked her
tongue in sympathy. “Now don’t you fret, I’ve seen this happen before. Your memory will come
back right enough when you’re ready.”
“I haven’t lost my memory,” Victoria muttered stubbornly.
She remembered her name, her childhood, the night her father had died. She shoved that
particular memory into a separate compartment. Right now she had to focus on figuring out
where the hell she was. England. She was in England on vacation, by herself. It was impossible
to know how long she’d been out, and right now all she wanted was to get back to her hotel. She
frowned. Why didn’t she hear traffic outside? The quiet reminded her of the woods near
Kerrigan Stables where she rode twice a week. A chill ran down her spine. If it were quiet
outside, it meant she was in the country. She’d been in the city. How in the hell had she gotten
from London to wherever this was?
“If you don’t mind, I’d like my clothes back so I can return to my hotel.”
“But, my lady, you just can’t—”
“Can’t what?” she snapped, more out of fear than anger. “Please bring me my clothes. I
want—”
The door swung open with a loud screech. Instantly, she turned toward the sound and
inhaled a sharp breath. Everything receded into the background as she met the hard, green-eyed
gaze of the man entering the room. Before his arrival, the room had been comfortable in size, but
now it closed in on her.
Power. Sheer power was the first thing that came to mind as her gaze ran over him. His was
dressed for riding, but he wasn’t wearing jeans as one might expect. His apparel seemed more
appropriate for a horse show. Fawn-colored breeches hugged sleek, muscular thighs. The snug
fitting pants were tucked into a pair of shiny black boots with a dark brown cuff at the top. A
starched collar jutted upward to part slightly at his throat, while a narrow, black tie encircled his
neck. Dark wavy hair and those piercing green eyes of his completed the image of a man born to
command. She swallowed hard.
The man didn’t just ooze sex appeal, he defined it.
Deliberate and unhurried, he removed his black riding gloves and slapped them into his
hand with a vicious crack. She jumped. Like an animal fascinated with its predator, she met his
narrowed eyes warily. His barely restrained anger saturated the room with its raw heat.
Okay, now she was worried. Had she wrecked her rental car and damaged his property? Wait,
did she even have a rental car? Damn it, how could she remember things from months ago, while
the past couple of days and weeks were hazy at best?
“That will be all for now, Bessie. You may bring the countess her clothes shortly.” Despite
her apprehension, the deep timbre of his voice turned her inside out. The man could easily give a
woman an orgasm with that voice. Wait. Countess? What countess?
“Yes, my lord.”
Bessie quickly left the room as the stranger’s gaze remained locked with hers. The door
closed behind the older woman, and something flashed in the man’s eyes as he moved forward.
Victoria instinctively jumped backward as he brushed past her. He walked with a distinct limp as
he crossed the room to the small window beneath an eave. Had he been in an accident or was the
handicap from birth? The vague whisper of a memory teased her as she studied the back of his
dark head. She tried to catch the thought, but it winked out of her grasp. Frustrated, she grimaced
then started as the man turned and directed a harsh look in her direction.
“Do you want to tell me where the devil you’ve been for the last three weeks, Vickie?”
“I’m sorry?” She scowled at him. She’d never liked people calling her by that nickname.
For some unknown reason, it had always had a negative connotation to it, and she hated the way
it made her feel when someone called her by the name.
“Three weeks, Vickie.” The sharp words cracked through the air and made her flinch. “I’ve
had private investigators looking for you for the past three weeks.”
“Look, you’ve obviously got me confused with someone else.” Bewildered, she shrugged
her shoulders.
“I don’t know you. My name is Victoria Ashton, and I don’t know this Vickie person.”
“Memory loss? You creativity astounds me, my dear.” The condescension in his voice
made the hair on the back of neck stand upright. Sex appeal or not, the man was an arrogant
bastard. Victoria narrowed her eyes at him.
“I didn’t say I’d lost my memory. I said I don’t know you.” She silently dismissed her
inability to remember the past couple of days or weeks. That didn’t count. She knew who she
was.
His eyes were shards of green ice as he stared at her for a long moment. Then with an
indifferent air he took a seat in the room’s only chair. Sitting sideways, he draped an arm over
the wooden chair’s spindled back and crossed his bad leg over one knee. His relaxed posture
only enhanced his commanding presence. Sexy or not, she was certain he’d be a dangerous man
to cross.
“So you think I’ve confused you with someone else.” He surveyed her from head to toe
with an insolent gleam before looking at the ring on his finger. “An odd statement considering
I’d be hard pressed not to recognize my wife.”
The soft words sent her reeling back two steps. Frantically, she tried to recall what she’d
been doing before she woke up in this nightmare. There was no way in hell she could be married.
Was there?
She squeezed her eyes shut as if that would help her remember. The image of a large room with
paintings flitted through her head. An art gallery. She’d been debating whether to buy a
landscape. Hadn’t she? Images flew through her head so fast she couldn’t recognize most of
them. An explosion.
Had there been an explosion? It would explain the cut on her head if she’d been near glass.
Desperately, she tried to remember more. She’d been with someone. Who? Acute pain pulsed
viciously in her head. Victoria tried to ignore it, but the harder she tried to pull answers from the
shadows, the more intense the vicious pounding in her head. She released a soft sound of misery
and gave up trying to recall the last couple of days. The moment she did so, the pain eased to a
minor throb.
She was barely aware the stranger had moved until the sudden proximity of him enveloped her in
a white hot heat. Firm fingers grasped her chin, and he tilted her face toward the sunshine
streaming into the room. The pads of his fingers seared her skin, and she drew in a sharp breath.
Hell, this man wasn’t just hot to look at. With one simple touch, he’d managed to make her legs
wobbly as Jell-O. She dragged in another quick breath.
He smelled of horse, leather, and something spicy. He was raw male and the potency of
him made her ache for something she hadn’t had in a long time. All the man had to do was kiss
her, and she’d be melting in his arms. The thought made her lick her lips nervously. His gaze
narrowed and his eyes darkened to a shade of evergreen before he jerked away from her and put
several feet between them.
“I grow weary of this game you’re playing, Vickie.”
“I’m not your wife,” she snapped.
“Then tell me who you are, my dear.” The cold contempt in his voice could have frozen the
air between them, and for the first time she realized she might be in real trouble.
“I told you, already. My name is Victoria Ashton,” she said as calmly as possible. “I don’t
know you or how I got here. I just want my clothes back so I can get a ride back to London.”
For the briefest of moments, she could have sworn she saw doubt in his green eyes before a
shutter fell into place, revealing nothing but amused cynicism. The insolence of his smile made
her draw in a breath of irritation.
“A convincing tale, madam, but it lacks a certain, shall we say, finesse,” he drawled.
“Are you calling me a liar?” She wanted to kick herself. Of course he was.
“I’m simply stating the obvious. Your acting abilities have improved considerably, but this
is a bit much, even for you.”
“Look, this is crazy. I was in an art gallery in London. I think there was some kind of
explosion.
The next thing I knew, I woke up here.” Her words instantly made her head hurt, and she winced.
“I’m a patient man, Vickie, but this charade is growing tiresome.” Anger tightened his
sensual mouth. The fact that she was even thinking about his mouth annoyed her as much as his
refusal to call her Victoria.
“So help me God, if you call me Vickie one more time…” She gritted her teeth and
suppressed her anger. It wasn’t going to help things if she lost her temper. “I’m notyour wife. My
name is Victoria Ashton. I don’t know how I got here, and at the moment I don’t really care. If
you’ll just give me my clothes back, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Enough.” The barely controlled fury in the command made her flinch. “If you continue
with this farce, I’ll be forced to have you examined by a physician from the county asylum.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me,” she said fiercely as she returned his glare.
“It’s not a threat, Vickie. You’re clearly unwell.”
There was something about his icy demeanor that sent a shiver down her spine. He was
dead serious. Fear slithered through Victoria. The man was clearly off his rocker, her clothes
were missing, and no one knew where she was. Hell, she didn’t even know where she was. Out
of the corner of her eye, she saw the door and lunged toward it.
With the advantage of surprise, she was slamming the door behind her before the stranger
could stop her. Victoria heard him utter a violent curse, but didn’t wait to hear more. A cramped
stairwell was only a couple feet away, and she plunged her way down the steep, narrow steps.
As she reached the last step, she stopped and stared. The large room looked like a historical
exhibit. The woman who’d cleaned the cut on her head stood bent at a huge open fireplace
stirring something in a kettle. Victoria hadn’t paid much attention to the woman’s apparel earlier,
but now she realized Bessie was a walking advertisement for a tourist attraction. The rotund
woman wore a brown dress that almost brushed the floor with a white apron tied around her
waist. Victoria looked around the room in the hope her clothes might be close by, but they were
nowhere in sight.
“God damn it, Vickie. Stop.”
The stranger’s voice held a dark and dangerous edge to it, and Bessie looked up from her
kettle to stare at Victoria in astonishment. Not about to let the woman stop her, Victoria threw
open the only door in the room and bolted outside. The cold air and patches of snow on the
ground stunned her. It was the middle of May. Did England have snow as late as this? She
squinted against the sunshine and paused to let her eyes adjust to the light. Behind her, the door
to the small house swung open.
“Bloody hell, Vickie. Don’t be a fool. You’re not dressed.”
Victoria ignored his harsh words as she fled. Rough stones bit at her bare feet as she
sprinted along the dirt path leading away from him. In front of her was a large pond, and at the
water’s edge, the trail split to follow the shoreline all around the pond. Behind her, she heard her
jailor call out a man’s name. A responding shout echoed out of the woods surrounding the water.
Horrified, she saw men emerged from the forest on each side of the pond.
With a glance over her shoulder, she saw her delusional interrogator gaining on her. For a
man with a limp, he moved quickly. Frantic, she realized the water was her only hope of escape.
She was a fast swimmer. If she swam to the opposite end of the pond, she might be able to
escape. Self-preservation drove her forward, and she ran the last two steps to the water and dived
in head first.
Cold fire engulfed her the instant she hit the water. The shock of it sent her up to the surface with
a loud gasp. The icy water sucked the air out of her forcing her to fight hard to draw air back into
her lungs. The fire feeding on her skin was almost as intense as the pain she’d endured when
she’d woken up in this terrible dream. She was a strong swimmer, but the frigid water stole every
ounce of strength she had. Desperately she fought to breathe as her legs gave way, and she sank
beneath the water.
Come back to me.
The whisper echoed in her head, and she recognized it. But from where? Victoria stretched
her hand out toward the sound. Strong fingers gripped her hand and pulled her back from the
brink. Air filled her lungs as she sputtered and coughed violently. A moment later, a steely grasp
encircled her waist to pull her upright.
Panic sailed through her again as she looked into a pair of green eyes, blazing with anger
and something else. Although she was exhausted and horribly cold, she found the strength to
struggle against his grasp.
“Damn it to hell, Vicki. No one’s going to hurt you. Stop fighting me,” he growled as he
swung her up into his arms and carried her out of the water.
The sincerity in his voice pierced the fear twisting through her as his heat pushed its way into the
icy cold layer of her skin. When they reached the shore, he set her down. Deprived of his
warmth, a shudder whipped through her followed by another until she was shaking like a piece
of paper dancing in the wind. A second later his riding coat covered her shoulders.
“Come, Bessie will get you out of this wet garment,” he said.
Before she could protest, he swung her up into his arms again and started back toward the
cottage. She didn’t want to go back, but she was so damn cold. Worse, she didn’t know where to
run to. Despite his warmth, she continued to shiver. The sound of his boots crunching against a
small patch of snow on the trail made her wince.
“Why is there…snow on…the ground?” she asked through her chattering teeth.
“It’s not unusual for snow to fall in October, you know that.”
“October.” Victoria looked up at him in horror. Her teeth still clicking rapidly, she shook
her head. “It can’t…be…October. It’s…May.”
“I can assure you, my dear, it is October.”
“The…date?”
“I believe it’s the thirtieth.”
“October…thir…thirtieth.” Something deep inside prompted her to ask what she didn’t
want an answer to. “The…year?”
“The year is eighteen ninety-seven, my dear,” he said quietly as he came to a halt.
“Not…possible,” she chattered as shock rippled through her. Her stomach began to churn
savagely, and she pushed at his shoulder. “Please…I’m…throw up.”
Without hesitating he lowered her until her feet rested on his boots in apparent attempt to
keep her bare feet off the ground. Bile rose in her throat, and she violently twisted free of his
grasp then stumbled into the snow-patched grass lining the path. A moment later, she threw up as
if she’d been out drinking all night.
Cool hands gently pulled her hair away from her face, holding it out of the way as she
threw up whatever was in her stomach. As her heaves abated, he offered her a linen handkerchief
lightly scented with the crisp odor of mint. Victoria wiped her mouth with the white square and
closed her eyes.
“It’s a dream. Just a really bad dream,” she mumbled to herself. Screw Einstein’s theory of
relatively. It wasn’t possible to travel through time. “Wake up Victoria. It’s just a nightmare.”
Victoria slowly opened her eyes and sucked in a quiet breath of despair. She was still here.
Silently, she stared at the cottage in front of her. It looked so familiar, but she couldn’t remember
where she’d seen it. Snow dusted the roof, and brightly colored leaves clung with desperation to
tree branches hanging over the small house. She drew in a sharp breath. The art gallery. She’d
been about to buy a painting of this cottage.
A shudder hammered through her, and she pulled the stranger’s riding jacket close around
her. He uttered something harsh under his breath then swooped her up into his arms again. In
silence, he carried her toward the cottage. Scared, exhausted, and confused, she didn’t have the
energy to protest. She closed her eyes again as she struggled to accept her situation.
“You recognize the cottage.” The quiet statement made her glance up at him, and she
nodded.
“I saw it in a painting,” she answered hoarsely. “At the art gallery in London.”
“And yet you still maintain you don’t know me.” There was a hard note of skepticism in
his voice.
“Perhaps your head injury is more serious than Bessie suspected.”
“What? Oh, yes, my head.” She probed the swelling cut at her temple. She instantly
regretted it as her head throbbed with pain again.
“I believe the first order of business is to get you into dry clothes. At the moment, your
appearance is in a sad state of disrepair, and I have no wish to see my wife bounding about the
countryside in a nightdress.”
“I’m not your wife.” With her chattering teeth, it was impossible to sound convincing.
“I believe we should have Dr. Bertram call on us. I’m sure he would find this unusual story
of yours quite interesting.”
The threat of a doctor made Victoria flinch, and she looked away from him. Whether this
was a dream or reality, she needed to bite her tongue. Mental health had only just come out of
the dark ages in her own time. If she really was in the past, the last thing she wanted was a ticket
to an insane asylum.
“I don’t need a doctor.” Her quiet response appeared to satisfy him. Several seconds later,
he carried her into the cottage where Bessie greeted her like a mother hen would a lost chick.
“Bessie, I believe it’s time the countess was dressed properly,” he said as he kept his gaze
on Victoria. “I’ll wait for her here.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“My coat, madam, if you please. It’s a bit chilly today.” Victoria’s shudder was more out of
regret than her frozen state. He’d been cold because of her.
“I’m sorry. I was scared.”
She still was, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him. With a grimace, Victoria removed his
coat and handed it back to him. Surprise flashed across his face before he masked the emotion
with indifference. He bowed slightly.
“I’ll leave you in Bessie’s capable hands. When you’re dressed, I’ll take you home.”
“But…I don’t even know who you are.” Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment at the
look of disbelief he directed at her.
“So you’ve said,” he said dryly as he arched his brow in icy disdain. “Very well. I’m
Nicholas Thornhill, Earl of Guilford. And you, madam wife, are Victoria Brentwood Thornhill,
Countess of Guilford.”
With that introduction, he turned and limped away to stand in front of the fireplace with his
hands outstretched to warm them. Something about his posture made Victoria long to run to him
and reassure him that everything would be all right. She blinked at the crazy thought. She had
enough to worry about. She shivered.
“Come along, my lady. We’ll get you warm and dry in a moment.” Half-hearing Bessie’s
chatter, Victoria allowed the woman to lead her up the stairs to the room she’d fled a short time
ago. After a few minutes in front of the fire, Victoria was feeling less frozen.
“Here you are, my lady.” Bessie held up a royal blue dress. “I’m afraid the gown’s ruined,
my lady. Thomas found you lying by the pond.”
Huge patches of caked mud declared the silk gown had seen better days. As she stared at
the dress, her shivering returned. Ice sluiced over her skin as if she were drowning in the pond
again. A shadowy image flashed in front of her eyes, and she jerked in surprise. More images
streaked through her head in a wild whirlwind of incomprehensible events. A singular, horrifying
sound accompanied the pictures swirling in her mind. It was the distinct sound of a shovel hitting
the ground with a sickening thud before earth scraped across the metal. Fear lodged in her throat
as she saw part of a blue gown disappear beneath clumps of soil. It was the same gown Bessie
was holding. Victoria’s stomach lurch violently.
“My lady, are you all right?” Bessie exclaimed. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine,” she focused her gaze on the older woman as the images faded into oblivion.
“Now don’t you worry about it how it looks, my lady. As soon as you get back to the
manor you’ll have dozens of gowns to choose from,” the woman murmured soothingly. The
motherly clucks of dismay returned, as Bessie helped Victoria change out of her wet nightgown.
In need of more information about the countess to help her navigate the minefield she was in,
Victoria cleared her throat.
“Bessie, do you know anything about the…my disappearance?”
“Well, as I heard it, you left Guildford House for a fancy ball, but never arrived. His
lordship searched high and low for you, he did. But you’d just upped and disappeared.” As the
woman rattled on with her tale, Victoria dried off in front of the fire. “Of course, Lord Darby
didn’t help matters none when you went missing. Thomas’ brother, George, works for the man.
George says Lord Darby was running about all crazed like. He said Lord Darby accused his
lordship of doing you in. And right there in front of the Prince of Wales himself, no less.”
When she was dry, the servant woman threw a white, lacey undergarment over Victoria’s
head. Engrossed in the tale, Victoria didn’t protest as Bessie helped put a corset on. It was more
like a bustier, and she was surprised it fit her full-figured curves so well. As Bessie reached for
the muddied gown, the woman shook her head.
“Bless me if it wasn’t a scandal. There was talk of a magistrate and all sorts of doings.
Right glad I am that you’re back, my lady. Lord Guildford is a good man. He don’t deserve to be
treated like a criminal. He’d never hurt anyone.”
Victoria didn’t respond as she tried to process everything Bessie had shared. A murder
accusation. No wonder the man was furious. The real question to ask was since she wasn’t Lady
Guildford, exactly where was the earl’s wife? The memory of the dark images she’d seen made
Victoria shiver. What if…no, she wasn’t going down that road. Wherever Lady Guildford was,
Victoria didn’t like thinking the woman was in a shallow grave somewhere. Deep in the back of
her mind, a voice argued with her, but she ignored it.
As Bessie slipped the gown’s soft, blue silk over her head, Victoria prepared herself for
more unpleasant imagery. When nothing happened, she exhaled a sigh of relief and stood still as
Bessie buttoned the dress the earl’s wife had worn. What was her connection to the earl or his
wife? With everyone mistaking her for the countess, did she actually look like the woman? What
if she didn’t look like herself. A shaft of panic shot through her.
“Bessie, do you have a mirror?” she rasped.
“But of course, my lady. It’s just a hand mirror, but it should do well enough. Let me fetch
it.”
Bessie hurried from the room leaving Victoria to stare down at the mud on her dress. No, the
countess’ dress. Where had the woman been to get so dirty? Dark images fluttered through her
mind again, and Victoria pushed them out of her head. A moment later, Bessie returned and
handed her a mirror. With a trembling hand, she lifted the hand-held mirror. Relief streamed
through her as she recognized the reflection.
“Thank God.” A split second later she inhaled a sharp breath of fear. Her voice was
different. Oh God, what she’d thought was laryngitis wasn’t that at all. A crisp, aristocratic
accent had replaced her American one.
Chapter 3
Present Day
Nick paced the floor of the hospital waiting room. It had been almost an hour since he’d
been ordered out of the trauma room filled with doctors bent over Victoria. Where his CPR skills
had failed, the paramedics had succeeded, but she’d failed to regain consciousness. God, if he
lost her again. Again?
Why in the hell would he think he’d gone through this before? He shoved a hand through his hair
and stopped his pacing. What the fuck was happening to him? He was beginning to think he’d
lost his mind.
He’d just met the woman, and yet deep down in his soul, he knew his life would never be
the same if she didn’t survive. The sound of feminine heels clicking against the floor made him
turn around. As Nora entered the small visitors’ lounge, Nick closed the distance between them
and gave her a hug.
“You okay?” he said huskily as he stepped back and inspected her face for any injuries.
“Just shaken up a bit. I was still upstairs when the explosion hit.”
“Christ, the shop—”
“It’s fine, just minor damage. I left Robert in charge,” Nora said in her practical manner
that was at odds with her personal beliefs. “He’s making arrangements for security and repairs.”
“What the fuck happened? A gas leak?” Nick eyed his sister with disbelief.
“No. A bomb.” Anger darkened Nora’s features. “Some environmental extremists targeted
the ad agency across the street for a recent campaign the agency did for an oil company.”
“Christ almighty,” he said with a shake of his head.
“I hope they catch the bastards and put their balls and heads on the Tower’s spikes,” Nora
snapped viciously then eyed him with a look of worry. “Have you seen a doctor about this cut?”
“Cut?” He reached up to touch his face, and Nora immediately smacked his hand aside.
“Don’t be an idiot. You need to have a doctor look at this. It might need sutures.” Nora’s
gaze swept over him then gasped in horror. “Oh my God, your leg.”
“My leg?” Nick looked downward to see his pants leg was split open and a long, deep gash
that ran the length of his calf.
“Aren’t you in pain?” Nora asked, her face pasty white.
“No,” he said as he realized that wasn’t quite true. His leg had been aching from all the
pacing he’d done. “It must be deep enough to have cut off the nerve endings. And stop looking at
the damn thing before you pass out.
“You need to get that leg looked at, now,” his sister said firmly despite the sick look on her
face.
“I’m not doing anything until I know Victoria’s all right.”
“Victoria?” His sister arched her eyebrow at him in a silent demand for an explanation.
“She told me her name right before the explosion.” He heard the defensive note in his
voice. “She’s been in the trauma center for more than an hour. Fuck, if you’d seen the way she
looked in the ambulance…”
Nick’s throat tightened and closed as fear threatened to suffocate him. His fingers gripped
the back of his neck. He would never forget the light fixture as it crashed downward and
slammed into Victoria or the look of agony on her face when she grabbed the live wire. Tension
hardened his muscles as he remembered the way her entire body had jumped on the gurney when
they’d shocked her heart.
“The ambulance? They don’t let people ride in the back.”
“They didn’t have much choice,” he muttered with a grimace. “I told them I was her fiancé,
and I was going with them.”
“Good lord, Nick. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s like someone else has been in my head from the
moment I first saw her. The only thing I’m certain of is that I can’t lose her again.”
“Again?” Nora stared at him like he’d lost his marbles, which was precisely how he felt at
the moment as he met his sister’s gaze of astonishment. “How can you lose someone you don’t
even know, Nick?
You’re confusing her with that damn portrait.”
“Now you’re the skeptic? And yeah, I’ve been questioning my sanity,” he said between
clenched teeth.
“But tell me Nora, what are the odds of a woman who’s a dead ringer for the Countess of
Guildford, with the same first name of said Countess, coming into our shop out of all the
hundreds of galleries in the city to buy the Goodman Cottage painting.”
“Lockwood’s painting?” Nora gasped. He waited for her to say something, but she simply
stared at him in shocked disbelief.
“What? No words of wisdom or insight as to the fact that there are no coincidences in life?”
He knew she didn’t deserve the sarcasm, but he was fresh out of polite sentiment at the
moment. Fresh out of patience with all this past lives talk of hers. He’d been listening to it for so
long he was beginning to believe it himself. What the devil made him think he knew Victoria?
His imagination was running amok because of guilt. Guilt that he was okay and that Victoria had
nearly died and still might. He ignored the voice protesting vehemently in the back of his head.
“What would you like for me to say?” Nora asked quietly. His jaw tightened as he noted
the pained expression in his sister’s brown eyes.
“You didn’t deserve that. I’m an ass,” he said as she dismissed his words with a wave of
her hand.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t know how to talk about it. He didn’t have the
words to explain how one brief touch had bonded him to a woman who was a total stranger. How
the fuck was he supposed to explain something like that? Especially when he didn’t understand it
himself.
Nora sank down into a nearby chair as he returned to pacing the floor. Silence drifted
between them for several long moments until another sound echoed in the hallway. Turning
toward the door, Nick recognized the man entering the lounge as the trauma room physician.
“Mr. Barrows?” The doctor crossed the floor to close the distance between them and shook
Nick’s hand.
“I’m Doctor Bertram. We’ve stabilized Miss Ashton. She suffered second degree burns on
her hands where the electrical current entered and exited her body. They’re not life-threatening,
but you’ll need to avoid touching her hands when you see her. We’ll continue to monitor her for
any other physical reactions to the electrical shock.”
“What else,” Nick demanded as he saw something flicker in the man’s eyes.
“Unfortunately, Miss Ashton has slipped into a coma.”
“A coma?” Fear knotted his gut at the doctor’s resigned expression.
“It happens sometimes in cases such as this. She was resuscitated three times before we
managed to stabilize her heart rate.”
“When will she wake up?”
“There’s been a great deal of stress to your fiancée’s system. She’s lucky to be alive, and a
coma is often the body’s way of healing itself.”
“You didn’t answer my question. When will Victoria wake up?” He watched the man
closely. Searching for something, anything that would tell him Victoria was going to be all right.
“I can’t answer that, Mr. Barrows.” The regret on the doctor’s face sent an icy chill through
Nick. Barely meeting his gaze, the doctor cleared his throat. “Her brain activity readings are
unlike anything I’ve seen before. I’m not able to determine the level of brain damage.”
“What do you mean, brain damage?” Nick snarled as his insides tightened with dread.
“Her brainwaves appear to be continuously fluctuating between an active and almost
vegetative state.”
A perplexed frown wrinkled the doctor’s brow. “I’m at a loss to explain it. I’ve called in
our best neurologist to see if she has any answers.”
“So, Victoria could easily wake up at any moment.”
“Possibly, but I’ve no idea how extensive the brain damage—”
“I want to see her.” Nick’s demand made the other man nod.
“Of course, but first we need to sew up that gash on your leg and cheek. The cut on your face
isn’t too bad…” Dr. Bertram frowned. “But that leg definitely needs attention now. I’m surprised
one of the nurses didn’t shuttle you off to one of the trauma bays.”
“It can wait.”
“No, Mr. Barrows, it can’t. When we’ve fixed your wounds, I’ll make sure you see your
fiancée.”
“Fine.” Reluctantly, Nick agreed to the doctor’s inflexible command with a sharp nod. “And I’ll
need something to sleep on. I intend to stay with her.”
“Is that wise, Nick?” His sister’s brow was creased with worry. “What good does it do if
you stay with her?”
“I want to be there when she wakes up.”
“Mr. Barrows, even if she does wake up, it could be days, weeks, even longer before she
does so.” The doctor’s protest only reinforced the conviction taking root inside him and growing
stronger by the second.
“Have you ever had a medical case surprise you, Dr. Bertram?”
“On occasion, but your fiancée—”
“My fiancée is going to surprise you. Victoria is going to surprise everyone, except me.
Now get me sewn up so I can see her.”
Chapter 4
October 1897
Nicholas ushered Vickie out of Goodman Cottage. His wife looked presentable despite the
mud-stained gown she wore. He also noted there was a significant amount of blood on the
shoulder of her dress. More than one might expect from the size of the cut on her forehead. That
fact didn’t just puzzle him, he found it disturbing.
Usually it was easy to see through Vickie’s deceptions, and it irritated him that he’d failed
to catch her in an outright lie yet. But that was about to change. Nicholas walked to where Zeus
was tethered and quickly mounted the stallion. Pawing the ground, the restless animal danced
about as Vickie drew near. Without any visible effort, he brought the animal under control.
“You’ll have to ride pillion, madam.”
He smiled coldly at her as he offered his hand to her. If there was one thing Vickie was
afraid of, it was horses. She never rode, and even riding behind him would probably terrify the
hell out of her.
“Don’t you have another horse?”
“Another horse?” Nicholas murmured with satisfaction as he waited for Vickie to demand
he return home and send a carriage for her.
“Yes. One for me to ride.” Her response was so unexpected all he could do was stare at her
in amazement. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation to be at a loss for words where Vickie was
concerned.
“Why the devil would I bring a horse for you when you don’t ride?” he snapped as he
gestured for her to step forward.
“Because I’ve been riding since I was a kid,” she said with obvious exasperation.
Without blinking an eye, she boldly and fearlessly walked up to Zeus. The stallion turned
his head in her directions, and she stroked the bridge of his nose as if it were something she’d
done a thousand times before. Stunned, Nicholas remained silent as his wife hitched up her
skirts, accepted his hand, and jumped up behind him. The instant his hand touched hers a bolt of
electricity vibrated through him. It was the same sensation he’d experienced every time he’d
touched her today.
She wiggled into a comfortable position behind him then wrapped her arms about his waist.
The heat of her pressing into his back made him go rigid. Christ Jesus, what the hell was wrong
with him reacting to her like this. This was Vickie. A woman who enjoyed humiliating him
whenever the opportunity presented itself.
With a nudge of his heel, he urged Zeus forward, guiding them into the trees behind the
cottage. The trail they followed opened up onto a large green expanse of pasture land sprinkled
with patches of melting snow. As they rode out into the sunshine, Vickie rested her forehead on
his shoulder. Was she going to be sick again? God help him, she could be pregnant with Darby’s
bastard. He wanted to kill her in that brief second. He grimaced. Ironic given so many people
thought he’d already done so.
“Are you feeling ill again?” he asked coldly.
“No,” she said. “Your shoulder just makes a good sunshade. I wish I had my sunglasses.”
Tension crept into his muscles at the response. It was a minor complaint, but nowhere in
her voice or words was there a hint of the spoiled, petulant woman he was married to. Whatever
game she was playing, she was doing so with a skill that surpassed anything Vickie had
displayed before. As Zeus reached the top of the knoll overlooking Brentwood Park, she raised
her head and gasped.
“Is that Brentwood Park?”
“Yes. It was part of your dowry.” He failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Damnation, he knew better than to let her see she could evoke a response in him.
“That was a wedding present?” she muttered with disbelief.
Once again, her reaction baffled him. A dowry wasn’t a wedding present. It was a business
transaction. But the incredulous note in her voice actually sounded genuine. He suppressed a
snort of disgust. Vickie had never been sincere about anything in her entire life. Her first and
only concern was for herself.
“Which of your friends shall we notify first about your safe return?” he asked coldly.
“Do we have to tell anyone?” Her trepidation ignited a bitter rage inside him.
“Madam, in the past three weeks, I’ve been questioned by the police, accused of murder,
and subjected to veiled insults from most of the Marlborough Set,” he snarled. “Considering the
rumors surrounding your disappearance, I intend to let everyone know you’re alive and well.”
“Oh Lord, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t realize—of course we’ll have to tell people
your wife has…that I’ve returned.”
“I’ll send a notice to the Times and Daily Telegraph today,” he bit out fiercely.
“I really am sorry, but the thought of questions…I’ve never really liked being the center of
attention.” Her soft comment made him snort with a hefty dose of cynical amusement.
“I don’t recall you ever being reticent when it came to talking about yourself, my dear.”
“Well that must have been boring.”
The dry note of humor in her words shot a bolt of tension through his body. God help him,
he could almost believe she wasn’t Vickie. Bitterness quickly crushed his doubts.
“Your exploits have been never boring, my dear. Decadent and depraved perhaps, but
never boring.”
Her gasp illustrated the brutality of his statement, and his immediate regret angered him. Damn
it. Once again, she’d succeeded in making him feel like a bastard. It was a sensation his wife had
never aroused in him before, and he didn’t like it. Silence surrounded them as Zeus carried them
with ease across the pastures until they reached the manor’s front door. Tall and cadaverous
looking, his butler, Jamieson, hurried down the wide, marble steps to greet them.
“Welcome home, my lord. May we express our delight at her ladyship’s safe return?”
Nicholas smiled grimly at the man. Behind him, Vickie sighed softly. Was there a hint of regret
in that sound? No, he knew his wife too well. With a limber movement, he swung his good leg
over Zeus’s neck and slid to the ground.
“Thank you, Jamieson. Her ladyship and I appreciate your good wishes.”
Nicholas turned and grasped Vickie by the waist then lowered her to the ground. The intensity of
the heat flooding through him as her body slid down his chest sucked a sharp breath from him.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Not even before their wedding had he experienced this
visceral type of sensation where his wife was concerned.
It was such an intense physical connection with her that it stunned him. Staring into the
brilliance of her sapphire eyes, he saw a glimmer of fear. Nicholas frowned at her, and she
averted her gaze. Why would she fear him? He mentally shook his head. He was letting her odd
behavior get the better of him. Disgusted with his reaction to her, he put some distance between
them and turned to his butler.
“Jamieson, the countess has suffered a head injury and is having difficulty with her
memory. Please inform the staff she may require assistance remembering where things are.” Not
waiting for the butler to reply, he turned back to her. “If you require anything ask for Mrs.
Beechum.”
“Thank you.” Her quiet, pleasant reply aroused the devil in him.
“Perhaps I should mention that we have guests coming for the weekend.”
“Guests?” The alarm in her voice amused him. He’d rarely seen Vickie unnerved by
anything, but her apprehension was clearly visible.
“Friends of mine. Naturally, if the idea of entertaining is an overwhelming one, I’ll be
happy to express your regrets.”
Nicholas couldn’t resist taunting her. The moment Vickie learned Eleanor was in the house,
she’d reveal herself, and this ridiculous game she was playing would end. With restrained
amusement, he watched uncertainty flit over her features before she narrowed her gaze at him.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re hoping I’ll make a scene?”
“Hoping? My dear, I’ve come to expect tantrums where you’re concerned,” he said with a
scornful smile.
The Countess of Guildford was in for an unpleasant surprise. A twinge of guilt pricked his
conscience at the confused look of alarm sweeping over her features. He crushed the emotion.
Vickie had never displayed a care for anyone’s feelings, and he was not about to have her make a
mockery of him with this pretense of hers.
“Your wife must be a real bitch to make you hate her so much.”
The quiet words make him jerk with surprise as he tried to convince himself the sympathy
on her lovely face was a farce. Speechless, he managed to maintain a stoic expression as she
turned and followed Jamieson into the house. He’d fully expected a tirade, not this dignified
condemnation of his mockery.
With a shake of his head, he watched her disappear into the manor. Damn if the woman
wasn’t acting strangely. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was telling the truth. But then
Vickie only told the truth when it suited her. He’d learned that particular lesson all too well the
day of their wedding.
Buy Forever Mine Now
§ § §
Critical Acclaim
“…another gorgeous, emotional story with a smart, strong-willed heroine and a tortured, oh-sosexy hero.” — Bestselling Author, Vanessa Kelly
This book is like the center of an Oreo, the best part of the cookie. Monica Burns has captured
true romance and woven it into a time travel/reincarnation tale. The characters are so well
developed and true. — B&N Reader Review
“Monica Burns has once again gotten me to read and love a historical romance! Forever Mine is
a phenomenally written story of a love that surpasses the barriers of time. At the end I cried ugly,
gut-wrenching tears which I rarely do. The emotional last few chapters bled through my
Kindle and directly into my soul. Monica Burns has written something truly magical. Forever
Mine surpassed my expectations by miles and then kept on going.” — Nikki Brandyberry,
Ramblings from a Chaotic Mind
“Wow. Just wow. This book blew me away. I was so deeply connected to this story that I read
this book in lieu of doing anything for the past two days. No laundry, no evenings working, the
dishes are piled up and my poor kid is wondering where Mommy went.” — Kilts and Swords
“This world is beautifully crafted and 100% believable. One of Monica’s gifts with her writing is
being able to provide the reader with the images without being bombarded with details nor
causing you to want to skim sections. — Viviana Enchantress Of Books
—§ § §—
His Mistress by
Monica Burns
Book 1 in the Self-Made Man series
Read One Chapter
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 4 Flames
Light BDSM (Fifty Shades of Grey level)
HIS MISTRESS is “powerfully done, and the
scenes between Tobias and Jane mesmerized
me. I loved it.”
— Joey W. Hill, author of the Knights of
the Board Room series
As a solicitor seeking justice for victims of violence, Tobias Lynsted must maintain control at all
times while working in the seedy underworld of London’s East End. The darkness of his world
creates a need for the intimacy and release he can only find in the forbidden pleasure of
submission. The kind of pleasure where a powerful man has the freedom to let go of his control
for a few sweet moments of oblivion. But when a blackmail scheme forces him to marry, the last
thing he expects in a wife is a woman who will satisfy the darker side of his nature.
Lady Jane Grisham has no desire to marry, but choosing marriage over a life of destitution is an
easy choice to make. Although Jane knows love is for the foolish, Tobias awakens her most
wicked and darkest of desires. In the sinful world of domination and submission, Jane uses her
blossoming skills to make Tobias surrender not only his body, but his secrets. But she quickly
discovers that the true test of her strength is trusting Tobias with her heart
§ § §
Chapter 1
London 1892
The man had lost his mind.
Tobias fought to hide his amazement at the Earl of Culverstone’s offer. The last thing he
needed was a wife. Lady Jane seemed pleasant enough, but he had more than one reason for not
taking a wife before now. The unsavory prospect of the earl as his father-in-law was another
reason he could add to the list. But the darkest reason was a much greater threat.
“In different circumstances, you would be unsuitable for Jane.” The earl’s expression was
condescending with an air of superiority. “But experience has taught me that you’re an honorable
man, and where you’re concerned, I can make an exception with regard to your background.”
“As much as I appreciate your willingness to accept a commoner for a son-in-law, I must
refuse.” The note of sarcasm in Tobias’ quiet response went unnoticed by the earl.
“Refuse?” Culverstone snapped. “I’ve just handed you the golden goose, Lynsted. Why the
devil would you refuse?”
“I have no desire to marry, my lord.”
“Nonsense. Every man needs a wife, if only to sire an heir.” Culverstone eyed him with a
calculating look that hardened Tobias’ muscles with tension as the earl shrugged. “I know Jane is
a mousy thing, and while she’s been on the shelf for years, an annual living of five thousand
pounds should be enough for you to take her off my hands.”
“Nonetheless, I must refuse. As I have already stated, I have no wish to marry.”
Tobias suppressed his irritation at the earl’s assessment of Lady Jane. Although he’d never
given much thought to the looks of the earl’s daughter, it didn’t excuse Culverstone’s cavalier
manner when it came to his own progeny. He frowned slightly as he tried to remember what
Lady Jane actually looked like based on the few occasions they’d greeted each other.
All he could recall were gray dresses, dark hair pulled severely away from a round face,
and a wide-eyed gaze that was at odds with her straight-laced appearance. Regardless of the
woman’s looks, Culverstone’s derision set Tobias on edge.
“I’m not willing to accept your answer, Lynsted,” the earl said. With an arrogant smile,
Culverstone rose from his seat and moved to the window a few feet away from his desk. Tobias
had never cared for the man, but the earl paid well.
“Unfortunately, I can offer you no other response.”
“Oh I think you can, my boy.” The earl turned to face him, a smug look on his features.
“I’m sorry my lord, but I have no need of a wife,” Tobias said as he rose to his feet. “Now
if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be late for my next appointment if I don’t leave now.”
“Ah, yes, your appointments. What would happen if your clients knew what you did when
you’re not tending to their affairs?”
“I’ve never hidden the work I do in the East End,” Tobias said with a cold contempt.
“Actually, I was thinking about your more…leisurely activities,” the man said in a complacent
manner, and Tobias stiffened. The bastard sounded as though he held the winning card in a game
of chance. He narrowed his gaze at the earl.
“How I take my leisure is no one’s concern.”
“Perhaps not if it were considered normal by society’s standards. Sit.”
A small smile of cruel satisfaction curved the earl’s lips as he nodded toward the chair
Tobias had vacated only seconds before. There was an ultimatum in the command that Tobias
obeyed with great reluctance. Antipathy snaked through Tobias as he visualized pummeling the
earl until the man was pleading for mercy.
With an icy restraint he generally reserved for the criminal elements he dealt with in the
East End, Tobias moved slowly toward the chair. Deliberately, he forced a thin smile to his lips
as he struggled with the rage and darkness surging through him. As Tobias sat down, the earl
clasped his hands behind his back.
Determined not to give the bastard any advantage in their conversation, Tobias rested his
elbows on the arms of the chair. Fingers steepled in front of him, Tobias forced himself to
maintain a casual demeanor and eyed the man with feigned curiosity. Despite his outward
appearance of nonchalance, he was anything, butrelaxed. Whatever information the earl
possessed, surely it couldn’t be his darkest secret. The earl’s forehead furrowed in a scowl as if
he were worried about something.
“You don’t seem concerned, my boy.” Again the feigned words of familiarity. Tobias
gritted his teeth.
“Should I be?” He arched his eyebrows at the man’s statement.
“Actually, I think you should, given the information I received yesterday.”
“Information?” Tobias’ limbs became as rigid as freshly cut hardwood.
“Yes,” the earl said with a nod of satisfaction as if aware of Tobias’ tension. “I think you’re
familiar with a townhouse near Regent’s Park at the end of Harrington Street.”
“Harrington Street?” Tobias successfully kept his voice devoid of emotion, despite the
panic slicing through him.
“Yes. A house that caters to various types of sexual perversions and persuasions.”
The earl frowned then smiled as if fully aware that Tobias’ response was designed to avoid
addressing the topic altogether. With the steely control he’d learned a long time ago, Tobias
maintained his outwardly nonchalant composure. Inside, his anxiety threatened to take full
control of his senses. He was unaccustomed to the sensation, and he didn’t like it.
How in the hell could Culverstone know anything about his choice of lifestyle? Over the
past year, work had severely limited his visits to La Maison des Plaisirs Sombres. In fact,
extremely limited those visits. In the last ten months alone, he’d visited the club only two or
three times. And those visits had been private sessions, which Angélique had arranged with one
of the more experienced Ladies in the club.
Even at the hand of that skilled Lady, those few moments had provided only a small
measure of sexual release. The effort to quench his dark needs had barely touched the surface of
the desires buried deep inside him. Now, Culverstone was threatening him with exposure and
jeopardizing the one outlet he possessed for appeasing the demons that plagued him. Rage
crushed the panic inside him. He narrowed his eyes at the earl.
“Are you suggesting I’m a sodomite, my lord?” Tobias’ anger made his voice harsh, and he
bit down on the inside of his cheek. It was his first display of anger since the conversation had
begun. A fact the earl did not miss as the bastard smiled pleasantly.
“Not at all. My informant assures me that your tendencies for buggery are quite
unfounded.” The disclosure tightened the knot in Tobias’ stomach.
“I fail to see the point to this conversation,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.
“Then let me clarify it for you, Lynsted. If you don’t marry my daughter, I shall expose
your proclivity for deviant behavior, which will ensure a complete loss of income.” The earl’s
calmly worded threat brought Tobias abruptly to his feet.
“What do you really want, Culverstone?”
“I’ve already told you. I wish you to marry Jane.”
“Why would you blackmail me into marrying your daughter?” Tobias snapped.
“Blackmail is a rather harsh assessment. I prefer to think of it as an incentive with regard to
the opportunity I’m offering you.”
“Don’t take me for a fool,” Tobias bit out viciously. “You’ve just threatened to publicly
denounce me as a sexual deviant. I’d call that blackmail. The question is, why?”
“Jane is an impediment to my upcoming marriage,” Culverstone said with a shrug. “Lady
Hounslow and my daughter have an intense dislike for one another. Jane must leave if I’m to
have any peace.”
“And marrying her off to me is the answer? A man you believe to be a reprobate?”
Disgust filled Tobias’ voice as he eyed the man with disdain. What sort of man was willing
to sacrifice his daughter to a husband whose private lifestyle deviated from what society deemed
acceptable? Culverstone wasn’t just a bastard, he was worse than some of the lowest gutter
elements Tobias encountered almost every day in the East End.
“Jane has asked for a household of her own, but Lady Hounslow’s of the opinion that my
daughter would be much better off if she were married. I am inclined to agree with Lady
Hounslow’s opinion where Jane’s future is concerned. Unfortunately, Jane’s age makes it
difficult to find someone equal to her station in life,” the earl said with a note of irritation in his
voice. “Thus it was necessary to look further afield. I believe you will act honorably where Jane
is concerned.”
“And what makes you so certain of that, given my, how did you say it, proclivity for
deviant behavior?”
Tobias knew he would never impose his lifestyle on any woman, let alone an innocent like
Lady Jane, but her father didn’t know that. For all the earl knew, he could be throwing his
daughter to the wolves. The thought only deepened Tobias’ contempt for the man.
“In our business dealings, you’ve proven yourself to be an honorable man. While I find
your private perversion repulsive, I believe you will treat my daughter well.”
“And Lady Jane? Have you enlightened her as to my personal entertainment preferences?”
Tobias eyed Culverstone coldly, no longer caring that his voice reflected his fury and disgust.
For the first time, the earl displayed a less than confident air.
“Most certainly, not,” the earl snapped. “And you’ll hide it from her as well. You’re not to
injure her with any mention of this perverted form of bed sport you practice.”
Like it or not, the earl had neatly backed Tobias into a corner. It left him with one of two
choices. He could walk out of the earl’s study and find his livelihood destroyed or he could
marry Lady Jane. As his mentor, John Fordyce, would say, neither choice was palatable, but he
needed to swallow one or the other.
In his mind’s eye, Tobias could see John’s patient, understanding smile. The man he’d
come to look upon as a father would never judge the decisions any of his protégés made. But like
his friends who also owed their success to Fordyce, Tobias had always measured most of his
choices by what John might think of him.
The muscles in his jaw tightened painfully as Tobias met the earl’s triumphant gaze.
Culverstone knew he’d won. The self-satisfied look on the earl’s face said as much, and the man
cocked his head to one side to study Tobias in silence. The bastard had laid his trap well. Every
possible escape mechanism Tobias considered met with defeat. The one outcome he did have
control over was breaking his association with the earl as the man’s solicitor. Resigned to his
fate, Tobias kept his expression stoic and rose to his feet.
“I’ll provide you with names for my replacement as your solicitor by the end of the day.
Once you’ve made your selection, they can draw up the nuptial agreement.”
“Simply because you’re going to be my son-in-law doesn’t mean I need a new solicitor.”
Culverstone offered him a congenial smile.
“I insist,” Tobias said in a withering tone. When the earl opened his mouth to protest,
Tobias shook his head. “Once you’ve made a decision as to your new representative, instruct
your new man as to the details.”
“As you wish.” The earl shrugged his shoulders. “I shall inform Jane of our arrangement.
Naturally, I expect you to court her for a short time to avoid any gossip. I don’t want Jane made
the object of ridicule.”
“Naturally.” Tobias didn’t bother to restrain his harsh sarcasm, and the earl frowned.
“Come now, Lynsted. I’m not such a bad father as to be unconcerned about my daughter’s
welfare.” Culverstone shook his head.
“The irony of that statement is far from amusing given the manner in which you’ve just
secured her a husband,” Tobias bit out between clenched teeth, and the other man arched his
eyebrows in disdain.
“If you’re worried my informant will blackmail you in the future, let me assure you that the
matter is closed and will not be opened again.”
“You’ve just blackmailed me into marrying your daughter. Forgive me if I find your
assurances far from reassuring,” Tobias sneered as he headed toward the door. “Good day, my
lord.”
Tobias strode out of the study and closed the door behind him with a loud crash. For
several seconds, he stood with his back to the door contemplating his fate. Culverstone had
obviously been planning this for some time. The bastard must have paid someone to follow him.
No, having him followed wouldn’t have been enough. Culverstone seemed to have intimate
knowledge about the activities that took place in Angélique’s establishment.
The earl’s informant had specifically said Tobias wasn’t a sodomite. That meant only one
thing. Someone who’d actually been inside Angélique’s place of business had broken the rule of
silence. Secrecy was more than an expectation in the circles he moved in. It was a code one lived
by to avoid financial and social ruin.
Betrayal had seen more than one traitor find their way into the Thames.
The sound of female voices echoed in the hallway, and his muscles drew up tight like a
finely tuned piano wire. One voice he’d never heard before, but the quiet, unassuming one he
recognized. Lady Jane. No, as his future wife, she was simply Jane to him now. He stood there
for a moment, the reality of his situation sinking deeper into his bones. Culverstone had spun a
web which offered no hope of escape.
Tobias turned his head in the direction of the voices as they pierced his thoughts once
more. The earl had said he would inform his daughter about their upcoming nuptials, but Tobias
was tired of having the bastard dictate to him. Jane deserved at least the semblance of a proposal.
Tobias winced.
The only words spoken between them had been polite greetings as they’d passed each other
in the earl’s house. His proposal would come as a complete surprise to her. How was he
supposed to explain his sudden interest when they were barely on speaking terms? Tobias gritted
his teeth at the notion he would have to surrender to Culverstone once again.
“Fuck,” he rasped softly.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
Tobias jerked his gaze up to meet the condemnation in the butler’s gaze. He simply stared
at the servant until the man’s look of contempt changed to one of discomfort.
“My hat and cane,” Tobias snapped.
“As you wish, sir,” the butler said in a voice that echoed with disapproval. “But Lady
Hounslow asked me to show you into the parlor once your business with his lordship was
concluded.”
Tobias arched his eyebrow at the servant’s clipped response. The butler’s cold emphasis on
Lady Hounslow’s name left Tobias with the impression that Culverstone’s bride-to-be was
managing the household as if she were already mistress.
Although the butler’s expression was stoic, Tobias had learned to read people well. Instinct
and experience made him certain the butler cared little for the lady in question. With a sharp nod,
Tobias followed the butler down the hall to the parlor. The moment he entered the room, a petite
woman sitting on a green velvet-upholstered sofa looked up from her needlepoint and smiled
with pleasure.
“You must be Mr. Lynsted. How lovely to finally meet you. I’m Lady Hounslow. The earl
has spoken highly of you on more than one occasion.” The woman rose from the couch, and
moved toward him with one hand outstretched. “I do hope you’ll forgive my presumption in
asking you to join us.”
“Lady Hounslow,” he murmured as he bent politely over her outstretched hand.
Straightening, he noted Culverstone’s choice in bride was exquisite, but there was a hard
glint in the woman’s eye. It was obvious her gentle appearance was little more than an illusion.
This woman would be a fierce enemy if someone challenged her. The smile still on her lips,
Lady Hounslow turned away from him.
“Jane dear, come greet our guest.”
Lady Hounslow turned toward a corner of the room where Lady Jane sat bent over a fragile
looking secretaire. With more interest than he’d done in the past, Tobias took careful inventory
of the woman he was to marry. The line of her back was rigid with tension, a clear indicator she
didn’t like her future stepmother’s authoritative manner. Her movements stiff, Jane slowly stood
up and turned to face them. Her mouth was tight with displeasure, and her demeanor hinted at a
stubborn streak he hadn’t noticed before.
“Lady Jane,” he said quietly as he bowed in her direction.
“Mr. Lynsted.” She offered him a quick curtsey then clasped her hands in front of her.
“Irene, I’d like to speak privately with our guest.”
“I couldn’t possibly leave you unchaperoned, Jane.” Lady Hounslow’s scandalized gasp
was as contrived as her look of shock. “It would be inappropriate, and—”
“As inappropriate as you sharing my father’s bed most nights?” Jane’s retort was soft, but
brutal, and Lady Hounslow gasped in outrage.
“How dare you—”
“Leave us now, my lady. I will speak with Mr. Lynsted, alone.”
There was a steely note in Jane’s voice that made Tobias suddenly realize she was far from the
demure creature he’d thought her to be. From the antipathy vibrating in the room, it was obvious
this wasn’t the first time Jane had thwarted the older woman’s wishes.
A familiar darkness edged its way along his senses as he watched Jane silently exert her
will over the other woman with a look even he would find difficult to ignore. Few men
appreciated the strength a woman like Jane possessed, but he did. Lady Hounslow huffed her
anger then swept from the room with an air of affront that had Tobias biting back a smile. The
woman clearly did not like taking orders from her future stepdaughter.
Tobias turned his attention back to Jane. The relief flashing across her face resembled that
of someone who’d just dispensed with a disagreeable cur. Her gaze shifted to meet his, and like a
door closing, her expression became unreadable. The room filled with tension again, but this
time it was between the two of them. She turned away from him to walk back to the secretaire.
Her fingers brushed over the surface of the light oak furniture as if seeking comfort from the
touch. Like her, the small desk seemed out of place in the large salon. Even with her back to him,
her tension was almost a tangible force.
“Lady Hounslow informs me that my father has spoken to you regarding a personal matter
that is related to me…as well as yourself.”
The tension in her body seemed to ratchet even higher as her posture became rigid and
inflexible. Her voice was devoid of emotion, but he recognized the unspoken understanding
running beneath her words. She knew exactly why he was here.
“Yes.” Tobias nodded. “I’ve come to ask if you would do me the honor of becoming my
wife.”
Jane dropped her head in resignation. Based on the altercation with Lady Hounslow, it was
clearly difficult for Jane to submit to the forces dictating her future. She straightened and turned
to meet his gaze with cool assessment.
“I suppose I should be grateful you asked me the question directly as opposed to viewing
the matter a fait accompli.”
Humiliation echoed in her voice, and Tobias barely suppressed a vicious expletive. The earl
had done more than back Tobias into a corner. The bastard had made his daughter feel like
second-hand goods. A sudden desire to comfort her, help her restore some semblance of control
to her life, hardened his body with a lust that appalled him.
Christ almighty. The woman was to be his wife. She would never understand his needs or
the darkness that drove him. Tension tightened his jaw painfully as he crushed the urges
threatening to rise to the surface. When he didn’t respond to her accusation, Jane’s humiliation
swiftly changed to anger.
“How much?” Bitterness filled her question, and he didn’t pretend to misunderstand her.
“Five thousand a year,” he said quietly
“As little as that?” Her words were barely audible as her shoulders slumped slightly before
she straightened upright. “You settled too quickly on a sum, Mr. Lynsted. My father would have
easily paid up to twenty thousand to rid himself of me.”
Brittle and sharp, her accusation made him stiffen with anger until he saw a flash of
vulnerability cross her face. Once more he experienced the urge to comfort her. The sensation
spread its way through him like a raging fire. What the hell was wrong with him? If this woman
discovered his secret she’d be horrified and shocked. A pink flush of color darkened her cheeks,
and he realized he’d been staring.
“You judge me too harshly, my lady,” he murmured soothingly.
“Do I?” Jane eyed him with restrained anger as she shook her head. “You agreed to marry
me.”
Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Tobias clasped his hands behind his
back. The past, and his work in the East End, gave him insight into what it felt like to be
powerless in a situation not of one’s own making. He wasn’t about to tell her that Culverstone
had blackmailed him into marrying her. It would only heighten her sense of being sold, and the
last thing he intended to do was reveal his private reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. He
quickly dodged the oncoming bullet.
“Am I to understand that you have no desire to marry me?”
“I have no desire to marry at all,” she snapped, an undefinable emotion layered beneath her
response.
“I see. So we have a problem.”
Jane turned her head away from him for a moment. Tobias studied her profile with
curiosity. The curve of her cheek suddenly made his fingers itch to caress the line of her jaw to
see if her skin was as soft as it looked. Despite the stubborn set of her posture, the vulnerability
he’d seen moments ago was still visible. She turned to face him again, her expression filled with
determination and a quiet strength that intrigued him. The emotions she displayed were at odds
with the nondescript woman with whom he’d exchanged only a few polite greetings over the past
three years he’d been Culverstone’s solicitor.
“I’m the one with the problem. I can either marry you or be cast out on the street without a
farthing to my name.” Hands still clasped and knuckles white from the tightness of her grip, Jane
met his gaze unflinchingly. “Since I have no desire to be destitute, it seems I must marry you. All
that remains is for us to reach an understanding.”
“And that would be?”
“Our marriage will be in name only, and we will lead separate lives.”
The emphatic statement didn’t surprise him, but his disappointment did. He stiffened as his
head was suddenly filled with thoughts of exploring the curves beneath the hideous gray shroud
she wore. Curves that said her breasts would be full and lush in his palms. He drew in a quick
breath at the image then swallowed hard. Their gazes met, and she frowned. A sudden urge to
give her pleasure rose up from deep inside Tobias until his stomach was tied in knots. His mouth
went dry. He’d not experienced something this visceral in a very long time.
“I shall also receive an allowance of one hundred and seventy-five pounds a month to do
with as I please.” Her demand was more than one third of the annual living her father had settled
on her, but with his own personal wealth, he had no need of the earl’s money. About to nod his
head, his gaze swept over her drab dress. The desire to see what possible treasures lay beneath
the garment made his mouth go dry.
“I shall agree to your conditions provided you grant one or two of mine,” he said quietly.
“And those are?”
Anger flashed across her face as she studied him with an imperious tilt of her head. In the
space of a heartbeat, his body tightened with anticipation. She was a natural. What he wouldn’t
give to have her exerting her will over him in their bedroom. His jaw tightened as he tried to
redirect his thoughts. He failed.
“You’re to buy several dresses that are more colorful than this depressing gray you seem so
fond of.” He waved his hand at her gown in a sweeping gesture.
“I don’t understand.” A startled look crossed her features, and she looked down at her dress
then back up at him in puzzlement. “My gowns are quite serviceable.”
“Nonetheless they are drab. Despite our leading separate lives, it will be impossible to
avoid seeing each other while sharing the same house. I see enough dark colors in my daily
work. I have no wish to see more when I come home.”
He pushed aside the fact that there was more to his demand than he was willing to admit as
she slowly nodded. From the wary expression on her face, he had no doubt she would balk at his
next condition. There was only a small risk tied to his demand, but an image of her hovering
naked over him with her dark hair loose about her shoulders compelled him to name the
additional price.
“As for our martial relations, you will agree to welcome me into your bed for at least one
night before our first anniversary. The time shall be of your choosing, and you shall
have complete control of your pleasure.”
“No.” It was a staccato beat that echoed loudly in the room despite her soft voice. Cheeks
flushed with a dark pink, she eyed him with righteous indignation.
“Then I shall bid you good day, my lady.”
Tobias kept his features unreadable as he turned away and walked toward the door. The
fact that he was pushing her deeper into the corner her father had penned her into made Tobias’
gut clench. He was just as much a bastard as Culverstone.
“Stop.”
It was a firm, simple command that tightened his gut with an inexplicable emotion. He
slowly turned around, and his gaze focused on her rebellious expression. In a split second, pure,
dark lust unleashed its fury inside him. His unexpected reaction to her made his muscles grow
taut as he forced himself to rein in the anticipation coursing its way through him. What the hell
was wrong with him? It wasn’t like him to be moved by a woman outside of his dark world.
“Yes?” He cocked his head in a display of nonchalant curiosity, while desperately fighting
off the urge not to tug at the shirt collar that had suddenly become quite snug against his throat.
“Like my father, you leave me with no choice but to accept your conditions, Mr. Lynsted.”
Like a proud Amazon princess, she studied him with contempt. The strength in her tugged
the dark lust back to the surface as his gaze met her challenging one. He crushed the rising tide
of desire, but with greater difficulty than before. Bloody hell, he’d gone too long without sexual
release. What else could explain the intensity of his base reaction to Jane?
“Then we are in agreement,” he said through clenched teeth and extended his hand to her.
“We are.” Jane stepped forward to shake his hand.
The moment her hand slipped into his, a jolt of electricity streaked up Tobias’ arm and
spread its heat through every inch of him. Like a fire out of control, it stirred his blood until he
craved even the smallest taste of her. Citrus and the subtle hint of vanilla filled his nostrils, and
he barely managed to let her hand go after sealing their bargain with a handshake.
Disappointment slashed at him the instant she withdrew her hand from his. Almost as if she
knew the effect she had on him, a small smile touched her lovely mouth as she met his gaze.
God, but she would be magnificent if she were ever to learn how to exert that incredible feminine
power dwelling just beneath the surface.
Desire surged its way through him until he hungered for her to lay siege to his body in
every way possible. The abrupt sound of alarm bells clanged wildly in his head. Damnation,
Culverstone’s inescapable web had just become a cocoon. He swallowed hard. Ruination might
have been the better of option after all.
Buy His Mistress Now
§ § §
Critical Acclaim
“Never have I been so consumed with a historical romance that I didn’t want to put it down.
NEVER. Monica Burns has created an erotic and incredibly emotional journey that I didn’t want
to end!” — Ramblings from a Chaotic Mind – 4.5 Stars
“Emotionally riveting and stunningly sensual…pushes all the boundaries of the traditional
historical romance and leaves you wanting more!” — The Romance Reviews – 5 Stars
“It’s not just about sex and domination…when the heart gets involved it’s all about coming to
grips with one’s past, letting go and finding your HEA. Loved it!! Burns writes with finesse,
passion, emotion, and her sex scenes are well written, with taste and emotion.” — My Book
Addiction and More – 4.5 Stars
“…an intensely seductive Victorian-era romance that kept me riveted to the story and the
characters from the front page to the last. The writing…is beautiful and polished.” — Reading
Between the Wines Book Club – 4 Stars
—§ § §—
His To Command by
Monica Burns
Book 1.5 in the Self-Made Man series
Read Excerpt
Novel Length - Novella/Short
Heat Level - 4 Flames
Reissue Coming April 2015 - Previously published in
the Wanton Christmas Wishes anthology
From the moment John Fordyce saved Charlotte
Clayworth from drowning at the age of five, the two of
them have been inseparable. Trapped in a deserted
farmhouse on a blizzardy Christmas Eve, John
desperately struggles to control his desire for the
woman he’s grown up with. When a small act of
discipline compromises Charlotte, honor requires John
to make a marriage proposal different from the one he
intended.
When Charlotte realizes she’s in love with her best friend, she can’t contemplate another man
caressing her the way John does. But when he states they must marry to save her reputation and
satisfy his honor, she refuses. The thought of their friendship dissolving into a marriage
embittered by a single indiscretion horrifies her.
Their friendship crumbles as they go their separate ways until a close-knit group of Self-Made
Men decide to meddle in their mentor’s love life and reunite the two lovers. But will John and
Charlotte realize they both have the same wish—that the best of friends make the best of lovers?
This novella is a short story, which warrants only an excerpt.
§ § §
Hertfordshire, 1867
“Stay here, while I get the horse.”
John’s command wasn’t one she was about to disobey even if she wanted too. The snow
engulfed him for a moment before he emerged from the white powder like a black knight leading
his charger behind him. Without a word, he lifted her up onto the horse’s back. She was
adjusting her seat on the mare when John tugged off one of her shoes and handed it to her,
followed by the second.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Your feet are soaked, aren’t they?”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was an exasperated chastisement. Before she could protest,
John slid his hands up under her skirts and along her leg to undo her stocking. With the hosiery
released from the garter clip, he proceeded to roll the silk hose down off her leg. The warmth of
his hands spread heat across her skin, while butterflies fluttered rapidly inside her stomach. The
wickedly delicious touch of his fingers on her bare skin sent a shiver through her.
“You’ll be warmer in a moment,” he said as he misinterpreted her tremor.
With one stocking off, he threw it over his shoulder and proceeded to remove her other one. As
his fingers unsnapped the hosiery from her garter, the pads of his fingers left a trail of fire as he
worked the stocking down off her leg. There was nothing seductive in John’s touch, but it singed
her skin with a white-hot heat that sank its way down into her pores.
She wanted him to go on touching her this way. The warmth consuming her was enough to melt
the snow falling down on her. Another tremor streaked through her, and John lifted his head to
meet her gaze. The concern on his face quickly evaporated as he narrowed his eyes.
Charlotte jerked her gaze away from his. What on earth was the matter with her? She’d known
John since she was five. He’d pulled her out of the pond near her father’s parish, and from that
time forward, she’d followed him everywhere. When he’d grown older and gone away to school,
she’d lived for the summers when he’d return. He was her best friend, and until this very
moment, she’d never thought of him as anything else but that.
A warm hand grasped her ankle as John dried her foot with the top part of a stocking. Fire
streaked up her leg and reached the apex of her thigh. Charlotte swallowed hard. She was
accustomed to touching herself alone in her bed, but this was the first time she’d ever wanted a
man to touch her there.
When John was satisfied her foot was dry, he performed the same ritual with her other one.
Without a word, he pulled one of her shoes out of her hands and used the stockings to remove the
snow and water from the ankle-high footwear. In a perfunctory manner, he slid the shoe onto her
foot then repeated the action.
“There,” he muttered in an odd voice. “That will keep you dry until we get to the farm.”
Buy His To Command Now
—§ § §—
His Proposition by
Monica Burns
Book 2 in the Self-Made Man series
Coming 2015
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
Release - Fall 2015
As the owner of one of London’s most discrete BDSM clubs,
La Maison des Plaisirs Sombres, Angélique Bissette enjoys
making men submit to her. But she stops at sleeping with
her submissives—until she meets Caleb Fordyce, the long,
lost Earl of Mancroft. Several nights in Caleb’s arms make
her question everything about being a Domme. But when
she realizes she’s in love, Caleb walks away from her and
any possibility of happiness for them both. Now he’s back
with a proposition, and the stakes are high. Almost too high
if she loses.
Kidnapped as a baby, Caleb Graveney, Earl of Mancroft, grew up working in a workhouse,
which was nothing short of a nightmare. The moment John Fordyce adopts him, the horrors stop,
but they’re always with him. Caleb has always kept his demons buried deep, but Angélique skills
came close to awakening the devils that haunt him. Aware his growing need for Angélique’s
touch is dangerous; he leaves La Maison des Plaisirs Sombres, vowing never to return. But the
moment he sees Angélique again he knows he can’t resist her. Determined to cast out his feelings
for her once and for all, he offers her a proposition that will either break him or free him.
Join Monica’s mailing list for updates on His Proposition
—§ § §—
Love’s Revenge by
Monica Burns
Read One Chapter
Novel Length - Category
Heat Level - 4 Flames
Quentin Blackwell, Earl of Devlyn, wasn’t about to
marry a woman carrying another man’s child, When
he refused to marry the promiscuous youngest
daughter of Baron Townsend, the man financially
ruined Devlyn. But when Sophie Hamilton, the man’s
eldest daughter, comes to Devlyn with an unexpected
offer, Devlyn seizes the chance for vengeance. What
he doesn’t bargain on is how revenge could cost him
the one thing he wants the most. Sophie’s love.
All her life, Sophie’s tried to earn her father’s love to
no avail. Even her one chance for happiness was
crushed beneath his tyrannical thumb as he convinced
her only suitor to marry her youngest sister who’d gotten in a family way with the stable boy.
Left firmly on the shelf at forty-one, Sophie accepts her fate until she impulsively uses her
father’s criminal activities to escape a life of servitude and right a wrong at the same time. She
never really expected the Devil of Devlyn to actually accept her rash proposal, and she certainly
hadn’t planned on falling in love with a younger man.
A reverse May/December romance that will take you by surprise with a hero that’s as mature
and alpha as they come.
§ § §
Chapter 1
England, 1888
“Fischer!” Quentin Blackwell, Earl of Devlyn, shouted for his manservant as he strode
through the front door of his country estate. Behind him trailed two enormous wolfhounds. As
Devlyn halted in the foyer, he peeled off his riding gloves and slammed his crop down on the
long table braced against the wall.
The mirror overhanging the furniture flashed his reflection and the peeling wallpaper
behind him. He grimaced at the entryway’s decayed state and his disheveled appearance. He
looked as dilapidated as his house. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped at the shoulder, and a
smudge of dirt on his brown cheek emphasized the jagged white scar streaking across his cheek.
Shoving a hand through his tousled black hair, he whirled away from the mirror as if doing
so would make him forget his tattered appearance and crumbling state of his family home.
“Fischer,” he roared as he strode angrily toward his study. “Where the devil areyou?”
The door to the study slammed backward and hit the wall with a violent crash as he strode
angrily into the room. His encounter with Spencer Hamilton had only strengthened his resolve to
destroy the boy’s family. The insolent pup. The boy actually thought a pugilist match would
avenge his sister’s honor.
An image of Eleanor filled his head. No one needed to protect Eleanor Hamilton and
her delicate sensibilities, the woman was like nasty-tempered cat that always landed on its feet.
With a growl of disgust, Quentin made his way to the sideboard and splashed a stiff shot of
whiskey into a glass.
With a sharp gesture, he tossed the liquor down his throat, relishing the burning sensation
that made its way down into his chest. He turned his head toward the dogs lying quietly in front
of the fireplace. Their soulful gaze met his as anger flooded his limbs once more.
“Where in the hell did the boy get the idea that Eleanor was the injured party five years
ago?” Caesar lifted his head and cocked it to one side as if he understood the question. Quentin
stretched out the hand he held his glass in and pointed his forefinger at the dog. “Eleanor, that’s
who.”
The gentle giant released a soft whimper of commiseration at his master’s rant then lowered
his head back down to his large paws. Beside his brother, Beast just watched Quentin with a
weary look that said he sympathized with his master’s ire, but knew there was nothing he could
do to help. Quentin gritted his teeth. The fact was, Hamilton’s sister had been far from innocent
five years ago, and he was certain that hadn’t changed. A sudden snap rent the air as the glass he
held crumpled under the weight of his grip.
“Goddamnit!” He grimaced as shards of glass bit into his hand. “Fischer! Get the hell in
here!”
Whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket, he removed the glass from his palm and
proceeded to clean the small lacerations. Behind him, footsteps echoed on the barren wood
floors.
“I’m sorry, my lord. Cook had a minor catastrophe in the kitchen.” The sparse-looking man
eyed Quentin’s appearance with arched eyebrows. “Another brawl, my lord?”
He glared at his butler, manservant, and all around man of affairs. When one’s finances were
in such miserable states as his, he was fortunate to have a loyal retainer like Fischer. But the man
had the ability to make him feel like a chastened schoolboy at times. And this was one of those
moments.
“I never brawl, Fischer,” he bit out at the man’s skeptical look then looked away with
irritation.
At least not anymore he didn’t. Granted, Fischer had dressed his wounds from more than
one brawl in the past five years. The last time had been two years ago when a sailor sliced his
cheek open. His hand briefly touched the vicious scar on his face. He’d almost lost an eye, and it
had taught him to curb his temper and walk away from a fight. Although at the moment, he was
hardly a model of decorum. As Fischer studied him with an air of disappointment, Quentin
grimaced.
“If you must know, the Baron’s youngest offspring discovered I’d returned and tried to
avenge his sister’s supposed honor,” he sighed.
“I see.”
“Do you? I’m not so sure you think me innocent.” It was an unfair statement, and Quentin
shook his head in silent apology. The older man’s expression retained its serene state.
“I know you too well to believe you capable of walking away from a woman you’ve
compromised, Master Quentin.”’
Fischer’s use of his childhood name was a comforting one. The older man had used that
term of affection up until Quentin’s father and mother had died of influenza when he was
nineteen. The moment he became the Earl of Devlyn, the man had immediately begun to address
him more formally. The exceptions were moments like these when Fischer instinctively sensed
Quentin was at his lowest point.
He abruptly turned away. Fischer was right in his assessment. He could no more have
betrayed Eleanor five years ago than cut off his hand. He’d been in love with the woman. The
day she’d broken his heart, he’d set out to earn himself the title, Devil of Devlyn Keep. He’d
explored every debauched sin and deed in the past five years with the sole purpose of obliterating
the woman from his mind.
Until this morning, he’d been successful in his efforts. Then young Hamilton had accosted
him at the pond, ripping open the wound he’d thought well healed. But it wasn’t the wound he’d
expected. For the first time today, he realized he didn’t love Eleanor. Probably never had. No,
what cut so deep was the injustice of it all.
Humiliation made his lips harden into a thin line as he remembered finding Eleanor fucking
the stable boy. She’d tried to convince him that the stable hand had seduced her, but Quentin had
seen enough to know the woman was lying. He immediately broken off with her, but the minute
the woman learned she was with child she’d executed an audacious and brilliant chess move.
The bitch had done her work well the day she’d convinced Baron Townsend that Quentin
was the father of her bastard child. It had set Townsend off in a wild frenzy to avenge his
youngest daughter’s so-called honor. Almost overnight, the man has set out to take from Quentin
what little of the Devlyn fortune still existed. Shrugging out of his torn jacket, he handed it to
Fischer.
“See that it’s mended,” he said as he breathed out a breath of resignation. “It will be several
weeks before my investments will allow me to purchase a new one.”
“Perhaps you might forgo my salary this month, my lord. I think it might at least afford you
a new coat. This one is rather worn. In fact, I’m surprised the sleeve hasn’t ripped before now.”
The man’s generous offer made Devlyn tighten his jaw. He often forgot how much Fischer
truly was the only family he had. Quentin was the last living Devlyn, and Fischer had been with
him throughout his younger years. The man had gone with him to America without question and
never complained that the two of them had often lived hand to mouth for weeks on end. Forcing
a smile to his mouth, he shook his head.
“I’m not that destitute, Fischer. You’ll have your salary, and you can’t say you don’t earn
every farthing.”
“No, my lord. Indeed I can’t.” A small smile on his face, Fischer folded the coat over his
arm and nodded toward Devlyn’s hand. “Shall I send Cook in to look at that cut?”
“No, I’ll be all right. Thank you, Fischer. That will be all.”
“My lord.” The manservant bowed and left Devlyn alone with his thoughts.
Eleanor. He wanted to wring the bitch’s neck. Slowly squeeze the life out of that dainty,
golden-haired body of hers. No, that would be too easy a punishment for her. He wanted to
humiliate her. Make her pay for the lies she’d told and every bitter moment he’d suffered. And
he wanted to make Townsend pay for trying to strip him of his fortune.
Eleanor had simply used him to avoid the scandal her pregnancy would have wrought. When
she’d declared him the father of her child little more than a month after their first meeting, he’d
realized he’d been a besotted, gullible fool.
With a quick movement, he removed the makeshift bandage from his palm to stare down at
the cuts already puffy and red. He reached for the brandy and poured a small amount of the
liquor over his palm.
“Fuck,” he snarled softly as fire spread quickly through his hand.
The stinging reminded him of Eleanor’s betrayal. He’d been oblivious to every one of her
faults. Instead, he’d allowed love to blind him. He’d even come close to proposing to the woman.
Never again would he allow his heart to blind him in such a way. No doubt, she would have
continued her whoring after they were married. But fortunately, he’d caught the bitch and the
stableman rutting like common beasts in one of the Townsend’s horse stalls.
He wrapped his palm with the clean side of his handkerchief and moved to stand behind his
desk. With his uninjured hand, he sifted through a thin pile of invitations. Word had already
spread throughout the county that a Devlyn was once again entrenched in the Keep. He smiled
cynically. It seemed his neighbors were more than ready to forgive any of his past transgressions.
Well, to hell with them. To hell with every one of them.
“My lord.” Fischer’s voice echoed with aggravation, and the sound pulled Devlyn’s gaze up
with a jerk to stare at the man hovering in the study’s doorway.
“What is it, Fischer?” he asked as he observed the manservant’s state of apoplexy with a
frown.
“It’s a lady, my lord.”
“A lady?” Quentin frowned darkly. He wasn’t in the mood for guests, particularly an
unescorted woman.
“Yes, my lord. But…well, I’m afraid…”
“Out with it, man!”
“It’s Miss Hamilton.” His body snapped to attention, his limbs rigid with tension. Eleanor.
No. She was married now to that idiot Townsend had found for her. This had to be Eleanor’s
sister. He released a weary sigh. The last thing he wanted was to see another of Townsend’s brats
today.
“Send her away, Fischer.”
“I’ve already tried that, my lord,” the manservant said with a ferocity that was unlike him.
“What the devil does she want?” No sooner had he asked the question than a tall woman
appeared behind Fischer.
“Lord Devlyn, please forgive my intrusion. I’m sure it’s unexpected andunwelcome.”
The husky sound of her voice stroked its way down his back in a way he’d not experienced
in a long time. As Fischer stepped aside to let him handle the situation, Quentin debated crossing
the room and closing the door in her face. But he didn’t. A small, perverse voice in his head
urged him to listen to what the woman had to say.
“Miss Hamilton.”
Quentin gestured for her to enter the study as Fischer closed the door behind the woman.
With a guarded look, he watched her step deeper into his private domain. Almost as if they’d
been waiting for her to reach the middle of the room, the wolfhounds rose up off the floor. He
allowed himself a small smile of derision as Caesar and Beast moved toward her.
Miss Hamilton had dared to enter his house uninvited, and if the hounds frightened her, he’d
offer up no sympathy. Despite their size and fierce appearance, the wolfhounds were gentle
creatures, but his unannounced visitor didn’t know that.
He waited for her to draw back in fear, but to his amazement, she bent over to scratch Beast
under the chin and tugged on Caesar’s ear before straightening. The animals’ betrayal made him
glared at the dogs. Sensing their master’s displeasure, the hounds ducked their heads in shame to
slink back to the hearth.
Dressed in a royal blue riding habit, trimmed in black, her hat had black netting that
prevented him from distinguishing her features easily. There was a mysterious quality to the
woman, and it annoyed him to admit the fact. Few people reacted so casually to his dogs as she
had. The woman made a slight curtsey then inhaled a deep breath as if uncertain how to proceed.
Clearing his throat, he folded his arms across his chest and noted how she jumped at he did
so. She wasn’t afraid of his hounds, but his simple movement had made her as skittish as a colt.
His fingertips grazed the linen of his shirt, and he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a coat.
If he were feeling more charitable, he would have made himself more presentable. But he
was feeling more irritated than anything else. Quentin narrowed his gaze at her.
“So Miss Hamilton, I take if you’re related to the Baron Townsend?” He tried to keep the
bitterness out of his voice, but failed.
“Yes, my lord.” Despite the way her rigid stance, her voice was clear and strong.
A grudging respect tightened his body. Disgusted he’d even acknowledged her quiet
strength, he directed her to take a seat in front of his desk with a sharp wave of his hand. Unable
to help himself, he watched her as she moved forward and sat down.
There was a fluid grace to her movements that made his body respond on a primitive level.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek. What in God’s name was wrong with him? She was one
of Townsend’s progeny. The dogs started to stand up from their place in front of the fire, and he
scowled at the traitors until they sank back down to the floor.
Furious within himself for finding her intriguing, Quentin took his seat and threw his feet up
on the desk. Even if he’d been properly dressed, the action would still have been a rude gesture,
and he knew it. Her body stiffened in response, and he offered her a mocking smile. Had she
really expected him to be a gentleman? He’d dispensed with gentlemanly behavior a long time
ago. The Devil of Devlyn Keep answered to no one and did as he pleased. A small voice of guilt
reminded him he wouldn’t have been so obnoxious if she weren’t related to the Baron. In fact, he
would have been thinking about how to seduce her. He crushed his thoughts.
“And to what do I owe this honor, Miss Hamilton?”
“I…I came here with a…a proposition for you, my lord.”
“A proposition.” Quentin arched an eyebrow at her and fought not to shift his position. The
woman was too damn mysterious for his comfort. “Continue.”
“I’m here to offer you…revenge.”
Her words made him slowly remove his feet from his desk and lean forward to study the
women on the other side of his desk. He didn’t like the way the netting shielded her expression
from him. In all likelihood, it was a deliberate move on her part. Exactly what did the woman
think she had to offer? Revenge for what?
Quentin’s gaze drifted down to where her hands gripped the riding crop she carried with a
ferocity that made him realize how much he intimidated her. It was obvious she was trying to
hide her trepidation, but the manner in which the netting over her face quivered from her rapid
breaths betrayed her apprehension.
He frightened her. Remorse coursed through him, and he wanted to point out he wouldn’t
harm her. Anger followed quick on the heels of his regret. Christ almighty, he was growing soft
in his old age. Although the woman had been visiting relatives at the time Quentin was courting
Eleanor, it didn’t change the fact that she was one of Townsend’s bad seeds. No doubt sent to
reap more vengeance on his head.
Determined not to relent, he smiled slowly. Although he couldn’t see his features, he knew
his smile emphasized the scar on his face. Women had told him it gave him a dangerous look.
Where this woman was concerned, he wanted to look as dangerous as he could. He wanted her to
go back to her father and confess she’d failed in whatever scheme Townsend had concocted.
“What an intriguing concept,” he murmured with irony. “Revenge on whom?”
“My sister, Eleanor.” Her response made him arch his eyebrows. He’d expected her to say
Townsend.
“You’re willing to betray your only sister?”
“Yes…” She paused slightly. “And my father.”
“Why?”
The harshness of his one word question made the netting covering her face stir with her
accelerated breathing. The sight fascinated him for some reason. It reminded him of how fast a
woman breathed when she was on the threshold of a climax during lovemaking. He almost
growled his frustration for even thinking such a thought where the woman was concerned.
“Because what my father and sister did to you was wrong.”
Firm and resolute, her voice had a ring of truth that he struggled to discount. Slowly, he
leaned back in his chair, determined not to reveal his thoughts. He didn’t respond for a moment.
Instead, he rested his elbow on his armrest, his forefinger pressing into his cheek while the rest
of his hand supported his head.
“I see.” At his nonchalant response, she leaned forward.
“Eleanor has never cared for anyone but herself, and my father has catered to her every
whim.”
“This is all quite fascinating, but you’ll forgive me for being just a tad skeptical as to your
offer.” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“Of course,” she said with an understanding nod. “But I assure you, my lord I’m most
serious about this. I have information that will allow you to recoup what my father stole from
you, and at the same time, you’ll have the opportunity to expose Eleanor’s lies and deceit.”
“You’ve still not really answered the question of why. Why are you willing to betray your
father and sister?”
“Because they…” She stumbled to a halt as confusion and trepidation radiated out from her.
She sprang to her feet, twisting her hands around her riding crop. “I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have
come. Please…please forgive my intrusion.”
Whirling about she hurried toward the study door. Curiosity getting the best of him, Quentin
sprang to his feet and pursued her. He wasn’t about to let her leave without learning her real
reason for coming. Her hand was on the knob when he braced his palm against the wooden
barrier, preventing her escape. She immediately took a step back and he followed. Her height
amazed him. If she wasn’t wearing that damned veil, she would almost be eye-to-eye with him.
Up close, the thin veil covering her face afforded him a better glimpse of her features, but his
hand itched to remove the netting. He refrained from doing so. Instead, he trailed his forefinger
along the edge of her jaw. The coarse netting was rough against his finger, but he was certain
that it hid skin soft as silk beneath it. It aroused him, and he tried to crush the sensation. His
attempts were minimal at best.
“Surely you don’t think I can let you leave without discovering why you’re willing to betray
your family.”
“Please, my lord. It was a mistake to come here.”
“Perhaps, but nonetheless, I’ll have an answer from you.”
“Or what?” The sudden challenge in her voice amused him. Sophie Hamilton had backbone.
He liked that.
“Hmm, what could I do to persuade you to answer?”
His fingers touched the snowy cravat tied around her neck. With a lazy movement, he gently
tugged at one of the ties. She went rigid as his forefinger slipped between her skin and the white
material before he slowly pulled the loose knot away from her throat. The cravat tumbled open to
expose her creamy throat. God, she was a tempting wench. Quentin tensed at the way his body
was reacting to her. Without thinking, he pressed his thumb against the hollow of her throat
enjoying the way her gasp moved her skin beneath his touch. Again, the netting fluttered wildly
against her face.
“My lord, please.”
“Please is a subjective word, Miss Hamilton. Are you asking me to do something wicked?
Or are you begging to tell me your reasons for this interesting proposition of yours?”
“I…I wish to…oh bloody hell!”
Her oath was so completely unexpected as she jerked away from him that he found himself
choking in an effort to swallow his laugh. Sophie Hamilton was far more interesting than any
woman he’d ever met. The fact that she was Eleanor’s sister amazed him. Two women were
never more alike. Eleanor had always tried to seduce him into doing what she wanted. Her sister
didn’t seem to have the slightest notion of how to go about using her feminine charms to gain his
assistance. She began to pace the floor, and she reminded him of a restless cat as she prowled the
study’s frayed carpeting. A sleek, beautiful cat. The analogy made him grit his teeth. He needed
to remember who she was. After a moment of tense silence, she stopped and whirled to face him.
“What my father did to you was reprehensible…” Her voice died away as she stared off into
space before her gaze focused on him again. “You weren’t the only one betrayed. They betrayed
me as well.”
The bitterness in her voice matched his own internal acrimony, but it was the distinct note of
pain that touched something deep inside him. It made him want to comfort her. He stiffened.
God almighty, he’d been wrong a moment ago. The woman was actually trying to manipulate
him. He folded his arms across his chest. Townsend had outdone himself this time. His oldest
daughter was as skilled at deception as Eleanor.
“I see.”
“When Eleanor became pregnant with her lover’s child, she needed a husband. You suited
her purpose. But when you refused to marry her, Father helped her steal my fiancée instead.”
“You were engaged to that weakling, Shively?” He couldn’t contain his surprise. For some
reason he didn’t comprehend, Sophie Hamilton didn’t seem the type to tolerate fools, and
Viscount Shively was nothing but a buffoon.
“Yes. He was…he was my last hope.”
“Last hope?”
“Yes. I’d already given up hope of ever marrying until I met Andrew. I was never the pretty
one in the family.”
He watched her take a deep breath as she slowly reached up toward the netting covering her
face. As she revealed her features, he eyed her with curiosity. For someone who believed herself
unattractive, she was quite the opposite.
Although she wasn’t a beauty by any stretch of the imagination, her hazel eyes were large
and echoed with warmth, while her complexion was smooth and creamy. Wisps of brown hair
framed her heart-shaped face and her full mouth pouted in a manner that brought his cock to
attention. The reaction startled him. Clearing his throat, he turned away from her to hide the
sudden arousal. Closing the distance between himself and the desk, his fingers touched the
scrolled woodwork on the edge of the furniture’s flat surface as he willed his body to fight his
sudden attraction.
“I think you underestimate yourself, Miss Hamilton. I’m sure there are plenty of men willing
to offer for you.”
“No, my lord you’re wrong. Offers of marriage have been nonexistent for many years.”
“Come now, I think you exaggerate, Miss Hamilton.” With his body once more under
control, he turned to face her again.
“Perhaps. But it’s of little consequence,” she said with a small shrug before her gaze met his.
“Now that you’ve received the answer to your question, my lord, I will bid you good day.”
Frustrated, he realized he didn’t want her to leave. She intrigued him and the pain he’d heard
in her voice had been real. He was willing to wager money he didn’t have on that. It was a pain
he was more than familiar with. Empathy pushed its way through his distrust until he was almost
ready to forget she was Townsend’s daughter. Angry that he’d allowed the woman to get under
her skin with her story, his jaw went tight with tension. She was a catalyst for another plot on
Townsend’s part to inflict more damage, and he intended to prove it.
“Before you go, why don’t you tell me what you’d hoped to receive in exchange for this
method of revenge you offer me?” His question caused her luscious mouth to curve in a slight
smile as she arched an eyebrow at him with obvious amusement.
“Marriage.”
“Marriage?” he exclaimed. “To me?”
“Yes.”
“Good God, woman. Whatever made you think I’d make a suitable husband?” Quentin
stared at her in amazement. Why in the hell would Townsend want him for a son-in-law?
“I didn’t think you’d be suitable at all.” Her smile was filled with irony as she tipped her
head to one side and studied him with a matter-of-fact expression on her face. “In fact, I knew
you would be far from the ideal husband.”
“Then why settle for me? I’m sure there are any number of men willing to marry you.”
“I’m beginning to have my doubts as to your keen sense of observation, my lord,” she said
with annoyance. “I’m Eleanor’s older sister. What man would want to marry me?”
“Eleanor is at least six years younger than I am.” He frowned slightly as he calculated the
math. “My guess would be that you and I are close to the same age.”
Her pink mouth formed a moue of astonishment before she burst out into laughter. A small
part of him acknowledged it was a pleasant sound. She shook her head and eyed him as if he
were a small boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I am extremely flattered by your assumptions, my lord. But I’m afraid I’m much older than
your tender years.”
“I’d hardly refer to the age of thirty-two as my tender years.” Quentin frowned as he glared
at her, annoyed by her amusement.
“It’s quite tender when I consider my own age of forty-one.”
The comment made his jaw sag. How was it possible this lovely woman could possibly be
so much older than him? She hardly looked old enough to be his age, let alone nine years older.
Impossible. Quentin narrowed his gaze at her. He found it difficult to believe Townsend would
want him to marry his daughter, but her revelation made it difficult not to think she was
following her father’s dictates. The confession strained her credibility.
“You almost had me convinced,” he snapped.
“I beg your pardon.” She stared at him in confusion.
“I was almost ready to believe that you were here on your own accord and not at your
father’s bidding,” he said coldly. “But expecting me to believe you’re a spinster who needs to
marry destroyed the illusion. You would have been better off telling me we were the same age.”
They glared at each other for a long moment. Her affront was clearly genuine, and Quentin
experienced doubt once more. Sympathy crossed her face, and with a slight shake of her head,
she retied her cravat and covered her exposed throat. The movement made his muscles tighten in
protest.
“You must have loved her very much to still feel so much pain at her betrayal,” she said
quietly. As her fingers completed the knot at her throat, she shook her head with a look of rueful
humiliation. “I have not lied to you, my lord. I am indeed forty-one. My mother died when I was
seven, and my father remarried several years later. Eleanor and Spencer are the result of that
union.”
Head held high she brushed past him on the way to the door. Quentin spun around and
caught her arm to halt her progress. He wasn’t sure how he knew she was telling the truth, but he
did. Perhaps it was the quiet resignation in her voice that convinced him. It didn’t matter. She’d
come to him with an offer and given him an honest answer.
“You say you want revenge. How would marrying me give you that?”
“It wouldn’t, or at least not much,” she said as pink color crested over her cheekbones. “I
confess marrying you would infuriate Eleanor given her inability to trap you into marriage.”
“What else?” Quentin narrowed his gaze at her.
“I wanted…wanted to experience what it’s like between a man and a woman.” The color in
her cheeks deepened, before she shrugged. “I could pay for the experience I suppose, but I’m not
quite that bold. Coming here is the boldest thing I’ve ever done.”
The sudden image of watching her face as he thrust into her made Quentin’s body tighten in
a way that threw him completely off balance. The idea of teaching this woman about the
pleasures of the flesh flooded his head as he contemplated the types of things he could teach her.
His cock stirred in his trousers at the thought of initiating this woman in the art of
lovemaking. Before he realized what he was doing, Quentin pulled her toward him to trace the
curve of her mouth with his forefinger before his thumb pressed down on lower lip. It was plump
and tender. The sharp intake of her breath excited him. When was the last time he’d had the
pleasure of initiating a novice? Years. The scent of citrus drifted up into his nose as he lowered
his head toward her.
“And you’re willing to put yourself completely into my hands?”
“Ye…yes.”
“Are you certain of that? I’ve not earned my title without a great deal of wickedness.” He bit
back a smile at the flash of trepidation in her wide eyes.
“Your sexual prowess has always been widely touted in social circles. I doubt you’ve
acquired any worse deviant practices while in the colonies.”
The pulse at the side of her neck fluttered beneath her skin. He excited her. A smile tilted his
mouth at the knowledge, and he leaned forward until his lips were just a hairsbreadth away from
her shell shaped ear.
“I believe you’ll find the social circles are only half accurate. I’m far more decadent than
any rumors you may have heard.”
“But since you are not interested in my offer, you’ll not be able to confirm that,” she said in
a breathy voice.
“I don’t recall refusing your proposal.” He lifted his head to study her startled expression.
“In fact, I think I shall take you up on your offer.”
“You will?” Eyes widen with surprise, her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. Quentin
smiled.
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “I accept your offer to avenge myself in exchange for my
name and experience.”
The moment his words crossed his lips, the voice of reason shouted its objection. What the
hell was he doing? A wife? He’d actually offered to marry one of Townsend’s offspring? He
shoved the thoughts aside as he observed Sophie Hamilton closely. She blushed again, clearly at
a loss for words under his intent gaze.
Perhaps it was time to try for an heir, and he could do much worse that this delectable
creature. And if the woman didn’t give him a child, then his cousin’s brat could inherit for all he
cared. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched a quick flash of excitement and
apprehension cross her face. Her heart had to be pounding fiercely in her breast from the way the
pulse on the side of her neck fluttered so quickly. He glanced down at the snug fit of her royal
blue habit, which emphasized the size of her bust.
Lust crashed through him as he imagined caressing the firm, plump mounds. It was difficult
to believe she was only nine years older than him. The anticipation of the decadent pleasures he
wanted to introduce her too as his wife made him grow hard as a rock. His lips curled into a
deeper smile as he pinned her with his gaze.
“So?” He waited patiently as her mouth moved in the most enticing way before she nodded
her acceptance. Anticipation snagged his entire body as he smiled at her. “Then we’re agreed.
Revenge in exchanged for nights of sinful pleasures. A decidedly decadent proposition.”
Buy Love’s Revenge Now
§ § §
Critical Acclaim
“…The sex scenes are scorching, but the love between her hero and heroine is better.” —
RTBOOKReviews – 4 Stars
“Erotically crafted and sensually woven, this tale is interspersed with smoking hot love scenes
and pithy dialogue between Devlyn and Sophia. Even as they circle each other like a couple of
spitting cats, the desire between them sizzles, flourishes, and explodes..” ― Fallen Angel
Reviews – Recommend Read
“…the attraction and chemistry between Quentin and Sophie is electric; the pages vibrate with it.
From the very first page to the last, Ms. Burns keeps me on the edge of my seat devouring every
word. Each encounter was ripe with tension and in some cases, explosive love scenes that were
phenomenal to read.”— Romance Junkies –5 Blue Ribbons
“…LOVE’S REVENGE is the perfect recipe for a nice long evening of reading. This story
shines in every sense of the word.” — Romance Readers
at Heart
§ § §
Love’s Portrait by
Monica Burns
Read Two Chapters
Novel Length - Category
Heat Level - 4 Flames
2005 Reviewers Choice Award - eCataromance
When Julia Westgard commissions a nude portrait of
herself, the painting is much more than a rebellious act.
It’s an attempt to regain her self-worth after years of a
loveless, repressive marriage to her late husband. But the
private portrait puts her directly in the path of Morgan St. Claire, one of the Marlborough Set’s
most notorious seducers. A man who doesn’t take no for an answer.
From the first moment Morgan sees Julia’s portrait, he’s determined to have her. But the woman
he meets is a far cry from the image on canvas. What starts out as a simple exercise in seduction
quickly evolves into a quest to reveal the true Julia. With each sensual encounter, he employs
every erotic weapon at his disposal in hopes of making Julia see she really is the woman in
Love’s Portrait.
§ § §
Chapter 1
“It’s wicked, Julia. Absolutely wicked!”
Alva’s squeal of appalled dismay made Julia Westgard smiled with satisfaction. Her
friend’s horrified cry was an understatement. The painting was more than wicked. It was
shocking. She turned back toward the painting she’d commissioned. Tipping her head to one
side, she studied it with a critical eye.
The nude painting made her look lush and sensual. Isaac Peebles had managed to make
Julia look almost beautiful. Almost, but not quite. Although she did like the way the artist had
captured the color of her hair. Her hair was her best feature. On the canvas, soft gold highlights
spun their way through dark red hair that tumbled over her bare shoulders. Peebles had also
made her eyes the shade of green they became when she was angry. It made her eyes in the
portrait far lovelier than the plain hazel ones she saw in the mirror everyday.
“I like it.” Hands resting on her hips, she smiled with a sense of defiance. Oscar would
have been horrified. No. He would have been furious, and her punishment would have been
painful. Her fingers dug deep into the silk layering her hips. “I like it very much. Do you think I
should hang it in the salon or the study?”
“Good Lord, Julia. You cannot possibly be serious!”
The appalled note in her friend’s voice made Julia turn quickly toward the petite woman At
the horrified look in Alva’s blue eyes, she realized she’d teased her friend long enough. One
hand pressed against the dove gray silk of her dress, she shook her head.
“I’m teasing you. Of course, I’m not serious.”
The relief on her friend’s pale features made her bite down on the inside of her mouth.
Actually, she’d been more serious than she realized. She simply didn’t possess the bravado to
display the portrait. For all intents and purposes, she was a coward. The confident way she
carried herself in front of her friends was nothing but a façade. Everything she said and did was a
performance to cover up the inadequacies she felt every day. The shortcomings Oscar had
regaled her with the entire time they’d been married.
Even though he’d been dead almost two years, his cruel taunts and behavior had left their
mark. Oscar had played the impeccable, caring husband in public, but privately he’d taken every
opportunity to humiliate her. The bedroom had been the worst degradation of all. The inadequate
feelings her husband had cultivated in her still ran close to the surface, but since his death, she’d
done everything possible to regain her self-worth. It was one of the reasons she’d commissioned
the nude portrait. It had been an act of rebellion and an effort to regain the uninhibited joy for
living she’d lost during almost ten years of marriage to a brute.
“Ah ha, Calvert said I would find you here.”
Catherine Dewhurst poked her head into Julia’s boudoir. At the lively sound of the
woman’s voice, Julia moved quickly to embrace her cousin. Of all her in-laws, Catherine had
been the only Westgard to show her kindness when she’d married into the family. The two of
them had found themselves married to men of a similar nature, only Catherine had been freed
several years before Julia. Of all the people she knew, Catherine was the only one who could see
beyond Julia’s false façade.
“Come see what arrived this morning.” She grasped Catherine’s hand and pulled her cousin
toward the painting.
“Is it here? Finally?”
Julia nodded and smiled widely as Catherine stepped around the easel holding the canvas to
stare at the painting. Instantly, color flooded her cousin’s cheek before laughter parted her lips.
“Dear Lord, Alva. However did you manage to keep from fainting?”
Clearly affronted by the suggestion that she was incapable of surviving a shock, Alva’s
pale face took on a pinched look. “I’m not a simpleton, Catherine, I’ve seen nude paintings
before, but this one is not in a museum. This something quite different.”
“How is it different?” Julia straightened her back as she prepared herself for her friend’s
contempt.
“Well…it’s you,” Alva said as color flooded her face. “You’re beautiful, Julia, but why in
heaven’s name did you have to have the man paint you naked? It’s scandalous.”
“I don’t think it’s scandalous.”
“Rubbish, it’s shocking. Why the man saw you naked.” Alva’s straitlaced tone sounded so
much like Oscar’s. She immediately tossed a pleading glance in her cousin’s direction.
“Do try to explain to her, Catherine.”
“Perhaps she has a point, Julia. It is a bit…reckless, isn’t it?” Catherine sent her a
sympathetic look. “I know you wish to free yourself from the memory of Oscar’s cruelty, but
what if the wrong person saw this? What if the artist talks?”
“Other than the two of you, no one else will see it, and Peebles has been well paid to be
discreet.”
Julia stalked across the room to the painting and replaced the cloth that had covered it
earlier. If she’d wanted an unfavorable assessment of her behavior, she only had to listen to
Oscar’s voice in her head for that. It wasn’t as if she’d gone without a chaperone, she’d taken her
maid with her to each and every sitting.
Sitting for Isaac Peebles had offered her a freedom she’d never experienced before. The
portrait sittings had been a way of freeing herself of the yoke Oscar had settled on her from the
day they were married. She had been the one in control, no one else. With a final adjustment to
the cloth she’d laid over the painting, she turned to face her friends.
“I’m sorry you find it in poor taste.”
“You misunderstand me, Julia. It’s exquisite work.” Catherine shook her head and
frowned. “I merely pointed out that if it were known among the Set that you…all I meant was
that I would not like to see the portrait bring scandal down upon your head.”
“There won’t be a scandal, because I never had any intention of showing it to anyone else,”
Julia said in a stilted tone. Of all the people she knew, Catherine was the one person she’d
thought would understand why she’d commissioned the portrait. She’d even thought sweet,
inexperienced Alva would at least recognize Julia’s desire to be reckless even if only in private.
Left at the altar years ago, Alva had rejected every suitor since then and seemed content with her
life, but there were moments when Julia thought her friend longed for something more.
“He did manage to get your hair color right, that’s not easy to do. Even in the more…”
Alva blushed deeply. “…the more intimate places.”
The quiet statement hung in the air as Julia stared at her friend in stunned silence. Was
Alva actually teasing her about the portrait? She shot a glance over toward her cousin.
Catherine’s expression was equally astonished. Indignation tilted Alva’s pointed chin upward.
“Well, I can be outrageous sometimes too,” she huffed, sending them both a sheepish
glance as the room exploded with laughter. Julia shook her head as amusement continued to
bubble out of her.
Julia faced the two women seated before her. Her best friends. The only two people she
could count on to love her no matter how reckless she was. And of late, she’d been as rash just as
Catherine had said. Oscar’s family had viewed her purchase of shares in St. Claire Shipping as
not only excessive, but foolhardy. Her brother-in-law, Albert, had even been bold enough to visit
her lawyer and suggest Julia was incompetent.
Fortunately, Mr. Baxter had been the one to suggest she invest in a number of different
endeavors, and had quickly sent her brother-in-law on his way. A fact she’d been heartily
grateful for as Albert was becoming increasingly annoying in his attempts to influence her
decisions. It was her own fault really. She’d leaned on him far too much in the year after Oscar’s
death.
She’d stayed in mourning for the requisite time period, but when she’d emerged, it had
taken her several more months to find the courage to defy Albert’s attempt to control her as
Oscar had done. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d finally managed to convince Albert that she had
no intention of following his guidance in business or anything else. Julia intended to live her life
as she wanted without a man to dictate to her.
It was her silent shout against the oppressive life she’d endured with Oscar. Her first
attempt to reject the narrow confines of her life was the portrait. The adventure had only made
her determined to take more risks and live a life free of someone else’s dictates or disapproval.
She was the one in control now—no one else. She inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. The
question now was whether her friends would support her in this new adventure she had devised.
It was for a good cause, and that it was even more reckless and daring than having herself
painted in the nude made her plan even more enticing.
“If you think the portrait is outrageous, then I’m afraid of what you’ll say when you hear
what I intend to contribute to the Society’s next fundraiser.” She turned to her cousin. “Shall we
tell her, Catherine?”
“Oh, there’s no we in this idea at all.” Catherine carefully removed the hat from her head,
meticulously pushing the hatpin into the peacock feathered plumes that trailed down the back of
the accessory. Sweeping the short train of her dark green gown to one side, her cousin took a seat
next to Alva to eye Julia with a look of disapproval.
“We’re—” She paused as Catherine arched a threatening brow at her. “I’m going to acquire
a silk handkerchief from Morgan St. Claire and auction it off at the Society for Lost Angels to
raise money for the new orphanage.”
Alva tipped her head to one side, her expression puzzled. “Well that doesn’t sound all that
daring. I’m sure Mr. St. Claire will be happy to part with a piece of silk for the children.”
“I don’t intend to ask him for the handkerchief. I intend to sneak into his rooms at the
Clarendon tomorrow night at the dinner party he’s hosting for his investors.” Julia smiled at the
thought.
She was feeling quite pleased with herself about the plans for her latest adventure. To pull
one over on Morgan St. Claire would be almost as pleasurable as when she occasionally found
errors in his books. More importantly, it would be a gesture of support for all the women the man
had dallied with before leaving them with nothing more than a monogrammed handkerchief as a
token of their liaison.
“Oh my heavens, Julia. What if he catches you?” Alva sent her a horrified look.
“I have no intention of being caught. I’ve already made arrangements for one of the maids
on his floor to give me access to his rooms and be my lookout.”
“But couldn’t you just ask him for the handkerchief? He’s such a gentleman, I’m sure he
won’t refuse your request.”
“Please, Alva, do not give her the opportunity to address Morgan St. Claire’s faults.”
Catherine grimaced at the other woman. “We’ll be here all day listening to her rail at the man’s
shortcomings.”
“But Mr. St. Claire is said to be most charming,” said Alva in a bewildered tone.
Julia glared at Catherine before she turned back to Alva. “Morgan St. Claire is a scoundrel
of the worst kind who thinks nothing of tempting a woman into sin then leaving them
heartbroken with nothing but a handkerchief as a memento of the affair.”
She grimaced slightly. That wasn’t completely fair of her. After all, she’d only heard
rumors about the man’s behavior. She knew better than to take the stories at face value. But on
the other hand, she’d been on the receiving end of St. Claire’s charm when he’d thought to
circumvent her determination to review his books. Just yesterday, he’d teased her about wanting
to learn everything she could about the shipping business.
“And your antipathy for the man makes me wonder why you chose to invest in his
company?” Catherine eyed her mockingly.
“Business should never be guided by emotions. St. Claire Shipping is a sound investment.”
“I see.” Catherine’s ironic tone earned her a look of puzzlement from Alva and a glare from
Julia.
St. Claire Shipping had been an excellent investment. Armed with Baxter’s list of
candidates, she’d selected four different ventures including the shipping company. If Albert or
any of the other Westgards were to discover she was actually reviewing accounting ledgers and
conducting business in person with St. Claire, the family would immediately close ranks in an
attempt to control her just as her husband had. Although perhaps they would have good reason in
this instance.
Morgan St. Claire. A shudder rippled through her at the mere thought of the man. He’d
been the one drawback to her investing in the company. Although she’d never met St. Claire
until investing in his company, she was quite familiar with the man’s reputation.
But it wasn’t until she met him that she understood why so many women fell at his feet.
Morgan St. Claire wasn’t just handsome. His sinful dark looks were like a fierce storm
threatening to tear her asunder. All the more disturbing were those piercing blue eyes that saw
everything yet revealed nothing. There was an air about him that commanded obedience.
And he definitely didn’t like his authority being questioned. Particularly when it came to
her examination of his business. Something she’d done quite a bit of over the past few weeks.
Even she’d been surprised by her daring when she’d insisted on reviewing the company’s books
before she invested her money.
Although she’d trusted Baxter’s recommendations, she’d wanted to learn more about the
businesses she’d chosen to invest her monies. Initially, St. Claire been stubborn in his refusal to
grant her access to his accounting and clerks, but when she wouldn’t budge on the issue, he’d
begrudgingly agreed.
The fact that he’d conceded defeat in the face of her persistence had amazed her. Morgan
St. Claire was a man who gave commands. He didn’t take them. And his concession had
bolstered her confidence more than anything else she’d done since Oscar’s death. It had helped
ease the feelings of worthlessness her husband had cultivated in her. But more importantly, it had
given her a confidence she’d lost on her wedding day.
Oscar had controlled her every move their entire marriage, and that she’d found the
wherewithal to stand up to Morgan St. Claire illustrated how far she’d come in such a short time.
St. Claire was used to getting his way, but she’d stood her ground with him and won. The small
victory had fortified her confidence, and strengthened her resolve never to let any man control
her ever again.
“I still don’t see why you find it necessary to sneak into the man’s hotel room instead of
just asking for a handkerchief.” Alva’s disapproving tone pulled Julia out of her thoughts.
Frustrated, she shook her head. Didn’t either one of her friends understand why she needed
to do this? Her actions would have appalled Oscar, and that alone was enough to make her do it.
But it also gave her the opportunity to provide the Society for Lost Angels with an item that
would fill their coffers. She had no doubt that there was more than one woman willing to pay
handsomely to own a St. Claire handkerchief, if only for the notoriety of its original owner.
“Because, Alva, it won’t have as dramatic an impact if I ask him for one. Sneaking into the
man’s hotel room and taking a handkerchief without getting caught will cause a stir among the
ladies. They’ll want details about his hotel room, which I’ll be happy to elaborate on as long as
they bid on the blasted thing.”
“Surely you’re not going to admit to the Society that you entered the man’s room.” Alva
looked askance at the idea.
“Of course not.” With a wave of her hand, Julia smiled patiently at her friend. “I’m simply
going to explain that the woman who took the handkerchief prefers to remain anonymous. For
obvious reasons, of course.”
“Of course.” Catherine coughed her disparagement forcing Julia to glare at the woman.
“I’ll tell everyone the woman took the handkerchief on a dare and agreed to let me share
the tale of her nerve wracking adventure.”
“I think it’s far too dangerous, Julia. Surely there has to some other way to acquire the
man’s handkerchief.” Alva frowned in clear disapproval. “Catherine, she’ll listen to you. Tell her
it’s a mistake to even attempt this.”
“I’ve already tried,” her cousin said in a disgruntled tone. “I can’t reason with her.”
“Because you’ve not been able to tell me that my plan won’t work.” Julia eyed Catherine
with irritation. “I’m taking every precaution, and it’s something I have to do.”
She wasn’t altogether sure why this latest scheme of hers was so important. It just was. The
only real risk with having Peebles painting her had been trusting him not to show the canvas to
anyone. The man had an impeccable reputation for discretion, and she’d paid him well to keep
the portrait a secret. As there had been not the slightest hint of rumor regarding her sittings, she
was certain the man had kept her confidence.
But the entire time the man was painting her, she’d experienced an exhilaration that had
been intoxicating. Maybe that was why her plan to steal St. Claire’s handkerchief was so
important to her. She wanted to experience that sensation again. The pleasure of doing something
wicked and getting away with it.
The portrait had been a simple adventure. Taking a handkerchief from St. Claire’s room
was much more risky. Frighteningly so, but she wanted to test her newfound courage to be even
more daring. Of course, she wasn’t sure how courageous it was to undertake what was for intents
and purposes a rather foolhardy venture. But she’d made up her mind and refused to back down
now.
“But how will you prove that it’s really Mr. St. Claire’s handkerchief?” Alva’s brow
puckered as she was clearly trying to find holes in Julia’s well-laid plans.
“His monogram. We’ve all heard the story of how he gives a handkerchief to each of his
mistresses as a parting gift when he breaks with them.” Julia grimaced at her words. “Supposedly
for the woman to dry her eyes.”
She had no idea if the story was true or not, but she wouldn’t put it past the man’s
arrogance. The man was a well-known womanizer, and she could see why. As much as she hated
to admit it, St. Claire had a dizzying effect on the senses.
“Oh that sounds so romantic.”
“Don’t be a ninny, Alva. It’s not romantic at all.” Catherine turned her glare on Julia. “As
for you, cousin, I think you’ve gone mad. You’ll cause a sensation if you’re caught, and there’s
the distinct possibility of being ostracized. You know how the Queen is about circumspect
behavior. Although as far as Prince Edward is concerned, the man would probably applaud you.
Still, polite society won’t overlook an outright discretion of this sort.”
Julia waved her cousin’s concerns aside. “I won’t get caught. I have it all planned out.
Dinner is being served in St. Claire’s private dining room at the Clarendon tomorrow night. I’ll
simply ask to refresh myself then run upstairs and retrieve the handkerchief from the man’s
room. I’ll be back at the dinner party before anyone is the wiser.”
“What is that old adage? The best laid plans go astray?” Catherine mouth was tight with
disapproval, but there was concern in her gaze too.
“My maid knows the maid on St. Claire’s floor. The girl is quite trustworthy. I promise
you. Nothing will go wrong.”
Julia smiled at both of her friends with a sense of extreme satisfaction. Nothing would go
wrong. She was certain of it, and she was going to enjoy auctioning off one of St. Claire’s
handkerchiefs. She would be the first woman to own one that hadn’t been given in a moment of
pity.
Chapter 2
Morgan St. Claire caught the faint aroma of citrus on his left as he reached for his wine
glass. Every muscle in his body was tight with expectation. A sensation he’d not been able to rid
himself of from the first moment he’d seen Julia Westgard’s portrait. His head tilted to one side,
Morgan listened half-heartedly to Edward Parkinson drone on about his racing horses as he
studied Julia out of the corner of his eye.
The rich-colored blue of her gown enhanced the warm peach tone of her skin. She was like
a tempting dessert he wanted to keep all for himself. His gaze lingered on the rounded top of her
breasts and the dark cleft between them. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew her nipples
were a deep mauve color.
His cock stiffened slightly at the thought of Julia’s portrait. Ever since his first glimpse of
the painting, it had kept him awake more nights than he cared to admit. Particularly when
Peebles had snatched the cloth from him and hidden the nude from view before Morgan had
barely had time to appreciate the artwork or its subject.
It had been quite by accident that he’d even seen Julia’s provocative portrait. Morgan had
visited Peebles studio to view a painting of a friend. As always, Jonathan had been late, and
while waiting, Morgan had inadvertently dislodged the material over Julia’s portrait. The partial
view had been so entrancing he’d exposed the rest of the portrait despite Peebles’s outrage.
The fact that the artist had refused to offer up any information regarding his subject had
been frustrating. Morgan had even hired a street urchin to watch the artist’s studio, but the boy
had provided him with nothing useful in his attempts to find the woman in the portrait. It made
him think Peebles had warned the lady of Morgan’s interest and other arrangements had been
made with regard to her sittings.
Morgan had been stumped as to how to find the subject of Peebles’s painting, and when
Julia had walked into his shipping office near the docks, he’d been rendered speechless. He was
never at a loss for words, but it had taken him several minutes to gather his wit when she’d
arrived with her lawyer to discuss investing in his company. The woman in the portrait had been
that of a sensual, sultry woman accustomed to pleasing a man and enjoying the same in return.
But the Julia who’d entered his office was vastly different from the woman he’d imagined.
In fact, she was a challenge. With her cool exterior and impervious resistance to his
flirtations, she only managed to increase his determination to reveal the woman he’d seen in the
portrait. With an understanding nod in Parkinson’s direction to indicate he empathized with the
man’s problems, Morgan turned his head so he could look at Julia directly.
She was still engrossed in conversation with another of his investors, and it afforded him
the opportunity to study her profile for a moment. She wore her auburn hair up, leaving her
slender neck exposed while revealing the delicate shape of her ear. His mouth went dry at the
thought of nibbling at the spot where her neck met the gentle indentation of her shoulder. A wisp
of hair had broken loose from her upswept hair and brushed against her soft-looking skin He
almost reached out to touch it, but caught himself in time.
Damnation, he needed to control his fascination with her. One way or another he intended
to have Julia Westgard in his bed, but he wasn’t about to let his cock lead him about like a dog
on a leash. His lust for the woman had already made him break one of his most important rules.
Never mix business with pleasure. Until Julia, it had never been an issue. He knew it had been a
serious error in judgment to agree to let her invest in St. Claire Shipping, and yet before he could
stop himself, he’d agreed to sell her shares in his company.
His jaw tightened. His agreement to the contingencies she demanded as part of her
investment had been even more egregious. It was one thing to consider indulging in a liaison
with the woman, but to open up his office doors to her was altogether a different matter. And yet,
he’d done just that. He’d agreed to let the woman experience his company’s operations firsthand. A fact that illustrated how fascinated he was with the woman. And he’d do well to
remember where enthrallment generally led.
It was a well-known fact that his mother had supposedly captivated his father in the
beginning, and Morgan knew how well their marriage had turned out. His throat closed up
slightly. It hadn’t taken Morgan’s father long to stray from his wife. Embittered by the man’s
blatant affairs, his wife had come to hate the sight of Morgan because he was a younger version
of his sire. Between his mother’s distaste for him and his father’s indifference, Morgan’s
childhood had less than pleasant. And the experience had done little to recommend the state of
matrimony to him.
Julia reached for her wine glass, and the movement interrupted the unpleasant retrospection
of his childhood. Beneath his gaze, Morgan saw the pulse in the side of her neck flutter. The
delicate movement indicated she was aware of his stare, and from the rigid set of her shoulders to
the way her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass her tension was plain to see. He
liked knowing he unsettled her. It meant she wasn’t immune to him. Something she’d tried to
make him believe from the first time they’d met.
He stared at her lips for a long, drawn out moment. It was a tempting mouth. The wine had
stained her lips a dark red, and a sudden urge to taste her latched onto him with all the force of a
charging bull. He fought the desire clamping down on every inch of his body as he watched her
take a bite of her salmon. Despite her attempt to present a calm composure, he knew she was
anything but.
“You seem distracted, Mrs. Westgard.” He bit back a smile as she quickly looked away
from him.
“Do I?” There was a catch in her voice before she regained that serene composure she’d
consistently presented him with since their first meeting. “Forgive me. I’m simply savoring this
delicious salmon. The hotel’s chef has outdone himself. Do you suppose he would send me the
recipe?”
“Actually I have a personal chef who prepares all my meals, and I’m afraid Henri refuses to
share his secrets.” He deliberately paused and offered her a secretive smile. “Even with me.”
“What a pity.” She took another bite of her dinner, and his gut tightened as he watched her
mouth and suddenly wished they were alone. Her throat flexed slightly as she swallowed. “This
salmon is a dish I could eat quite often.”
“Then come back for dinner again, next week,” he said as he leaned toward her, his voice
dropping a level so that his invitation reached only her ears. The startled expression on her face
made him smile, and he saw her hand tremble as she quickly laid down her fork.
“I think that would be unwise. One should never mix business with pleasure.”
He bit down on the inside of his mouth at having his own rule thrown back in his face. She
was right, but it was too late to go back now.
“Perhaps.” He reclined back into his chair and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Although
I’m sure it would be quite—pleasurable.”
She immediately took another drink of her wine, this time more a gulp than a sip. If
possible, her confusion made her even more beautiful. What would she be like tipsy? Relaxed
and uninhibited with no barriers between them. He liked the idea.
“I’m glad to see that my Bordeaux is to your liking.” He grinned as a pink flush crested in
her cheeks. She shot him a baleful look, which only made him chuckle as he lowered his voice
even more. “You blush quite charmingly, Julia.”
“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name.” Her back ramrod
straight, she attempted to stare him down with a haughty expression. It did little good, and he
flashed another wicked smile in her direction.
“No? Forgive me, I thought you had.”
There was nothing remotely apologetic in his response, and they both knew it. She toyed
with the necklace at the base of her throat before she tightened her mouth and met his gaze
directly.
“Well, I didn’t, and I prefer to keep our relationship strictly a business one.”
“And if I don’t?”
Julia swallowed hard at the way the man almost purred the words. Sweet mother of God,
the man’s reputation was well earned. His gaze was a sensual caress as he scanned her features
before moving downward to her bodice. The warmth of a flush filled her cheeks at the blatant
stare of interest. No, not interest—insolence, that’s what it was. He was being insolent.
First, she’d had the audacity to insist on being allowed to observe his shipping operations.
Next, she’d dared to make suggestions on how to improve different processes in his offices.
She’d been a thorn in his side for the past few weeks, and now she was paying the price for
daring to challenge the great St. Claire.
His gaze held hers as he reached for his wine glass, and the knot in her throat thickened at
the way his fingers stroked the stem of the crystal goblet. Taking his time, Morgan drank from
the glass, and all the while, his movements kept her mesmerized. A secretive smile curved his
mouth and he arched an eyebrow at her.
Flustered and embarrassed that she’d been staring, she jerked her gaze back to her plate and
resumed eating. With her head bent she didn’t see him lean forward, but she felt him and drew in
a quick breath. Dark and spicy, his male scent tickled her nose. An unfamiliar sensation streaked
across her skin and sent her heart skidding out of control. Irritated she was acting like all the
other women who’d fallen for St. Claire’s charms, she clenched her jaw. Fixing a neutral
expression on her face, she met his mocking gaze with her steady one.
“As I said, Mr. St. Claire, I prefer that we keep our relationship on a firm business footing.”
“You’re far too exquisite for any man to think of you as simply a business associate, Julia.”
The honeyed tone of his voice made her feel as if she were the only woman he’d ever
found beautiful. She gave a slight shake of her head. That was ridiculous. This was Morgan St.
Claire, the man who gave away his handkerchief whenever he parted company with a lover.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. St. Claire?”
“Would you like me to?” There was a dark note in his voice, and she shivered.
“No.”
“As you wish.”
The enigmatic smile on his lips evolved into one of dry amusement as sat back in his chair.
She tried to avoid drawing blood as she bit the inside of her mouth. God, he was an arrogant
bastard. Did he really think he had but to crook his finger and a woman would come running? Of
course he did. And the terrifying thing was, a small part of her wanted to do just that.
Buy Love’s Portrait Now
§ § §
Critical Acclaim
“…Burns’ excellent love scenes and bold romance will have readers clamoring for more.” —
RTBOOKReviews – 4 Stars
“Wow. Just wow. This is a story to wrap yourself around on a long, cold winter’s evening.
You’ll even be able to turn down the heat (leaving more funds available for the book budget!), as
this scorcher provides plenty of steamy passion all by itself.” — Fallen Angel Reviews –
Recommend Read
“Love’s Portrait…will set your heart and body on fire…” — Romance Junkies – 4.5 Blue
Ribbons
eCataromance 2005 Reviewers Choice Award “…a fabulous heroine, a gorgeous hero and
plenty of heart-stopping passion and sizzling romance to keep you reading well into the
night.” — eCataromance
“Ms. Burns has another feather in her cap with this erotic historical! It speaks of ardor, lust and
emotional entanglements.” — The Romance Studio
“Morgan raise[s] seduction to a fine art (pun intended). His obvious enjoyment in every moment
and every touch will pull you in and let you share that enjoyment.” —Just Erotic Romance
Reviews
“Reading sensual historical romance from Monica Burns is like savoring the taste of a very fine
and rare wine.” — Romance Designs
—§ § §—
A Bluestocking Christmas by
Monica Burns
Read Two Chapters
Novel Length - Category
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
Sinful words, wicked pleasures and a ghost all add up to
A Bluestocking Christmas with a Dickens of a twist.
As a young man, Simon, Viscount Wycombe learned the
painful truth that a tradesman’s daughter is suitable only
for liaisons and nothing more. But Ivy Beecham is a far
cry from his preconceived notions, and he’s determined to
have her. But when she rejects him, it only increases his
determination to seduce her into a world of sin and
pleasure.
Ivy Beecham knows first-hand that handsome aristocrats
like Simon can’t be trusted. But the intellectual scoundrel
is hellbent on making her his mistress, using every means at his seductive disposal. When she
refuses to give away her heart on Christmas Eve, a ghostly specter shows her in one night why
her surrender can be the greatest gift of all.
§ § §
Chapter 1
1892
“I want to know why.”
Simon’s voice was like a whip cracking in the air, and Ivy turned away from him. His
angry demand didn’t surprise her. She’d known ending their liaison would not please him. She
was certain no woman had ever dared to discard him as she was doing now.
His betrayal had only made it easier for her to end things between them. Ivy’s heart
clenched painful in her breast at the realization that Simon had no comprehension of how he’d
betrayed her. In his arrogance, he’d brought the one person she never wanted to see again into
her home. If he’d even bothered to ask, she would have vehemently objected to his intentions
when it came to his seeking out her cousin.
Ivy swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had no one to blame but herself. If she had
kept her own counsel, he would never have thought to seek out Caroline. When her cousin had
entered the salon a short time ago, the past had rushed up to assault her senses with the sharpness
of a kitchen blade.
The constant reminders of her inferiority to the nobility, the rejection by her mother’s
family, and the painful humiliation had rushed at her like a wall of water threatening to drown
her. Worse than that was the memory of Caroline’s betrayal. Ivy’s hand pressed against the
fluttering in her stomach. It only intensified the pain of her heart breaking with each breath she
took.
“Damn it to hell, Ivy. Answer me.”
The fierce command made her mouth tighten with resentment. She’d never taken orders
well from anyone, least of all a member of the peerage. It was a remnant from the days of her
childhood when she’d been treated like a servant. Suppressing her anger, she squared her
shoulders and slowly turned to face him. The sight of him made her throat close until it was
difficult to breath. A tall, dark angel could not have looked more dangerous.
“What do you want me to say, Simon?” she asked quietly. “I thought I made it perfectly
clear. I no longer wish to see you.”
“And I asked you why.”
Again the demand for an explanation. Ivy’s fingers tightened on the swag of material that
hugged her hips as she prepared to weather the storm brewing about her. That she was facing his
anger with a serenity she didn’t feel amazed her. More importantly, she could tell her calm
manner was only increasing his ire. But she wasn’t about to reveal her heart, and the real reason
for breaking off their liaison.
“Sometimes there isn’t a reason,” she lied.
“There’s always a reason,” he snarled. “Is it because of my title? I know how highlyyou
think of the peerage.”
“If you’re suggesting our different social standings are of little consequence, might I
remind you that you deem me unsuitable for Anthony because you thought I was hoping to catch
a nobleman for a husband.” At her bitter accusation, Simon frowned darkly.
“Goddamnit, that was before I knew you,” he exclaimed in a harsh voice.
“Still, it changes nothing, and today only confirms that in my mind.”
“Other than your treatment of Caroline a few moments ago, what does she have to do with
this?”
“She means nothing to me.” The lie scraped across her heart. Seeing her cousin enter the
salon had only emphasized how much she’d lost since leaving Parkland Manor.
“No? For a commoner, your condescending snub was worthy of even the most elite
member of the Marlborough Set.” His words sliced through her, and her skin grew cold as he
emphasized the difference in their social status.
“You should never have brought her here.” She instantly regretted the bitterness in her
voice as he narrowed his gaze at her.
“I thought it would please you.” His rough explanation made Ivy’s heart skip a beat before
she extinguished the brief spark of hope in her breast.
“You were mistaken. But it doesn’t matter. My decision is final. I have no wish to continue
our liaison.”
“I don’t believe you,” Simon said with the impatience he always displayed when things
weren’t to his liking.
“Believe what you like. I’ve already made plans to go to the country next week.”
It was a half-truth, but it would prevent him from trying to stop her from leaving for Italy
the day after tomorrow. If she were to stay in England, he would find her. That she couldn’t risk.
Her heart wouldn’t be able to bear it. A flash of what might have been fear flickered in his silver
eyes, but she immediately dismissed the possibility as a familiar arrogance swept across his face.
“Change your plans.” The imperious command made her mouth tighten.
As usual, the man refused to take no for an answer. But isn’t that what you want, Ivy. Don’t
you want him to fight for you? Don’t you want him to say your social standing is of no
consequence to him? The voice in her head taunted her. More importantly, it frightened her
because she knew it was precisely what she wanted. But she wanted Simon to do so for the right
reason. She wanted more than the passion he felt for her.
“I can’t. The arrangements are already in place.”
“Can’t or won’t.” His clipped response made her swallow hard. He was making this far
more difficult than she’d imagine.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes,” he snarled. “And if you think I’m going to let you go so easily, then you’re
mistaken.”
The determination on his face made her heart pound violently in her chest. She needed to
find a way to end this conversation. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to prevent herself from
throwing herself into his arms and letting her emotions overrule her head. She wouldn’t be able
to snap the invisible cord that connected her to him. If he were to break her resolve, she would be
as vulnerable as a newborn babe. Her breath hitched at the thought. She didn’t have the strength
to risk such a possibility.
“No, Simon. You’re the one who’s mistaken. There’s nothing more to say, and I want you
to leave.”
Ivy turned away, afraid her true feelings would show on her face. She couldn’t bear it if he
knew the truth. It would give him the power to keep her with him, and that was something she
couldn’t afford to do. A second later, Simon’s strong hand gripped her arm as he forced her to
face him.
Startled she blinked in surprise as she stared up into his gray eyes. Once more, she saw the
odd flash of emotion in his gaze, but it was gone before she could identify it, and angry
frustration replaced it. Aware of her perilous condition, Ivy tried to jerk away from him. She
didn’t succeed, and flinched at the determination darkening his face.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Ivy. I have a lot more to say. But I don’t intend to use words.”
With a swift tug, Simon pulled her tight against him and covered her mouth with his in a
searing kiss. The heat of it stirred her senses into a whirlwind of desire. A strong hand slid up her
waist and then over the top of her breasts. She moaned with the need to feel his skin against hers
one more time. Just one more moment of passion for her to remember.
Without thinking, she melted into his arms as her body and heart ignored the frantic
warnings sounding in her mind. Familiar sensations tingled across her skin as his kiss deepened
into the seductive caress that had always sent her pulse skittering wildly. She offered up no
protest as he guided her toward the loveseat, his muscular legs pressing into hers. Almost
instantly, she was wet with desire, and she ached for him to assuage the need only he could fill.
The cool air brushed against her legs as he pushed her skirt upward over her stockings. A
strong hand caressed her thigh, and her body instinctively arched upward. Warm fingers stroked
her skin before they dipped into her wetness. Wild and wanton sensations held her hostage. They
blinded her to everything but this moment and his touch. Nothing else mattered except for the
overwhelming taste, scent, and feel of him.
Shuddering beneath his touch, desire drove her body to thrust up against his hand, while the
need for him to complete her burrowed it’s way along every nerve ending in her body. Since the
first time he’d touched her, she’d always been eager for his touch. Today was no different except
that it would be the last time her heart would ever beat again.
The sobering thought pulled back the curtain of desire blinding her, and she uttered a soft
cry of fear. Dear Lord, with just a single touch he’d managed to drive every sane thought from
her head. Her hands splayed against his chest to push him away, but he suddenly retreated of his
own accord. Bewildered, she watched him rise from the couch to stand over her. For a brief
moment, she thought she saw a flash of anguish in his eyes before they became cold, dark silver.
“Perhaps you’re right, Ivy. If this is all we have then there really is nothing more to say, is
there. ” With a jerk, he straightened his coat and the steely frost of his gaze bored into hers.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t overstay my welcome, but a mere commoner is the last thing I can
stomach at the moment.”
Ice sluiced across her skin at the brutality of his words as she stared up at him in horror. If
someone had cut out her heart, the pain in her chest could not have been any worse. One hand
pressed against the base of her throat, she struggled to breathe. Something akin to anguished
regret furrowed Simon’s brow, and he took a step toward her. Instinctively, she recoiled. With a
scowl of what she was certain was contempt, he wheeled about sharply and stalked out of the
salon.
Stricken by both his words and departure, Ivy gripped the back of the sofa as she pulled
herself upright. Fingernails biting into the dark mahogany trim of the green velvet couch she
stumbled to her feet and staggered a few feet toward the salon door.
“Simon.”
His name was barely a whisper as she called out to him. Seconds later, the sound of the
front door crashing shut reverberated through the room. The reality of her situation slowly forced
its way into her mind. With a soft sob she swayed and pressed her hands into the hard arm of the
sofa as she fought to remain on her feet. Oh, God, what was she going to do?
She needed to go after him. No. That was impossible. She’d just rejected him. The last
thing Simon Carlton, Viscount Wycombe wanted from her was an apology or explanation. An
explanation she wasn’t willing to give. And why should she apologize? He was the one who’d
resurrected her past, brought Caroline to London. She flinched at the thought as she remembered
the sound of his voice when he’d said he done it to please her.
One hand pressed to her brow, she closed her eyes against the thought and tried to push it
out of her mind. Had she been wrong? Did he care for her? The memory of his parting words
sent a throbbing ache through her body. No. Simon had made it quite clear that he was her better.
Desperate for air to ease the tightness in her chest, she sucked in a sharp breath.
Fresh and clean, the scent of the decorated fir tree in the corner of the room drifted across
her senses. She looked at the small tree sitting so prettily on the table in the corner of the salon. It
provoked a mixture of happy and painful memories. As a little girl, she remembered her father
lifting her up on his shoulders to place the star on the top of their Christmas tree. Her mother
laughing at them both. All that had changed when her parents’ ship had been lost at sea.
Christmas Eve. For the first time since she was that little girl watching Caroline’s parents
shower her cousin with gifts, Ivy had been looking forward to the holiday. It was supposed to be
a happy time because this year was going to be different. Simon would be a part of the holiday.
But that hope was shattered.
Her stomach fluttered, and she pressed her hand against her belly as despair cascaded over
her. It chilled her far worse than the snowy weather outside. As painful as Simon’s contempt for
her had been, it was far easier to accept than to watch him walk away if she told him the truth.
Blinking back tears, she failed to prevent the escape of one teardrop. Hands clutched in front of
her, she moved toward the Christmas tree.
Sweets and several glass ornaments gaily decorated the green branches. Dazed, she lightly
touched one of the gingerbread cookies dangling from a red silk ribbon. Simon liked Mrs.
Morris’ sweets, and the cook had made the ornaments especially for him.
Beneath the tree, she saw the carefully wrapped present she’d picked out for Simon. He
was fond of quoting Marcus Aurelius, and she’d search the city to find a book of the Roman
emperor’s sayings. Next to his gift lay a velvet-covered box with a bright red ribbon tied around
it. A note card was tucked under the ribbon with the words do not to open until
Christmas imprinted on it.
It must have arrived yesterday while she was with her solicitor. Her fingers caressed the
square box. Without thinking, she untied the ribbon and opened the lid. A sob rose up from deep
inside her as she stared down at the necklace. Diamonds and sapphires sparkled brightly in the
lamplight of the room. The gems were embedded in small stars attached to finely-spun gold
filigree that formed an oval in the jewelry box.
Simon had once roguishly said he intended to see her wearing nothing but diamonds and
sapphires. He’d obviously remembered. Ivy brushed her fingers over the hard, but beautiful
stones as tears welled up in her throat. If only she’d remembered the lessons of the past when
she’d first met Simon. She’d known they came from two different worlds, and yet she’d not
listened to her head. Her gaze focused on the necklace again, and she choked back the tears. The
necklace represented the miracle of a Christmas she’d hoped for, but would never have.
With a sharp flick of her hand, she snapped the box closed. It would go back to the jewelers
the day after tomorrow, and she would leave England for a warmer climate. In Italy, she’d forget
these past few magical months. She’d forget Simon. She’d forget everything they’d shared
together. It was a lie, and she knew it. With a shudder, she wrapped her arms about her waist and
bent her head. She’d had her head in the clouds for even daring to think Simon might be coming
to care for her. If only she’d never met him—never fallen in love—she would have been far
better off.
Do you really believe that, Ivy? Is there not some part of him that you can hold close to you
heart, even now?
The gravelly male voice behind her was as clear as the sound of her heartbeat in her ears,
and she whirled around with a gasp of fear. All that greeted her was a quiet, empty room. A
shiver raced down her back, and she rubbed her arms in an effort to warm herself. Her mind was
playing tricks on her.
Whatever she’d heard was her imagination. She was distraught about Simon, and her mind
was challenging her—telling her she’d made two mistakes today. She dismissed the thought.
Once more, she looked at the Christmas tree, tears tightening her throat. She couldn’t stay here.
Not tonight of all nights. Another tear trailed down her cheek, and she angrily brushed it away.
Crying served no purpose. What she needed was to find someplace else to lick her wounds.
Staying here, in the town house, would only make things more difficult for her. There were too
many memories here. The Library. She would go to the Library. It was almost six o’clock and
everyone would be gone—gone home to be with their families for Christmas.
Blowing out a sharp breath, she grimaced. Enough self-pity. She would go to the Library
and work. It would be a source of comfort to her. The warm, musty smell of old books would
dim the memory of Simon’s rugged scent. In the peace and quiet of the bookracks she might find
be able to forget, if only for a short time.
Her decision made, she pulled a handkerchief from the side pocket of her day gown to dry
her wet cheeks then quickly left the salon. In the main hallway, she caught a glimpse of herself in
the hall’s mirror and stared at her appearance in dismay. Behind her, Morris cleared his throat.
“Your pardon, Miss Ivy, but is there anything I can do for you?”
The deep baritone note held a distinct note of concern, and a small measure of comfort
brushed across her senses. For all his austere mannerisms, Morris had the quiet habit of looking
after her as a father might. She’d be a fool to think he’d not been privy to Simon’s furious
departure.
The entire household must have heard as well given the crash of the front door when Simon
had stormed out of the house. She flinched. All the more reason to flee to the Library. Her staff
had been with her for years, and they’d developed an affinity for protecting her.
But it was Christmas, and she’d given them time off to spend with their families. If they
thought she needed them, they would sacrifice their holiday to stay with her. She wasn’t about to
let that happen. She forced a smile to her lips and turned to face him.
“Actually you can, Morris. Would you summon a hansom cab for me and fetch my cloak,
I’ve decided to work at the Library this evening.”
Tall and portly, the butler gave a slight start. He hesitated for a second, his gaze watching
her closely. When she frowned at him, he quickly went to the front door to step outside and hail
a cab. Ivy turned back to the mirror and quickly tried to repair her appearance. Fingers trembling,
she pulled out the pins holding her hair in place and hastily rearranged her hair.
Staring at herself in the mirror when she finished, she blinked back another onset of tears.
No, she refused to cry. There was no point. A moment later, Morris reappeared at her side with
her hat and cloak. He waited patiently as she set the hat on her head, before settling the cape on
her shoulders. The gentle brush of his hands on her shoulders as he dusted off imaginary flecks
of dust gave was a comforting feeling. With a jerky movement, she picked her gloves up off the
small table under the mirror. With precision, she tugged them on before carefully smoothing
each finger making the soft leather cling to her fingers.
“And will Lord Wycombe fetch you from the Library, Miss Ivy?” At the question, she
lifted her gaze to look Morris in the mirror. She shook her head.
“Actually, I won’t be seeing Lord Wycombe anymore, Morris. I’ll find a hansom cab when
I’m ready to return home.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve, Miss Ivy,” Morris exclaimed in an appalled voice. “It will be most
difficult to find a hackney in St. James Square later this evening.”
“Thank you for your concern, Morris. But I’ll be quite all right. I won’t have another
opportunity to visit the library before I leave for Italy.”
“I do wish you would reconsider, Miss Ivy.” There was an underlying hint of disquiet in
Morris’s words, and she was certain he wasn’t referring to her visiting the library.
Avoiding the servant’s gaze in the mirror, Ivy stared at her reflection. Was that stricken
expression really hers? It was the same look she’d seen on her face the day Caroline had
betrayed her so long ago. It was with relief when Morris informed her the hack was at the front
door.
She knew the butler was worried about her, and the longer she remained in his presence,
the stronger the likelihood that he would stay through the holiday. Not meeting the butler’s gaze,
she swept past him and climbed into the small vehicle as Morris paid the driver her fare. With
great care, her servant picked up the blanket on the cab’s seat and laid it carefully across Ivy’s
knees. As Morris closed the door of the cab, she forced a smile to her lips and touched his hand
on the top of the door.
“Happy Christmas, Morris. I expect you and Mrs. Morris to enjoy the holiday with your
family. Be sure to let the rest of the staff know they’re not to return until late tomorrow evening.”
Ignoring the deep concern on the butler’s face, she looked up at the small window in the
vehicle’s roof and ordered the cabbie to drive on. The vehicle jerked forward and she sank back
into the cab’s leather seat. Despite her warm clothing and the blanket across her legs, the frosty
night air bit into her skin. Darkness had fallen on the city a short time ago, and it only
emphasized the bleakness weighting down on her.
Her sigh blew out a soft cloud of warmth from her lips as she numbly watched last-minute
shoppers hurrying out of few shops still open at this late hour. Two days ago, she’d been one of
those customers, happily calling out seasons greetings to strangers as she’d hurried home to wrap
Simon’s present.
Why on earth did she persist in torturing herself like this? It was over. Finished. There was
no going back now. One could never go back. Her cousin might have been quite resourceful
when it came to Thornton Whitby, but not even Caroline could turn back the clock.
Whitby. He’d been the first man to pay any attention to her, and she’d fallen quickly for his
smooth compliments and false promises. He’d even said he loved her. When he’d demanded she
prove her love, she willingly given her body and heart to the man.
Ivy knew now that her submission to Whitby’s caresses had been born out of a need for
someone to love her. But she’d not realized that at the time of Caroline’s betrayal. All she’d
known then was that the one person who’d said they’d loved her had stolen Ivy’s chance for
happiness. Perhaps she should forgive her cousin. After all, Caroline had saved her from a
miserable life with Whitby. Ivy released a soft, scornful laugh.
At the time, if Whitby had known about Ivy’s inheritance he would no doubt have offered
for her. Instead, he’d married Caroline. Looking back, she now saw the man for the overbearing
boor he’d been, but it didn’t make her cousin’s betrayal any less painful. Caroline deserved to
find herself a penniless widow with three mouths to feed.
Wincing at the bitterness of her thoughts, Ivy burrowed deeper into the cab’s warm wool
blanket. When had she become such an embittered woman? Ivy released another breath that
clouded white in front of her. Even the frosty air blowing across her face wasn’t as frigid as the
ice that had sluiced through her veins the moment Caroline had entered the salon. Bile rose in her
throat, and she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about Caroline or her children.
An image of three small girls forced their way into her thoughts. Their sweet smiles made it
impossible to dismiss the memory. Especially little Ivy. When the child had raced forward to hug
her—Ivy quickly banished the thought. Why would Caroline name her youngest daughter after
her? It had to be a ploy of some sort. A way to atone for her betrayal. Ivy bit down on her lip as
bitterness welled up inside her. If Caroline hoped for any redemption from her, then her cousin
was sorely mistaken. The woman had made her choice a long time ago. Ivy could never forgive
such a brutal betrayal.
But the children. She winced. Simon had been right to take her to task about sending them
away. They’d looked so thin in their threadbare clothes. Still their smiles had been sweet and
cheerful. Euripides had said that the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children. Were
Caroline’s children responsible for their mother’s sins? Could she abandon them to poverty so
easily?
The hack rolled to a stop and interrupted her chaotic thoughts. Throwing the blanket aside,
Ivy gasped softly at the loss of heat. The library wouldn’t be much warmer. Perhaps Morris had
been right. It might have been a mistake to come here. She shook her head. No the library had
always been a haven for her. A place of quiet solitude. The driver, having jumped down from his
seat, opened the door.
She gave a start as she stared into his weathered face. There was something so familiar
about him that it made her heart skip a beat. It was as if he was an old friend she’d not seen in a
long time, and it made her want to impulsively reach forward and touch his face. The outrageous
notion held her in place for a moment as she struggled to place him. She immediately shook off
her fanciful thoughts. No doubt, she’d been one of his customers in the past and remembered the
kind, avuncular air about him.
“It don’t seem right leaving ye ‘ere all alone, miss,” a frown crossed the man’s face. “Why
not let me take ye home.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be perfectly safe inside.”
“Do ye plan to stay long, miss?” The driver jerked his head toward the library, a worried
expression on his kind, but aging, features. “I could fetch ye in a couple of hours. Not too late
mind ye, I need to be getting home early, seeing ‘ow’s it’s Christmas Eve and all.”
The man’s offer was too tempting to reject, and Ivy accepted his hand to alight from the
black hansom cab. With a smile of gratitude, she nodded.
“That would be extremely kind of you. Would nine o’clock be too late?”
“Not at all, miss. Ye’ll be my last fare for the evening.”
“Thank you,” Ivy said as she moved up the steps of the library and inserted the key into the
door’s lock. “I promise not to keep you waiting.”
“Don’t mention it, miss,” the driver said as he climbed back up to the high seat of the cab
and the door of the library creaked opened. “Hopefully in there ye’ll find the courage to forgive
yer cousin. Would be a shame fer ye to let the past deny ye a lifetime of happiness. But then
maybe your visitor will help ye.”
The driver’s words sent shock waves rippling through her. How did he know about
Caroline, and what visitor was he talking about? Fear trickled down her spine, and she jerked
around to confront the man, but the hansom was already rolling away down the street at a
decidedly fast clip.
Suddenly frightened that she had made a terrible mistake in coming to the library, Ivy
quickly passed through building’s front entrance then locked the door behind her. For a long
moment, she stood with her back pressed against the door in the cold, dark foyer pondering the
man’s words. He’d said visitor. What if he were to try and break into the library with an
accomplice. Ridiculous. What would anyone want from the library at this late hour?
As for her cousin, the man couldn’t possibly know about Caroline. How could he? She
tightened her lips in self-disgust. It was nothing more than her subconscious trying to convince
her to forgive her cousin and seek Simon’s forgiveness. Bitterness became a knot in her throat.
Simon and Caroline were the ones who needed to seek her forgiveness.
The sudden notion of offering her cousin the opportunity to atone for her sins flitted
through Ivy’s mind. Perhaps there was a way for Caroline to earn Ivy’s forgiveness. Ivy would
take the children and raise them as her own if her cousin agreed never to see her daughters again.
It would hurt Caroline as deeply as Ivy had been hurt all those years ago. She was certain of it.
She would see to it that little Ivy and her sisters would want for nothing.
An image of her aunt’s vitriolic expression flooded her mind. The picture was so real that
she flinched. With a shake of her head, she rejected the vengeful idea. No, she wasn’t that
heartless. No matter how deeply hurt she’d been by Caroline’s betrayal or her aunt’s obvious
contempt, Ivy refused to become like them. She remembered all too well the loss of her parents.
It would be cruel to tear her nieces away from their mother. It didn’t matter that Ivy would never
treat them as she’d been treated her. She might despise her cousin, but she couldn’t extract such
a torment on three innocent children.
The day after tomorrow, she’d send word to Barnabas, her solicitor, to see to it that the
girls received a warm house to live in, food on the table, and warm clothing. But she’d ensure
that Barnabas would administer the funds. She would do nothing for Caroline. Her cousin was
quite adept in using her charms to find a suitable husband, and it had been painfully obvious this
afternoon that Simon had a great deal of sympathy for Caroline. Her cousin would use that to her
advantage.
Ivy’s stomach lurched at the thought, and she reached up to twist the small key-like knob of
the gas light on the wall beside the door. For the first time she realized it was almost as cold in
the library as it was outside. In all likelihood, the fireplaces throughout the building had been
allowed to die down to nothing but embers.
Moving across the foyer to the circulation desk, she removed her hat and cape and laid
them on the counter. A large stack of books rested at the end of the marble surface waiting for
someone to shelve them. Scooping up as many of the texts as she could carry, Ivy examined their
labeling then turned to the book stacks. She turned up the gas light attached to one of columns
that marked the end of each book aisle then moved down the aisle to replace the first volume.
She’d shelved at least four books to their rightful place when she heard the wood floor
creak slightly as if someone were walking toward her. With a jerk, Ivy whirled around to stare
down the empty aisle. In the back of her mind, she heard the cab driver’s words again. She
sniffed in self-disgust.
Blast it, she was allowing her imagination to run wild. She resumed the shelving of the
books tucked in the crook of her arm and moved into another section of the book stacks. Again, a
board creaked, and her heart thudded frantically in her breast. Ivy set down her books and peered
through the bookshelves to the other side of the shelving.
“Hello, is someone there?”
Although she hadn’t expected a response, her heart was still racing with fear. When there
was no response, she picked up her books and turned to continue down the aisle. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw something sparkle in the soft rays of the gas light. Ivy turned her head
and froze in shock. The necklace dangling like a bookmark from one of the shelved volumes
made her suck in a sharp breath.
Stunned, she could only stare at the diamond and sapphire jewelry. How had it gotten
there? In her dazed state, had she brought the necklace with her? No, of course she hadn’t. It
couldn’t possibly be the same one. Her fingers curled around the cool jewelry and lifted it to
examine it more closely. The stars encrusted with diamonds and sapphires twinkled like a
constellation in her hand.
Ivy’s heart fluttered as she realized how much it looked like the necklace that lay
underneath her Christmas tree. Even the detail of the finely-spun gold filigree appeared to be
identical to the one she’d touched earlier. Ivy released a small sound of incredulity. She was
being a fool. One of the library’s patrons had absent-mindedly left his wife’s Christmas present
on the shelf while searching for a book. An act she was certain the poor man would regret
tomorrow, if he weren’t already on the verge of an apoplectic fit trying to remember where he’d
misplaced the precious object.
Ivy stared at the necklace a moment longer before stuffing it into her skirt pocket. She’d
make sure it was returned to its rightful owner. She retrieved her books and was about to move
down the aisle when the whisper of a sound echoed behind her. Frightened, she whirled around
to stare down the empty aisle.
“Do you really think he would have bought a necklace for you that wasn’t uniquely of his
own design?”
The man’s voice reverberated in her ear, and a warm breath caressed her cheek as if
someone were standing right next to her. A soft cry of fear escaped Ivy’s lips, and the books she
carried crashed to the wooden floor as she ran toward the front of the library. She’d only gone a
few steps when the necklace she’d put in her pocket materialize in front of her. Heart pounding
in fear, she took two quick steps backward, her gaze never leaving the necklace as it swayed in
mid-air.
“Who’s in here? Show yourself,” she croaked.
“As you wish.” The deep, gravelly voice came from the end of the aisle, and Ivy turned to
see a swirling white mist moving toward her.
Dear lord, a ghost. No one had ever mentioned anything about a ghost in the library before.
She trembled as a shape took form in the pearly cloud of air moving toward her. Slowly, the mist
evaporated to reveal an elderly gentleman. The man’s hair and beard were neatly trimmed and
white as the snow falling outside.
He wore a black suit coat with two rows of buttons down the front, a pair of striped pants,
and white material layered over the tops of his shoes. A cane completed his unusual appearance.
While he looked exceedingly dashing with his neatly trimmed white hair, Ivy couldn’t remember
ever seeing any man dressed so oddly. The elderly gentleman leaned on his cane, his gnarled
fingers curled over the silver wolf cane top. Arching a white eyebrow, he smiled.
“Well, do I meet with your approval?” The question made Ivy start.
“You’re not real,” she muttered as she braced herself against the nearest bookshelf. “Either
that or I’ve gone mad.”
“No, my darling, Ivy, I’m as real as you.” He smiled before something like pain crossed
his face. “You wished that you’d never met Simon. If after our travels tonight, should you still
wish to forget Simon, I shall grant you that wish.”
There was a courtly manner to the man as he closed the distance between them. She
recoiled from him, but not quickly enough. To her amazement, his touch was warm as lifted her
hand and brushed his mouth against the back of her hand. She shuddered. How could a ghost’s
hand be so warm?
“I don’t understand,” Ivy shook her head and tried to pull her fingers free of the man’s
grasp. For someone her imagination had conjured up, it was a strong grip.
“You will in time, my dear,” the elderly man said as he squeezed her fingers.“Come,
there’s a great deal at stake. I only have a few hours to show you how much you love Simon.”
“No, you’re wrong,” she exclaimed bitterly as she tried to jerk her hand free of the man’s
incredibly strong grip. “I don’t love him. I’m through with him.”
“I find that difficult to believe, but if after our journey you still wish to forget Simon, I will
help you do so.”
The man’s hand tightened on hers and Ivy gasped as the mist she’d seen moments ago
reappeared and swiftly engulfed the two of them. In an instant, the library was gone and she was
floating in nothingness.
Chapter 2
The newspaper in Simon’s hands rustled like a noisy wind in the quiet of the London
Library. He’d already read the daily once today, but the pretense of reading allowed him to
observe Miss Ivy Beecham undetected. A soft growl of aggravation rumbled out of him. He’d
found it necessary to rearrange his entire morning schedule because of Miss Beecham.
In fact, if it were not for Anthony’s wayward behavior, he’d most likely be enjoying a
sparring match at the club. Instead, he found himself lodged here in the library’s scholarly setting
simply to put an end to Anthony’s outrageous notion of marrying beneath his social station. This
was his nephew’s second unacceptable infatuation in less than a year, but this time the boy had
gone too far. A dalliance with a commoner was one thing, but marrying one was an entirely
different matter. He was ready to thrash the boy. As his nephew’s guardian, Simon took his
duties seriously, but Anthony was growing exceedingly tiresome when it came to heeding
Simon’s advice.
In a word, it was exasperating. Damned exasperating. Anthony routinely protested Simon’s
interference in his personal affairs, but it was clear his nephew needed supervision. The boy was
reckless when it came to considering his family’s social status, especially where his heart were
concerned. As the Earl of Claiborne, Anthony needed to be more discrete when it came to his
romantic liaisons.
With a grunt of displeasure, Simon turned the page of his newspaper and adjusted it so he
could look over the top of it, while appearing to be engrossed in the paper’s content. He enjoyed
reading, but this dry, musty mausoleum was the last place any of his friends would expect to find
him.
The comforts of his personal library were far more preferable for reading than this
academic fortress. His gaze swept toward the stacks of books he could see from the main reading
area. Tomes of every shape and size filled the shelves that disappeared into the depths of the
building. Although the London Library held a large number of valuable books and papers,
Simon’s personal collection of rare books and documents was of equal value. One of the things
he loved most in the world was a quiet hour in front of the fire reading a book.
His gaze swept around the large reading area. Wing backed chairs of dark red leather were
placed in either isolated locations or small groups with squat mahogany tables nearby. Flames in
the large fireplace that heated the room crackled softly in the silence of the large room. The
pristine marble columns encircling the circulation desk and adjacent reading area only reinforced
the austere nature of the library.
In truth, this was the last place he’d expected Anthony to encounter an unsuitable woman.
When he’d suggested that the boy take up an intellectual activity within this tomb, Simon had
thought the boy would be free of distractions. Of all the conceivable possibilities, the thought of
Anthony meeting a woman of undesirable character here had been the furthest from Simon’s
mind. Frowning, he returned his gaze to the woman behind the circulation desk and grunted his
displeasure.
Why the devil couldn’t the boy find a woman his own age to dally with and preferably in
the same social sphere? Ivy Beecham appeared closer to Simon’s age, making her at least five to
ten years older than his nephew. Simon growled his displeasure again. Across from him, a library
patron rustled the paper he held and shot Simon a glare of irritation. Arching his eyebrow, Simon
returned the man’s hard stare. White eyebrows furrowing to form a straight line, the older
gentleman uttered a barely audible harrumph before burying his head back in his paper.
Soft laughter drew Simon’s attention back to the woman behind the circulation desk. A soft
pink flushed her cheeks as she handed an elderly man a book. The patron grinned as he took the
leather volume, then caught her hand and brushed her fingertips with his lips. The red in her
cheeks deepened as she shook her head in reproach. With a laugh, the dapper gentleman
shrugged with amusement and walked away.
Something about the scene irritated Simon. It was easy to see how the woman had seduced
Anthony into thinking he was in love with her. Even from here, she presented an enticing
picture. Sunshine streamed in from one of the windows above her to reveal auburn highlights in
the dark brown of her hair. Skin the color of an unripe peach still possessed a rosy hue as she
assisted another patron.
Tall, and with abundant curves in all the places Simon liked the most in a woman, Ivy
Beecham was a tempting sight. The high neck of her white shirtwaist was clearly meant to give
her the appearance of a serious academician, but all it did was emphasize the voluptuous curve of
her full breasts. Of its own accord, his cock stirred in his trousers. Irritated at the way his body’s
reaction, he clenched his jaw as he fought to control his arousal.
A moment later, she completed another book transaction and smiled at the gentleman in
front of her. Simon inhaled a sharp breath. Bloody hell. No wonder Anthony had succumbed to
the witch’s charms. She had the smile of a siren, and even a well-seasoned gentleman would find
her silent entreaty difficult to resist.
Ivy Beecham was most definitely trouble. The sooner he disposed of this matter the better.
He shifted in his seat as his quarry moved out from behind the circulation desk to head down one
of the book aisles. Tossing his paper aside, he stood up and followed her into the depths of the
library.
Ahead of him, she turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Determined not to lose his
chance to speak with her away from prying eyes, Simon increased his pace. As he rounded the
bookshelf where he’d last seen her, a glimpse of her voluptuous curves vanished down another
aisle. Damn, but the vixen was quick.
Lengthening his stride, Simon charged after her with determination. He made a sharp right
into the aisle she’d round seconds ago only to come to an abrupt halt. The woman arched her
eyebrow at him in a matter-of-fact manner as she narrowed her gaze at him.
“Is there some reason you’re following me, sir?”
Soft and husky, her voice caressed him with the silky indulgence of a midnight lover.
Immediately, his groin tightened in a primal response. The fact irritated him.
“Are you Ivy Beecham?”
“Yes.” She frowned with puzzlement. “May I help you in some way?”
“I’m Lord Claiborne’s guardian.”
“I’m sorry, whose guardian?”
This time a frown furrowed her delicate brow as she tilted her head to one side. The
movement exposed the lovely line of her neck, and he imagined his lips nibbling on her. The
faint scent of lilies whiffed its way beneath his nose. She smelled delectable. Would she taste as
luscious as she smelled? A sudden image of her beneath him filled his head, and his jaw
tightened as he acknowledged his attraction for the woman. Aware she was staring at him with
just a touch of irritation, he struggled to control the effect she was having on him.
“Anthony Dardnay, the Earl of Claiborne,” he said in a tight voice.
Recognition lit her face as she smiled at him. It was the most bewitching smile he’d ever
seen, and his body stirred to life at the sight of it. Annoyed at his inability to remain unaffected
by her, Simon clasped his hands behind his back and assumed a detached expression. He refused
to allow Ivy Beecham’s exquisite body or smile deter him from the task at hand.
“Oh! You must be Lord Wycombe.” Her smile surprised him. It wasn’t the false simper
he’d expected, and she seemed genuinely happy to meet him, nothing more. He frowned as she
extended her hand to him. “Anthony has spoken of you often. I’m pleased to make your
acquaintance.”
Simon glanced down at her outstretched hand, struggling with the tempting thought of
touching her. Something primal flooded his senses as he stared at her long fingers. He could
easily see her hand wrapped around his cock, pumping his flesh until he expelled his seed in a
rush of pleasure. Simon swallowed hard as sanity reclaimed his thoughts.
Deliberately, he refrained from raising her fingers to his lips. The snub made her flinch,
and the flash of pain darkening her sapphire eyes sent a twinge of regret through him. He ignored
the sensation. Ivy Beecham was dangerous. She was a threat to the family and Anthony’s future.
The woman needed to be dealt with swiftly.
“I’m afraid this is far from a courtesy call, Miss Beecham,” he said in a cold voice.
“I don’t understand.” She gave a slight shake of her head as an expression of wariness crept
over her lovely face.
“I’m here to instruct you to stay away from my nephew. He’s young and too easily swayed
by a pretty face.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her bewilderment emphasized how much her voice was like the call
of a siren. He gritted his teeth to avoid answering its seductive promise.
“I realize you had hopes of a more permanent relationship with my nephew, but that is out
of the question.”
“Permanent relationship—”
“Forgive me, Miss Beecham, but I’m well acquainted with women of your ilk, and I have
no intention of letting Anthony marry you.”
“Marry!”
The shocked and horrified look on her face made him hesitate. Was he mistaken about her?
No, of course not. No woman of respectable means or social standing would be working in the
London Library. It was the perfect setting to ensnare a rich, doddering old fool looking for a
young wife or mistress.
“While I’m sure it would be a step up for you financially and socially, I cannot allow him
to marry a commoner.”
Simon barely missed the sting of her hand as she took a swipe at him. Dodging the blow,
he captured her wrist in a tight grip and jerked her toward him. The softness of her body curved
into his, and he drank in the soft, exotic fragrance of lilies. In a split second, his body tensed with
an anticipation he’d not felt in a very long time.
Damnation. Perhaps he’d be better off making the woman his mistress instead of ordering
her not to see Anthony again. Not only would it destroy the boy’s affections for the woman, but
he was certain it would be an enjoyable pastime to soak himself in Ivy Beecham’s hot honey. He
immediately rejected the idea.
Anthony might think he was in love, but Simon knew firsthand the pain of someone
destroying his illusions about a woman. Even if it had been for his own good, the devastation
that had followed the brutal revelation had still been a crushing blow. He could never hurt the
boy like that. He cared too deeply about Anthony and his nephew’s happiness. Yet as he stared
down into Ivy’s brilliant blue gaze, he almost forgot why he’d come here in the first place. He
clenched his teeth with irritation.
She’d gone still in his embrace, and the outraged expression on her features was an
extraordinary performance. The indignant glare she directed at him seemed so genuine it gave
him pause for a several beats. Could he have been wrong? No, Anthony had been quite clear
about his intent toward Miss Beecham. The woman was simply an excellent actress intent on
deceiving him as to her real intentions when it came to his nephew.
“Release me, my lord,” she said quietly. The frigid tone of her voice was icy enough to
freeze the Thames in the spots where it wasn’t already bearing a layer of ice. “Now.”
The single word was emphatic, and he did as she asked, although his body protested the
loss of her warm curves. She took a step back to study him in silence, anger flashing in her blue
eyes. Again, he questioned his assumptions about her before discarding them just as quickly.
“I came here today—”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I have no intention of marrying Anthony or anyonewho’s a
member of the peerage.” Her obvious contempt startled him before he narrowed his gaze at her.
“That is a comforting thought,” he said with wry skepticism. “But to ensure that you don’t
change your mind where my nephew is concerned, I’m prepared to offer you a substantial sum in
exchange for your word to break off all association with Anthony.”
The gasp of horror that escaped her proved as surprising as everything else in their
conversation up to this point. With a look that labeled him little more than a lowly insect, she
wheeled away from him and stalked down the aisle away from him. Stunned, it took him several
seconds to stride after her. The instant Simon caught her by the elbow and drew her to a halt, she
jerked away from him. The movement forced her to press her back against a row of books.
“If you touch me again, my lord, I’ll scream.”
The quiet fury in her voice furrowed Simon’s brow in aggravation. This wasn’t going at all
like he’d envisioned. Frustrated by her obstinate behavior, Simon glared at her. The sooner he
made her understand he intended to keep her away from Anthony, the better.
“Name your price, Miss Beecham. I’m sure I can afford it.”
“I don’t want your money,” she snapped. “And I don’t want to marry Anthony.”
“Are you saying he’s unsuitable?” he asked with a sudden sense of amusement. He felt his
mouth quirk as he stared down into a pair of sapphire eyes that glittered brightly with anger.
Would passion make her eyes sparkle as brilliantly?
“Anthony is a little more than a boy,” she said with a sniff of disgust.
“Agreed. But I’m not a youth,” he drawled as an idea took shape in his head. “Perhaps
alternative arrangements could be made.”
“Alternative…you’re despicable,” she snapped as she tried to move past him.
Simon immediately braced one hand on the bookshelf behind her to block her path. For the
first time he was beginning to enjoy himself. If she wanted to play games, he was more than
willing. In fact, he was certain that playing with Ivy Beecham would be an exceedingly
pleasurable diversion. He tilted his head to study her profile as he trailed his forefinger across her
cheek.
She slapped his hand away, but he noticed her breathing had hitched slightly. That boded
well for the future. He’d been without a mistress almost a year now, and Ivy appealed to his
carnal nature in a way that surprised him. Yes, Ivy Beecham was proving to be not only
intriguing, but exciting as well.
“Despicable?” His gaze locked with her angry glare, and his mouth curved in a mocking
smile. “Then I’m in excellent company, my sweet Ivy.”
“I am not your sweet anything,” she bit out fiercely. “I find you contemptible.”
“Do you,” he murmured.
Simon bent his head toward her. He could almost feel the tension seizing control of her
body. It was like an electric pulse between them, and it set his heart racing. He was so close to
her as to feel the warmth of her sweet breath against his mouth. The urge to capture her lips in a
slow, leisurely kiss made his body stiffen with a need for satisfaction. Tempering the impulse,
Simon brushed a wisp of hair off her cheek, and it pleased him to see a small shudder ripple
through her.
“You’re quite lovely, Ivy. I can see why Anthony finds you so captivating.”
“I…I didn’t give you permission to use my name,” she said in a breathless voice. The
husky sound tightened his groin muscles as he fought to keep from pinning her against the shelf
of books and crushing her mouth beneath his. Damnation but the woman was a seductive mix of
experience with an elusive sense of innocence.
“Ah, but I like how the sound of your name rolls off my tongue,” he said with an honesty
that surprised him. “I’m beginning to realize why my nephew is so fascinated by you. Seducing
him must have been quite easy for you.”
“I did not seduce Anthony,” she gasped
The way her blue eyes widened in horror made him even more appreciative of her acting
talent. God, but she would be magnificent on the stage. Even more magnificent in his bed. Once
more, she tried to dart past him, and he immediately blocked her path by caging her against the
shelves with his outstretched arms.
“Come now, Ivy. I’ve been watching you all morning, and it’s understandable why men
find you so fascinating.” Lowering his head, he brushed his lips across her earlobe. “Even I am
quite willing to be seduced by you.”
Delicate pink lips parted in a soft gasp, and again he had to restrain himself from stealing a
kiss. This was neither the time nor the place to dally with her. Not when he was certain he would
want much more from her when he finally did kiss her. No, Ivy Beecham was going to be his—
one way or another. That decision had been made for him the moment he’d heard that siren voice
of hers. He just hadn’t realized it at the time. Anthony would have to be handled with care, but
he would find a way to let the boy down easily. The question was—how hard would it be to
convince Ivy to switch her attentions from his nephew to him?
“I can assure you, my lord, I have no intention of letting you seduce me. I’d just as soon
kiss a toad. Now release me this instant.”
He didn’t move for a long moment. There was something about the way her pulse was
beating wildly at the side of her neck that contradicted her adamant statement. His cock throbbed
with need inside his trousers. Damn, but he wanted to bed her this instant.
With great reluctance, he took a step back. Her retreat was immediate as she sidled away
and put several feet between them. The frosty glare she directed at him was meant to cut him
down to size, but it merely served to amuse him. She’d issued a challenge, and it was one he
intended to accept. Ivy Beecham was about to learn the difference between seducing a boy and a
man.
He smiled. She might rage against the idea, but if there was one thing he knew, it was
women. This one might act as though she wanted nothing to do with him, but if the price were
right, he had no doubt she would welcome his attentions as long as he rewarded her well. It was
simply a matter of letting her set the pace of their seductive dance, but in the end, the result
would be the same. She’d be no different from any of the other women who’d come and gone in
his life. She would succumb to him just like all the others.
“You’re even lovelier when angry.” Folding his arms across his chest, he laughed quietly
as she stalked away from him. It was all part of the dance. She had only gone two feet when she
whirled back around to face him.
“Exactly how much did you intend to offer me, my lord?” Her features were unreadable,
and a flicker of disappointment lashed at him as he pondered her question. His emotional
response surprised him, but then everything about his reaction to Ivy Beecham had astonished
him.
“Perhaps you had a price in mind?” He narrowed his gaze as he waited for her to name a
figure.
A part of him had hoped it would have been more difficult than this to acquire her charms.
He was a fool even to have considered the remote possibility. No matter what their age or station
in life, women could always be relied upon to find the highest bidder for whatever it was they
had to sell. At least women outside of his social station were more honest about it.
“No, I simply wanted to know what price you were willing to put on your nephew’s
affection for you.” She arched an eyebrow and eyed him with contempt worthy of the Queen
herself. “The minute Anthony hears how you propositioned me, I have no doubt your
relationship with him will suffer more than you realize.”
“What the devil!” he snapped. “If you think to threaten—”
“It’s hardly a threat, my lord.” She lifted her chin in a defiant manner. “The truth is,
Anthony does listen to me, and I doubt you’ll earn his gratitude for insulting me as you’ve done
here today.”
“By God, woman. If you make the boy more difficult to handle, I’ll see to it you’re out on
the streets without a penny to your name.” The tables hadn’t been so neatly turned on him in
quite some time, and it infuriated him. His anger only strengthened as she offered him a sweet
smile of satisfaction.
“You are most certainly welcome to try, Lord Wycombe.” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“But that might be more difficult to achieve than you think. After all, as you said, Anthony
fancies me, and you’ve done little of late to endear yourself to the boy. Perhaps all he needs is a
wife to support and believe in him.”
Without batting an eyelash, she wheeled about and disappeared around the corner of the
bookshelves. As she vanished from view, Simon stared after her in disbelief. The witch had as
good as said she intended to marry the boy.
Buy A Bluestocking Christmas Now
Critical Acclaim
“Carnally, Ivy and Simon have a connection that left me whimpering with tension. Their moves
from raw sex to tender adoration. Their love is a bit obsessive at times, leaving me on the edge of
my seat for what unusual thing will happen next. Ms. Burns has written such an appealing story
that I found myself eagerly looking for the end just so I could see what would happen between
these astounding characters. Although I normally do not gravitate to the historical novels, A
Bluestocking Christmas has definitely changed my mind and is most deserving of a Silver Star
Award. ” ― Just Erotic Romance Reviews
“Monica Burns has a writing style that is fluid and graceful. Team that up with a pen drenched
with illicit wordplay, and it brings the readers to a fever pitch within the first few chapters! The
premise is fully flavored with originality and creativity. This reader has never read anything Ms.
Burns has written and not fallen totally under the spell of her writing!”
— ParaNormalRomance – 4 Stars
“No one sets fire to the page like Monica Burns.” ― eCataromance
“Definitely recommended reading.” ― The Romance Studio
—§ § §—
Obsession by
Monica Burns
Book 1 in the Rockwood Family series
Read Three Chapters
Novel Length - Plus
Heat Level - 3 Flames
A woman on the edge of sin…
Helen Rivenall is willing to do anything to escape the
brutality of her uncle’s home. But a promise of honest
employment is a ruse. Drugged and auctioned off in a
notorious London brothel, she finds herself won by a
man who wants nothing from her except her
participation in a harmless charade. Left with no
choice, she reluctantly agrees, but as their web of lies
grows, so does temptation and the realization that
pleasure and sin are often one and the same.
A man about to lose all control…
Sebastian Rockwood, Earl of Melton is haunted by a
dark secret in his past. One that taught him control is a personal trait to be valued above all
others. He also learned never to give his heart to anyone. The risk is too great. Yet where Helen
is concerned, his prized control is slowly giving way to temptation, and all too quickly he
discovers nothing can protect him from…
The ultimate obsession—love.
§ § §
Chapter 1
London, 1888
The inside of Chantrel’s was quiet as a tomb as Sebastian Rockwood, Earl of Melton
stepped through the establishment’s front door. Popular among men of the peerage, the exclusive
brothel’s unique offerings were well known. Chantrel, the establishment’s sole proprietor,
trained her girls to speak and act like a woman of nobility except in the bedroom. There, her
pupils performed with an enthusiasm that was often lacking in the lives of most noblemen.
Sebastian handed his top hat and cane to the footman on duty. Beside him, his friend Devin
Morehouse, Viscount Westbrook did the same. The servant quickly accepted their belongings
then hurried off to fetch Chantrel as Sebastian had instructed. When the man disappeared,
Sebastian turned to survey the empty parlor opening off the foyer. It seemed quite odd the
brothel would be so quiet at this time of night. His friend cleared his throat.
“Where the devil is everyone?” Devin muttered as he stepped toward the vacant drawing
room. “Are you sure this is the place?”
“Yes,” Sebastian said. “Caleb was quite explicit as to the young lady’s whereabouts.”
“What did he say the girl’s name was?”
“Serena Pemberton.”
“Well, if she is here, the next question is whether or not she’s been harmed already.”
Devin’s concern was one Sebastian had already considered. For the girl’s sake, he could
only hope she was untouched. With a sharp nod of agreement at his friend’s observation,
Sebastian frowned as he studied his surroundings. The occasional mistress easily addressed his
needs, and his knowledge of Chantrel’s was by reputation only. In fact, the only reason he’d
even agreed to visit the place tonight was to keep his younger brother from doing something
rash.
Earlier this afternoon, in typical Rockwood fashion, Caleb had burst into Sebastian’s office
like a man possessed. Rash, impetuous behavior was a common family trait. The Rockwoods
were well known for their impulsive natures and their daring escapades with the exception of
Sebastian. He’d learned a long time ago to control his emotions. He could only wish his siblings
would do the same.
“Caleb was quite certain she was here, so let us hope she’s not been compromised,”
Sebastian said quietly.
“Couldn’t you have contacted Inspector McBride? As I recall, he resolved Percy’s small
problem last year quite admirably.”
“I suggested that, but Caleb said he’d already been to Scotland Yard and the man wasn’t
available and the sergeant on duty said they had more serious cases to pursue.”
“The murders in Whitechapel, I’d imagine,” Devin said with a note of disgust in his voice.
“Bad business that.”
“Quite.” Sebastian took a couple steps into the empty parlor, his gaze surveying the room
for any clue that might explain its barren state. “From the lurid details in the newspaper this
morning, the Chapman woman’s body was eviscerated.”
“Bloody hell,” Devin exclaimed quietly. “What sort of bastard would do such a thing?”
“A madman I expect.” Sebastian turned to face his friend. “However, my biggest concern
at the moment is Caleb. The last thing I want him to do is complicate matters. I’m fortunate he
was willing to listen to reason and allow me the opportunity to investigate the girl’s
disappearance. Like the rest of the family, he’s far to impetuous.”
“Unlike his older brother’s controlled, more methodical manner, of course.” Wry
amusement threaded his friend’s words, and Sebastian arched his eyebrow in response to the
jibe.
“There’s a great deal to be said for exercising restraint in all matters. The girl should have
never tried to investigate the matter herself.”
“Headstrong women are quite often the bane of a man’s existence.” There was a rueful note
in Devin’s voice that made Sebastian turn his head to eye his friend with curiosity. The Viscount
immediately looked away to survey their surroundings. “Why is Caleb convinced his ladylove is
here?”
“Apparently, the girl uncovered evidence of brothels kidnapping innocent young women
and selling them against their will. Caleb said the last time she was seen, she was entering this
establishment.”
With several turns of his head, Sebastian studied his surroundings closely. The silence in
the brothel wasn’t just unusual it made him uneasy. Something about this place set his teeth on
edge, and for the first time since Caleb had burst into his study, he realized his brother’s worst
fears might well be true. It was quite possible his brother’s young lady was in grave danger.
Leaning toward his friend, Sebastian tipped his head in the direction of the blue and gold salon
adjacent to the foyer.
“At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if we’re even in a brothel given the decidedly
nonexistent selection.”
“I agree,” Devin murmured with a nod. “Usually a fellow can expect at least one or two
birds available for the unexpected customer. Is it possible the murder in Whitechapel yesterday is
affecting business?”
Sebastian considered the possibility. Although the murder of the Nichols woman had been
more brutal, he found it unlikely the slaying would threaten Chantrel’s daily business. If this
were any other house of ill repute, he might think business was bad, but this wasn’t just any
brothel. The exclusivity of it set the house apart from any other of its kind. There had to be
another reason why the parlor was empty.
He shrugged then turned his head at the sound of a door opening. A statuesque woman
appeared in the hallway and walked toward them with a quick, confident stride. She sailed into
the entryway reminding Sebastian of a ship and its figurehead. Swathed in red taffeta, her gown
brazenly proclaimed her for the Madame she was with its gold fringe trimming, decadent sleeves
and low cut bodice. The gown’s material, draped artfully over her bustle, rustled softly as she
moved toward them.
“Lord Melton, you honor me with your presence. What may I do for you this evening?”
Madame Chantrel greeted them with a pleasant smile, but Sebastian saw the guarded look
in her eyes. Accepting the hand she extended to him, Sebastian’s lips brush the air over
Chantrel’s knuckles.
“My friend and I were hoping for some special entertainment this evening. Naturally, I
thought of you and your ability to offer us something…unusual?”
As he straightened, he watched the woman’s face. Hesitation and avarice flitted across her
features. Avarice won out as her eyes narrowed slightly. The hesitation was enough to increase
his concerns. Damnation, if Caleb were correct, it would not be easy finding the girl or proving
the brothel was involved in selling women against their will.
“Actually, my lord, we have a most unusual form of entertainment tonight.” Chantrel
smoothed the taffeta wrapped snugly around her waist. “My guests this evening are my most
select patrons, but there is always room for fine gentlemen such as the two of you. Won’t you
come this way?”
With a practiced sweep of her hand and the skill of any noblewoman, Chantrel ushered
them into a large salon. Red and gold couches, divans and chairs littered the room serving as
seating for the twenty some men lounging about. Dark cherry walls, trimmed with gold molding,
gave the room a heavy, decadent air.
Studying the room’s occupants, Sebastian only recognized two or three men. The others
were strangers to him. To his disgust, he noticed the Marquess of Templeton standing in one
corner of the room. A notorious gambler and womanizer, the man’s luck was exceeded only by
his bad temper.
The last time Sebastian had met the man, it had been across the card table. It had been a
pleasurable experience beating the man at cards, but he’d made an enemy as the result. The
Marquess hated to lose.
“Templeton,” he muttered to Devin who stood at his side. “If he’s here, we can expect
something perverted.”
The brothel owner had excused herself and moved to stand at the foot of a small dais
shrouded by a burgundy velvet curtain. Clapping her hands, the woman smiled at her patrons.
“Gentlemen, my lords, if you please. I’m delighted you could join us this evening as we
have something highly unusual and quite special for your enjoyment.” The woman turned and
nodded her head at a tall, slender man standing at a nearby door who immediately tugged on a
gold rope. A smile on her face, Chantrel turned back to the men in the room. “Tonight, I’d like to
offer up for auction a delectable flower, ripe for the picking.”
As the brothel owner spoke, the curtain behind her slowly parted to reveal a woman seated
on a gilded chair of immense proportions. A flowing, white silk chemise barely covered the
woman’s lush body. To Sebastian’s surprise, his cock stiffened at the sight of her.
Seated in the chair with her legs slanted to one side, her figure was luxuriant, exotic and
tempting. The delicate chemise, deliberately cut to reveal a long expanse of leg, hinted of more
treasures beneath. Even from a distance, the woman’s enticing legs looked soft as silk.
Red color heightened the fullness of her mouth, and it tugged at him, filling his head with
images of her pleasuring him with those delectable lips. Lustrous locks the color of uncut wheat
tumbled down over creamy shoulders in soft curls. The thought of entwining his hand in her hair,
while his other hand traced the sensuous curve of her thigh, was more than just a pleasurable
thought. It excited him. The prospect of being the first to introduce this siren to the decadent and
erotic delights of sex was intoxicating. His thoughts only served to make every muscle in his
body taut with need.
He swallowed hard. What the devil was wrong with him? He’d come here in search of
Caleb’s woman, and he certainly wasn’t so jaded as to buy a woman simply to be the first to bed
her. Despite reminding himself of his reasons for being in the brothel, it was impossible not to
notice the succulent fullnes of her breasts.
Barely hidden by the transparency of her white chemise, his palm itched to cup her. The
thought of suckling on those dusky peaks produced a knot in his throat, which he immediately
tried to swallow. Once again his cock stirred in his trousers. Damnation, he was hard as rock. It
had been a long time since he’d been this aroused simply by looking at a woman.
Determined to regain control of his senses and lust, he focused his attention on the
woman’s face. He frowned as he studied her lovely features. There was something oddly familiar
about her. Mentally, he shook his head in repudiation of the thought.
Sebastian’s gaze moved to her red, sensuous lips and the way they parted in such an
inviting manner. The thought of tasting the sweetness of her mouth shot another bolt of desire
through him as he focused his full attention on the woman’s eyes. His desire vanished.
The revulsion in her wide green eyes said her participation in tonight’s event wasn’t by
choice. The seductive pout she wore was an illusion. Yet she didn’t try to escape. She simply sat
on the dais’ throne with a mixture of panic, disgust, and a blazing anger glowing in her luminous
eyes.
“Who’ll start the bidding for one night with this rare creature, gentleman? Who will be the
first to introduce her to the art of lovemaking? Do I hear a starting bid of twenty-five pounds?”
“Fifty pounds,” a stout gentleman shouted.
“Seventy-five,” another voice called out.
“Good God,” Devin growled beneath his breath. “Caleb was right about the auctions.”
Sebastian’s stomach knotted in anger. The disgust in Devin’s voice matched his own inner
turmoil. Thank God, he’d convinced Caleb to let him investigate the matter. The moment this
auction had started, his brother would have begun tearing the place apart without any thought to
his safety or anyone else’s.
Somehow, he needed to discover whether Caleb’s young woman was still in the brothel. He
needed information before he could take any action. There was little doubt in Sebastian’s mind
that Chantrel wouldn’t let anything jeopardize her illegal, yet lucrative, side business. If the
brothel madame suspected she was on the verge of exposure, she would remove any
incriminating evidence, including Caleb’s love interest.
Chantrel wouldn’t be the first madame to hold a woman prisoner and sell her to the highest
bidder. But the laws had changed, and this type of crime carried a stiff penalty. Was Chantrel
involved with other brothels in this scheme or was she practicing this unsavory business alone?
And the woman? His gaze returned to the tempting vision in white. What was her story?
“Two hundred pounds.” Lust and something else filled Lord Templeton’s voice. Sebastian
turned his head to study the man as the Marquess licked his lips in a lascivious manner.
Sebastian had never cared for the man, and now he understood why. There was something
malevolent about Templeton.
“I’ve seen enough. I’m leaving,” Devin muttered in outrage as the bidding continued.
Sebastian didn’t answer as Templeton raised the stakes one more time over another bidder.
The way the bidding was going, the Marquess would soon subject another woman to his
debauchery. Sebastian’s gaze returned to woman on the dais. Something about her tugged at
him—prevented him from leaving. How could he possibly leave here without saving her from a
fate worse than death? Templeton’s tastes for sordid sexual acts were well known, and the idea
of leaving her to the Marquess’ mercy twisted Sebastian’s insides.
“Five hundred pounds.” The Marquess’ bid drew a gasp from the men, and the room went
silent.
“Five hundred pounds, gentlemen. I have five hundred pounds to Lord Templeton. Do I
have any other bidders? Five hundred going once, twice—”
“Six hundred.”
Sebastian couldn’t believe his ears. He’d actually placed a bid on the woman. Had he lost
his mind? The back of his neck tingled with the weight of censorious eyes. He didn’t have to turn
around to know what his friend thought about his behavior. Tightening his mouth, he slid a
glance toward Templeton. The man was livid. So he’d managed to unbalance the marquess. He
savored the pleasurable sensation. Chantrel, extremely pleased by the renewed competition,
smiled broadly at Sebastian.
“Six hundred pounds to Lord Melton, do I hear any other bids? Going once, going twice—”
“Eight hundred,” Templeton snarled.
“One thousand.”
Silence filled the room at Sebastian’s quiet bid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the
marquess. The other man’s face was beet red with fury. Sebastian remained silent, taking care to
keep his own features impassive. A moment later, Templeton shook his head at Chantrel.
“I have one thousand, do I hear more?” The brothel madame glee’s was evident as she
glanced about the room. “Going once. Going twice. Sold to Lord Melton for one thousand
pounds.”
The room erupted into a loud frenzy of conversation. At his side, Devin hissed. “For God’s
sake, Sebastian. Do you realize what you’ve just done?”
“Yes.”
Devin stared at him in open mouth astonishment, but Sebastian turned away to watch
Chantrel approach. Steeling himself for the matter at hand, he bowed as she stopped in front of
him.
“My lord, you surprise me. I expected Helen to enchant everyone, but for you to pay so
much for her, I never would have guessed it.”
Studying Chantrel’s jaded features he frowned. Something about her reminded him of a
well-fed cat expecting to indulge in consuming the mouse once it finished playing with the
creature. Forcing himself to smile, he bowed. “Might we discuss our business arrangement in
private?”
“But of course, my lord.” The woman laughed, her eyes gleaming with calculation. With a
grim smile, he followed her out of the salon. As they walked down a narrow hallway, the train of
her gown forced him to stay at least three feet behind her. Entering a private office, he took a
seat in front of a large oak desk as Chantrel skirted the furniture to sit before him. The room’s
lack of ornamentation was clear indication of the seedier side of the woman’s business.
“Now then, my lord, shall we discuss the matter of payment?”
“Of course, I believe the bid was one thousand?” he said quietly.
“Yes, my lord, and I know you’ll find it money well spent.”
“I’m sure.” He nodded with derision. “Naturally, you’ll allow me to pay another thousand
to take the creature off your hands permanently.”
The brothel owner started violently, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure I understand, my
lord. The auction was for one night with Helen and nothing more.”
“Of course, but no doubt you’re an astute businesswoman, Chantrel. I’m sure you’ll agree
that for an additional one thousand pounds, you’ll give—Helen did you say— into my care
permanently. I’d hate to see you lose any money over such a lucrative transaction as this.”
“I’m not sure how I could possibly lose any money, my lord.”
“Don’t you? I’m certain a business such as yours relies heavily on the discretion of its
clientele when it comes to special events.” Sebastian flicked an imaginary piece of lint from the
black broadcloth of his jacket before sending the woman a hard look. “It would be a tragedy if
one of your patrons disclosed unsavory information to the authorities.”
He arched his eyebrow as anger twisted the woman’s face into an ugly mask, but there was
a glint of fear in her eyes as well. When she didn’t respond, he pulled a wallet from inside his
jacket. Removing a calling card, he leaned forward and picked up the quill on Chantrel’s desk.
With fluid strokes, he wrote his marker on the back of the card and slid it across the desktop
toward her.
“Have Helen and all her possessions placed in my carriage immediately.” He rose to his
feet and headed toward the door.
“It appears you leave me with little choice, my lord.” Chantrel snapped.
Ignoring the woman’s bitterness he left the office, the door closing quietly behind him. He
moved down the corridor to the front hall at a furious pace. He was acting completely out of
character tonight. What was he thinking to buy a woman like a prize mare? Devin was waiting
for him in the foyer, and Sebastian quietly demanded his overcoat from the footman at the door.
As the servant scurried away, he turned his head to study his friend’s grim features.
“So have you settled your account?” Devin sent him a look of disgusted disappointment.
“Yes.” Sebastian nodded. He chafed at the expression on his friend’s face. It wasn’t as if he
intended to bed the woman. An image of her in his bed tantalized his thoughts for only a brief
moment before he closed himself off the idea.
“What the hell were you thinking to bid on the woman like that?”
“I couldn’t bloody well let Templeton have her, could I?” Sebastian glared at his friend.
Retrieving his favorite watch from his vest pocket, he examined the face of the timepiece then
snapped it closed.
“But what happens to her after tonight? I just learned the auction was for only one night
with the woman.”
Ignoring his friend’s grim disapproval, Sebastian accepted his hat, cane and gloves from
the footman. “The auction might have been for one night, but I bought her freedom.”
His friend stared at him with his mouth agape. Somehow, Devin’s stupor rankled deeper
than he thought possible. Did people really think him devoid of compassion? Simply because he
was meticulous and methodical didn’t mean he couldn’t feel sympathy for those in need. In all
good conscience, he couldn’t have just left the woman for Templeton.
Angry, he scowled at his friend and the footman who was curiously watching their
exchange. His behavior in the past hour had been irrational and impulsive—the exact opposite of
his usual conduct. It was infuriating.
“And now that you’ve bought her freedom, what to you intend to do with her? You can’t
just throw her out onto the street,” Devin snapped.
“Damn it, man, it’s not as though I’m completely without sympathy for the woman’s
situation.” He tugged his white evening gloves on in a deliberate fashion and kept his eyes
averted. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my newly acquired charge. Although heaven
knows what I’ve gotten myself into.”
The last sentence he muttered beneath his breath as strode out the front entrance of the
brothel. Descending the steps, he paced the sidewalk as he waited on his carriage. Damnation.
What had he been thinking when he’d bid on the woman?
Templeton. He’d been thinking about how pleasurable it would be to steal the man’s
coveted prize out from under his nose. And it was quite understandable why the Marquess had
wanted the woman. Images of a voluptuous thigh and full breasts teased his thoughts. Christ
Jesus. Had he really bought the woman out of pity or because he wanted to rut with her. His
body tensed at the erotic images darting through his head. Suppressing a groan, he tried to think
about where he could send the woman. A place where she’d have the opportunity to make a
respectable living.
The sound of his shoes scraping against the stone walkway grated on Sebastian, much in
the way the entire day had. Attending to the woman’s needs was the first order of business, then
he needed to formulate a plan to see if Chantrel was holding Caleb’s ladylove hostage. He’d
gone into the brothel tonight to find one woman and had come out with a different one. Sebastian
released a weary sigh and frowned as the face of the woman he’d just bought filled his head.
There was something very familiar about her. Where had he seen her before? He shrugged with
exasperation. It was unlikely he’d ever seen her before.
His pacing ceased at the sound of carriage wheels rumbling over cobblestone. What had
happened to the self-control he prided himself on? The rest of the Rockwoods were habitual in
their irrational behavior, but not him. Not since childhood had he succumbed to such illogical or
unexpected deportment. Behind him, the door to the brothel snapped open. Sebastian
immediately turned his head to see Devin leaving the establishment. The memory of his friend’s
censure still stung. Irritated, Sebastian didn’t look at his friend as the man stopped at Sebastian’s
side.
“Sebastian, I owe you an apology for questioning your intentions. I should have known
better. You did right by the woman.”
“Perhaps,” Sebastian replied gruffly without looking at his friend. “Then again, perhaps
not. We both know what sort of man I am, Devin. I’ve never had much patience with women,
and I’m too old to start now.”
“Good God, Sebastian.” Devin laughed. “You’re only thirty. Hardly a doddering old man.”
“Then why the hell do I feel so Goddamn old?” Far from feeling humorous about his
present situation, he opened the door of his carriage as it halted in front of him. “I’m not
equipped to deal with a female guaranteed to wilt at the sound of my voice.”
Without waiting for Devin’s reply, he climbed into the vehicle and threw himself onto the
padded leather seat. Across from him sat his high-priced acquisition. He barely cast a glance in
her direction before staring out the window. What in the blue blazes was he going to do with
her?
He sighed wearily and closed his eyes. With the woman’s addition to his household, his
schedule would be in shambles tomorrow. Louisa would no doubt attempt to take his new charge
under her wing, which meant explanations. Then there was the problem of seeing to her clothing,
determining what skills she possessed, and finding her employment. Why the devil hadn’t he just
contacted the police? Then the woman would be someone else’s problem. The answer irritated
him. He didn’t want her to be someone else’s problem.
Annoyed with himself, Sebastian clenched his jaw at the thought. No, he’d simply not been
thinking clearly at Chantrel’s. Lust, and a desire to thwart Templeton, had driven him to buy her.
But he was in his right mind again. Sebastian’s gaze shifted back to the woman opposite him. A
veil obscured her features. He clenched his jaw as he acknowledged the fact that it made her
even more enticing than when she’d been on display at the private auction.
She hadn’t moved since he’d climbed into the carriage. Come to think of it, she’d not even
uttered a sound. What was wrong with her? Something inside him stirred. He wanted to see that
succulent figure of hers again. See those wide green eyes. See if she truly was worth the one
thousand—no, two thousand pounds he’d paid.
“Lift your veil,” he commanded. When she didn’t move, Sebastian bit the inside of his
cheek. Didn’t she realize he was trying to help her? “Helen, is it? I simply want to see your face
when I talk to you.”
Still she didn’t stir. She could have been a statue if not for the soft flutter of her veil from
her breathing. Outside, the clouds parted and moonlight suddenly streamed through the carriage
window. The cape she wore had fallen open to reveal her barely covered voluptuous curves, and
he sucked in a sharp breath as the glow of the moon poured over her.
Up close, Helen’s body was every bit as sensuous as he remembered. Sebastian’s gaze
lingered on the rose-colored tips of her breasts. They were stiff beneath the sheer fabric, and his
fingers itched to touch her. Would those delicious nipples taste hot against his tongue?
Instinctively he knew tasting her right now would give him more pleasure than he’d had in a
long time. Far too long. It had been months since he’d parted with his last mistress.
That’s why Helen had captured his interest. She intrigued him. Tempted him. Christ Jesus,
how she tempted him. Just the sight of her sitting across from him wearing next to nothing made
him rock hard. His gaze dropped to the apex of her thighs and the dark curls visible through the
sheer white fabric of her chemise. The sudden thought of filling her with his cock made his
mouth go dry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a woman as badly as he wanted
this one.
Mesmerized by the erotic visions flashing through his head, Sebastian stretched out his
hand toward her. Lightly, his fingertips brushed across one nipple. A second later, he jerked
back. Bloody hell, he’d lost his mind. He’d rescued her from Templeton to spare her this exact
behavior. Now he was acting no better than the Marquess. Angered by his lack of control, he
gritted his teeth. With a sharp movement, he pulled the veil away from Helen’s face.
A cloud passed over the moon, casting her features into the shadows. When moonlight
drifted through the window once more, he stared at her face. Society would never deem her a
classic beauty, but there was something compelling about her large, almond-shaped eyes.
Familiar eyes. Where the devil had he seen her before? Outrage glistened in the deep green of
her eyes, and he waved his hand in a gesture of exasperation.
“I’m not going to eat you.”
Although that was exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted to slide his mouth over every
inch her. He longed to suckle her nipples until she cried out with pleasure then stroke that tender
nub between her folds until she coated his fingers with hot cream. He swallowed hard at the
images flooding his head.
With greater difficulty than he was accustomed too, Sebastian pushed the images out of his
mind and waited for her to speak. Frustration evident in her luminous eyes, a single tear trickled
down a pale cheek. Bloody hell, she was going to cry. The memory of the auction made him
grimace. He supposed it was to be expected.
She reminded him of his sisters when they were upset. How many times had he wiped tears
off Louisa’s cheek in particular? Every time a woman cried, he wanted to leave the room until
they stopped wailing. It was damned uncomfortable listening to them sob. He abruptly stretched
out his hand to wipe the tear away.
Fury and frustration flared in the woman’s eyes, but she didn’t flinch or turn away from
him. The expression in her eyes made him frown. If she didn’t want him touching her, why
didn’t she simply smack his hand away? Sebastian stared at her for a long minute before he
closed his eyes at his stupidity. She’d been drugged. Chantrel had used sweet vitriol or some
other narcotic to immobilize her prize. The moment he found a way to rescue Caleb’s beloved,
he’d bring the brothel madame to her knees and her business along with her.
Flinging himself back against the black leather seat, he folded his arms. He was struck by
the fact that her eyes told him more than he ever thought possible. Outrage remained, but hope
flickered in the beautiful eyes fixed on his face.
“Damnation!” Out of habit, he pulled his watch from his white vest and flipped it open.
The feel of the gold pocket watch against the pads of his fingers always soothed him. Noting the
time, he tucked it back into his pocket. “It appears Chantrel’s drug has rendered you immobile
and speechless. Can you possibly blink your eyes?”
Relief lit her gaze and he saw her eyelids blink once. Satisfied they were finally getting
somewhere, he nodded sharply. “Excellent. One blink is yes, two is no. Understood?”
Another blink of her eyelids answered his question.
“You’re quick. I like that.” He nodded and bit back a smile at the irritation that flared in her
eyes. “I must admit, I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a fortunate position before. That is—
being in the company of a woman who doesn’t talk, for whatever reason.”
This time he couldn’t keep from smiling at the anger in her eyes. It made her green eyes
dark as the thick summer’s grass at Melton Park. Sebastian raised his hands in a gesture of
surrender and shook his head. “Fair enough, I’ll restrict my comments until you’ve regained use
of your tongue.”
Contempt flashed in her gaze and the moonlight reflected the gold sparks in her eyes. The
look she gave him would have been lethal if it had been a weapon. It didn’t matter. He enjoyed
watching the entrancing sparks of outrage illuminating her eyes. Sweet Jesus, he’d truly lost his
senses if he were comparing her eyes to grass with gold sparks. Maudlin rubbish is what it really
was. He needed to remain focused on the business at hand
“Helen. That is your name, correct?” He paused. The affirmative response allowed him to
proceed. “Do you have family?”
The fear in her eyes made him frown as her single blink told him she had family. He eyed
her with curiosity.
“Mother?” Two blinks. “Father?”
Once more, she blinked twice. Her agitation increased, and Sebastian saw her lips twitch,
which told him she was desperately fighting the drug that controlled her. A garbled sound
tumbled from her lips.
“Eh..erd”
“What? I don’t understand.” Panic flickered in her eyes as she silently pleaded with him to
comprehend. He grimaced. It could be hours before she was coherent. “It’s all right. The drug
should wear off by morning. We’ll sort everything out then.”
The coach jerked to a halt and Sebastian climbed out of the vehicle. The lights of Melton
House were a soft glow on the side of the carriage as he leaned back inside and lifted Helen into
his arms. As Sebastian strode up the steps into the town home, he tried to ignore the way her
body warmed his in all the wrong places. The sooner he found a safe haven for Helen, the better.
If he waited too long, his prized control might easily slip with this woman. And that was
unacceptable.
Chapter 2
Helen stirred beneath a warm blanket. A fierce thumping pounded her head with
vengeance, and she moaned. Raising a hand to her throbbing brow, she forced herself to sit up.
The pain forced her to keep her eyes squeezed shut as she gently massaged her aching temples.
“Oh, miss! You’re awake at last.”
Startled by the unexpected sound of another’s voice, Helen’s eyes flew open to see a young
girl at the foot of the bed. Confused, she blinked. Where was she? Strange, jumbled images
flooded her head, and she moaned again. Dear lord, but her head hurt almost as much as her
back. She moved stiffly to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Where am I?” Her voiced sounded so hoarse. It was almost a croak.
“Melton House, miss. His Lordship asked that you be shown to the library by nine this
morning.”
Melton. Where had she heard that name before? Last night. She’d heard it last night when
Madame Chantrel— Oh, dear God, it hadn’t been a nightmare. She really had been bought and
sold. He’d bought her. Of all the images mixed up in her head, his face was the only one that
wasn’t a blur. Tall and broad shouldered, he had stood out amidst the small crowd of men last
night. Those black eyes of his, blazing with fire in the darkness. It had been as if he’d wanted to
devour her.
She inhaled a sharp breath. He’d touched her. Helen looked down at the transparent night
rail she was still wearing from the night before. One hand resting against her throat, a tremor ran
through her at the memory of his touch. His thumb had brushed across her nipple. Teasing what
little senses she possessed at the time. And she’d enjoyed it. Helen swallowed hard as she
remembered exactly why the man had bought her.
“Come along now, miss, his lordship don’t like to be kept waiting.” The petite maid
clucked as she urged Helen to her feet.
“Lord Melton…this is his house?”
“That it is, miss. Although the man does have his hands full what with all of his sisters
living here with him. It’s a good thing his brothers have their own livings over near Bond
Street.”
“Is there a Lady Melton?” The moment she asked the question, she winced. If the man was
married, it wouldn’t bring home a prize he’d won in a brothel auction.
“Oh, heavens no, miss. His lordship don’t have the patience for women. He says he’ll never
marry.” Busy shaking out a blue silk gown, the maid laughed then draped the dress over a
beautifully carved, wood folding screen. “It’s a great pity though. Handsome man he is. And
those eyes, mercy me, they’re enough to make a girl melt right where she stands.”
Helen bit her lip. The maid was right. Lord Melton’s eyes were hypnotic. In the carriage
last night, his eyes had caressed her the way a lover might. That dark gaze of his had explored
every visible part of her body, until the fire in his eyes had threatened to consume her. Then, as if
he’d suddenly realized he’d revealed too much, a he’d retreated behind a mask of indifference.
But even in those brief moments, she’d seen a glimmer of what she hoped was amusement and
kindness.
“The earl is a real stickler for time, miss, so I’ll go get your breakfast while you freshen up.
I’ve brought you one of Miss Louisa’s gowns. I’m sure it will fit you since the two of you are
about the same size.”
“Miss Louisa?” Helen used the heel of her palm to apply pressure to the spot just above the
bridge of her nose. Lord, but her head throbbed like a church bell. It was as if Uncle Warren had
beaten her senseless.
“Yes, miss. She’s the youngest of the Rockwoods. And the most mischievous of the lot.
His Lordship’s had a devil of a time with her over the last year.” The maid looked at a small
watch pinned to her bodice. “Lord, love me. His lordship won’t be happy with me if I don’t have
you downstairs in less than an hour. Go on now, freshen up and I’ll be back shortly with your
breakfast.”
Helen got out of bed as the girl darted from the room. For the first time since waking, she
took in her surroundings. She liked the simplicity of the bedroom. White gauze draped softly
from the bed’s canopy, its filmy transparency echoed in the window’s curtains. Next to the
dressing screen stood a washstand, while a dressing table with a mirror reflected her image back
at her.
She grimaced at her tousled hair. Brushing out the knots would take time. To the right of
the bed was a small fireplace with a marble mantle. Except for a small clock, the mantle was
devoid of any ornamentation. The sight of the timepiece reminded her of how particular the maid
had been about being on time. Clearly, the earl ran a precise household. Her mouth tightened
with pessimism. A man who was concerned with time would most likely be devoted to rules.
Rules that inflicted pain. It was the reason she’d fled Mayfield with Edward.
“Dear God, Edward.”
Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. Sinking down onto the mattress, she pressed the back
of her hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat. How could she have forgotten her brother
until now? Where was he? Had the earl sent for him? She needed to know Edward was safe.
With a movement born of fear, she sprang to her feet and hurried to the washstand. The
cool water chilled her as it splashed over her skin. It was a vivid reminder of her fear. In short
order, she was throwing her night rail over the wooden screen and retrieving the undergarments
the maid had provided.
As the silk chemise whispered over her shoulders, she waited for the fire to flare over her
back. Despite the soft fabric, it scraped painfully at the fresh, vicious welts on her back. The
marks had even appalled Madame Chantrel. At the time, Helen thought the woman was being
kind. Now she was certain the woman had only been concerned that the wounds might detract
from the price she expected Helen to bring.
Swallowing the urge to cry out from the pain the garment inflicted, Helen clenched her
teeth and waited for the fire to subside into a familiar raw throb. A quiet knock on the door made
her jump, her pain ebbing slightly as dread slashed through her. Had Lord Melton come for her
himself? The anticipation skimming through her body shocked her.
Dear lord, perhaps her uncle had been right about her all along. Helen whirled around to
see a young woman step into the room. The girl, her dark brown hair gathered up on top of her
head in style that flattered her heart shaped face, tilted her head and smiled.
“I thought I’d come help you dress since I know Mary has gone to fetch you breakfast. It’s
Helen, isn’t it?” The young woman didn’t wait for Helen’s nod. Instead, she smiled cheerfully
and brushed past Helen, carelessly grabbing the blue dress off the folding screen. “I’m Louisa.
Or at least I will be until Sebastian learns I’m here and not at the family estate in Scotland. It
won’t surprise me in the least to hear him call me something quite different.”
With a merry laugh, Louisa gathered up the skirt of the gown and moved forward to slip
the silk dress over Helen’s head. Before Helen could even object, Louisa spun her around do up
the button on the back of the gown. The girl’s audible gasp echoed over her shoulder, causing
Helen to grow rigid. Because the whip marks were still so tender, she’d forgone wearing the
corset the maid had left her. From the other girl’s shocked outburst, the ugly wounds had to be
clearly visible through the thin chemise covering her back.
“Who did this to you,” Louisa exclaimed with suppressed fury.
The question didn’t surprise her. Not looking at the young woman, Helen shook her head.
She had no desire to explain the circumstances she and Edward had left. Uncle Warren had
contacts among members of London’s society. The slightest bit of information could easily lead
him to where she was.
“It is of little consequence,” she said with stoicism.
“Little consequence,” the girl behind her bit out. “I think you should have your head
examined. These marks are barely healed. Have you had a doctor look at these?”
“There’s no need,” Helen said quietly as she reached behind her to button the dress
A gentle hand squeezed hers as Louisa pushed Helen’s hands aside and resumed closing
the back of the gown. The silence hanging in the air was heavy with Louisa’s unspoken
questions, and Helen trembled. She wanted to forget the past. Not relive it. Determined to avoid
any further questions, Helen turned to face the other woman.
“Thank you for the loan of your dress, it’s very generous of you.”
“I’m pleased we’re about the same size,” Louisa said. The young woman’s voice reflected
a compassion Helen had longed for so often in over the past twelve years. Louisa smiled at her.
“Besides, it gave me the excuse to meet you. Everyone is in a dither over your mysterious arrival
last night. Polly, my maid, was all agog about how romantic it was.”
“It was far from romantic, I assure you,” Helen said in a stilted voice.
Last night had been a nightmare. Heat burned Helen’s neck and cheeks as she vaguely
remembered Lord Melton carrying her into the house.
Even rendered powerless by drugs, her nerve endings had tingled at the man’s touch. Helen
swallowed the knot suddenly swelling in her throat and glanced at the clock on the fireplace
mantle. It was almost nine. She could not afford to irritate the earl. It was quite unlikely Madame
Chantrel would have released Edward as well as herself, and she would need the earl’s help in
rescuing her brother.
“Oh dear, I’m awfully sorry. I’m being nosy again. Sebastian dislikes it enormously when I
pry into someone else’s affairs,” Louisa said as she moved around to eye Helen with a gleam of
speculation in her warm, hazel eyes. “Still, I must say, my brother’s behavior is extremely
unusual. I can’t remember the last time he even looked at a woman, let alone brought one home.
But then, Sebastian has always worked hard to bury the romantic side of him.”
Another knock echoed in the room, and the maid entered with a breakfast tray. The smell
of eggs and kippers drifted into the room, immediately making her feel queasy. The last thing she
wanted to do at this moment was eat. It would be impossible to do anything at all until she knew
Edward was free of Madame Chantrel’s grasp. Without hesitating, she walked toward the door.
“Where on earth are you going?” Louisa stopped Helen with a gentle tug of her arm. “You
haven’t even eaten yet.”
“I’m sorry, but I must speak with his Lordship.”
“Of course, but Sebastian can wait.” Louisa dismissed her brother with a wave of hand, but
Helen shook her head firmly.
“His Lordship might be willing to wait, but I cannot.”
“As you wish,” Louisa replied, eyebrows arched in curiosity. “But I must warn you,
Sebastian is not someone you want to face on an empty stomach.”
The sincerity in Louisa’s voice her hesitate. The earl was most certainly intimidating, but
she’d faced far more daunting inquisitions from her uncle than anything the Earl of Melton could
inflict on her. Edward’s visage entered her mind’s eye once more, and she responded with
another firm shake of her head.
“No, I must speak with his Lordship now.”
“Very well,” Louisa nodded with a perplexed smile. “Beth, will you show Miss…”
“Rivenall,” Helen said when Louisa sent a questioning look in Helen’s direction.
“Show Miss Rivenall to the library, where I’m certain my brother is enjoying his morning
paper.” As Helen followed the maid out of the room and down the hall, Louisa’s voice rang out
behind her. “And remember, his bark is worse than his bite.”
Despite her deep concern for Edward’s safety, the earl’s sister puckish remark made her
mouth curled slightly. Following Beth down the hallway, Helen heard the soft whisper of her
dress against the carpet. The blue dress was lovelier than anything she’d ever worn. The two
dresses she owned were threadbare and marked with darning. No. Madame Chantrel had her
clothes and Edward. Guilt lashed out at her like the whip her uncle owned. How could she even
begin to take pleasure in the dress she wore, while her brother’s fate had yet to be determined. A
shiver skimmed down her back. She could only hope the earl would help her a second time.
With the petite maid in the lead, they turned the corner of the hallway and moved down an
impressive staircase. Melton House had a completely different air from Mayfield. The creamy
colored walls were starkly different from the dark, oppressive interior of Uncle Warren’s house.
Even the ancestral portraits didn’t stare down at her with stern, critical eyes as they did at
Mayfield. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Beth had reached the foot of the stairs, and she
moved quickly to catch up with the girl. If the earl was as rigid as her uncle was, she had no wish
to be late for their appointment. She needed his help and that meant being as conciliatory as she
could be.
Chapter 3
Sebastian tossed his morning newspaper aside, and leaned back in his chair. Fingers
rubbing against his chin, he considered Caleb’s visit bright and early this morning. His brother
was forcing his hand in how to deal with Chantrel’s establishment. Sebastian had intended to
report his suspicions about the woman’s illegal actions to McBride this morning and go with the
Inspector to the establishment this afternoon in his efforts to find Serena.
While his brother agreed to give McBride until midday to answer Sebastian’s summons,
Caleb had made it quite clear that he wouldn’t wait much past the noon hour to launch a rescue.
Worse, Caleb had bluntly declared he would do whatever was necessary with or without
Sebastian’s help. It left Sebastian no choice but to agree to his brother’s demands.
Sebastian understood his brother’s concern for Serena. If they waited too long the girl
could easily be hurt, perhaps worse. God help him if McBride didn’t arrive soon. Without the
inspector, Sebastian’s only recourse would be to plan the woman’s rescue and inform the police
after the fact. Damnation. Why couldn’t his family control their emotions like him?
He’d learned at an early age how to hold himself in check when it came to his impulsive
nature. Unintentionally, his gaze swung to his mother’s portrait above the fireplace. Pain lanced
its way through him as he remembered the sound of her laughter. If only he hadn’t— He buried
the memory deep in his head as he picked up his discarded newspaper.
Frowning, he read the sensational headline Terror in the East End. The brutal second
murder in Whitechapel had been fodder for the scandal sheets all week. They fed off this type of
tragedy. He skimmed the article and frowned. Considering the barbaric manner the madman had
butchered Annie Chapman, he needed to arrange for a few precautions.
Louisa would have to be told not to go anywhere without one of the footmen, and Sebastian
would see to it the men were armed. Although the murdered woman had been a prostitute in an
area far removed from Mayfair, Sebastian wasn’t willing to take chances with any of the women
in his care. And that included Helen. The thought of his newly acquired charge made him close
his eyes for a moment.
He’d slept little last night, and when he had finally fallen asleep, wild, erotic images of
Helen entwined in his arms and riding him with wanton abandon had filled his dreams. With a
groan, Sebastian leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk and clutch at his head.
Deeply ingrained, his self-control was a trait he valued and took great pride in. It was
something he’d learned at an early age, it had been years since anything had challenged his selfdiscipline with such intensity. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
The impulsive nature of his siblings was something he’d learned to avoid at all costs. To
find his self-imposed restraint tested so easily was troubling. How could one woman drive him to
such distraction without having spoken one word to him? It was the most frustrating experience
he’d encountered in a very long time.
God help him, but he needed to find a way out of this mess he’d gotten himself into. Focus,
he needed to focus on where he could send her. He should have done something other than bring
the woman here. But he’d not even considered the possibility last night. He’d been too intrigued
by her to think of anything else. And if he were being honest, he didn’t want to send her
anywhere. He wasn’t ready to give her up just yet. The confession tugged a dark groan from him.
Determined to send his thoughts in a new direction, Sebastian gritted his teeth and turned
his attention to the mail lying on the table. Opening the envelope from the dressmaker, he
grimaced at the total. Louisa had gone shopping again. He needed to give serious consideration
to finding her a husband or he’d be in debtor’s prison before he was forty. With a sigh, he set the
bill aside for his secretary to handle. The next envelope knotted his stomach as he recognized the
familiar handwriting. Aunt Matilda.
With great reluctance, he opened the letter. Seconds later, he winced at his aunt’s
announcement that she and his sisters would be returning to London sooner than expected. He
thought he had another two months before she barreled through the front door intent on seeing
him married off to one of the American heiresses so popular with the Prince of Wales.
Sebastian tossed the letter down onto the desk with a weary groan and slouched backward
in his chair once more. There had to be some way to keep his aunt from hounding him on the
subject of marriage. Of all the women he’d ever met, Aunt Matilda was the most logical and
serene of creatures. She should understand his reasons for not marrying. He grimaced. She’d
understand, but it wouldn’t stop her from parading potential brides in front of him.
Perhaps a lengthy stay on the continent would give him some respite from her badgering.
No, that wouldn’t work. There’d be no one to ensure his siblings didn’t get into trouble during
his absence. And knowing Aunt Matilda, she’d have a bride waiting for him at the dock the
moment he returned. He frowned.
If there was any woman in the world who could manipulate him, it was Aunt Matilda. She
could do so without him even recognizing it until it was too late. Whatever he intended to do to
ward off her matchmaking schemes, he needed to do it quickly. The soft click of the library door
opening jerked his head up.
She was here.
“Miss Rivenall, your lordship,” the maid announced.
Inhaling a deep breath, Sebastian rose from his chair, but remained silent as Helen entered
the room. The blue dress she wore accented her curvaceous figure and full breasts. The memory
of a dusky rose nipple made him dig his fingers into his palms. He had one of two choices. He
could find somewhere else for Helen to live or he needed to find himself a mistress—quickly.
One or the other. No, that wasn’t quite true. He had a third choice—but he wasn’t Templeton.
Content to watch her approach in silence, he noted the amazement flitting across her face
as she studied the books lining the walls. Preoccupied with the shelves stocked with all manner
of literature, she walked toward the fireplace as she surveyed the room. As he watched her,
Sebastian noted the way her hand caressed the leather binding of a book on top of a stack he’d let
pile up on a nearby table. The sudden overwhelming desire for that hand to touch him in the
same way made him stiffen and clear his throat.
“Since you’re walking, I can assume the sweet vitriol has worn off, or are you still unable
to speak?”
Helen immediately jerked around to face him, and he grimaced at the immediate regret he
experienced. Determined to regain his self-control, Sebastian reached for the pocket watch he
always carried. He barely glanced at it before he snapped it shut and tucked it back into his
waistcoat. Sebastian’s gaze returned to Helen’s face as he studied her for a long moment.
She was tall for a woman, but even from where he stood, he knew he towered over her by
at least a foot. Helen’s gaze swept over him, and he could see the appraisal in her gaze. Suddenly
uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of such a detailed assessment, Sebastian arched an
eyebrow at her. Helen immediately blushed as color darkened her cheeks. She looked adorable.
He was a fool. Muscles pulled painfully tight in his face, he struggled to keep his expression
from revealing his thoughts.
“Is the drug still affecting your tongue?” Sebastian tried not wince at the harshness of his
tone. Anger flashed in her blue eyes before she averted her gaze
“I am fully capable of speech this morning, my lord.”
“Excellent. Last night, our conversation was a bit one-sided, but I did manage to learn that
your given name is Helen, and from the maid’s announcement a few moments ago, I gather your
last name is Rivenall.”
He rounded the desk and walked toward her. The moment she took a quick step backward,
he came to an abrupt halt. Damnation, he didn’t mean to scare the woman. But then considering
what she’d been through could he really expect her not to be a little afraid? The only thing she
knew about him was that he’d bought her in an auction and brought her home with him. Not a
good way to build trust. Helen’s eyed him warily, her expression wavering between her desire to
keep her distance and something else.
“My lord, I must know what you’ve done about Edward.” The frantic note in Helen’s voice
that made Sebastian frown.
“Edward?”
“My brother. Edward. I was hoping you’d secured his freedom from Madame Chantrel just
as you did me.”
“Since I didn’t even know you had a brother until this moment, how in the blue blazes
could I do anything?” Exasperation edged Sebastian’s tension up another notch. What the hell
had he gotten himself into? The last thing he needed was for Melton House to become a home
for foundlings.
“But last night…in the carriage. I said Edward’s name. It’s one of the few things I do
remember.”
“I can assure you, Miss Rivenall, no sane person would have been able to interpret the
name Edward out of that garbled noise you made.” Indignation made his answer sharper than he
intended, and for a second time regret surged through him as she flinched.
“I can’t leave him there,” she murmured as if speaking her thoughts out loud. “I have to go
back for him.”
“That’s one thing you won’t do.” His command made her lift her head in a clear gesture of
defiance. Gone was the demure woman who’d entered the library. In her place was a woman
filled with determination. He held back a groan. Helen’s expression was a familiar one.
Whenever one of his sisters stubbornly refused to give way, he knew a battle was at hand.
“I refuse to leave my brother in the hands of that woman,” she snapped.
“Miss Rivenall, your freedom cost me two thousand pounds last night, and I haveno desire
to pay for your freedom a second time. You will not go back to that brothel.”
“Two thousand pounds?” Helen stared up at him in shock.
“Yes,” Sebastian bit out with irritation. The woman had no comprehension of the danger
she’d be putting herself into if she tried to go back to Chantrel’s for her brother.
“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.
“A thank you will do for the moment,” Sebastian said with a dismissive wave of his hand
as he contemplated this newest development. In the next instant, his entire body tightened with
awareness as Helen closed the distance between them to clutch at his arm.
“Please, I can’t leave my brother there. He’s not quite twelve and if Chantrel…he’s just a
boy.”
Her face pale with fear, the pleading look on her lovely features tugged at him to pull her
close and reassure that everything would be all right. He crushed the urge, while his irritation
with his irrational behavior was growing by the second, If he continued in the vein, his prized
self-control would be in shambles, and he refused to let that happen.
“Perhaps you should have been more careful in the selection of your friends.” The hard
note in his voice made her jerk away from him.
“Friends,” she spat with vehemence. “That woman wasn’t my friend. She lied to me. She
promised me employment and that Edward could stay with me.”
“And yet you trusted her,” he said quietly, and her anger immediately dissolved into
despair as she looked away from him.
“Desperation leads one to trust others where in different circumstances that trust would not
be so easily given,” she murmured.
“Clearly in this case you should have thought more deeply on the issue.” He clenched his
teeth at the pompous sound of his voice.
“Please. I have nowhere else to turn. I can’t leave him there.”
Sebastian closed his eyes for a second at the helpless note running beneath her request.
She’d been through hell, and he wasn’t helping things by making her beg for his help. People
made mistakes. He knew that from the wild antics of his younger siblings, all of whom were
constantly coming to him with this difficulty or that.
Caleb was his latest challenge in problem solving. Based on Helen’s explanations,
everything Caleb’s sweetheart had suspected seemed to be true. Chantrel was undoubtedly
tricking young women into thinking they would find gainful employment with her. Only when
they were at Chantrel’s mercy inside the brothel did the women understand what was really
expected of them.
Perhaps it would be a good thing if McBride didn’t answer Sebastian’s summons until later
in the day. If he wanted to get the girl and boy out of Chantrel’s grasp, the inspector’s presence
might hinder things when it came to coming to an arrangement with the brothel madame.
Somehow, he didn’t think Chantrel would part with Serena or Edward without expecting
something in exchange. And McBride could hardly standby when Sebastian paid off the brothel
owner. Without McBride present, he could easily report Chantrel for her illegal activities after
he’d resolved his current dilemma. Still that didn’t solve the problem of how to stage a rescue.
It would be easy to enter the brothel. The difficult part would be forcing Chantrel to give
up the boy and Caleb’s sweetheart. Based on the footmen he’d seen last night at the auction, it
could prove to be a sizeable problem. Still, he wasn’t about to stand aside and let the brothel
owner do as she liked. With a slight shake of his head, he turned around and strode back to his
desk.
“It seems I have little choice but to see to the boy’s rescue,” he muttered as he kept his gaze
firmly on the top of his desk. He didn’t want to see the relief and gratitude on her face.
“Thank you. I don’t know how, but I will find a way to repay you,” she said fervently. “I
promise you that.”
Sebastian nodded as his fingers toyed with the letter from his aunt. Another problem to
solve after he arranged for Serena and Edward’s release. If he could find a way to distract Aunt
Matilda…his head snapped up as he fixed his gaze on Helen. It might just work. She was lovely
enough, and she was clearly gently bred. Surely, he could make her into a fashionable lady
before his aunt arrived from Scotland. The grateful expression on her face changed to one of
puzzlement. He immediately focused his attention on the papers on his desk.
“Naturally, I’ll require your agreement to my proposition before I rescue the boy.”
Sebastian raised her head and the moment he saw her expression he clenched his jaw at his
callous statement. When in the hell had he become such a bastard?
Buy Obsession Now
Critical Acclaim
“…Sebastian was just the man for me.” — Joyfully Reviewed, 5 stars
“Complex characters…and love scenes [that] are by turns tender and steamy.” — RT
BOOKReviews
“…a fresh spin on a damsel in distress and… a hero who not only does the rescuing, but needs to
be rescued from some demons of his own.” — Romance Reader at Heart
—§ § §—
Dangerous by
Monica Burns
Book 2 in the Rockwood Family series
Read Three Chapters
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 4 Flames
Reissue by Samhain Publishing July 2015
“Jane Eyre meets The Mummy…[her]
characters are so multidimensional that
readers will swear they’re based on real
people.”
— Romantic Times BOOKreviews;
4 1/2 Stars
When Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury,
hides her face to attend the Black Widows Ball, she
never expected to find erotic passion in a masked stranger’s arms. The torrent of lust isn’t
enough to drown out her dubious “gift” for seeing visions and talking to the dead.
Terrified of being found out, she secures a position cataloguing archaeological artefacts for the
Earl of Wyndham—where she encounters a ghost begging her to break a curse plaguing his
family.
Before his mysterious lover disappeared, Lucien Blakemore was tempted to throw caution aside.
Yet he knows one taste of love will unleash the curse that drove his father and brother to murder
their wives.
When he returns home empty-handed and empty-hearted, he’s shocked to discover his new
assistant is the goddess who fled into the night. But could her presence be part of a murderous
plot to unearth the location of a secret Egyptian tomb? The answer—or his doom—lies behind
the desire shining in his seductress’s eyes.
This book has been previously published by Samhain Publishing, and contains an
epilogue never before included with this story. Warning, this title contains the following:
explicit sex with a hero whose torment equals that of Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester.
§ § §
Chapter 1
London, 1897
“This was a mistake.”
Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury, swallowed the knot lodged in her throat as she
surveyed the crowded ballroom uneasily.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Davinia Armstrong scoffed. “You look stunning, and no one is going
to recognize you with the mask you’re wearing. No queen of the Nile could look as mysterious
and alluring as you do right now.”
With a skeptical look at her friend from behind the gold-feathered mask she wore,
Constance shivered. The filmy silk layers of her costume were designed for hotter climates than
the Black Widows Ball. Hosted by a secret and select group of the Marlborough Set, the event’s
sole purpose was to celebrate one’s freedom from mourning and the restrictive social customs
that accompanied that state.
It was the first time she’d ever attended the annual ball, even though she’d been officially
out of mourning for more than three years. With one more glance around the ballroom, she
winced. She must have been out of her mind when she’d agreed to Davinia’s suggestion. Even if
she met the Earl of Lyndham tonight, she was hardly dressed for a professional interview.
No matter how well versed she was in ancient Egyptian antiquities, her costume did nothing
to recommend her as a serious academician. In fact, it did just the opposite, given the way she
was being ogled by several gentlemen. She must look like an odalisque ready to submit herself to
Pharaoh’s whim. Why on earth had she listened to Davinia when it came to her costume?
Because her friend could be quite indomitable when she set her mind to it. She tightened her grip
on the handle of her fan. A footman walked by with a tray of champagne glasses, and she took
one of the flutes off the silver platter.
The moment her friend heard the earl was going to make an appearance at the ball, Davinia
had pressed her to attend. Her friend knew how much she coveted the cataloger of antiquities
position the earl had available. Although she’d tried to resist, in the end it had simply been easier
to give in to her friend’s tenacious wheedling.
No, that wasn’t true. Davinia was the real reason she had agreed to come here tonight.
Drinking deeply from the champagne glass she held, she swallowed the bubbly liquid in a quick
gulp as Graham’s face flitted into her head. She frowned and stirred the air in front of her with
the large peacock feather she held. Her late husband would have heartily disapproved of her
presence here. Not because of the venue’s decadence, although she had no doubt he’d have been
less than happy with her attending the ball under any condition. What he would have condemned
was her using her gift to protect a friend. She frowned.
“There he is, Constance. Do you see him?” Davinia’s fingers bit into the skin of her bare
arm.
With a glance in the direction of Davinia’s discreet nod, Constance spied the man with
whom her friend had become enamored. From what she could see of the man’s face beneath the
slim black mask he wore, it was understandable why Davinia was so enthralled. Oliver
Rawlings, Baronet, was a handsome man, but she was certain the man’s heart was as black as
they came. Just looking at him made her stomach roil.
“Davinia, I know this isn’t the time or place, but there’s something you need to know about
Sir Oliver.”
Curiosity darkened her friend’s lovely green eyes as she tilted her head in a display of
puzzlement. “Something I need to know?”
Uncertain exactly how to proceed, Constance frowned. If Graham were here, he’d be
dragging her from the room. But he wasn’t here, and she had to help her friend. Inhaling a deep
breath, she took the plunge.
“Sir Oliver isn’t what he seems.”
“What on earth are you babbling about, Constance?” A derisive puff of air parted Davinia’s
lips.
“The man’s drowning in debt, and he’s looking for a wife with a substantial dowry.” There,
she’d managed to explain the problem without revealing every horrible detail. Surely, Davinia
wouldn’t waste her time on a ne’er do well.
“Really, Constance. I’m far from an ingénue. I know all that, but I also know he’s in love
with me.”
Her heart sinking, Constance’s fingers tightened on the handle of the peacock feather. Now
what? Should she reveal the rest of what she’d seen? Her visions were far from exact depictions
of the future. In fact, they were more often like a large puzzle with several pieces missing. Could
it be she was wrong this time?
Davinia was one of only a handful of people outside her family who knew about her special
talent. More importantly, she’d never actually seen something involving any of her closest
friends. Seeing the excitement and hope on Davinia’s sweet features made her hesitate. If she
interfered now and was wrong…no, she couldn’t say anything until she had something more
noteworthy to offer up as evidence.
If she tried to explain how she’d seen her friend battered and bruised, Davinia would think
her mad. And wasn’t she? How could she be so sure it was Sir Oliver who had inflicted the
damage? The man she’d seen in her vision had been faceless.
She forced a smile to her lips as she squeezed her friend’s hand. “I only want you to be
happy, Davinia.”
“I am. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and it’s because of Oliver.”
“Then go to him,” Constance said quietly as she suppressed her misgivings. Her friend had
already made up her mind. There was nothing else she could say to convince Davinia that Sir
Oliver was in all likelihood a bad seed.
“Come with me. I want him to meet you.” Davinia tugged at her arm with determination.
“Later perhaps. Since I’m here, I should at least make the attempt to discreetly learn if the
earl is present and what he looks like.”
Her stomach flipped as the words flew from her mouth. She had absolutely no intention of
looking for the earl. It had been a grave mistake coming here, and she refused to compound the
error by introducing herself to the earl tonight.
“Dear heaven, I can’t believe I forgot about the earl.” Davinia shook her head with regret.
The apologetic note in her voice made Constance smile. It was impossible to find fault with
her friend given the happiness sparkling in Davinia’s eyes. Perhaps she was wrong about Sir
Oliver. She’d been wrong before—rarely. Quieting the small voice in the back of her head, she
prayed this would be one of those rare instances.
“Obviously you’re preoccupied,” she said with a smile. “Go on. Off with you.”
Not hesitating, Davinia squeezed her hand and crossed the room toward Sir Oliver. Left
alone on the edge of the throng, Constance grimaced at the thought of Lord Lyndham. Ever since
Percy had first mentioned the earl’s need for a cataloger, she’d been obsessed with the idea of
securing the position. Her brother had mentioned the opportunity simply to tease her, never
realizing she’d summon up the courage to apply for the position. She’d even surprised herself
with her daring. Although why she should be surprised was a mystery to her. The Rockwoods,
by their very nature, were impetuous creatures.
At least she’d had the forethought to apply for the position under the pseudonym she used at
the British Museum. Using her first initial and her mother’s maiden name, C. Stewart sounded
every bit the skilled academician she really was. Her skills he couldn’t question, but her sex in
all probability would preclude her from receiving the position. She knew in all likelihood the earl
would find it difficult to accept a female as possessing the ability to catalog his antiquities. And
meeting the man here—tonight—would most assuredly destroy any credibility she might have on
her resume.
She heaved a sigh. Her desire to protect her friend had placed her in a precarious situation.
She’d allowed Davinia to coerce her into attending the Black Widows Ball based on her
premonitions about Sir Oliver. If not for that reason, she wouldn’t be standing on the fringes of
the Clarendon’s ballroom floor dressed in a costume that was more revealing than most of her
nightgowns. Her gaze flitted about the room, and heat suffused her body as she saw she was the
subject of an increasing number of male stares.
Good Lord, if she didn’t find a dark niche to hide in, she was apt to be accosted on several
fronts. She’d been a fool to think coming here would keep Davinia safe. With a soft noise of
disgust, she moved toward the doors that opened onto a large glass gallery. The long corridor
was cooler than the ballroom, and another sound of irritation parted her lips. She might have
been compelled to attend the Black Widows Ball, but giving in to Davinia’s demands that she
play the role of an ancient Egyptian queen for the night was her own lack of foresight.
The irony of the thought wasn’t lost on her. Shivering with cold, she saw what appeared to
be a salon at one end of the hallway. Shadows flickering on the partially opened doorway
convinced her the room contained a fire burning in an open hearth. Warmth and sanctuary in one
place. Not hesitating, she hurried forward, her gold sandals clicking against the marble floor.
Just outside the entrance to the room, a masked couple stood in the shadows, indulging in a
passionate embrace. She tugged in a sharp breath as she saw the man suckling the woman’s
breast. The wickedness of the scene reinforced the decadence of the ball, and it sent a shiver
through her. What would it be like to give herself over to a man for just this one night?
Appalled by her thoughts, she swallowed hard. Dear Lord, she should have gone straight
home. She slipped quietly past the couple and entered the salon. Closing the door behind her, she
locked herself in the room with a quick flip of the key. She’d heard more accounts of debauchery
outside the well-lit ballroom during the Black Widows Ball than she cared to admit. The last
thing she wanted was to find herself witness to a hedonistic act or worse yet, suffering the
unwelcome attentions of a drunken boor. She’d wait here for an hour or two before attempting to
leave the ball. By then most of the attendees would either have found suitable accommodations
for their trysts or would be too drunk to notice her departure.
The quiet ticking of the mantle clock was soothing to her nerves, and she willed herself to
relax as she moved to stand in front of the cheery fire. Hands outstretched to the flames, she
closed her eyes for a brief moment as she enjoyed the warmth coating her skin.
Except for the fire, there was little light in the room, and the boisterous sound of the ball was
a soft buzz beyond the salon’s locked door. The fire crackled as the burning wood popped in
response to the heat. From where he sat in the far corner of the room, Lucien Blakemore, Earl of
Lyndham, watched the woman as she warmed herself in front of the hearth.
The fire threw her curvaceous figure into stark relief. The soft light passed through the thin
silk of her costume to reveal lusty thighs and long legs. Legs that would easily wrap around a
man in the midst of lovemaking. His body reacted to the vivid image in seconds. She would
never be called a professional beauty, but there was an exotic quality about her that intrigued
him. Exotic and original. Just the type of woman he enjoyed.
His musings made him grimace. Damnation, the old woman was up to her tricks again.
Somehow, his grandmother had arranged the interception of Lady Billingsly this evening and
sent this woman instead. No doubt another attempt to entice him into that damnable state of
marriage. She harped on the subject in every single letter she sent him from the country. His
grandmother’s determination to succeed in marrying him off had placed him in some rather
awkward situations in the months since he’d returned home from Egypt. In the past three weeks
alone, the dowager countess had managed to thrust at least four potential candidates for the post
of Lady Lyndham in front of him. All from her self-imposed exile at Lyndham Keep.
Unable to help himself, he grinned. She was amazing. Not even a military general could
have managed a better-orchestrated campaign than his grandmother. But no matter how much
her actions amused him, it didn’t change anything. He wasn’t about to satisfy his grandmother by
playing her games. Marriage was far too deadly a proposition for him.
Clearing his throat, he watched the woman stiffen and whirl around to face him. When she
turned, his groin tightened further. Good God, the woman was Isis in her most potent form. The
gold silk of her enticing costume caressed every luscious curve of her body, revealing nothing,
yet filling his head with all manner of arousing images.
Other than the silk knots holding her dress in place, her shoulders were bare. The soft silk of
her bodice plunged downward in a vee accentuating the tops of her soft breasts, and he liked the
way the gown flared out over her hips and fluttered around her long legs. Hers was a body for the
most erotic of pleasures.
Voluptuous and tempting, her full breasts looked as though they’d fit into his palm quite
nicely. What color were her nipples? The notion of parting her bodice to discover the answer
sent blood surging through his veins until he was rock hard. Harder than he’d been in months. He
wanted to see his hand caressing her breasts—watch her face as she responded to his touch. If he
were to dip his fingers into her sweet core, would it be warm and sticky like the honey that
flowed so sweetly for the pharaohs centuries ago? It was a tempting thought that tugged at him
with relentless persistence. He wanted to plunge into her, feel her spasms as she climaxed over
his cock.
Across from him, she stood immobile, assessing him with a wary look. Tension drifted
through the air between them, the clock the only sound in the room.
What held her motionless, she wasn’t certain. Any other time she would have quietly
excused herself from a situation that could easily get out of hand. Especially with this man.
Everything about him whispered danger, and her nerve endings sent a wicked frisson dancing
across her skin.
Cool, cerulean eyes studied her quietly through a simple black strip of material. It was the
mask of a highwayman. The thin, white scar curving its way across his cheek down to his jaw
only enhanced the rakish air the mask gave him. The regal line of his nose emphasized the sharp,
angular plane of his strong jaw, and there was just the hint of a smile tilting his sensual mouth.
She wasn’t certain what historic highwayman he was supposed to be, but he played the role
well as he sat there—watching her with a devil-may-care attitude. One boot-clad foot rested on
the edge of his chair, his forearm balanced on top of his knee. His other leg was stretched out in
front of him in a lazy display of masculine strength. There was a pure, raw sensuality about him
that sent every one of her senses into flux. The aura of nonchalance he wore might have fooled
others less observant, but she knew it was a deceptive picture. He was a tiger waiting for that
exact moment when his unsuspecting prey came within striking distance.
“Isis herself could not have been more exquisite.” The low cadence of his voice sent a
disturbing shiver of excitement gliding across her skin.
Heat suffused her cheeks as she watched his gaze roam leisurely over her entire body. A
flash of arousal flared in his startling blue eyes, and she struggled to swallow the knot swelling
her throat. Not even Graham had ever eyed her with such unmitigated desire. In a fluid
movement, he rose to his feet and she drew in a breath of surprise. He was as tall, if not taller,
than all three of her brothers.
“So, my Egyptian beauty, how shall we pleasure each other this evening?” Again, the silky
smoothness of his voice teased her senses.
She tensed. Beneath that seductive tone of his, there was a sardonic note. Dear Lord, did the
man think she’d deliberately sought him out? She didn’t even know who he was. The thought
didn’t stop her from imagining her mouth melding with his firm lips, which were now curled in a
beguiling smile. With a slight shake of her head, she dismissed the notion.
The last thing she needed was to indulge in an affair. Besides, the man wouldn’t last ten
minutes when faced with the male members of the Rockwood clan. No, that wasn’t true. There
was something about him that said he’d be more than a match for her brothers. Butterflies stirred
in her stomach as he slowly crossed the room toward her. He had almost reached her when she
took a quick step back and raised her hand to keep him at arm’s length. Her silent protest didn’t
stop his forward progression until her palm pressed into his chest.
The moment she touched him, she went rigid. Abrupt and swift, the surreal existence of her
visions enveloped her. This time the world she entered was more arousing than anything she
could have ever imagined. Erotic and vividly real, the image of her writhing eagerly beneath the
stranger stole her breath away.
The moment exploded around her with intoxicating pleasure. Warm and spicy, his male
scent flooded her senses as their bodies melded, and he thrust deep into her with a dark roar.
Flexible steel shoulders shifted beneath her hands as she clung to him, her body moving with his
as he filled her completely, withdrew, then buried himself inside her again. The intensity of the
moment sent her mind reeling from the pleasure buffeting every part of her. His heat permeated
her body as her pores rushed to absorb the very essence of him. Tantalized and devoured by his
possession, her blood ran hot with need.
The suddenness with which she was thrown out of the surreal experience sent a jolt through
her body. Muscles weak with reaction to the wicked imagery, she struggled to remain standing.
She stared up at him, all too aware the vision she’d just seen would happen, and nothing she did
could prevent it. The simplicity of the knowledge didn’t startle her, but the anticipation
skimming through her veins did. She wanted his heat burning through her, singeing her until the
pleasure she’d just witnessed consumed her.
He studied her with an indescribable emotion glinting in the cerulean depths of his eyes.
Slowly, he pulled her toward him, his gaze never leaving her face. A strong hand captured her
chin and tilted her head back. Heart pounding with excitement, she waited for his mouth to warm
hers.
The moment their lips touched, she melted into him, her eyes fluttering shut. Senses reeling
from the pleasure of his touch, she gasped as his tongue laced seductively over her lips. In an
instant, his tongue danced with hers in a tantalizing example of the intimacy her gift had shown
her. The sharp bite of Cognac tickled the inside of her mouth as she molded herself to his hard,
muscular body.
The chill that had encased her earlier was gone. In its place was a fire that stole her ability to
think. Everything disappeared in a mist of passion and desire as his mouth teased and tempted
her into a wild and abandoned response. Pressed into him so intimately, her body cried out with
the need to be possessed by him. She’d never wanted anything so much in her entire life.
In the next moment, strong hands gripped her waist as he put space between them. All too
aware of her accelerated pulse and the frantic breaths escaping her lips, she was startled to hear
the harsh sound of his heavy breathing as well. His reaction made her believe he was just as
affected as she was by their embrace. She watched in silence as he swallowed hard.
“My grandmother didn’t send you. Who did? Standish?” The terse note in his voice made
her frown.
“I don’t understand.” She shook her head in puzzlement. “No one sent me.”
“Do you really expect me to believe you found me here simply by accident?” he scoffed.
“I do.” Setting her chin at a defiant tilt, she sent him a haughty look.
“What woman in her right mind would venture away from the main ballroom dressed the
way you are, unless she had every intention of being alone with a man?”
She stiffened at the chastising note in his voice, and heat warmed her cheeks. He was right.
Her behavior announced her blatant disregard for propriety. Still, he didn’t need to scold her like
a child. She lifted her chin to a defiant angle.
“Do not flatter yourself, sir. I wanted to find a safe haven for just a short time. I am not in
the habit of locking myself in a room with a total stranger.”
“And yet you did just that,” he responded softly.
Good heavens, but the man’s voice had the ability to reduce her to the state of a tongue-tied
debutante. And was that regret she saw in his dark eyes? Regret mixed with desire. Her throat
tightened as she saw his gaze slide over her again. Heat returned to her cheeks, and she quickly
looked away to prevent him from seeing how much his open admiration excited her. It was
difficult to think straight when he looked at her like that.
“It was…it was not intentional, sir.”
“Lucien,” he murmured as he bent his head toward her. “You may call me Lucien.”
“Lucien.” She tested the name on her tongue.
She liked the way it sounded. Her eyes locked with his, and her heart skipped a beat at the
open desire darkening his features. As his forefinger trailed its way down the side of her cheek,
she tried to breathe normally. Impossible. Something about this man sent what little cautionary
judgment she possessed dancing off into the wind.
Desire slid through her to coil in every part of her body. It warmed her and sent her blood
pounding through her veins. The fierceness of the emotion took her by surprise. In an attempt to
collect her wits, she drew in a deep breath. She realized her mistake the moment his spicy male
scent flooded her senses.
She didn’t move as he bent his head and brushed his mouth over hers. Was it the brandy on
his lips or his kiss that warmed her blood? God, if she didn’t leave the room right this minute,
she might actually lose her head and do something rash and impulsive. She sighed as his mouth
grazed her cheek then moved downward to nibble at her neck.
“I think I should go,” she breathed.
“Would Isis deny a mere mortal the pleasure of her touch?” he whispered as he trailed his
fingertips down her throat and across her bare shoulder.
He leaned into her again to capture her mouth in a hard kiss. Coherent thought deserted her
as she melted into him. She knew doing so was a mistake, but she loved the way his hard body
pressed into hers. He nipped at her lower lip, playfully tugging at it until she parted her lips to
welcome his sensuous exploration of her mouth.
The bite of the brandy she’d tasted on his lips moments ago swept across her tongue and
heightened the dangerous male essence of him. She needed to stop this madness. She was
playing with fire. Deep inside a small voice encouraged her to linger. Just a few more minutes.
Playing with fire didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the warmth of it for a few more moments.
His hand glided over her hip, and a tremor lashed through her. Oh God, she was enjoying
this far too much. With a gentle tug, he pulled her tight against him. Through the thin silk of her
gown she could feel his thick erection. The tip of it pressed against the apex of her thighs, and
her heart thudded against her chest as she acknowledged how much she wanted him. Desire
rushed through her as she burrowed deeper into his body. She wanted to feel more of him. It was
wrong to want this, but something beyond reason held her in its grip. When his hands slid the
knotted material off her shoulders, she didn’t even think to protest, she simply gave herself up to
the pleasure of his touch.
“Beautiful,” he whispered as his tongue flicked out to circle her nipple. “Ra himself
wouldn’t be able to resist such a tempting sight.”
The only response she could muster was a soft moan. Her blood grew thick in her veins as a
lethargic heat spiraled through her. Once more, he circled her nipple with his tongue then blew
across the dampness of her skin. The sensation made her cry out with pleasure.
Need in its rawest form slid through her, blinding her to anything but the pleasure of his
touch. She arched her body backward as he closed his lips around a nipple and suckled her.
Immediately, her legs grew wobbly.
Dear Lord, this was the most gloriously wicked thing she’d ever done. Wicked, sinful and
decadent. She didn’t want it to end. Her muscles were taut and achy, and she whimpered with the
need to satisfy the primal longing holding her hostage. His mouth left her breast and slid up to
her shoulder. As the remaining silk strap of her bodice fell down into the crook of her elbow, his
thumbs rubbed over the pointed tips of her breasts.
Her mouth went dry as she realized she had reached the point of no return. She knew her
behavior was appalling, but her vision made her wonder if this moment wasn’t meant to be.
Moreover, did she have the strength to deny herself something so exquisitely pleasurable? As his
mouth covered hers once more, she reveled in the unadulterated pleasure his touch gave her.
She’d never known how decadent and delicious Cognac could taste on a man’s tongue. She
wanted more.
She stroke his cheek, and beneath her fingertips, she felt the ridge of the long scar across his
cheek. His hand caught hers, and he turned his head to press his lips into her palm. Passion
blazed in his eyes as his gaze met hers.
“Give yourself to me, Isis.” Desire made his voice raspy. “Let me show you what heaven
can feel like.”
The words sent her heart slamming into her chest as he proceeded to pull her finger into his
mouth. Dear God, the man’s touch was a heady summons to indulge in sin. And it was a
wickedly tempting offer that promised a delirious passion. She knew leaving the room was the
sane thing to do, and yet every part of her protested the idea of sanity.
“This is madness,” she whispered as she looked away from him, struggling with her
decision.
“If that’s so, then I welcome it. That, and the pleasure I know we’ll find in each other’s
arms.”
His words reminded her of the image she’d seen—their bodies entwined together as they
indulged in a sinful passion. The vision made her willing to cast all caution aside. In a supplicant
gesture she pulled his head down and offered him her mouth.
Instantly, his lips seared hers with a demand she couldn’t refuse even if she’d wanted to.
Weak-kneed, she braced herself against his chest with her palms, the soft material against her
hands a direct contrast to the hard muscles beneath his clothing. A sudden rush of liquid heat
made her slick with desire, and she released a soft gasp. The speed with which her body was
ready for him astonished her. Graham had never made her feel this way. Hot, needy and aching
for release.
The hardness of his arousal pressed into her, and with another catlike stroke, she rubbed her
hips against him. Her action ripped a deep groan from his throat, and the sound sent her pulse
skidding along at a phenomenal rate. Dear Lord, she’d lost her mind to be acting in such a
wanton manner.
Whether it was her vision driving her down this wild and wicked path or something else, she
didn’t know. Perhaps she was going mad, but she could not imagine a more delicious man to
descend into madness with. She wanted to touch him—needed to feel the hot essence of him.
Fingertips tingling, she unbuttoned his shirt while her tongue mated with his in a passionate kiss.
Seconds later, her palms pressed into his hard flesh. She breathed in the raw masculinity of
him. It had been more than three years since she’d been this intimate with a man. Beneath her
hands, his heat penetrated the pores of her skin until she wanted more. It wasn’t enough just to
have her hands skimming over the hard, sculptured muscles of his chest. She wanted nothing
between them. She wanted to experience her vision. She wanted him inside her.
As if he could read her mind, he slowly dragged his mouth away from hers and lifted his
head.
With the palm of his hand against her throat, he gently ran his hand downward until his
fingers skimmed over a voluptuous breast. He swallowed hard at the desire glowing in her eyes.
Their hazel color had changed to a sultry green, and the expression of hunger on her face was
enough to drive him to drink.
He hadn’t come here to bed a widow fresh out of mourning, but this one had made him
forget any intentions he had, good or bad. Her soft flesh filled his hand as he cupped one luscious
mound, with his thumb circling a hard peak. Damn, but she was a tempting morsel.
Desire pushed any thought of sanity out of his head, and he lifted her into his arms and
carried her to the long divan that faced the fireplace. As he laid her on the backless furniture, the
seductive pout of her soft mouth pulled the air from his lungs. Christ Jesus, he’d never seen a
more alluring creature. But he wanted to see her without her mask.
He reached out to remove the gold-feathered disguise, but she caught his hand and raised it
to her lips. The warmth of her delicate mouth sent need crashing through him the moment she
started sucking on his finger. He growled from the pleasure of it. If she could suck his cock as
skillfully as she did his finger, he’d find himself well sated. The image pulled another dark growl
from him. Her gaze immediately dropped to his taut erection, and she sent him a provocative
look as she released her grasp on his hand.
“Undress for me,” she demanded in a throaty whisper.
He smiled slowly at the faint flush cresting over her cheeks. It appeared Isis wasn’t used to
making demands when it came to her pleasure. But she had with him, and her boldness pleased
him. As he removed his clothing, he watched her do the same until the only thing she wore was
her gold-feathered mask. Following her example, he didn’t remove the black silk from his face.
As he studied her in the firelight, his gaze swept over voluptuous breasts down to a softly
rounded stomach and then to the dark triangle at the apex of her thighs. Exquisite. He liked how
she was curved in all the right places. Exploring every inch of her would be a pleasurable task.
One hand stretched out to him, she silently invited him to come to her. He accepted without
hesitation and lowered himself onto the divan. Unable to keep from devouring her with his gaze,
he ran his hand across the roundness of her belly. The tactile sensation was one of downy
softness. The aroma of jasmine and lemongrass tantalized his senses. The exotic combination
tugged at his groin as he pressed his mouth against her stomach, delighting in the fragrant
softness of her. His hand caressed a long, shapely leg before his fingers brushed across the top of
her lusty thigh. The quick breath she drew in was filled with a taut need.
“Please,” she murmured.
“I have every intention of pleasing you, yâ sabāha.”
The desire shimmering in her sultry gaze made his mouth go dry. His gaze not leaving her
face, his fingers slipped through her nest of curls. He sucked in a quick breath of surprise as he
encountered the slick heat of her passion. She was drenched in cream. Hot and wet, she arched
her body upward against his hand with a soft mewl of pleasure. He rubbed the fleshy nub
between her slick folds, and she writhed beneath the touch.
“Oh God, please.”
Her soft plea tore at him. Damn, she was about to come apart in his arms, and he’d not had a
chance to fully explore the delights of her body. But she wasn’t the only one wanting immediate
satisfaction. His cock jumped as he watched her pink tongue dart out to lick her lips.
Quickly he shifted his body to hover over her. With his erection pressing at the edge of her
honeyed core, he reached for her mask. Once again she prevented him from removing the goldfeathered covering.
“No,” she murmured. “Tonight belongs to Isis and her mortal lover, Lucien. No one else.”
With a nod, he pressed his hips downward and buried himself in her slick heat. The pleasure
of it forced a deep groan out of him. God, when was the last time he’d had such a delicious
cunny wrapped this tightly around his cock? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember any
woman except her. In the back of his head he heard the warning, but he ignored it. Sheathed
inside her tight passage, he lowered his head to suckle on the stiff peak of her breast.
A soft moan broke over his head as his teeth lightly abraded her nipple. The small cry of
delight escaping her pleased him. It pleased him more than he cared to admit. Slowly he shifted
his hips and eased himself out of her snug sheath. At her murmur of protest, he slid back inside
her. Expanding her until he filled her completely with his hard length.
Christ, but she felt good wrapped around him like a snug vise. As she shifted beneath him,
he released a dark growl of pleasure. She responded by flexing her muscles around him again. If
possible, his cock expanded and hardened against her tightness. God, he’d not enjoyed this kind
of pleasure in a long time. Pulling out of her slightly, he kissed away her protest before plunging
back into her. His mouth swallowed her cry of delight, and triumph raced through him as he
increased the speed with which he plundered her heated core.
As she met his thrusts with equal fervor, he forgot everything but her. Isis was his for the
taking, and their mating filled him with a primal need unlike anything he’d experienced before.
He rocked his hips hard and fast against her as he stared down at the lushly curved body beneath
him. Everything else receded from him except for his awareness of her. The soft cries of her
desire as she bucked against him. The exotic floral scent mingling with the musk of her passion.
The sweet taste of champagne on her tongue. There wasn’t anything about her that he didn’t
want more of.
Her slick, creamy core tightened around his cock, and he groaned as his ballocks drew up
taut at the base of his erection. The faster he drove into her, the more passionate her response.
Fingertips digging into his hard shoulder muscles, she clung to him, answering his demand for
complete surrender. Seconds later her body shattered around him, her muscles clenching him in
hard, rhythmic spasms of intense pleasure. He wanted to prolong the moment, enjoy the
sensation, but he couldn’t. With a deep, primeval growl, he exploded inside her before slowly
sinking down into her soft, full curves.
Chapter 2
The after effects of their joining shivered through her, and her muscles trembled around him.
He released a low sound of pleasure against the side of her neck as his firm lips nibbled at her.
Satiated and exhausted, Constance murmured a soft protest as he rose from the divan. With a
swift kiss to her lips, he smiled.
“The night is still young, Isis. I’m simply going to fetch an afghan I saw earlier.”
She watched him cross the darkened room. The masculine grace and power of his
movements renewed the desire he’d so deliciously satisfied moments ago. The way he moved
emphasized his commanding presence and explained the intense attraction she felt. He reminded
her of the statues of Ramesses she had seen when Graham had taken her to Egypt several months
after their wedding. She closed her eyes as shame suddenly rolled over her.
In some small way, she felt as if she’d betrayed Graham. Biting her lip, she swallowed hard.
What had she been thinking? She’d just given herself to a stranger. She’d been intimate with a
man she knew nothing about. Even his face was a mystery to her. She’d always accepted that
being a Rockwood meant she possessed an impulsive and audacious nature. But this was by far
and away the most outrageous thing she’d ever done. In fact, she was certain she’d outdone all
the Rockwood clan with this particular incident. Overwhelmed by the wickedness of her actions,
she shot upright and frantically looked around for her costume.
Escape. The sooner she left this man’s company, the better. Her fingers absently touched her
cheek as she tried to come to grips with the situation she found herself in. The golden feathers of
her mask brushing across her knuckles brought a sigh of relief to her lips. The one saving grace
in this entire debacle had been her foresight to keep her mask on. He would never recognize her
if they met at some dinner party or other social event.
Leaning over, she reached for the gold and green silk of her dress. The warmth of a strong
hand covered her fingers, and she jerked with surprise as he gently pulled the garment from her
grasp. In an odd gesture of tenderness, he stroked the side of her face with his finger as he sat
down beside her.
“You’re troubled by something.”
“No, I’m just a bit chilly.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded false as she turned her
head away from him.
“You’ve not betrayed him, yâ sabāha. One cannot betray the dead.”
Stunned, she stared into the blue eyes studying her with quiet assessment. Swallowing the
knot in her throat, it amazed her how he’d instinctively known she was feeling guilty about
Graham. Few other men would have been so perceptive. Even more astonishing was the way
he’d addressed her in the Arabic language as his beauty.
The only men she knew who spoke the language were on staff at the British Museum, and
this man wasn’t one of them. She was certain of that. The scholars at the Museum were much
older than this man. With another shake of her head, she reached for the gold and green silks he
still held in his hand.
“I really must go. I…what happened here tonight…”
“Was a brief interlude, nothing more.”
He finished the sentence for her. The matter-of-fact note in his voice filled her with relief.
He did not expect their relationship to continue. To her surprise, a twinge of disappointment
nipped at her. Not willing to explore the reason for her reaction, she accepted her costume from
his outstretched hand. She dressed quickly, aware he was doing the same. As she adjusted the
knotted material on her shoulder, she looked up to see him watching her with an intense look. It
was a look that sent a blaze of excitement spiraling through her body.
In the span of a breath, she was in his arms again as he took her mouth in a hard kiss. The
uncontrolled restraint of the embrace rocked its way through her. She would never forget tonight
or him as long as she lived. For a brief time, she’d experienced a passion that few would ever
know. It was worth any guilt or remorse she might feel in the days to come.
As he raised his head and stared down into her eyes, she placed her open palm against his
heart. Beneath her fingertips she could feel his heartbeat. It was strong and steady. The sound of
it connected her to him until his pulse thundered through her head, assaulting her senses. With
the roar came the blood. It was everywhere. Looking down at her hands she gagged as she saw
the bright red stains on her skin.
The horror attacking her made her whimper as she stared helplessly about the room she was
in. It was a massive library with books strewn all around the floor. Lying close to her feet was
the body of a woman. Her eyes were open and vacant. Lifeless. There was a deep gash across her
throat that still oozed a trickle of blood. Never in her life had her gift ever thrust her into such a
horrible place. Not even her nightmares could compare with this unspeakable carnage.
Then in the blink of an eye, the room shifted around her, and she watched as a handsome
man knelt at the woman’s side. The look of grief and rage on his face swelled her throat as she
suppressed her tears at his pain. In that brief moment, evil wrapped its arms around her. It pulled
her into a stranger’s body and a knife appeared in her hand. In a fleeting moment of recognition,
she knew she’d seen the knife before, but she couldn’t remember where. The moment was gone
as a flash of light showed the blade descending to slice deep into the man’s neck, spraying his
lifeblood outward.
With a sharp cry, she raised her hands in an attempt to cover her face. Strong hands gripped
her arms, and Lucien’s low voice called to her. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at him with
trepidation. There was a strange glint in his gaze that unnerved her. Had he been a part of what
she’d seen? Was he a murderer? Was that why she’d seen that devastating picture? She shivered.
“Are you all right?”
Bemused and frightened, she nodded. “Yes, I…forgive me—I must go.”
“You’re frightened.”
“No,” she said sharply, and beneath the black silk of his mask, she saw his piercing blue
eyes narrow.
Oh God, did he know what she’d seen? No, how could he? She had to get away. Even if he
wasn’t involved in the horrendous crime she’d witnessed, he was the catalyst that had brought
the images forth. Terrible images she wanted to forget. Trembling, she pushed her way out of his
arms, and without another word sped toward the door.
Behind her, he uttered a soft oath. Not daring to look over her shoulder, she fumbled with
the key before the lock clicked open. The sound of his footsteps propelled her out the door and
down the corridor to the brightly lit ballroom. Tonight had ended with a memory she wanted to
forget, but knew she never would.
Berkshire
Lyndham Keep, Two Months Later
It was gloomy. No, bleak and desolate was a more accurate description. Against the dreary
looking rain clouds, the gray stone walls of Lyndham Keep looked almost menacing. Staring out
the carriage window at the massive stone building, Constance shook her head at the fanciful
thought. The place hardly looked all that ominous considering the reason for her flight from
London.
“It looks like a haunted castle, Mother.” Jamie’s comment made her turn her head back to
her son. The excitement on his face tugged a smile to her lips.
“It does a little bit, doesn’t it. Now remember what I told you earlier. You’re to be on your
best behavior.”
“Yes, Mother.” His attention span short, he stared back out the window. “Do you think the
earl is going to be angry when he finds out you’re a woman?”
The question sent apprehension skating down her spine. After a lengthy correspondence, the
earl had offered her the position of cataloging his Egyptian artifacts without ever questioning her
as to her sex. After all, it hadn’t been relevant. Had it?
Jamie was right, what would the earl think when he finally met C. Stewart? Would he send
her packing for not belaboring the point that she was a woman? The curiosity in her son’s eyes
made her flinch as she shook her head in a gesture of uncertainty. She couldn’t let the earl even
consider the possibility. She had to convince him that he’d based his decision to hire C. Stewart
on her credentials and not her sex. C. Stewart had been selected to catalog the earl’s Egyptian
artifacts because of her skill and knowledge, nothing more.
She had no intention of losing this position. Lyndham Keep was sanctuary. A place to hide
until he stopped looking for her. She shivered. It had been two months since the Black Widows
Ball. What had begun as a glorious night of pleasure had ended on a note of horror. A true
Rockwood, she’d succumbed to impulse and only afterward had she realized the folly of her
actions. Although the doctors had said she would never conceive again, the possibility had still
haunted her. It had been a relief when she learned she wasn’t with child, but her connection to
the stranger had still remained. Closing her eyes briefly, she remembered the dreams that began
shortly after her interlude with the highwayman.
In her dreams, the man who called himself Lucien searched for her. From one drawing room
to the next, he hunted for her. The first night she’d brushed the dream off as a remnant of fear
from what she’d experienced in Lucien’s presence. But as the dreams continued pushing their
way into her sleep, something changed.
At first she couldn’t understand what was different about each successive dream. Then she
realized what it was. With each dream, he came closer to her. At first he’d been a shadowy figure
in the distance, but as each night passed, he was more distinct—real. His mask still hid his face,
but she knew it was him. The dreams convinced her he was looking for her, and the only way to
escape was to leave London.
The thought of telling her family about her predicament had occurred to her, but she’d
quickly discarded the notion. The last thing she wanted to do was admit to any of her siblings
that she’d gone to the Black Widows Ball. Louisa and Patience would simply be amused by her
daring. Unfortunately the rest of the Rockwood clan would be less than amused.
While her sister-in-law would have tried to shield her, not even Helen’s sway over her
husband would have staved off any inquisition. As the family patriarch, Sebastian would have
demanded a full account of her actions, with Percy and Caleb in complete agreement. No, she’d
been wise not to confide in her family. Her brothers would have suffocated her with a wellintentioned cloak of protection.
She’d even considered taking a house in the country for a few months. It would have
strained her household budget considerably, but she’d been willing to do whatever it took to
escape the man searching for her. Then the earl had made his decision, and it had been manna
from heaven. The joy of being responsible for such a notable collection of artifacts was second
only to the knowledge that she could escape London for several months until she completed the
archiving of the earl’s antiquities collection. By the time she returned, Lucien would no longer
be looking for her.
Now, trepidation wound its way through her like a vine of ivy, threatening to choke her as
she stared out the carriage window at the large keep they were approaching. Jamie had asked an
excellent question. What would the earl do when he found out he’d secured the services of a
woman to catalog his prized Egyptian artifacts?
The carriage rocked to a halt, and she tried to ignore the apprehension nibbling at her. It was
quite likely she’d be sent straight back to the rail station the moment her deception was
discovered. As the coach door opened, she accepted the footman’s assistance and descended
from the carriage. The massive wood doors of Lyndham Keep rose up like giant oaks,
reinforcing the image of an ancient battlement. Standing just outside the door was a slenderly
built man who bowed as she climbed the steps.
“Good afternoon, madam. We were expecting a Mr. Stewart.”
“I’m C. Stewart. Would you please inform his lordship that I’ve arrived.” Her response
made the man’s eyes widen, but other than that he showed no other sign of surprise.
“His lordship isn’t expected home for at least three weeks, madam, but Lady Lyndham
asked to see you when you arrived.”
She inhaled a deep breath as she nodded in silent response. With her hand on Jamie’s
shoulder, they followed the butler into a massive hall. The stone walls rose up at least two levels
to wide beams that served to hold up the ceiling. A huge tapestry hung against one wall, while
two complete sets of armor framed the entry to a large library. Her heart skipped a beat as she
walked past the open doorway of the large book-filled room. The Lyndham Library—from what
she could see, the room was every bit as massive as she’d heard. Rumor held the Lyndham
Library rivaled Queen Victoria’s private collection.
The sound of her shoes clicking on the stone floor mingled with the swish of her bustled
gown, the usually soft noise echoing loudly in the great hall. It underlined the sonorous depth of
the room. The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she sensed someone or something watching
her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the figure of a man standing in the shadows near the
library door.
An instant later he vanished in a thin stream of mist. Frowning, she inhaled a deep breath. It
didn’t surprise her to find one or more spirits lingering in a structure as old as Lyndham Keep.
The family descended from the time of William the Conqueror. Once more she was reminded of
the menacing appearance the keep had presented only a short time ago. With great effort, she
controlled the sudden urge to run back to the carriage, dragging Jamie with her. She cast the
thought aside. Going back to London was out of the question.
Following the butler, they walked into a room with a ceiling that wasn’t quite as high as the
main hall. Despite its large size, the room was warm and cozy with its lemon chintz cushions and
a roaring fire in the immense hearth. Seated in a wing-backed chair of floral print, an elderly
woman eyed Jamie with a look of astonishment before turning her intimidating gaze on
Constance.
Powdery white hair piled atop her head in an outdated style, the dowager countess’s piercing
blue eyes pinned their fierce brightness on her. Blue-veined hands rested on the head of a cane
she held. The woman presented the air of a fierce and regal matriarch.
For a brief instant, she saw something vaguely familiar in the woman’s expression. Had she
met the woman before? She dismissed the notion as Lady Lyndham’s sharp gaze settled on her,
and her heart sank. There was the distinct possibility the dowager would send her back to
London without an opportunity to even plead her case with the earl. Remembering her manners,
she curtseyed as she halted in front of the dowager.
“Good afternoon, my lady.”
“Harrumph. Jacobs tells me you’re Mr. Stewart.”
Steadily meeting the older woman’s stern gaze, Constance nodded. “I am C. Stewart, my
lady. I applied for the earl’s cataloger position using the initial of my given name and my
mother’s maiden name.”
For a long moment, the woman glared down her sharp, regal nose at her. Determined not to
flinch in the face of such a penetrating look, Constance lifted her chin and did not allow her gaze
to waver beneath the other woman’s crystal-blue gaze. The sudden sound of laughter tumbling
from the woman’s lips made Constance jump. It wasn’t quite the reaction she had expected.
“You have backbone, girl. I like that.”
“My lady?”
“You secure this position without disclosing the full truth of who you are, and then you
waltz into this ancient hall with a brazen confidence I’ve not seen in years. And with a child no
less.”
Constance touched Jamie’s shoulder. “If I may, my lady, this is my son, Lord Westbury.
Jamie, Lady Lyndham.”
At the introduction, Jamie immediately stepped forward and bowed over the dowager’s hand
to brush the air above her fingers with his mouth. The deep chuckle rippling from the woman’s
wrinkled throat made Jamie a bit more audacious, and Constance sucked in a quick breath of
horror as she saw him wink at the woman.
Another roar of laughter parted the woman’s mouth. “By God, boy, you have as much cheek
as your mother. Come, sit down. Both of you.”
Motioning for them to take a seat in the chairs opposite her regal figure, Lady Lyndham
picked up a bell on the table beside her. When the woman shook it, the shrill ring had an edge to
it that heightened Constance’s already finely tuned senses. With a fierce look of disapproval at
her son, she sank down into the chair next to Jamie, uncertain of what to expect next. An
inspection by the dowager was the last thing she’d anticipated in coming to Lyndham Keep.
The prickling sensation at her neck made her look over her shoulder as the butler entered the
room. A light mist hovered in the salon doorway as Lady Lyndham tossed her hand up in an
imperial gesture.
“Tea for three, Jacobs. And bring some of the blackberry scones Cook promised to make
today.” Without waiting for the man’s acknowledgement, Lady Lyndham turned back to
Constance. “Now then, C. Stewart. Tell me why you applied for the position my grandson
advertised.”
Jerking her head around to meet the other woman’s piercing gaze, Constance lifted her chin.
“It’s reputed the artifacts in the earl’s Egyptian collection are some of the finest in the world.
I’ve been a student of ancient Egypt since childhood, and I’ve studied Egyptology with several
scholars at the British Museum. As I outlined in my letter to his lordship, I am eminently
qualified for the position.”
“I see.” The woman’s eyebrow arched with imperial flair. “And what made you think my
grandson would agree to your employment once he discovered the truth about you?”
Constance glanced down at her gloved hands, surprised to see them clutching her beaded
purse with desperation. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? She was acting as if she’d
just been caught in a lie by one of the nuns at St. Bridget’s Academy. Squaring her shoulders,
she lifted her head and met the woman’s gaze with a steady look.
“To be quite frank, my lady, I didn’t even consider that possibility. I had thought to impress
him with my work so he would overlook the minor detail of my sex.”
“Hmm,” the old woman murmured as she nodded her head. “Is this madcap behavior a
common one for you?”
The question made Constance wince. The Rockwood disposition for impulsive behavior had
always ensured she acted without thinking. But applying for the position of cataloger to the Earl
of Lyndham had been driven by more than impulse. She’d needed salvation.
“It is true that my family is known for their impetuous natures, but I am confident my
knowledge will serve the earl well.”
Jacobs entered the room with a tray of china. The cups rattled lightly as he set the tea on the
table next to Lady Lyndham. Ignoring the man, the old woman arched an eyebrow at Constance.
“How do you take your tea, girl?”
“Two lumps, my lady.”
With a bob of her powdery white head, Lady Lyndham poured the hot liquid, added the
sugar then handed a cup to Constance. The piercing blue of her gaze swung to Jamie. “It appears
that Jacobs has brought you a glass of milk to accompany your scones, young man. I take it that
will be satisfactory.”
“It will indeed, my lady.” Jamie’s blasé tone of voice made Constance grimace. He had
never been his father’s son. Jamie’s personality had displayed his Rockwood lineage from the
first moment he could sit up. The dowager didn’t seem the least bit put off by Jamie’s cavalier
response. Constance breathed a sigh of relief, determined to chastise her son when the moment
presented itself.
“So, you want to catalog that rubble my grandson brought back from Egypt. Did you really
think he would overlook the fact that you’re a woman?” The dowager’s voice held a distinct
thread of amusement.
“Not exactly, my lady.” She studied the tea in her cup for a second before looking into Lady
Lyndham’s discerning gaze. “I believe my work will show me qualified for the task. I’ve heard
the earl was not happy with his last appointment to this post. I am confident my skills as a
cataloger will more than satisfy his lordship—enough to overlook any other unsuitable qualities I
may possess.”
Lady Lyndham set her cup down and eyed her with a look that reminded Constance of a
watchful bird of prey. It was a look she’d received from her brothers on more than one occasion
in an attempt to intimidate her. She did not drop her gaze. Harsh frowns from her brothers had
never frightened her, and Lady Lyndham’s scowl was no different. The woman’s dour
expression changed suddenly as she looked at Jamie then back at Constance.
“Westbury,” the woman said sharply. “Is that the same Westbury who upped and died of
some fever in Cairo a few years back?”
The stark question caught Constance off guard, and her heart lurched painfully in her breast.
Graham’s death had been sudden and unexpected, leaving her to raise Jamie on her own. If she
had been able to make any sense out of her dreams in the days before they left for their second
visit to Cairo, she would have insisted that they not go. But she hadn’t, and Graham had
succumbed to dysentery despite all her efforts to save him. Aware of the dowager’s arched look
of impatience, she nodded.
“Lord Westbury was my husband.”
“If I recall, that would make you a Rockwood. One of Matilda Stewart’s clan,” the dowager
said as she took a sip of her tea. “I’ve heard your aunt is as formidable as your grandmother
was.”
“You knew my grandmother, my lady?”
“I did. Catherine and I debuted the same year. A fiery woman—that Scots background I
suppose. Broke a few hearts before she upped and married Magnus MacDonald. You look like
her, and from what I’ve seen, you’re just as impulsive as she was.”
“It is a propensity for which the Rockwoods are known, my lady. But we stand by our
impulsive natures,” she said with a touch of pride.
“Uncle Sebastian says she’s almost as bad as Aunt Louisa when it comes to stumbling into
trouble.” Jamie’s precocious comment shot a bolt of horror through Constance. Had her son
taken leave of his senses? Leaning over toward him, she caught his hand up in hers, her tight grip
making him send her an uneasy look.
“First you will apologize to her ladyship for being so rude, and then you will wait for me in
the hall.”
Thoroughly chastened, her son stood up and bowed toward the dowager countess. “My
sincerest apologies, my lady. If you will excuse me, I’ll leave you and my mother to finish your
tea.”
Amusement twinkled in the old woman’s eyes, but the dowager countess did not smile as
she gave Jamie a sharp nod. “Make certain you stay out of trouble in the hall, my lord. This keep
is haunted, and I’d hate to see you anger any of our resident ghosts.”
Constance suppressed a groan at the woman’s words. In most children, such a warning
would be more than sufficient to keep them on their best behavior. But Jamie was an unusual
child. Anything sounding remotely of the supernatural had him racing down paths even seraphim
refused to walk. The excitement on his face made her lean toward him again.
“Remember, my lord, you are to wait for me in the main hall.”
She saw the way his eyes clouded with disappointment, and with a gesture of dismissal,
nodded toward the door. When he had left the room, she turned back to the dowager countess,
aware of the other woman’s curious gaze.
“I must ask your forgiveness for my son’s capricious nature, my lady. He’s young and rarely
stops to think.”
“Harrumph, I imagine he comes by it naturally.” Amusement sparkled in the sharp blue eyes
watching her. “How often must you account for your own hasty decisions?”
Why, the woman was actually chiding her for disciplining Jamie. She bit back a smile. Like
his father, Jamie had the ability to charm people simply by looking at them. It was a trait that
would serve him well in the House of Lords when the time came for him to take his father’s seat.
Aware the old woman wanted an answer, she smiled.
“I must account for my impetuosity more often than I care to admit, my lady.”
The dowager arched an eyebrow at her, and Constance found herself liking the old woman
in spite of her abrupt mannerisms. And despite the age difference, Lady Lyndham reminded her
a great deal of her Aunt Matilda.
“I should send you home, Lady Westbury.” Indecision threaded Lady Lyndham’s voice.
“I’m certain my grandson will be less than pleased at your deception.”
“My deception will be moot once he recognizes my skills are more than equal to the task he
needs performed.”
“Harrumph.” Lady Lyndham’s thin mouth tightened into a firm line, but there was a distinct
twinkle in her gaze. “How did you find out about this librarian post?”
“My brother Percy mentioned it in passing, and the earl’s decision to secure my services was
an answer to my prayers.”
“Prayers, eh? Well, girl, if I were you, I’d reserve judgment on that point. You’ve yet to
meet my grandson, who is quite likely to toss you out on your ear for deceiving him.”
“I did not deceive anyone, my lady. I simply allowed his lordship to form his own opinion.”
The woman barked with laughter as she shook her head. “We’ll see how the boy reacts to
that when he arrives. In the meantime, I suppose it will do no harm to let you at least attempt to
do the task you were charged with.”
A rush of elation surged through her at having overcome what she was certain had to be a
major hurdle. The dowager countess was clearly not someone to be trifled with, and to have
passed the woman’s rigorous inspection increased the odds of convincing the earl that she was
capable of the position.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Oh, don’t be too hasty in thanking me. You’ve yet to meet my grandson. Although I admit
it’s an occasion I do not wish to miss.” Her blue-veined hand picked up the bell again and gave it
a sharp ring. Almost immediately, the butler appeared in the room. “Jacobs, place Lady
Westbury in the Blue Room. As for the young Lord Westbury, he can stay in the nursery with
Lady Imogene under Nanny’s care.”
Jacobs nodded his answer and waited patiently as Lady Lyndham turned her attention back
to Constance. “Once you’ve settled in, you may begin your task in the library. We dine at eight,
and I do not tolerate tardiness.”
Aware she’d been dismissed, Constance stood up and offered the woman a brief curtsey,
then followed Jacobs out of the room. Emerging from the salon and into the main hall gave her
the sensation of clouds passing over the sun. There was a chill here that made her hair stand on
end. Lyndham Keep had seen more than its share of anguish, and its effect on her senses made
her uneasy. She quickly suppressed the emotion as she saw Jamie staring up at the second-floor
landing. Following his gaze, she saw the face of a young girl peering down at them.
The moment the butler started up the stairs, the girl leaped back and disappeared from view.
With Jamie in front of her, they climbed the massive staircase. Carved from mahogany, the
spindles in the banister were fine examples of detailed and exquisite workmanship. It was a
beautiful staircase, but something in the air made it feel dark and dense.
When they reached the second floor, Jacobs led them down a long corridor of stone archways
and portrait-laden walls. The dismal atmosphere resembled something out of a Dickens or Brontë
novel. The only light illuminating the hall came from a tall window at the end of the corridor.
Pressing against her, the darkened hallway made her long for the bright, airiness of her own
home.
The thought vanished as she remembered why she’d fled London. No, Lyndham Keep
would suit her just fine, dark corridors and all. Jacobs stopped in front of a door and opened it for
her.
She entered a serene-looking room that was much brighter than the hall it bordered. The
butler moved to the fireplace and, using a flint, lit the fire in the grate. When he finished, he
bowed in her direction.
“I’ll have your trunks brought up immediately, my lady. Do you require anything else at the
moment?”
“No, thank you, Jacobs.”
“Very well, then I’ll take his lordship up to the nursery, my lady. It’s on the next floor and
easy enough to find.”
With a nod, Constance eyed her son’s remorseful expression. Smiling, she lifted his chin so
he could see her face. “We’ll talk later. In the meantime, no ghost hunting. Is that understood?”
As if realizing his penance was over, he grinned. “Yes, Mother. But may I explore just a
little?”
“Perhaps later, hmm.”
His wry grimace made her laugh as he turned and followed the butler out of the room. As
the door closed behind them, Constance reached up, pulled out her hatpin and removed her hat.
Sticking the pin into the large ribbon bow in the back of the headgear, she set it on a nearby
dressing table and surveyed her surroundings. The room was large with furniture reminiscent of
medieval times. The clawed feet on the dresser and wardrobe were repeated on the bed and
chairs with intricate carvings on the legs and posts.
She crossed the room to the window and pushed aside the curtains to look out over the
keep’s grounds. Despite the gloomy sky brooding above the earth, there were brilliant signs of
spring’s arrival. Green buds were unfurling on the trees, and the grass lining the lawn was the
color green that always accompanied the season.
Something told her the grounds would be lovely when spring was in full bloom. Just as
lovely as the banks of the river Nile were after the annual floodwaters had receded. Excitement
skittered through her. She was going to have access to one of the world’s most valuable
collections of Egyptian antiquities. Or at least she would until the earl returned home.
The dowager countess had been far from reassuring about the earl’s reaction to her presence
at Lyndham Keep. Shoulders lifted in a slight shrug, she sighed. She’d eluded her masked lover,
and that’s all that mattered. A shiver pricked her skin as she remembered the horror of the vision
she’d had that night. Refusing to dwell on it, she turned away from the window, her gown
rustling quietly against the wooden floor until she reached the large carpet in the middle of the
room.
A sudden noise stopped her in her tracks. It was a soft sound, and she strained to hear it. She
was uncertain what it was at first until she recognized it for faint sobbing. There was great
sorrow in the sound, and in seconds an icy chill engulfed her body. Her breath small clouds in
the cold air, she waited for the spirit to show itself. Instead, the sobbing stopped as quickly as it
had begun, and the temperature in the room grew warm again.
The memory of the spirit she’d seen earlier made her frown. Although she and the earl had
never met, she’d heard numerous stories about his family. Never one to put much stock in
gossip, she now wished she’d been a little more attentive to the stories she’d heard. She thought
there had been something about a murder, but she couldn’t remember for sure. Hushed whispers
of all sorts of mayhem accompanied old families of the nobility. Even the Rockwoods had their
share of murderers and thieves.
The fire popped loudly in the hearth, and she jumped at the sharp sound. Grimacing at her
nervous behavior, she shook her head. It was time to get to work. The sooner she started
cataloging the collection, the more she’d have done by the time the earl came home. And the
further along she was with her task, the less likely the man was to throw her out of the keep.
§ § §
Slapping her hands to shake off the dust coating her skin, Constance stared at the crates
stacked in the makeshift storage room adjacent to the keep’s library. There were still so many of
them. She’d taken on a monumental task, and the notion of it made her heart sink. It had been
almost three weeks since her arrival, and in that time, she’d worked hard to be as thorough and
efficient as possible in her cataloging efforts. The question was whether her work would suitably
impress the earl when he returned home. For the first time, she realized the light from the room’s
windows had been fading for some time. She needed to return to her room to freshen up or she’d
be late for dinner.
With one more brush of her dirty hands, she returned to the library. The moment she entered
the room, the usual prickling sensation crawled across her skin. From the first time she’d entered
the library she’d sensed something terrible had happened here. She wasn’t certain what, but pain
and sorrow permeated the room to the point that it often made it difficult for her to concentrate.
It was one reason why she worked in the adjacent room rather than here in the library.
Despite her efforts to convince herself that working in the storage area gave her more
convenient access to the crates of antiquities, she knew better. Eager to leave the library, she
hurried across the large carpet that covered most of the beautifully polished oak floor. She had
only taken a few steps when her skin grew icy cold. Coming to an abrupt halt, she exhaled a
breath to see it become a small cloud.
“Whoever you are, I don’t frighten easily,” she said in a firm, dispassionate voice.
The moment her words rang out into the room, the air around her warmed to normal room
temperature. Exasperated, she shook her head.
“Not so brave when someone snaps back, are you?” she muttered.
“I am far from being frightened, my dear.”
Unable to help herself, she yelped in surprise and whirled around to see a handsome man
watching her with a look of curiosity.
“Damnation.” His eyes widened with astonishment. “You really can see me.”
Gathering her wits, Constance brushed a stray lock of hair away from her brow as she glared
at the spirit. Under normal circumstances, ghosts didn’t speak to her. Here apparently was one of
the rare exceptions.
“Yes, I can see you.”
“Excellent. I’m Nigel, by the way, and you are?”
“Constance,” she said with a quick shake of her head.
“You’re a pretty little thing. I suppose he’s already told you that.” There was a familiar note
in the man’s voice, and she frowned.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“My brother. I suppose he’s told you—” The ghost’s smile collapsed into a grimace as he
faded swiftly into thin air.
Quickly stepping forward, Constance stood in the area where the ghost had been, but there
was no cold spot of any kind. Over the years, she’d come to recognize many things about the
spirits she had contact with. The stronger personalities were the ones best able to manifest their
energy into making themselves visible or even moving objects in the physical world. But it was a
short-lived ability because of the vast amount of energy it took. This ghost had one of the
strongest vibrations of any spirit she’d ever encountered.
Strong enough to speak—and that had only happened to her one other time. The bittersweet
memory of her mother made a knot of tears swell in her throat. She clenched her fists to push
back the sadness and buried the memories deep below the surface.
Whatever the ghost wanted from her, it would be some time before he made another
appearance. Turning back toward the door of the library, she gave a violent start at the sight of
Lady Lyndham in the doorway. A second later, light illuminated the dowager countess’s features
as she moved into the room, her cane softly thudding against the carpet.
“Is talking to thin air another of your eccentric behaviors, Lady Westbury?”
Heat burned her cheeks at the skeptical tone in the dowager’s voice. It was bad enough she’d
arrived at the keep by dubious means, and now she’d been caught in a conversation with
someone no one else could see. Not an easy thing to explain. Straightening her shoulders, she
nodded her head as she relied on the explanation she’d used since she was a young girl.
“I’m afraid so, my lady. I must confess that I often talk out loud. People find that far more
comforting than if I were to tell them I was conversing with the spirits.” Deliberately smiling at
the woman, she watched amusement cross the dowager’s face.
“I like you, Lady Westbury. You’ve a freshness that this decrepit tomb hasn’t experienced in
years.”
“Thank you, my lady. You’re most kind.”
“Nothing of the sort.” Lady Lyndham snorted. “If I’d taken a dislike to you, you would have
been out the door the first day.”
“I thought as much,” Constance murmured with a smile.
“Harrumph.” The dowager countess uttered the disgruntled sound with great emphasis. “Did
you now?”
“If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I should go and change or I’ll be late for dinner.” She waited
for the woman to respond, but Lady Lyndham seemed lost in thought as she stared around the
room.
“I can’t remember the last time I was in here.” The dowager’s whisper was faint as her gaze
focused on the spot where the ghost had been only moments before. “Not since…”
Constance watched as the woman barely shook her head. There was a forlorn air about the
woman that resembled the grief she was all too familiar with. Stepping forward, she gently rested
her hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
“What?” Lady Lyndham looked startled as she glanced over her shoulder at Constance. “I
must have been daydreaming again. A codicil to growing old. Come, I want to leave this dreary
place.”
Puzzled, Constance offered her arm as the woman waved a hand toward her. Together they
walked slowly toward the library door, the dowager relying on the sturdy cane that seemed
almost a part of her. As they stepped into the hall, Lady Lyndham came to a halt, her shoulders
hunched over as she rested both hands on her cane.
“Tell me, how is it going with my grandson’s artifacts?” There was a distinct twinkle in
those fierce blue eyes, and Constance laughed.
“They are exquisite and overwhelming. I had no idea of the magnitude of the task itself. I
know I’ve accomplished a great deal, but it looks quite insignificant when compared to what is
still left to do.”
Nodding, Lady Lyndham pinned her with a cool look of assessment. “Does that mean you’re
going to give up?”
“I am a Rockwood, my lady. We do not give up.”
“I had hoped that was the case.” The woman chortled with a raspy laugh. “It will do my
grandson good to meet an intelligent woman who’s strong enough to stand up to him.”
“But surely he has you to do that, my lady.” Constance smiled as the woman stared at her in
amazement before bending over her cane and coughing out her laughter. As the dowager’s
laughing fit subsided, she lifted her head and sent Constance a chiding look.
“Don’t make this old woman laugh like that again. It does the body ill.”
“I am sorry, my lady.” The notion of having caused the woman discomfort made her
grimace with concern.
“Oh stop looking like that. I might be old, but I’m not in my grave yet. Run along now. If
you’ll recall, I do not tolerate late arrivals for supper.”
With a nod, Constance turned away and hurried toward the stairs. As she reached the
midpoint of the staircase, she looked back at the dowager countess. The woman was still
watching her, and there was a look of satisfaction on her face. Confused by the woman’s odd
behavior, Constance continued up the staircase to her room. The entire house was a conundrum
haunted with troubled spirits and dark mysteries.
Chapter 3
With a powerful gait, Anubis trotted up the long drive to Lyndham Keep. Keeping his touch
light on the reins, Lucien smiled at the way the large horse shook his head. His gloved hand
patted the animal’s thick, muscled neck.
“You smell those oats, don’t you, boy?”
Almost as if he understood the question, the animal tossed his head again. Laughing, Lucien
nudged the horse into a slow gallop as he rode toward his ancestral home. In the late afternoon
light, the ancient fortress looked far from welcoming. He eyed the massive structure with
resignation. Lyndham Keep had never really been home. Too much death resided behind the
gray walls.
There were times when he simply wanted to raze it to the ground. But doing so would never
wash the blood away. It would always be with him. Scowling at his thoughts, he urged Anubis to
go faster. He’d come back to the keep simply to ensure that Stewart was archiving the collection
correctly. If the man’s work was satisfactory, it would enable him to begin planning another
expedition back to Egypt. The sooner the better. He rarely slept well when he was home.
As Anubis pranced to a halt in front of the keep, the massive doors swung open. Jacobs
stood outside the wide doorway, while a footman ran out to take the horse’s bridle. With one last
pat to the animal’s neck, Lucien dismounted.
“See to it that he has a good quantity of oats after you cool him down, Tony.” Pulling off his
gloves, he strode through the open doorway and handed his riding crop and accessories to the
man following him into the keep. “Where’s my grandmother, Jacobs?”
“I believe she’s in the main salon, my lord. She had tea a short time ago,” the servant said
with quiet regard.
There was no need to look at the butler’s face to know that his grandmother was taking a
short nap in her favorite chair. Jacobs had been with the family almost since the time his
grandmother had come to Lyndham Keep as a young bride. The man knew exactly when and
how to appease the dowager countess. Smiling, he nodded his understanding.
“I’ll look in on her a little later. For the moment, I want a bath and some fresh clothes.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Eager to refresh himself after a long train ride and the subsequent ride from the Nottingham
station, Lucien crossed the stone floor toward the staircase and glanced into the library. From the
main hall he could see through the library into the small reading room he’d converted into a
storage area for his antiquities. The sight that greeted him made him come to an abrupt halt. In
the room just off the library, a woman stood at one of his crates, examining the markings of a
piece of pottery.
Stewart hadn’t mentioned anything about a wife, and even if the man had, he had no
business letting unskilled hands handle delicate artifacts. Wheeling sharply toward the door, he
strode through the library and into the storage area.
“Who the devil are you?” Instantly he regretted his sharp tone as the woman cried out in
surprise and almost dropped the jar she was holding. Recovering from her fright, she sent him a
brief glance of annoyance before gingerly setting the pottery back into the straw-filled crate. He
noted the tender care she took in nestling the item back in the packing material.
“I told you before, I don’t frighten easily, and I’d appreciate it if—” With a sharp jerk she
turned to look at him as if suddenly realizing he wasn’t the person she was expecting.
To his surprise, she paled considerably as she met his gaze. Fear glimmered in her eyes
before it vanished, making him think he’d been mistaken. Narrowing his gaze at her, he watched
her expression become wary as her eyes met his. No, he’d not made a mistake. She’d simply
buried her fear beneath a serene expression. The woman was most definitely afraid. But why?
“It wasn’t my intent to startle you, but the only person who should be handling these
artifacts is Mr. Stewart.”
A small silence drifted between them as he saw her swallow nervously and avert her gaze.
“You’re Lord Lyndham?”
“I am.” He nodded abruptly. “And you are?”
“C. Stewart.”
The soft words took several seconds to register with him as he stared at her. But the C.
Stewart he’d corresponded with was a man. Did the woman think to convince him otherwise?
He’d conversed and questioned Mr. Stewart vigorously in three different letter exchanges. How
could this woman be C. Stewart?
“C. Stewart is a man,” he muttered fiercely.
“No, my lord. You simply found it convenient to think that I was a man.”
He glared at her as he struggled with the fact the woman had hoodwinked him. And she was
most definitely a woman. She had a pretty face, full breasts and a lush figure that echoed the
promise of a Titian nude. Even the husky sound of her voice had a soothing effect on his
irritation. It brought back memories of Isis and their fateful meeting at the Black Widows Ball.
This woman’s voice possessed the same sultry sound as his Egyptian goddess.
Damn it, when was he going to get Isis out of his head? For more than two months he’d
been employing every method possible in his search for the woman, only to come up emptyhanded. Was he so desperate to find his mysterious lover that he was beginning to imagine
another woman sounded just like her? He found this irrational need to find Isis exasperating.
Worse, the Stewart woman’s deception only heightened his irritation.
Clasping his hands behind his back to conceal his clenched fists, he strode back into the
library in an effort to think clearly. In the close confines of the storage area, her soft honey-sweet
scent had filled his nostrils and made it difficult to focus. He turned his attention away from her
tantalizing smell to address the matter at hand.
With her qualifications, her sex wouldn’t have prevented him from hiring her. But he
couldn’t abide being lied to, and he hated being made to look like a fool. She’d done just that by
not disclosing everything about herself. Furious with her deception, he paced a small area of the
carpet like a caged lion. Aware that she’d followed him into the library, he came to a halt and
turned sharply to face her.
“You lied to me,” he snapped.
“I did not lie. I can hardly be blamed for your assumption that I was a man. I truthfully
outlined my qualifications for you, and you commissioned me to do a job.” Her head assumed a
regal tilt as she glared at him.
The movement shifted the room’s light on her head, revealing golden highlights in the mass
of chestnut hair gathered on top of her head in the popular American fashion. On her it should be
loose and tumbling down her shoulders. The fact he’d even thought such a thing increased his ire
as she faced him defiantly.
“You should have made it known you were a woman.”
“Why? There was no request to do so in the advertisement.”
The logic in her argument angered him all the more as he took a step toward her. He noted
she didn’t back away from him. It gave him a grudging respect for her fortitude in the face of his
anger. It wasn’t often someone could withstand his intimidating manner. In fact, the only woman
ever to do so before was his grandmother.
“Damn it, woman, I thought you were a man.”
“Well as you can see, I am not.” Exasperation laced her sensual voice and his body
instinctively responded to the sound.
God, what the hell was wrong with him? Just the mere sound of another woman’s sultry
voice was stirring his lust into a frenzy for the phantom lover who’d escaped him. The only
thought he seemed capable of anymore was Isis’s seductive body beneath his, her long silky legs
wrapped around him as he plunged into her creamy hot core.
The image tightened every muscle in his body. Angered by his hunger for a woman he
couldn’t find, he whirled away from the Stewart woman. He expressed his fury by slamming his
fist into a stack of books on top of a nearby table. The explosive sound reverberated through the
room with the force of a tree cracked in two by a lightning bolt. Silence hung between them as he
froze.
“I shall pack my things and leave in the morning.” The quiet sound of her voice was like the
gentle rain that washed away the fury of a wild storm.
With a sharp nod, he didn’t look at her as she left the room. The moment she was gone, he
pressed his palms into the edge of the table and stood hunched over the book-laden surface.
Had it started?
Was this what Nigel and his father had battled when the curse first afflicted them? When
was the last time he’d lost his temper like that? Two days ago. When Nate Bilkens had told him
the trail was cold and finding Isis was next to impossible. Losing control wasn’t something he
did often, and to lose his temper twice in less than a week was almost unheard of for him. But it
wasn’t unheard of for a Blakemore to become crazed over a woman.
Frustrated, he straightened and crossed the large room to one of the arched windows that
rose from the floor to the ceiling. Staring out through the glass, he studied the gardens that had
been his mother’s pet project. The gardeners who had worked with her on the design and
plantings still worked on the estate, and they were faithful to her vision. Nothing had changed in
the garden since he was a boy.
With a grunt of disgust, he closed his eyes. He’d probably frightened the Stewart woman out
of her mind with his anger. Well, she shouldn’t have applied for or accepted the position under
false pretenses. He stared out the window once more. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but the
woman had known damn well her sex could be an issue, otherwise why had she hid it?
As he turned away from the window his gaze fell on a table filled with a neat display of
artifacts. Reviewed and cataloged, they were carefully laid out on a layer of fabric. Curious, he
walked over to the table and examined the note cards accompanying each individual piece. The
information and detail on the cards was worthy of a senior staff member in the museum’s
Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities. Even Director Budge would be impressed
with this woman’s work. Where had she gained such detailed knowledge?
He picked up one card after another, reviewing the depth of information provided for each
artifact. It was impressive work. Generally, women didn’t have access to the same education that
men did, but the Stewart woman clearly had enjoyed the benefit of expert teachers willing to
impart their extensive knowledge to her.
Although times were changing, educational opportunities for women had always been
limited. Women stepping outside the boundaries of normal society wasn’t something he objected
to, but for a woman to extricate herself from the confines of current trends was unusual. Still,
meeting a well-educated woman was a pleasant experience.
One of the things his studies about ancient Egypt had taught him was that women had
played an integral part in the now-extinct civilization. Their role in society had not been one of
second-class citizens, rather they’d had rights comparable to men. It was an idea he supported,
but rarely encountered in England, although the number of women demanding the opportunities
long reserved for the male population was growing.
Returning the last card back to the table, he stared down at the display with thoughtful
consideration. In his anger, he’d insulted the Stewart woman. It was obvious she had not been
lying about her credentials. An enigma, the woman puzzled him. Even more puzzling was her
reaction to his arrival.
When he’d first stormed into the library’s side chamber, her initial reaction had been more
of annoyance. It was as if she’d already made his acquaintance, and his interruption had irritated
her. Then the moment she’d turned to look at him fully, fear swept through her. She’d hid it
immediately and well, but he’d recognized it just the same. Why was she afraid?
With a growl of irritation, he shook his head. It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter whether she
had acquired her education in the usual manner or if she was self-taught. The woman’s
knowledge was exactly what he needed for cataloging his artifacts. The only problem now was
whether he could convince her to stay and finish what she’d started.
§ § §
Constance clung to the bedpost as if gale-force winds were buffeting her body. Fear
wrapped a layer of ice over her skin as she struggled to control her roiling stomach by breathing
in long, deep breaths. How in heaven’s name had she managed to come to the one place she
would never have visited if she’d known what she did now?
Lucien—the highwayman—the earl. They were the same man.
The Earl of Lyndham was her lover from the Black Widows Ball. There was nothing she’d
ever been more certain of in her entire life. She could only be grateful he’d not recognized her.
And he hadn’t. She was certain of it.
But she had known who he was the moment she faced him. It wasn’t just his brilliant blue
eyes, the scar on his cheek or the sound of his voice. It was everything about him. The male scent
of him, his movements and the way every nerve ending in her body responded to his presence.
Even though they’d spent only an hour or so together that night at the Clarendon, her body had
recognized him almost as quickly as her eyes had.
One cheek pressed to the wooden spindle of the bed, she closed her eyes. She’d thought she
was safe here, so far away from London. Over the past three weeks, she’d managed to put every
thought of Lucien out of her head. Her days had been pleasurable ones, cataloging the earl’s
artifacts and exploring the estate with Imogene as her and Jamie’s guide. More importantly, her
nights had been devoid of dreams—dreams about him.
Think. She needed to think rationally and calmly. If she allowed her fear to control her, he
might suspect something. He didn’t know who she was. She had to remember that. There was
nothing to be afraid of as long as she kept her head. Still, the sooner she and Jamie were gone
from this forbidding place, the better. A shiver skimmed down her back as she moved away from
the bed and dragged her trunk out from beside the large wardrobe that held her clothes.
“He is not a murderer.”
Barely suppressing her scream, Constance spun around too quickly, and lost her footing to
fall backward over the trunk. The misty image of the ghost shimmered in the dim light of her
room. It was the first time she’d seen him since that day in the library more than a week ago.
Scrambling to her feet, she turned back to her trunk, deliberately ignoring her ethereal visitor.
She didn’t care what the ghost said. The earl had blood on his hands. Her vision had shown her
that much. Pulling a dress out of the wardrobe, she didn’t even have the opportunity to fold it
when an invisible force ripped it from her hands.
“Lucien is not the one with blood on his hands.” There was a fierce anger in the ghost’s
voice as the dress went flying back into her wardrobe and the door slammed shut. “He is not a
murderer.”
Whirling around to face the spirit, she sent him an angry look. “I don’t care what he is. I’m
not staying.”
“Help him.” The anguish in the ghost’s voice weakened her resolve, but she shook her head.
“You don’t understand—” The sudden speed with which the ghost moved toward her tugged
a small cry from her throat.
In that instant, she knew he intended to show her his past. She had no time to prepare herself
as Nigel melded his thoughts with hers and everything went dark. The darkness frightened her. It
was filled with despair and deep sorrow. Someone sobbed softly, and the sound rippled through
the dense pain that pressed against her flesh. Her heart ached at the wounded cry, and she tried to
reach out in the darkness, but it abruptly evaporated. She immediately longed for the darkness
again. Anything to escape the library and its terrible images.
Her stomach lurched at the carnage in front of her, and she swallowed hard, trying not to
retch. Just like the last time, there was blood everywhere. Inhaling a deep breath, she suppressed
her fear at the images in front of her. It was only a vision. She couldn’t be harmed here. There
was a reason Nigel’s spirit wanted her to witness this horrible sight.
Throat slit in one long deep cut, the woman she’d seen in her previous vision lay dead on the
keep’s library floor. She knew it was the library because she recognized the bank of windows
that lined the far wall. On the blood-soaked carpet beside the dead woman was the body of a
man. As she stepped closer, she flinched at the glazed look in his startling blue eyes. She
recognized him as the grief-stricken man from her earlier vision who’d discovered the dead
woman. There was almost a look of surprise on his lifeless features.
Blood sprayed the furniture and floor as if the murderer had taken special pleasure in
creating such a grisly display. Then she saw it. The knife. The dead man clutched it in his hand
as if refusing to give it up even in death. This man had killed the woman. For a fraction of a
second, she vehemently denied the idea. He’d loved this woman. There was something terribly
wrong with the entire picture before her. The denial was fleeting as she realized there could be
no other answer. The man had killed the woman. He’d killed her with a vicious, sickening
brutality. Pain wound its way through her body, assaulting her with a physical blow she
recognized as overwhelming grief. The ghost’s emotions engulfed her until she felt every
moment of anguish he did. Startled by the thought, she stretched her hands out in front of her.
The coat sleeves and hands she saw were that of a man. Nigel as he had been when he was alive.
She had become him in the vision. He was showing her the past in the only way he knew how—
through his eyes.
Despair lashed through her with the sharpness of the blade her father held.
A shrill scream of sorrow echoed out behind her, pulling her back into the scene as she
whirled around. The dowager countess and a young boy stood staring at the scene of butchery in
front of them. The shocked horror on their faces made her race forward and shove them back out
into the hall. She pulled the library door closed then turned to catch her grandmother as the
woman fainted. Gently easing the woman to the floor, she screamed for Jacobs. Her brother
stood a few feet away, shock etched across his pale features.
“Lucien, come here.” She stretched out her hand toward the boy who didn’t move. “It’s all
right, lad, come here.”
With a muffled cry the boy ran forward and wrapped his arms around her neck, his sobs
breaking her heart. The sting of her own tears burned her cheeks as she rocked the boy in her
arms and gave way to her own grief.
Eyes closed, she sobbed wildly from the horror of it all. The pain ripped through her, tearing
at her like a wild animal gnawing at her flesh. From far away, she heard a thunderous banging
noise and Jamie calling out her name. Weak with exhaustion, she opened her eyes just as her
bedroom door flew open.
In a daze, she saw Lucien dash into the room followed by Jamie and the dowager countess.
Staggering to her feet, she fought to remain standing, but failed. She felt no fear when the earl’s
strong arms lifted her up and her hand settled over his heart. No visions of murder lashed out at
her this time. Beneath her fingertips, only a solid heartbeat thrummed against her nerve endings.
She had misjudged him. Exhausted, her eyes fluttered shut as she sank into a peaceful darkness.
§ § §
Lucien stood at the salon’s fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle as he stared into
the fire crackling softly in the hearth. She was here. Isis was under his roof. She’d been here for
almost three weeks. All the while he was frantically searching the whole of London for her,
she’d been here.
The moment he’d broken into her bedroom and seen the stricken look in her hazel eyes, he’d
recognized her. Her gaze had been just as dark with horror the night she left him so abruptly.
He’d been a fool not to realize who she was sooner. No. His body had recognized her from the
start, but his head had ignored all the clues.
The soft beat of a cane thudding against the salon carpet interrupted his thoughts. He turned
and moved forward to escort his formidable grandmother to her favorite chair.
Satisfied as to her comfort, he returned to his spot at the fireplace. Picking up the snifter
resting on the mantle, he took a deep draught of the amber liquid it contained. The fiery drink
burned his throat, reassuring him he was still with the living. Too often the keep had a way of
making him think he was dead. Tossing the last of the brandy over his tongue, he set the glass
down and turned to meet the concerned look on the dowager’s face.
“Should we arrange for Doctor Martens to pay a call?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“No,” she replied with a shake of her head. “She’s sleeping now. I’m sure she’ll be fine in
the morning.”
“What the hell happened to her?” Hands clasped behind his back, he frowned in puzzlement.
“I’m not sure. The boy said he heard her talking to someone and when he tried to open the
door, he couldn’t do so.”
“The door was simply locked,” he said tersely.
“Are you so certain of that?” His grandmother shook her head in silent disagreement. “I
should have known better than to put her in Nigel’s old room.”
The bemused note in her voice made him stiffen. Any time his grandmother mentioned his
brother, she usually experienced a period of forgetfulness. For all her formidable personality,
Aurora Blakemore was far frailer than she would ever admit. Hoping to keep her in the present,
he changed the subject.
“I take it the boy is hers?” he asked, waiting patiently as the dowager countess slowly
focused her gaze on him.
“The boy?” She shook her head for a moment until her eyes brightened. “Ah, yes. Jamie. A
lovely boy, and very much like his mother. Quick witted and charming.”
“Is there some reason you didn’t bother to send word to me about the fact that Mr. Stewart
was really Widow Stewart with a child in tow?”
“Actually, Stewart is her mother’s maiden name. She’s Constance Athelson, Viscountess
Westbury.”
“Westbury,” he growled.
“Did you know him?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I simply remember he died in Cairo before his expedition even
set out for Abydos. Dysentery, I believe.
It had been Standish who’d financed the Viscount Westbury’s final expedition, although the
doomed man had never gotten out of Cairo. The poor bastard had died shortly after reaching
Egypt. If she was Westbury’s widow, the odds were Standish had sent her here to find the
papyrus. Was that really why she was here? Had she come to the ball that night in hopes of
seducing him to give up the papyrus?
It didn’t matter. He had no intention of giving it up to her or anyone else. The ancient
document was far too valuable. It contained one half of the map leading to the tomb of Sefu, high
priest of Abydos. Legend had it that when a particular statue of Isis was joined with its mate, a
statue of Seth, it would reveal the second half of the map. Finding those statues would possibly
lead to the tomb. Not an impossible feat, but it had been an improbable one until his last trip to
the desert.
As for Westbury’s widow, he’d be wise not to trust her. Letting her leave would be the
sensible thing to do, but for the first time in recent memory, he didn’t want to do anything
sensible. He scowled at his grandmother as he realized she’d diverted him from his original
question.
“You’ve still not answered me. Why didn’t you send word to me that C. Stewart was in fact,
a woman?”
“I did consider it, but in truth, I like her. I wanted her to have the chance to prove herself.”
There was just the hint of a sly curve to Aurora’s mouth, and he pinned her with a stern look.
“I see, which tells me that you saw this as an opportunity to meddle again. Just like you have
for the past six months.”
“I hardly call it meddling. I simply want to see you happy, boy. It’s high time you married.”
Aurora’s cane swung outward as she pointed the walking aid in his direction, the blue veins
on the back of her hand made more prominent from the strength of her grip on the falcon cane
head. He grimaced and shook his head.
“Yes, and there’s been a Blakemore at Lyndham Keep since ten seventy-six, and it’s my
responsibility to see to it the family name doesn’t die out.” The chilly sarcasm had the effect he
expected.
Aurora slammed her cane down on the coffee table, the tea service rattling loudly. Powdery
white hair slightly askew, she sent him a scathing look down her regal nose.
“It is your responsibility,” she said fiercely.
“We both know why I’ll never marry, Grandmother.” He rolled his shoulders in a
nonchalant shrug.
“Your brother knew he had a responsibility to the family.”
The sharp, critical note in her voice cut through him. He knew his grandmother loved him,
but Nigel had been her lifeline. He’d held them together as a family that horrible day. It was
something Aurora had never forgotten, and when Nigel had fallen victim to the curse, Lucien
had never thought to see his grandmother recover from the shock. She had, but at a cost. Her
once-sharp faculties were now dimmed as her mind would wander periodically during times of
stress or when she grew tired.
Perhaps the hardest part to deal with was her refusal to believe the curse existed. Everything
he said fell on deaf ears. Nothing he said convinced her otherwise. The decision never to marry
had been made the terrible day his parents had died. His choice had only been reinforced with
Nigel’s death.
Vivid memories flashed before his eyes. Once again he stood frozen in the library doorway
witnessing the results of his father’s bloody handiwork. His decision had been an easy one. It
was at that moment he’d known he would never marry. Never risk the possibility of loving
someone only to destroy them in the end. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he met his
grandmother’s piercing gaze, refusing to yield to her wishes.
“Blast it, Lucien, you’re as stubborn as your mother was.”
“But I am still my father’s son.”
He delivered the icy words as brutally as possible, and guilt lashed out at him at the way she
flinched. It wasn’t pleasant to be so cruel to her, but it was time she realized he would not change
his mind. Over the past thirty years, every Blakemore male had succumbed to an unknown
madness, prompting them to murder anyone in their midst at the time they were overcome by the
curse. That their victims had been loved ones simply emphasized the dangers of falling in love.
The memory of his recent fits of anger was even more reason not to give in to his
grandmother’s wishes. As it was, he needed to guard against being alone with anyone,
particularly his grandmother and Imogene. Eventually, he would need to hire someone to serve
as a deterrent against his harming anyone.
Aurora’s shoulders slumped with defeat, and with a sigh, he crossed the room and bent over
her. His touch gentle, he took her hand and squeezed it tenderly.
“I’ll not be a willing participant in the bloodbath the men in this family have inflicted on
their loved ones, Grandmother. Even a marriage of convenience would require some form of
affection to be tolerable, and the risk of harming any woman I married is too great.”
“How can I convince you there is no curse, my boy?” Aurora shook her head. “I don’t
understand what drove your father and Nigel to do what they did, but it wasn’t a curse.”
“For a woman who believes in the supernatural, I find it ironic you refuse to acknowledge
the likelihood of my doing exactly what my father and brother did.” He heaved a sigh. “I cannot
allow myself to fall in love. It would be irresponsible of me to do so.”
She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then with a slight nod, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
“Your happiness is paramount to me, Lucien. Even more so than a Blakemore heir. However
a child would make my victory sweeter.”
“Victory?” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“You must understand I’ll not admit defeat. I simply intend to regroup.” Despite the
determination in her voice he heard the disillusion there as well.
“I know,” he said with a slight smile. “If it helps, I think you managed to execute a brilliant
strategy of attack over the past few months. I doubt there’s a military man anywhere to match
your ability to outflank an opponent.”
The weak smile his words brought to her lips sent a chill through him. For the first time, he
recognized the true fragility of her appearance. If she were standing and a harsh wind blew
across the room, it was doubtful she’d be able to withstand its force. Even the deep blue material
of her gown created the image of fragile vulnerability with its stark contrast to her pale skin.
She’d aged in recent months, and she seemed more delicate now than he had ever seen her.
Aurora had always been a tower of strength, vivacity and fire, and the lack of spirit reflected in a
pair of blue eyes that matched his own worried him. For the first time, he saw her for what she
was—a tired, old woman.
“Come, I think you’ve experienced enough excitement for today. I’ll have Jacobs arrange
for you to eat in your rooms this evening.”
Nodding wearily, the dowager accepted the support of his arm as she stood up. “I think
that’s an excellent idea.”
“In the meantime, I’ll dine with Imogene and young Lord Westbury in the nursery. I think
my niece will enjoy playing hostess at supper, and I’ll enjoy spending some time with her. It’s
been too long since I’ve done that.”
“She’s missed you a great deal.” Some of her energy returning, his grandmother smiled. “Be
prepared for her to inundate you with questions about Egypt. The child is convinced you’ll take
her there one day. She takes after you, not her father.”
“Then I’m certain to enjoy the meal in the company of someone who will be enthralled with
my stories.”
As they left the salon and headed toward the stairs, a streak of satisfaction sped through him.
Dining with Imogene and the young Lord Westbury would give him the opportunity to learn
more about his mysterious goddess. And when the opportunity presented itself, he intended to
indulge himself with the woman who had haunted his dreams for almost three months. Marriage
might not be in his future, but there was no harm in enjoying the pleasure of Isis’s company or
her delectable body.
Join Monica’s newsletter for release
news on Dangerous July 2015 release
§ § §
Awards
2009 EPPIE Finalist
Critical Acclaim
“Ms. Burns is masterful at escalating the sexual tension and suspense with her characters. Three
generations of murder, stubborn ghosts, and an aging matriarch with attitude are the perfect
complement to a fantastic love story that is a joy to read.”
— Coffeetime Romance
“Hot and erotic, Dangerous pulls at the reader’s heartstrings. I fell in love with Constance and
Lucien from their first encounter. [It] kept me turning the pages and rooting for their happily
ever after..” — Joyfully Reviewed
A Highlander’s Seduction by
Monica Burns
Book 3 in the Rockwood Family series
Coming Spring 2015
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
Julian MacTavish’s honor made him guard a friend’s
secret. But his lies to keep that vow make it difficult
to prove his faithfulness as a husband. When a terrible
inferno scars his wife’s body and mind, Patience
becomes a recluse, widening the divide between
them. But it’s her lack of trust, not her disfigurement,
which sends Julian home alone to Scotland convinced
he’s lost her forever.
Forgiveness in the face of death comes easily to Patience MacTavish, but the thought of being a
burden to her husband does not. When a twist of fate takes Julian’s sight from him, Patience
returns home hoping to make amends for not having faith in him. Pity is the last thing Julian
wants from anyone, especially his wife, and it’s his turn to question her sincerity. Now, Patience
must convince her husband that she’s come home for no other reason than love, even if it means
orchestrating a highlander’s seduction.
§ § §
Join Monica’s mailing list for updates on
A Highlander’s Seduction
—§ § §—
Mirage by
Monica Burns
Novel Length - Plus
Available June 2015
Read Four Chapters
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
Reissue via Samhain Publishing with never before
published epilogue
A sheikh without a country. A woman without
fear. A love hotter than the Sahara.
“With sexual tension as scorching as the
desert the novel is set in; MIRAGE is…a
cinematic, compelling, and highly recommended treat!”
— Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
In his heart, Viscount Blakeney will always be Sheikh Altair Mazir, but a deathbed oath to his
English grandfather forces him to divide his time between Britain and his beautiful Sahara. A
victim of prejudice from both cultures, he has learned a bitter lesson. Trust no one.
Yet when he witnesses firsthand the British Museum’s rejection of Alexandra Talbot’s request for
assistance in finding the lost city of Ramesses II, he finds himself not only compelled to help, but
donning his desert robes to hide his identity.
Alexandra is all too familiar with men who equate her sex with a lack of intelligence. But the
mysterious Altair isn’t like other men. He never questions her ability to find the lost city, only her
resistance to the sinful pleasure of his touch.
Bound by a Pharaoh’s prophecy, desire flares between them under the desert stars. But murder
and betrayal turn their quest into a deadly game, pushing their fragile trust to the breaking
point. A trust that must be reforged if they are to survive.
This book has been previously published by Samhain Publishing. Warning: Contains a halfblood prince of the desert whose tortured Bedouin heart beats beneath a proper English cravat.
And an American archaeologist who’ll go a long way to fulfil her dreams.
§ § §
Chapter 1
London, 1880
“Good Heavens, you’re a woman.”
Alexandra Talbot bit back the tart reply threatening to spring from her mouth. The man
might resemble a toad, but at least he wasn’t blind. He’d realized right away that she was a
woman. She tightened her jaw before she forced a smile to her lips.
“Could you please tell Lord Merrick I’m here? He’s expecting me.”
“But he’s expecting Alex Talbot.”
“I’m Alex Talbot.”
“Well, I…there must be some mistake. Lord Merrick is definitely not expecting a female.”
“I’m sorry, Mr.— What did you say your name was?”
“Stevens, miss.”
She nodded. “Mr. Stevens, his Lordship agreed to see me, and unless English manners have
gone the way of so many other ancient civilizations, I’m certain he’ll honor our appointment.”
The clerk rose from his wooden chair, wearing an affronted look. “I must protest, Miss
Talbot. This is highly unusual.”
“I’ve no doubt it is, but I’d be grateful if you would inform Lord Merrick that I’m here.”
The short, apple-shaped man scurried away to an office door down one of the British
Museum’s austere hallways. As he disappeared from view, Alex heaved a sigh of frustration. She
was far better at debating Egyptology issues than she was at charming men into doing what she
wanted.
Perhaps she should have brought Jane with her. Men seemed to fall all over themselves
when it came to helping her friend. She frowned. No. She’d made the right decision in coming
here alone. Peeling off her black gloves, she shoved them into the beaded bag Jane had insisted
she buy. Men weren’t the only ones susceptible to Jane’s charm. Her friend had persuaded her to
purchase more feminine trappings than she could ever want or need. She’d protested the
selection of every article of clothing before they left New York, but she’d lost each argument.
Restless, Alex paced the floor, and the train of her green satin gown was a soft whisper on
the marble tiles. Her hand brushed against the swag of material hugging her hips. She’d managed
to keep the fripperies and ruffles on her gowns to a minimum, but the bustle at the back of her
dress was a fashion trend she could have done without.
Brushing a stray lock of hair off her cheek, she frowned. She would much rather be wearing
her work clothes. They were far more comfortable. Of course, if she’d tried to stroll into the
British Museum wearing trousers, she never would have gotten this far.
All of this would have been so much easier if she were a man, and a British one at that. Her
American accent and forthright manner were enough to earn her plenty of arched eyebrows. She
could only imagine what people would think if they were to see her in her work clothes bent over
a selection of dusty books and papyri.
Work. The thought of it made her long for home. New York seemed so far away. Even more
so since she’d discovered the Rosetta Stone had been taken off display for preservation and
study. She grimaced. In fact, the discovery had almost convinced her all the plans she’d made
would disintegrate like an ancient papyrus. Then, as if her father’s spirit had been in the hotel
room looking out for her, Lord Merrick’s letter had fallen out of the stack of papers she’d
brought with her to London.
As the Dean of Ancient Civilizations at New York University, her father had been a
longtime correspondent with the Museum’s Egyptology Director, Lord Merrick. It had been a
simple matter to use her nickname instead of her full name and request an appointment.
Still, her deception might prove to be a terrible miscalculation if the museum clerk had his
way. If she could just see the Stone, it would allow her to verify the translations she and Father
had worked so hard on. Then she’d be able to honor his last wish and achieve her own dream.
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and she looked up to see Mr. Stevens headed toward her.
Retrieving her portfolio from the chair beside the man’s desk, she studied his expression with a
sinking heart. The man’s smug look made it clear her gambit hadn’t paid off.
“I’m sorry, Miss Talbot, but his Lordship has had a sudden change of plans and is unable to
see you at this time.”
“I see, and when might Lord Merrick have another appointment available?”
“I’m afraid his schedule is quite full at the moment, and I don’t see how I can possibly
squeeze you in before the end of next month.”
Alex struggled to keep from glaring at the man as he resumed his seat and went back to
work. The rough edge of the portfolio bit into her palms as she considered bashing the pompous
clerk over the head with the leather case. Obviously, he believed ignoring her was the easiest
way to be rid of her. She stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. To come so far,
only to be turned away. No, she couldn’t accept failure. Not now.
With a swish of her gown’s short train, she swept around the desk and strode determinedly
down the hall to the door she’d seen the clerk enter. She was more than halfway to her
destination before the man realized where she was headed and raced after her.
Ignoring his outraged command to stop, she knocked sharply on the glass pane that bore the
gold-lettered title, Director of Egyptology. At the brusque invitation to enter, she sailed through
the door with her underskirts rustling a soft imitation of her annoyance.
The office was crammed with a large assortment of artifacts, and the musty smell was
similar to her father’s office at the university. It comforted her. All her life she’d spent happy
hours in rooms similar to this. It reminded her of a time and life she could never experience
again.
“What the devil?” The portly man seated at the desk came to his feet quickly. Pasting a
polite smile on her face, she moved forward with her hand outstretched.
“Lord Merrick? I’m so glad you agreed to see me. I felt certain Mr. Stevens had
misunderstood you.” She tried to make her smile as warm as possible. As much as she hated
playing the charming coquette, she needed to convince this man to give her access to the Rosetta
Stone.
One hand swiping though his bushy white hair, Lord Merrick peered at her over his
spectacles. Wide sideburns lined his heavy jowls, and his unforgiving expression would have
done a stern reverend justice. Behind her, Stevens burst into the room muttering his apologies.
Lord Merrick waved the man away and came around the desk to clasp her hand. A touch of
anger lit his limpid blue gaze, but he politely brushed her fingers with a kiss.
“Well, young lady, I think you know full well I was expecting a different Alex Talbot.”
She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a forthright look. “What I know is that you were
extremely interested in my father’s theories about Per-Ramesses.”
“So why didn’t Professor Talbot come himself?”
“My father died unexpectedly last fall from influenza.” Alex swallowed the grief rising in
her throat.
Lord Merrick’s cold expression dissolved into sympathy as he guided her to a chair facing
his desk. “You have my sympathies, Miss Talbot. Your father was one of the world’s foremost
Egyptologists. Our correspondences were highly valued by me.”
“And that’s why I’ve come to you, Lord Merrick. My father’s last wish was for me to
complete his life’s work.” The bustle forced her to perch on the edge of the seat, and she silently
cursed the uncomfortable fashion she wore.
Skepticism arched the man’s snowy eyebrows as he returned to his chair and shook his head.
“My dear, I understand your desire to grant your father’s last wish, but please believe me when I
tell you that even if you have all your father’s notes, without his knowledge…well, it’s
impossible.”
Alex leaned forward, her hands tightening on her portfolio. She mustn’t fail now. She had
his attention. She needed to guard her words carefully. “My lord, I began working with my father
at the age of fifteen, and I worked at his side until his death. I studied his notes, questioned him
relentlessly. I’m confident I know as much as he did about Per-Ramesses.”
“And you want access to the Rosetta Stone, is that it?”
“Yes, my lord. I need to ensure the translations my father and I made are accurate. It’s
critical to finding the location of Per-Ramesses.”
“Finding it?” Lord Merrick exclaimed. “Young lady, what the devil makes you think you
can find Per-Ramesses when England’s chief Egyptologists haven’t done so?”
“Because those gentlemen didn’t have what I do—my father’s notes and my father’s
knowledge. It had been his intention to come, but his death prevented it. I’m here now, and I
intend to honor his memory by proving his theories and mine correct.”
Sitting stiff and straight in the leather wing-backed chair, she recognized the look of
disbelief on Lord Merrick’s face. Jane had worn a similar expression when Alex had laid out her
plans. The difference was her friend hadn’t hesitated to call her insane. Lord Merrick just didn’t
know how to do so politely. His face bore the same benign condescension she’d seen far too
often on the faces of most university faculty in New York. They believed her inferior simply
because of her sex.
There had been the exceptions. Men who had found her intelligence a refreshing change, but
they’d been few and far between. And it was doubtful even those forward-thinking men would
have agreed to a wife working at their side. Only her father and Uncle Jeffrey had truly
encouraged her pursuit of archeology. Every other man was suspect as to his real intentions
where she was concerned.
Merrick leaned forward, his hands clasped and resting on his desk. “Miss Talbot, the desert
is difficult enough for an Englishman, and it’s definitely not a place for a woman. I cannot
sanction this in any way.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I’m simply asking you to give me access to the Stone so I can
corroborate our translations.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but in all good conscience, I can’t do that.”
Hands clenched, she kept her voice even with difficulty. “And if I were a man?”
“Naturally, things would be different.”
“Naturally,” she mimicked in a bitter tone.
“Why don’t you let her look at the Stone, Merrick?”
Alex twisted around in her seat to stare at the man sitting in the corner of the room. She’d
been so preoccupied with her desire to persuade Lord Merrick to her way of thinking, she’d
failed to realize there was someone else present. As he rose to his feet, she drew in a quick breath
at the sheer height of the man. He was easily more than six feet tall. She was far from short, but
if she were standing, he would tower over her by several inches. It wasn’t like her to pay too
much attention to the men she met, but this man was impossible to ignore. Well-built, his lean
figure sported a dark blue coat, which fell open to reveal a dove gray waistcoat and matching
trousers. As he moved forward, the grace and regal bearing of his step reflected a primeval
power. This was a man accustomed to prevailing in whatever matter he undertook. Her heart
skipped a beat.
Silky waves of dark brown hair caressed the collar of his coat in a length that was almost
barbaric. On any other man, the style would have looked ridiculous, but on him it was
devastating. It suited the rich brown of his sun-kissed skin. A wave of heat washed over her.
Dear Lord, no man she’d ever met had affected her like this. Deep brown eyes studied her
closely, and she suppressed a tremor of excitement as she met his probing gaze. Dark eyebrows
arched over incredible eyes, and the merest hint of a smile touched his full, sensual lips.
He reminded her of a sleek leopard, content to watch its prey before pouncing at just the
right moment. The sudden image of him dressed as a pharaoh holding the collar of such a large
cat caused her palms to grow damp. Where on earth had that come from? Appalled, she jerked
her gaze away and turned back to Lord Merrick, who frowned at the other man.
“The devil take it, Blakeney. You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? What harm will it do?” The stranger shrugged as Lord Merrick stared at him in
appalled horror.
“But she’s…she’s…”
Merrick was as blind as that little toad Stevens. The man was making his decision solely
based upon her sex, and not her capabilities, which she’d outlined so clearly. All her life, her
father had treated her with the respect of first a student and then a colleague. He’d accepted her
as fully capable of acquiring the same knowledge as himself. No doubt, the possibility of a
woman finding the lost city of Per-Ramesses without male assistance was incomprehensible to
this man.
Her stomach tightened with concealed anger. If she didn’t get out of here quickly, she’d
forget what little presence of mind she had and confirm the notion that women were
temperamental, hysterical and unfit for working in an academic setting. Determined to remain
charming to the end, she rose to her feet and forced herself to smile.
“Gentlemen.” She gave both men a sharp nod of dismissal. “I’m sorry you’re not interested
in my work or my father’s. I had hoped to convince you otherwise. However, I can assure you,
I’ll find Per-Ramesses—with or without the Museum’s help.”
Wheeling about on her heel, Alex rushed blindly to the door lest they see the tears of
frustration threatening to spill down her cheeks. She grasped the brass doorknob and turned it.
Large, sun-drenched fingers touched her light-deprived skin and stopped her. Fiery warmth
streaked up her arm until it spread its way through every inch of her body. Startled by her
reaction, she yanked her hand away and lifted her gaze up to meet his. When he smiled, her heart
slammed against the wall of her chest. Lord, the man’s smile was as potent as his touch.
“Miss Talbot is it?”
“I’m sorry, sir, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Forgive me.” He offered her a small bow. “Viscount Blakeney at your service. I’m liaison
to the Museum’s Foreign Office of Antiquities.”
“Another of the Museum’s minions?” She could have bitten her tongue off at the sarcasm in
her voice.
His eyes narrowed and his features resembled an ancient stone statue. The look he pinned on
her sent a shiver down her spine. Even Ramesses could not have intimidated or excited her more.
The fanciful thought made her frown. She wasn’t here to find a modern-day pharaoh, especially
one condescending to help her.
Once more, she reached out to open the door, but his firm grip on her wrist stopped her
again. The touch made her mouth go dry as his fingers sent a shock of sensation up her arm.
Again her heart skipped a beat, and a spark of awareness flashed in the depths of his brown eyes.
She inhaled a sharp breath as his thumb caressed her pulse with gentle pressure. The touch
made every nerve in her body scream at the way his presence was assaulting her senses. As he
leaned toward her, the whiff of a tantalizing spice spiraled between them. The scent was familiar,
but it was difficult to think with him so close.
“Do not discount me, Miss Talbot. If you wish to see the Stone, I’m willing to escort you to
its present location.” The stern note in his voice helped her regain her faculties.
“And do not discount me, my lord. I do not suffer fools gladly, nor do I look fondly on those
who think me a fool.” This time she kept her tone even, yet firm. She could be polite, but she had
no intention of letting this man, or any other for that matter, manipulate her.
A brilliant smile curved his mouth, and she wanted to bask in the warmth of it. Heavens, but
the man was mesmerizing. She needed to control this urge to simper like an addle-brained
simpleton in his presence.
“I seriously doubt you’re a fool, Miss Talbot. Although it remains to be seen if you are
foolish.” Releasing her from his grip, he opened the door and swept his hand toward the corridor.
“Shall we?”
“Right now?”
“I thought you wanted to see the Stone?” There was more than a hint of amusement in his
voice. For the first time, she heard the melodious accent beneath the proper English. The sound
was so familiar and yet so foreign.
“Well yes, but I’ll need at least an hour or more to study the markings.”
“Then you’ll have it.”
Behind them, Lord Merrick came to life. “I say, Blakeney. It’s just not done. She’s likely to
wreak havoc in the workroom. The scholars will be quite distracted by her presence.”
The anger bubbling just beneath her calm surface exploded as she turned to face the
protesting director and uttered an insult in the ancient tongue of the pharaohs.
“I say! Did she just speak Coptic?” Merrick sputtered.
A glimmer of respect and assessment sparkled in the dark brown eyes studying her face.
“She did, and with impeccable clarity.”
Alex flushed at the amusement she saw tugging at his mouth. It was obvious Lord Merrick
didn’t understand the language, but Lord Blakeney’s knowledge was clearly far superior to the
older man’s. Oh God. The man would never take her to the Stone now. Whatever had possessed
her to speak in such an unladylike manner? The director really was a pompous jackass, unfit for
the duties of his office, but she should have realized one, if not both men, might be fluent in the
language of the pharaohs. When was she going to learn to think before acting?
“Well, what the devil did she say?”
She held her breath as Lord Blakeney arched a regal eyebrow at her in only the way a
British male could. Well, there was nothing for it now. She lifted her chin up in a stubborn
gesture, ready to translate her words.
“The young lady thinks you perform your duties like the hardiest of mules.”
Alex started with surprise. He’d not given her away. Why had he translated her insult in
such a positive light? Her surprise evolved into suspicion. What did he want?
“Harrumph. Does she now.” Merrick eyed her with skepticism. “Well, Blakeney, if you’re
compelled to show her the Stone, do so, but if the scholars protest, it’s on your head.”
With a slight nod, Lord Blakeney grasped her arm and ushered her out into the corridor,
closing the door behind them. As they walked in silence, Alex finally recognized the tantalizing
smell of cedarwood mixed with another spice she couldn’t identify. It cultivated her earlier
image of him in Pharaoh’s garb, his legs sleek and powerful beneath a short loincloth. She could
even visualize her fingers gliding over the hard sinews of his golden arms and chest. Would his
bared body be as muscular as his clothing hinted?
The decadent thoughts horrified her. Heavens, she’d been around Jane too long. Her
widowed friend’s constant consideration of men’s physical attributes had finally rubbed off on
her. Quickly she thrust the images aside. But it was difficult to do so given the way her body
reacted to his.
Several corridors later, she knew she’d never be able to find her way back to the exit without
her escort. A slight shiver skated down her spine. She knew nothing about the man
accompanying her. But her body did. Her skin had not stopped tingling since the first time he’d
touched her. She tried to suppress the sensations. For all she knew he could be the worst kind of
rake—the kind her friends had warned her about before she left New York.
A moment later, Lord Blakeney ushered her into a well-lit room. Worktables lined the walls,
where several men were immersed in their study of various documents and books. In the center
of the room, on a waist-high pedestal, stood the object she’d come to see.
Her fingers tightened on the portfolio she carried and she sucked in her breath as she drew
near the Stone. Reverently, she stretched out her hand then stopped. Was it being treated with a
solution her fingers might disturb? She turned back toward him.
“May I?”
“By all means.” A small smile curved his mouth. Feet planted slightly apart, he folded his
arms across his chest. For a moment she forgot the misshapen basalt slab as she pictured him in
the hot Egyptian climate, his rippling chest muscles glistening with oil her hands applied. The
heady image stole her breath away, and she saw his eyes darken with a dangerous invitation.
Gathering her wits, Alex sucked in a ragged breath and turned her attention back to the
Stone. Her hand caressed the cool surface of the ancient rock, the carved indentions rough
beneath the pads of her fingers. Her throat tightened. This would have meant so much to her
father. Touching the Stone would have been the culmination of his lifelong dream. Now it was
her dream. Her chance to prove that a woman was just as capable as a man when it came to
finding an ancient city.
She peered closely at the artifact’s surface, noting several hieroglyphs identical to ones in
the notes she carried. Without thinking, she quickly opened the portfolio in her arms and sifted
through the papers. It took a moment, but she finally extracted the page she sought. She
examined it for a moment then looked closer at the Stone. The glyphs on her page were slightly
different from the black basalt slab’s markings.
Pulling her pencil out, she sketched a mark from the Stone onto her paper. The difference in
the mark was small, but significant. She inhaled a sharp breath of excitement. Her father had
been right. Per-Ramesses was at Khatana-Qantir, and she was going to find it. She scribbled
another correction onto her paper as her gaze shifted between the Stone and her work.
There, another glyph that didn’t match. She pulled another sheet of paper from the folder
and scanned the symbols. The significance made all the difference in the translation. She smiled.
Her persistence had paid off. With these final corrections, Per-Ramesses and his beloved
Nourbese would soon see the light of day after more than three thousand years.
She pulled one page after another from her portfolio, intent on verifying the work she’d
brought with her. Eventually, half her portfolio lay spread out at her feet as she continued to
confirm and correct her notes. Time held no meaning as she studied the markings. The light
changed as she worked, and she frowned as shadows hovered over the black basalt, making it
difficult to read the markings. Throwing her head back, she looked up at the skylight. She’d been
so absorbed in her work she’d not even noticed the sun was setting. With a quick glance at the
workstations that circled the room, she saw most of the scholars had left. She didn’t even see
Viscount Blakeney.
She rolled her head around to stretch her neck muscles before stooping to pick up several
stacks of paper she’d placed on the floor. The sudden frisson rippling over her skin made her
suck in a quick breath. She swallowed hard as a golden-skinned hand picked up some papers and
offered them to her.
As she looked up into Lord Blakeney’s dark brown eyes, the warmth of his gaze heated her
body to a fevered pitch. It was like being taken from the coolness of a cave out into the heat of a
desert sun. The sudden awareness of him spiraled a cord of tension through her. Disturbed by the
wild sensation, she accepted the papers with a quick nod of her head. Standing upright, she
quickly jostled her portfolio closed as she tried to ignore his presence. Impossible.
“Please forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you by working so late. I’ve
imposed on your kindness.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. It’s obvious you have a passion for your work.”
She glanced back at the Rosetta Stone. “Yes, it’s been my life for a very long time.”
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
Excited, she smiled as she bobbed her head. “Yes, and I know I’ll be successful now. I only
wish…”
“You wish your father were here to share the triumph.” His firm lips curved in an
understanding smile.
“Yes, both he and my uncle would have been elated, and it would have been difficult not to
be carried away by their euphoria.”
“Your uncle?”
The memory of their recent deaths made her throat constrict. In less than a year, she’d lost
the two most important men in her life. She controlled her sorrow and nodded. “Uncle Jeffrey is
the one who first tempted my father with the idea of finding Per-Ramesses.”
“Was your uncle an Egyptologist as well?”
“Oh, no, Uncle Jeffrey was a member of the spiritualist movement.”
Skepticism arched the man’s eyebrows at her statement, and Alex cringed as she realized her
mistake. Everyone had believed her uncle a madman, but he’d provided too many clues about
Per-Ramesses for her or her father to discount him as such. The man’s arbitrary dismissal of her
uncle disappointed her for some strange reason.
“Come, I’ll see you home. Where are you staying?”
“At the Clarendon, but your escort is unnecessary. I’ll have a hackney take me to the hotel.”
A stern expression hardened his rugged features as he grasped her elbow and ushered her out
of the workroom. “I think not. London after dusk is no place for a lady unescorted. I cannot leave
you to such a fate.”
Swallowing hard, she protested. “I appreciate your kindness, my lord, but I’m quite
accustomed to taking care of myself. The streets of London are hardly any more treacherous than
those of New York.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll escort you safely to your destination nonetheless.”
The set of his jaw indicated she would not sway him in the matter. With a quiet sigh, she
acquiesced to his stubborn insistence. The gloomy corridors of early afternoon were now almost
dark. Had she really been working for so long? It seemed like just a few moments ago that she’d
first touched the basalt’s cool surface. The last of the sun’s light barely lit their way as they
entered a large exhibition hall filled with Egyptian artifacts.
Above their heads, a balcony encircled the room with more exhibits, while the various
sarcophagi they passed threw eerie shadows across their path. Glancing upward, she frowned.
Had something actually moved on the balcony? She scoffed at the notion, but a shiver scraped its
way down her back. It was impossible to shake the disturbing sensation of being watched.
She glanced up at her escort. Lord Blakeney appeared quite unconcerned as he guided her
across the large room. With a slight shrug, she discounted the inner warning. As usual, her
imagination was out of control. Yet, despite her best intentions, the sensation refused to go away.
By the time they reached the middle of the room, the hair on the back of her neck had spiked
with apprehension. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Ahead of
them, two giant statues of Anubis provided an arch over the doorway leading into another
gallery. Guardians of the tomb, the jackal-headed figures presented an ominous picture as they
approached the entryway.
Foreboding tensed her muscles as she shot a quick glance at her companion. There wasn’t a
hint of concern or wariness on the man’s face. Lord, she was acting like a muddleheaded goose.
As they drew close to the statues, she looked up with awe at the massive monuments.
They were magnificent. Would she find similar treasures at Per- Ramesses? Out of the
corner of her eye, a shadow flitted along the wall of the balcony encircling the room. Just as
quickly the vague form disappeared. She frowned. She was almost as bad as Uncle Jeffrey—
seeing things that weren’t even there. A scraping sound made her stop abruptly. Lord Blakeney
paused as well and eyed her with curiosity.
“Is something wrong, Miss Talbot?”
“I’m not sure.” She shook her head. “I thought I heard something.”
Arching an eyebrow, he glanced over his shoulder to search the dark recesses of the room’s
corners. The scraping noise came again, this time louder and she looked up to see a large stone
plummeting toward her. Inhaling a breath of terror, she froze. In the next moment, a strong arm
snapped around her waist and jerked her to safety. The sandstone shattered on the floor behind
her. Buried in the warmth of Lord Blakeney’s embrace, Alex shuddered.
Alive. She was still alive.
She’d been too terrified to move. In the distance, shouts sounded through the hall.
Trembling, she struggled to remain calm as the voices grew in strength.
Pushing her away from him, Lord Blakeney’s hand brushed over her brow and cheek as he
studied her with a look of concern. “Are you hurt?”
Unable to speak, she shook her head. He glanced back at the disintegrated sandstone on the
marble floor before looking upward. She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the hole in
the balcony. It must have been a loose stone, just waiting to fall. A man slid to a halt just outside
the Egyptian room.
“My lord, are you and the young lady all right?”
“Yes, Martin, we’ve escaped injury. Miss Talbot, however, is quite shaken from her narrow
escape. Get several of the men to help you clean up this mess, and tomorrow I want the balcony
and wall inspected for other loose stones.”
His strong arm still wrapped around her in a protective gesture, he guided her around the
pieces of broken sandstone. As they passed beneath the somber statues of Anubis, she shivered.
Had she really seen a shadow up on the balcony or had her intuition been trying to warn her of
impending disaster?
More importantly, had Uncle Jeffrey been right? Was there really a curse on those who
searched for Per-Ramesses and Nourbese’s tomb?
Chapter 2
Sheikh Altair Mazir sank back into the plush leather cushions of his carriage. Seated
opposite him, Alex Talbot sat quietly, her face pale in the gaslight shining through the window.
She was amazing. No tears, no hysteria. If it weren’t for her pallor and the way her hands were
trembling, no one looking at her would be able to tell she’d almost been killed a few moments
ago.
“I’m sorry your visit to the museum was so frightening.”
She lifted her gaze to his, and his gut clenched at his physical reaction to her. Damn, but
those hazel eyes of hers were nothing short of incredible. Large and round in her face, they
flashed with whatever emotion she was feeling at a particular moment in time.
“I admit it wasn’t exactly what I expected.” A wry smile tipped the corner of her mouth.
Then a look of mortification spread across her face. “Forgive me, my lord. I failed to thank you
for saving my life. If you’d not pulled me away from where I was standing…”
“Don’t dwell on it. You’re safe now.”
“But you saved my life. I shall always be in your debt.”
Her gratitude was discomfiting given his connection to her. He needed to explain who he
was, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he watched her through the shadows, remembering
the way her soft curves had pressed into him when he’d pulled her out of harm’s way. His groin
tightened at the memory. Her body had been soft and luxuriant against his. Lush and sensual.
Unable to help himself, his gaze slid down to the round fullness of her breasts. The images
dancing through his head teased his senses and his imagination. Would her nipples be as inviting
and pink as her generous mouth? Or perhaps they would be dark against that creamy
complexion. The thought singed his skin with fire.
At that moment, her gaze met his. From where he sat he could see the way her eyes
darkened with the awareness he’d seen earlier. Her enticing mouth parted slightly, and he
swallowed hard at the urge to pull her into his arms again. Christ, he was acting like a stallion
determined to mount a mare. The thought prompted an image of her on top of him with her
golden-chestnut hair tumbling down over her creamy shoulders. It hardened his cock
immediately.
Dragging his gaze away from her, he peered out the window of the coach. Traffic was heavy
tonight, and it was taking longer to get to the Clarendon than usual. If they continued at this slow
pace, his groin was going to be in agony by the time they reached the hotel. He turned his head
and caught her watching him. Her cheeks darkened in the muted light as their eyes met. There
was curiosity and something else shining out of those mysterious hazel depths.
“You seem puzzled by something, Miss Talbot.”
“Yes.” She nodded her head then quickly denied her response. “I mean no…I’m sorry, it
was rude of me to stare. I…it’s just that you don’t look like the other English noblemen I’ve
met.”
The comment made him stiffen, and he was thrown back to a different time when another
woman had said the same thing. Even after ten years the thought of Caroline cut deep. He closed
the door on the painful memory. The past was behind him. He’d paid dearly for Caroline’s
betrayal. It wouldn’t happen again.
“And how do you think an English nobleman should look?” he said in an icy tone.
“I’m sorry. You must think me terribly rude. It’s just that your skin tone and profile remind
me of the Egyptian pharaohs I’ve seen in different texts.”
Biting the inside of his cheek, he wasn’t sure how to interpret her comment. Accustomed to
society’s contempt for his mixed blood, he didn’t care what people thought of him. But
something about this woman made him care, and he didn’t like the sensation. And he especially
didn’t like the way his body reacted to her soft shape.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said with a bit more irony than he intended.
“Oh, but it was. A compliment I mean. I’m terribly sorry. I have this habit of speaking
without thinking first. My friend Jane warns me all the time to guard my tongue, but I can’t seem
to help myself.”
He folded his arms across his chest, studying her contrite expression. At this stage in his life,
he found it easy to ignore the prejudice and scorn most of London society flung his way. But this
woman posed a conundrum. For some unfathomable reason, he hesitated telling her who he was.
What he was.
Confused by the notion, he frowned. She’d given him no reason to think she would be
appalled by his confession, and yet it was a risk he didn’t want to take. Eventually, he’d have to
tell her the truth, but for the moment—for the moment he was content to let her think of him as
Lord Blakeney.
Clearing his throat, he smiled. “I hope your scare tonight doesn’t make you hesitant to return
to the Museum.”
“Oh no, not at all. I’m sure it was an accident.” She frowned for a moment, staring off into
space. The idea that it hadn’t been an accident nudged at her. It was rather odd how that stone
had fallen just at that precise moment. And what about that shadow she’d seen? She’d thought
her imagination had been playing tricks on her, but now she was convinced that wasn’t true.
She’d seen someone up on the balcony.
“So when do you plan on returning?” His deep voice drew her attention back to him.
“Actually, I don’t need to. It’s hard to believe, but I answered all my questions this
afternoon.”
“All of them?” The doubt in his voice made her smile.
“Yes, I didn’t expect to finish so quickly, but my translations were much more accurate than
I expected. Although I did find a couple of odd references in my notes the Stone didn’t account
for, but I’m sure I’ll be able to decipher those points in a day or two.”
“I see, and when do you intend to leave for Egypt?”
“I would imagine by the end of next week.” She mentally ticked off some of the items she
still needed to purchase before setting sail.
“Next week?”
“Well, I’ve already made some arrangements, but there are still a large number of supplies
to purchase. I’d love to leave tomorrow, but it’s not possible.”
“And how thoroughly have you thought through this adventure?” The censorious note in his
voice pulled her gaze toward his stern one.
It sounded almost as if he was worried about her. The thought astounded her, but even more
unsettling was the pleasure it gave her when she considered the possibility. Still, the last thing
she wanted was anyone interfering with her plans. She’d given her word to her father she would
find Per-Ramesses, and she intended to keep her vow.
Her father had believed in her abilities. She would not fail him at this stage of the game.
She’d also made a promise to herself. All her life she’d studied and worked hard to make this
journey. Finding Per-Ramesses would prove to the academic world that a woman could be just as
good an archeologist as a man.
“This trip has been in the planning for more than two years. My father and I considered
every detail.”
“Every detail? What about a guide into the desert?”
“My father had been corresponding with Sheikh Mazir, a Bedouin, who offered to serve as
his guide to Khatana-Qantir.”
Tension hardened his jaw line as he eyed her with his piercing gaze. “And how reliable is
this man? For all you know, he’s a barbarous savage who’d just as soon slit the throat of another
infidel as serve as a desert guide.”
The bloody image made her stomach flip unpleasantly. Few things made her blanch, but the
mere reference to blood made her queasy. No doubt, a phobia left over from childhood when
she’d cut her foot. The blood streaming across the floor had been nothing compared to the
doctor’s visit and subsequent suturing. Shaking off the vivid memory, she struggled to ease the
nausea churning in her stomach.
“My father had every confidence in Sheikh Mazir. He told me quite often that the Sheikh
was a very special man.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, indeed.” She sent him an arched look, irritated by his pessimistic tone. “I’m certain
Sheikh Mazir will respect the agreement. After all, Bedouin law decrees he honor the covenant.”
“Even if the Sheikh does keep his word, I find myself agreeing with Lord Merrick about
your expedition. The desert is a harsh, unforgiving land.” His mouth was tight with disapproval
as his forbidding gaze settled on her.
“I’m aware of what I’m up against, my lord. My father and I discussed our trip and its
hardships countless times. I’m not afraid.”
“You should be, Alex. You should be very afraid.”
The sound of her given name rolling off his tongue pulled a sharp breath from her. As her
eyes met his, the predatory expression on his handsome features sent her heart careening out of
control. The look reinforced her earlier image of him as an ancient Egyptian ruler. Stern, strong
and master of his domain. He would rule a woman’s heart with simply the crook of his finger.
The wickedly seductive images from their first meeting flitted through her head as her gaze
focused on his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him?
Appalled by her wanton thoughts, she looked out the carriage window at the gaslights lining
the street. What was wrong with her? Her interests had always been centered on her studies and
working with her father. She’d been kissed before, but those caresses had been fumbling
attempts at best from would-be-suitors.
No man had ever captured her attention the way this man did. In her studies, she’d learned
about the sexual practices of the ancient Egyptians. Her view of their activities had always been
of a scientific nature. But now—now she understood some of the erotic poetry she’d translated
without her father’s knowledge.
Curiosity had driven her to learn more, but she had never understood the emotions a
physical attraction could arouse until now. The intensity of her attraction to him was disturbing,
not to mention inconvenient. A man would only be a hindrance in her determination to find PerRamesses and fulfill her father’s last wish.
She darted a glance in his direction to find him watching her. In an instant, every thought in
her head was swept aside. The look in his eyes was dark and dangerous. Her mouth went dry at
the sight. Oh this man was trouble, plain and simple. The sooner she fled his presence, the
quicker she could control the way her body was responding to him.
A fraction of a second later the carriage rocked violently to a halt, and the jolt propelled her
forward into his arms. Outside there were shouts of anger and blame, but inside the carriage the
silence hung thick and heavy.
Heat flushed her skin at the close contact as the scent of him rushed at her senses with heady
abandon. The woody fragrance of cedarwood tantalized her nose, and she finally recognized the
scent of sweet fennel. The mixture was earthy, fresh and wholly masculine. It suited him.
Hot tension made every nerve-ending in her body grow taut as she realized how close his
mouth was. It would only take a small movement and his lips would be covering hers. The
thought pulled a sharp gasp from her. Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.
“Has anyone ever told you how lovely your mouth is?”
The dark seduction in his whispered question released more than a dozen butterflies in her
stomach as she struggled to control her heartbeat. Even if she’d been able to do so, she didn’t
have time to give him an answer as his hard mouth covered hers.
This was nothing like the fumbling kisses she’d experienced before. His mouth was bold and
confident on hers. It startled her with its raw intensity, but more surprising was how much she
was enjoying his touch. Her blood slid hot and heavy through her veins. She’d been right. The
man was definitely dangerous, but at the moment she didn’t care.
The gentle nip of his teeth on her lower lip caused her to gasp, and he took the opportunity
to sweep his tongue past her lips to the inner recesses of her mouth. The hedonistic rush that
surged through her settled in the pit of her stomach. It boiled there in a hot vessel ready to
overflow.
Without thought, she responded to his kiss, her tongue dancing with his as a soft moan
trembled deep in her throat. Strong fingers trailed along her cheek before sliding down her
throat. His lips captured hers again as he pulled her tightly against him.
Bloody hell, but the woman was a fiery temptation. She tasted like forbidden fruit. Lush,
ripe and sensuous. With just a kiss, his cock had become hard as iron. It pressed against him in a
lustful cry for satisfaction. Her tongue swirled around his in a seductive move, and he suppressed
a groan of need.
He had to touch more of her. Gently, he feathered her cheek with kisses until he reached the
lobe of her ear. As he nibbled on her, his fingers made short work of the buttons running down
the front of her dress. The silky smoothness of her skin caressed his fingers and a soft cry
escaped her lips as his hand glided across the base of her throat and down to the top of her full
breasts.
God almighty. He wanted to bed the woman right here in the carriage. Small pants of
excitement blew past her lips as he drew back from her. Her hazel eyes had turned green with
passion, and her full mouth had a sensual curve to it.
She was hot heat in his hands. He had only to press his advantage and he’d be inside her,
satisfying the cravings of his cock. His finger lined a path from the base of her throat to the
shadowed valley between her luxuriant breasts. God, he wanted to suck on her. A shudder broke
through her at his touch, and he paused. What the hell was he doing?
This was Alexander Talbot’s daughter. A man he’d admired a great deal. How could he
possibly take advantage of her like this? The sound of Caroline’s voice echoed in his head.
Because you’re a savage. A heathen who will never be accepted by London society. The memory
of that day made him grow still. No. He wasn’t a savage. But making love to Alex in the carriage
certainly didn’t qualify him as a gentleman.
With a quick movement, he picked her up and plopped her back into her seat. His groin
protested angrily, but he ignored the pain. Her mouth formed a soft moue of surprise, and it
beckoned to him like a Sahara mirage. Tempting and tantalizing in its beauty. He swallowed the
desire threatening to rule his senses. For the first time he realized the carriage was moving again.
“I took advantage of you.”
“I don’t recall protesting too loudly,” she said with a wry note in her voice.
The matter-of-fact response caused him to stare at her in surprise. A flush crested over her
cheeks and she quickly looked away. He’d never met anyone like her before. Impulsive,
stubborn, intelligent and forthright. Did she take after her father? The thought of the professor
made him frown as he looked out at the shadowed streets.
She was Talbot’s daughter and as such she deserved respect, not this cavalier treatment. Out
of the corner of his eye, he watched her button up her dress. As the creamy complexion of her
throat disappeared beneath the green satin dress she wore, his hand itched to reach out and stop
her.
What the devil had Talbot been thinking when he’d burdened her with this quest for PerRamesses? It was a difficult and risky journey. Merrick was rarely right about anything, but there
was one thing they both agreed upon. The desert was no place for a woman of society. It was a
harsh existence without the modern comforts women were accustomed to.
Glancing in her direction, he saw her smoothing out the wrinkles in her gown. She looked
delicious enough to eat. The image of her straddling him returned to haunt him, and he clenched
his fists. Determined to push the tempting image from his thoughts, he closed his eyes for a
moment. When he opened them, his gaze met hers. There was no rancor in her eyes. In fact, he
was certain a flicker of excitement still gleamed in her gaze. Crushing his desire, he looked
away.
It was best to ignore the fact he’d even kissed her. Unfortunately, that was difficult to do
given how succulent and sweet she’d tasted on his lips. The base need stirring in his body sent a
jolt of tension through him. Christ Jesus, he’d not felt this ruttish in years. The Clarendon’s welllit driveway illuminated the inside of the carriage, and he expelled a sigh of relief.
“It seems we’ve reached our destination.”
“Yes.” The single word was a forlorn sound. It twisted his insides. She’d almost lost her life
tonight, and he’d taken advantage of that vulnerability to satisfy his own needs. He was a
bastard. If he’d gone back to the desert where he belonged, none of this would have ever
happened. At least there, he didn’t feel quite so alone. His mother’s people had always accepted
him as one of their own.
He cursed himself again for giving his oath to a dying man. He should never have agreed to
his grandfather’s pleas, even if he’d done so out of love. Adamant the Blakeney line not die out,
the old Viscount had begged him not to give up his title or holdings. Now he was trapped like a
fox between the hounds and freedom.
Each year his agreement to spend half the year in England and the remainder in the desert
was growing more burdensome. No doubt his grandfather had thought it easier for him to find a
suitable wife among London’s nobility. He’d known the futility of that exercise before the old
Viscount had died, but it hadn’t saved him from the inevitable task of honoring his word.
The carriage rolled to a halt. Exiting the vehicle, he turned to offer his assistance. She slid
her hand into his, and the light touch warmed his body. He grimaced at the effect she had on him.
One would think him a schoolboy the way his body was reacting to the woman. Taking her arm,
he guided her up the steps of the hotel.
As they entered the lobby, a young woman standing near the concierge’s desk hurried
toward them with a relieved smile on her face.
“Oh, Alex, there you are! I’ve been half sick with worry. I was beginning to think something
terrible had happened.” The woman kissed Alex’s cheek then stepped back. “Heavens, you look
completely washed out.”
“I’m fine. Jane, this is Lord Blakeney. He helped me get access to the Rosetta Stone. My
lord, this is my friend and traveling companion, Mrs. Jane Beacon.”
Altair stiffened. Explaining why he’d not mentioned his identity before now was not going
to be easy. He was far from ashamed of his Bedouin blood, but he didn’t like the possibility of
seeing her look at him with disgust. For just a bit longer he wanted her to know him as Lord
Blakeney, not a half-breed who was the subject of scorn and ridicule.
He shoved his thoughts aside, fully aware he had to convince her she was undertaking a
foolish errand. While he was honor bound to follow through on his agreement with her father, he
had to convince her it was in her best interest to give up this foolish venture.
“Do I understand that you’re going with Miss Talbot on this dangerous expedition?” He
eyed the woman with disapproval.
The question immediately earned him Alex’s scorching glare. Turning his head, he met her
scowl with one of his own. The harsh condemnation on his face made her clench her hands with
frustration.
What was it about this man that intensified every emotion in her body? Moments ago his
touch had almost blinded her with passion, now his disapproval incited her bull-headedness. She
knew perfectly well it was a dangerous expedition, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him.
“It is not a dangerous expedition,” she retorted.
“It bloody well is,” he snarled in a low voice.
Alex shuddered. She wasn’t sure if it was from the fury in his voice or the reference to blood
that disturbed her. Why did the English feel it necessary to constantly associate blood with their
curses?
“I have the situation well in hand, my lord.”
“Do you? I wonder. What if Sheikh Mazir doesn’t speak English? Venturing out into the
desert, even with a Bedouin guide, is a serious undertaking for any man. For two women it’s
twice as treacherous.”
Alex flinched at his brutal tone. He was right. She knew it. But if she agreed with him, it
would be the same as admitting that Lord Merrick was right, and she was determined to prove
the old goat and all the other naysayers wrong. Frowning with determination, she shook her
head.
“I think you exaggerate, my lord. I am confident Sheik Mazir will ensure our safety.”
“Then at least allow me to find someone reputable to accompany you on your journey.
Someone you can count on if you run into trouble.”
Alex opened her mouth to reject the offer, but the touch of Jane’s hand on her arm stopped
her. With a shake of her dark head, the other woman sighed. “Perhaps he’s right, Alex. I know
you and the professor planned for every contingency, but there’s a difference between being
adventurous and foolhardy. I doubt your father would have approved of us going to Egypt on our
own.”
The gentle remonstration made her tighten her lips. Irritated more by the fact that the man
was correct as opposed to his insistence on meddling in her affairs, she shrugged with disgust.
“Oh, all right, we accept your offer to find us an escort,” she muttered before she raised her
index finger in an imitation of a schoolmarm. “But I’ll not tolerate any interference from this
person you’re determined to foist upon us. This is my expedition, and I’m going to do things my
way. Is that understood?”
With a nod of his head, his lips curled slightly at the corners as if amused by a private joke.
“Your wishes are quite clear, anide emîra.”
The Bedouin phrase caught her off guard, and it took her a moment to translate. Glaring at
him, she remained silent in the face of his clear amusement. Stubborn princess, indeed.
§ § §
His body taut with angry frustration, Altair charged down the steps of the Clarendon toward
his carriage. The woman was the most obstinate little mule he’d ever met. She knew full well
how dangerous this journey of hers was. He’d seen her acknowledgment of the fact in her eyes.
But the way her mouth had thinned to a stubborn line had clearly indicated her refusal to admit
she was wrong.
With a sharp command to the driver, he threw himself against the leather cushions of the
vehicle. He should have told her who he was from the beginning. At least, his words would have
held some weight then. She would have taken Sheikh Mazir’s words of caution more seriously
than those of Lord Blakeney. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him.
A bitter laugh broke past his lips. Hardly anyone in the Marlborough Set would take the
word of a sheikh over an Englishman. But in this instance, he was certain Alex Talbot would
have respected the opinion of Sheikh Mazir.
Now he had a decision to make. Continue along his present course until forced to tell her the
truth or reveal his identity at the next opportunity. Even on such short acquaintance, he knew her
well enough to know she’d be furious with him when he confessed his deception. It would make
it difficult for her to trust him, something that was essential when one was in the desert.
His fist slammed into the leather seat. Damnation, what had he been thinking? He’d never
hidden behind his English ancestry before, why had he done so now? The vision of a sultry
mouth flashed before his eyes. Because she intrigued him. Excited him. The taste of her singed
his lips again as he recalled their passionate exchange. Kissing her had been a mistake. It had
only intensified his attraction for her.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the seat’s cushion. Never had his
English heritage ever felt like such a yoke as it did now. And all because he’d denied his
Bedouin blood. A sudden longing for the freedom of his gambaz swelled through him.
The flowing garment enhanced one’s ability to move so much easier than the form-fitting
fashions of London society. It wasn’t just the freedom of movement he missed. There was an
unfettered liberty he enjoyed under his Bedouin title. In the Sahara he had license to be himself.
Always torn between two countries and cultures, he knew more about prejudice than most
people. It was one of the reasons why he refused to marry. Even if a woman were willing to look
past his bloodline, his lifestyle was a difficult one. Living on the edge of polite society for half a
year and the other in the beautiful, but harsh desert would be a difficult existence for a woman
used to the comforts of the civilized world.
A sudden desire to be free of his English birthright surged through him. If he hadn’t given
his word to his grandfather, he’d have discarded the responsibilities and title of Viscount
Blakeney long ago. His oath was the only thing that kept him here. Since the age of ten, he’d
spent six or more months in England each year. First Eton, then Cambridge had occupied his
time, then he’d spent successive winters working at the British Museum.
But it was when he returned home to the Sahara that he experienced true happiness. As a
member of one of the Sahara’s oldest Bedouin tribes, his knowledge of the desert, its people and
past made him a valuable resource to the British Museum. He couldn’t count the number of
times his work with the Museum had saved him from the tedium he found London society to be.
Unfortunately, even that haven was no longer sacrosanct. Merrick was becoming tedious
and disagreeable in their working relationship. The man was so firmly entrenched in rules and
regulations he threatened the Museum’s expansion into the area of Egyptology.
The carriage came to a halt, and Altair stepped out of the vehicle with no clear decision as to
what he should do where Alex was concerned. Entering Blakeney house, he went to the study
and poured himself a stiff drink. The liquid burned the back of his throat.
A quiet cough behind him announced his butler, Marshall. “Forgive me, my lord, but a
message was delivered for you earlier.”
Turning around, Altair picked up the note from the salver Marshall held. With a nod of
dismissal, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. The message was short, but
succinct. Merrick wanted to know if there was any credence to Alex’s theories. Damnation, the
bastard was going to try to steal the discovery out from underneath her.
The paper crackled as he balled it up in his fist. Merrick was a fool to allow his prejudices to
color his perspective. If Alex did know how to find Per-Ramesses, the Museum would do well to
look past her gender because the results might well be the find of the century.
A smile curved his mouth. It had been entertaining to see her storm Merrick’s castle in an
attempt to persuade the man to her way of thinking. She’d been polite and forthright despite the
man’s condescension, but like most people, even she had a limit. When she’d bluntly insulted the
man in Coptic, he’d found her audacious response amusing and interesting. Coptic was a difficult
language to master, and she knew it well.
The memory made him grin before he frowned. He still hadn’t made up his mind what to tell
her. Decisions were never difficult for him, and he found his indecisive behavior annoying. Well,
whatever he decided didn’t change the necessity of honoring his agreement to lead her out to
Khatana-Qantir. He might have agreed to the arrangement thinking he was dealing with the
professor, but he’d given his word. There was no going back. But it was the excitement charging
through him that made him uneasy. Almost as uneasy as the thought of Alex Talbot’s lush,
sensuous body.
Chapter 3
The fetid smell of London’s docks assaulted Altair’s nostrils as he stepped from his carriage.
In front of him, the wharf was a frenzy of activity. His muscles tensed with excitement. He was
going home. Sheikh Altair Mazir was going home.
No more playing the role of Lord Blakeney for another six months. No, that wasn’t true.
Unless he told Alex the truth, he’d still have to play the role for her benefit. Blast, why couldn’t
he make a decision about this?
The reasons were far more complicated than he cared to delve into. At the moment, not
telling her seemed the lesser of two evils. Especially given his interference in her travel plans
this past week. She’d be livid if she figured out he was responsible for the change in her
transportation arrangements. Learning Lord Blakeney and Sheikh Mazir were one and the same
would only make matters worse.
His gaze focused on the Moroccan Wind. The sleek, three-mast schooner looked swift and
sturdy. The sight of her pleased him. He’d purchased the ship specifically to handle his small
trade expeditions to and from Cairo, as well as Morocco.
From where he stood, he saw Alex’s softly rounded figure pacing the ship’s deck. His body
stirred in response to the sight of her. Damnation. What was wrong with him? He’d seen
attractive women before—Alex Talbot was no different.
But she was. His body tensed and tightened every time he got near her. Even in his dreams,
he lusted after her. Those dreams had turned his desire into a constant physical ache. Watching
her now, he recalled some of the things he’d done with her luscious body in his dreams. The
hedonistic memory hardened his cock immediately.
Shoving his erotic fantasies of her into the back of his head, he frowned. Lust wasn’t the
only thing that drew him to Alex. She’d aroused his primal instincts as well. His friendship with
the professor was a compelling reason for him to protect her. But it was more than that.
The need to protect her from harm went deeper. It touched a primeval part of him he’d never
experienced before. Instinct, not logic, dictated his actions where she was concerned. Even the
possibility of her scorn hadn’t made a difference in his determination to watch over her.
Scowling, he studied Alex with narrowed eyes. The ethnic slurs society had always directed
at him no longer cut deep as they once had. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to feel
anything about the opinions of others. Caroline had taught him that hard, but important lesson.
The way she’d left him had made him realize his mixed blood was an insurmountable barrier. He
could never trust a woman to love him for who he was, not what he was. A half-breed.
Even if Alex didn’t bear any prejudices, keeping her at arm’s length was the best thing to do.
But that would be far from easy. He growled a noise of frustration. He should never have given
his word to guide the professor and his party to Khatana-Qantir in search of Per-Ramesses. It’s
what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
Content to study her from afar for just a bit longer, he folded his arms across his chest and
watched as she directed the loading of her luggage onto the ship. A bundle of energy, she’d led
him on a merry dance this past week as he’d tracked her movements. It hadn’t been an easy task
getting her passage switched from the Corinthian to his own ship.
The Corinthian’s captain had balked fiercely at parting with two passengers and their
supplies. The man’s resistance had forced him to trade a profitable Calcutta cargo for an
agreement to transfer Alex and her friend to the Moroccan Wind. Then again, he could honestly
say the man had more than earned his fee considering Alex’s reaction to losing her passage.
Tucked away in a darkened doorway across from the Corinthian’s berth, he’d seen Alex’s
fury when the captain informed her of the change in plans. Although he’d been too far away to
hear what she was saying, her body language had been easy enough to read. God help him if she
discovered he’d arranged the switch. She would definitely not take kindly to his attempts to keep
her safe and out of trouble.
Shrugging slightly at the thought, he wondered if Professor Talbot had ever considered his
daughter headstrong. He could imagine the headaches the man must have experienced if that
were the case. Obstinate, independent and forthright, the woman didn’t hesitate to make her
wishes known.
She was also determined to succeed in her quest. Her thoroughness in arranging her trip
convinced him that she and her father had considered as many contingencies as possible for their
journey, except for one. The professor’s death.
The fact that he would never have the honor of meeting Alexander Talbot in person
saddened him. Their correspondence had been a pleasant one, and he’d readily agreed to guide
the man’s archeological party to Khatana-Qantir. When he’d confirmed his agreement last
month, he’d done so thinking the letter writer was the professor, not his daughter. Knowing he’d
agreed to lead this expedition without knowing the man was dead was a source of irritation.
Bedouin hospitality and his sense of honor decreed he had no choice but to abide by his
commitment. And something told him Alex Talbot knew that and had counted on it.
Like a feather stroking his skin, the strange accent of her voice filtered its way into his
senses. His mouth went dry as her American inflection tantalized and excited him. Grimacing, he
shook his head.
He needed to end this fascination he had for the woman. The last time he’d experienced a
similar stirring of emotion, he’d paid dearly. Even if he were foolish enough to let a woman into
his life, she’d find his nomadic lifestyle taxing. Living on the fringe of English society was
almost as difficult as the challenges of his desert existence.
Any woman who cared for him would have to suffer both. He could easily give up England,
but love of family and home would never allow him to give up the desert. It didn’t matter
anyway. He’d yet to meet a woman willing to accept him for who he was and not his heritage.
From aboard ship, Alex’s odd-sounding accent stroked his senses again as she chastised one of
the sailors.
“No, no. Those trunks are to go in my cabin. I don’t want them in the hold where water
might get at them.”
“But miss, there’s no more room in your cabin. Where will you sleep?” The raspy voice of
one of the sailors was a direct contrast to Alex’s silky one.
“Surely there’s another cabin on board I can use.”
“No, miss. It’s best we put the trunks below.”
Altair sensed a battle brewing and crossed the quay to stride up the gangplank intent on
suppressing a mutiny. “It’s all right, Sully. Put the trunk in Miss Talbot’s cabin.”
“Aye, my lord.” The sailor nodded respectfully and moved away.
Spinning around to face him, Alex brushed a stray lock of golden-brown hair out of her face,
tucking it behind her ear. From where he’d stood on the dock, she’d only been visible from the
shoulders up. Now, seeing her up close, his body reacted immediately to her appearance.
Good God, had the woman taken leave of her senses?
She wore her male garments with an easy-going confidence that astounded him. A beige pair
of trousers, tucked into black riding boots, hugged her shapely legs to the point of distraction. It
was clear she wasn’t wearing a corset, and the white lawn shirt she wore sent his mind reeling.
Perspiration molded the material to her skin, the shirt clinging to the voluptuous curves of
her breasts. His initial reaction was a desire to pull her close and cup the round softness of her.
Taking his time, he’d unbutton her shirt until he’d freed her lush breasts and could suckle her.
The thought of doing so tugged at his groin, and it was only through sheer willpower that he
didn’t reach for her at that very moment. Even more amazing was how she was unaware of the
havoc her appearance was wreaking on his body.
Were all Americans this mad? If Lord Merrick were to see her now, the man would see to it
that anything she found at Khatana-Qantir would never see the light of day. Credibility for a
woman in the archeology field was almost impossible to achieve, but it called for decorum, not
blatant defiance of social standards.
Not a single board member of the British Museum would take her work seriously if they saw
her dressed like this. Not to mention what the crew must be thinking. He watched a grizzly sailor
walk by her with a leering grin on his face. The man needed to keep his eyes front.
“You there,” he snarled at the sailor. “Keep your eyes and your head on your business.”
Blanching from the scathing order, the sailor bobbed his head. “Aye, my lord.”
The man scuttled off, leaving Altair to glare after him. He’d have to instruct Balfour to make
sure the men knew they weren’t to go near Alex. As for him, he needed to stay as far away from
this woman as he could. And that was going to be far easier said than done.
His gaze flashed back to her face, which was flushed with exertion. Hazel eyes sparkled
with excitement and her full lips beckoned him like forbidden fruit. It was a lovely mouth.
Tempting him to taste her. She looked delicious enough to eat, and the thought of doing so made
his groin tighten with lust. Crimson suddenly crested high on her cheeks, and he allowed a small
smile to curve his lips.
“Lord Blakeney, this is a surprise. Have you come to see us off?”
“Not exactly.” He shook his head at her puzzled frown. “I told you I’d find someone to
escort you to Egypt, and I have.”
“Well, where is he?”
“Right here.” He folded his arms and quirked an eyebrow as he waited for her reaction.
“You?”
“I could think of no one else better suited to help you succeed in your search for PerRamesses.”
“But I…you can’t possibly be serious.” Consternation furrowed her forehead.
“Does this mean you’re refusing my services? If so, I’ll ask the crew to start removing your
luggage and supplies.”
“What are you talking about?” She narrowed her gaze at him, fingers splayed over her hips
as she rested her hands on her waist. The movement jutted her full breasts out toward him, and
he swallowed hard.
“The Moroccan Wind is my ship, and it’s the only one headed for Egypt in the next four
weeks. If you wait for another ship, you’ll find the desert all the more treacherous at the
beginning of summer.”
Amusement forced him to bite the inside of his cheek as she glared up at him. Manipulation
wasn’t a pleasurable pastime for Alex Talbot. He would need to be more subtle in the future or
he would likely have a miniature sirocco on his hands. The idea of taming that storm shot a bolt
of anticipation through him. He immediately crushed the thought.
“How many dialects of Arabic do you speak, my lord? Sheikh Mazir is a Berber, how do I
know you can communicate with him?”
Not for the first time, the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. The only communication
problems Alex Talbot would have with Sheikh Mazir would be if she didn’t do as he instructed.
He’d made a mistake not telling her who he was in the beginning, but the bridges were in flames
behind him. What alarmed him was his desire to avoid earning her anger and contempt.
Disturbed by the knowledge, he narrowed his gaze.
“I’m fluent in a number of different Arabic dialects and more than capable of conversing
with your Sheikh,” he snapped as he sent her a cold look. “So unless you’re ready to give up this
quest of yours, I suggest you hold your tongue.”
A stunned expression clouded her face as she stared up at him, her eyes wide. Without
saying a word, she turned and walked away. Her silent response made him grimace. The hurt in
her wide gaze made him believe she was far more vulnerable than he’d realized. About to follow
her, he drew up short when he sensed someone approach him from behind.
“My lord, we should be done loading the cargo within the next hour, shall I give the word to
set sail?”
Turning to the captain, he nodded. “That will be satisfactory, Captain Balfour. I’m eager to
see whether we can beat the Bint-el-Nil’s eight-day record.”
“Aye, my lord.” The Captain grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask me to test this lady’s
capabilities. I look forward to doing so.”
“Then what do you say to a wager? A bottle of my finest brandy if you make it to Cairo in
seven days.”
“And if I make it in six, my lord?” The older man grinned again.
Laughing, he clapped the master sailor on the shoulder. “Then you’ll have earned a case of
the prized drink.”
“Done.” The captain shook his hand then strode away with the rolling jaunt so typical of
mariners.
Alone again, Altair instinctively turned his head and searched for Alex. Disappointed when
she didn’t materialize in his line of sight, he sighed and headed toward his cabin. Alex Talbot
didn’t care what he thought. The woman had one goal in mind and that was to discover PerRamesses. He rubbed his neck muscles in a weary gesture. Something told him the journey he
was undertaking would be far more difficult than he could ever imagine.
§ § §
“I couldn’t believe it. He just stood there and calmly informed me he was going to be our
escort to Cairo,” Alex exclaimed.
The heels of her shoes echoed her aggravation as she paced the floor of the cabin that
doubled as the ship’s salon and dining room. Even more annoying was the sound of the pink silk
evening gown she wore at Jane’s insistence. Glancing down at the simplicity of her dress, she
emitted a disgruntled sigh. At least she’d been able to convince the dressmaker to take off all the
ruffles and fripperies that had originally covered the gown. When they set out for Per-Ramesses
she was foregoing any type of dress whatsoever.
Why couldn’t she be brazen and wear men’s clothing all the time? Because you know how
that behavior would be viewed, Alexandra Talbot. It was difficult to forget the appalled look in
Lord Blakeney’s eyes this morning when he’d seen her dressed as a man. But there had been
another expression on his face too. Desire.
The memory of his hot gaze skimming over her sent a frisson of excitement dancing across
her skin. The way he’d looked at her on deck had sent hundreds of tiny wings fluttering inside
her stomach. And she’d liked it even more when he’d kissed her. The thought of his kiss heated
her body. He would be a masterful lover, confident and sure in his ability to please a woman.
The image of him naked made her ears burn as dismay shot through her.
She didn’t want to like how Lord Blakeney looked at her, and she certainly didn’t want or
need his protection. After all, she and Father had meticulously planned every detail of this trip.
She wasn’t some silly girl in need of a strong man’s guidance. And she most definitely wasn’t
about to let the man tell her what she could and couldn’t do.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset. The man is simply trying to be helpful.” Jane sat at the
table. Shaking out her napkin in a dainty motion, she laid it in her lap.
Alex sighed with frustration. “I know that, but you weren’t there last week when Lord
Merrick was treating me like some simpleton, incapable of one clear thought.”
“Well that doesn’t mean Lord Blakeney feels that way.”
“That’s just my point, Jane. I don’t know anything about the man. He works at the British
Museum, and in the Egyptology department, for heaven’s sake. For all I know, the man is
coming along simply to report back to Merrick. I can’t trust him. I don’t want to trust him.”
“Really, Alex, I think you’re over exaggerating. Lord Blakeney is a gentleman, I’m sure his
intentions are nothing but honorable.”
“Perhaps, but the last thing I want is Blakeney, or any man, watching my every move on this
trip.”
“Come, sit down.” Jane pointed at the seat across from her at the dining table. “All this
pacing of yours is making me weary. I don’t know where you get all your energy.”
“It’s excitement. I just wish Father and Uncle Jeffrey were here.” Alex bent her head to
contemplate the tips of her pink kid shoes peeking out from under her gown. Her father and
uncle would have made this trip not only exciting, but exceedingly amusing as well.
“Oh, Alex. I know how hard this is for you.” Jane sighed. “Losing someone is always
painful, but we both know they wouldn’t have wanted you to grieve so.”
Her friend’s soft reply made her start. Jane had suffered loss in the past as well. She quickly
rounded the table and gave her friend a hug.
“I’m sorry. Will it make you feel better if I say I’ll make a distinct effort to seek out Lord
Blakeney’s good points?”
Her question provoked Jane’s laughter. “Why, Alexandra Talbot, if I didn’t know better, I’d
say you were interested in the man.”
Appalled, Alex stepped away from her friend. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“If you ask me, the fact that he’s charming and handsome will make the voyage pass that
much more quickly.”
Alex took her seat across from her friend and released an unladylike snort of disgust. “I
might have known you’d pick up that particular refrain.”
“Are you telling me you’re completely impervious to our host’s considerable charms?”
The teasing note in her friend’s voice made Alex grimace. She wasn’t about to let her friend
know just how disturbing Lord Blakeney was to her senses. “I have no use for a man intent on
charming me. I’m quite content with my life as it is. Give me a statue of Ramesses or Anubis any
day over the affections of a man.”
“Statues are a cold substitute for the warmth of a lover,” said the source of her misery as he
entered the medium-sized cabin.
Alex jerked her head around in his direction and sent him an askance look. Her reward was a
small smile curving his mouth, while the dancing light of laughter in his eyes twisted her insides
in too many directions. The man obviously took pleasure in goading her. Well, she refused to
play his game.
Jane, the traitor, smiled a welcome as the man bowed over an extended hand. “Good
evening, Lord Blakeney.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Beacon. Welcome aboard the Moroccan Wind.”
“You must forgive Alex, she’s usually quite charming, but I’m afraid her desire to reach our
destination has made her a touch edgy.”
“Indeed.” The smooth one-word observation made her feel as if he’d given her a lengthy
lecture. “Good evening, Miss Talbot.”
“Good evening,” she mumbled before ducking her head to avoid his gaze. He took a seat at
the end of the short table. One hand resting on the white damask tablecloth, he toyed with the
stem of his wineglass that a porter had filled the moment he entered the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alex eyed his fingers as they caressed the crystal. The memory
of his fingers caressing the tops of her breasts made her suck in a sharp breath. Heat spread its
way over her skin as her nipples grew taut, pushing against the restraint of her corset. Her gaze
flitted toward him, and her mouth went dry as she found him watching her. Ducking her head,
she struggled to control her body’s reaction to him.
The porter held a platter of roast beef in front of her, and she gratefully took a helping.
Anything to avoid the unsettling gaze that so easily triggered a hundred different wanton
thoughts and needs inside of her. Determined to eat and escape to her cabin, Alex ate in silence,
barely following the conversation between her friend and Lord Blakeney. She’d almost finished
her meal when Jane smiled at her.
“Isn’t that right, Alex?”
Caught with food in her mouth, she quickly swallowed the bite-size potato as she shook her
head. “What?”
“I said all this started with your Uncle Jeffrey.”
“What did?” She frowned for an instant. “Oh, you mean the search for Per-Ramesses. Yes, it
all started with Uncle Jeffrey.”
“The one who was a spiritualist?” The deep note of his voice caressed every inch of her
body, and a tremor raced down her back. Dear Lord, the man’s voice was enough to make her
mouth water. The memory of his seductive voice telling her how beautiful her mouth was teased
its way through her head. Flustered, she tried to focus on the conversation.
“Yes, Uncle Jeffrey told Father all about the city and where to find Nourbese’s tomb.”
A sudden snapping sound rent the air, and Alex stared in astonishment as the crystal glass in
Lord Blakeney’s hand shattered beneath the force of his grip.
“Blast,” he growled.
The sight of blood dripping from his hand made Alex’s stomach lurch with a sickening thud,
and she could feel the color draining from her face. Across from her, Jane hastily sprang to her
feet.
“Oh no you don’t, Alexandra Talbot. You are not going to faint. His Lordship is fine.”
Reaching her side, Jane quickly fanned the air in front of Alex. Closing her eyes, she could feel
the room spinning around her. Oh, God, she didn’t want him to see her this weak. This helpless.
Despite her best intentions, she sank into a dark oblivion.
Chapter 4
Murmurs echoed over Alex’s head as her eyes fluttered open. The dark brown gaze of the
man bent over her sent a warm pulse of pleasure circulating through her veins. Disoriented, she
shifted her attention away from him and realized she was lying on the couch that sectioned off
the salon portion of the cabin from the dining area. Jane peered down at her from over Lord
Blakeney’s shoulder. A look of merriment gleamed in her violet eyes.
“Well, now. You look much better than you did a few moments ago. At least you have a
little color in your face.” Jane winked at her. Her friend obviously found her situation vastly
amusing.
“How are you feeling?” The quiet concern in his voice wrapped Alex in a warm cloak of
protection. She enjoyed the sensation, and a wave of color warmed her cheeks at the knowledge.
“Much better, thank you.” She pushed herself up into a sitting position, her arm exploding
with heat as his hand cupped her elbow to assist.
Remembering the reason for her faint, she swallowed and took a quick peek at his hand.
White cloth bound two of his fingers. “And you?”
“A few scratches, nothing serious.”
He stood upright, and stepped back to allow her to rise. When she was on her feet again,
Jane eyed her with skepticism. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Although the room reeled in front of her, Alex nodded. She refused to faint again. “I’ll be
fine. What I need is some fresh air. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go up on deck.”
“Not me, I’m going to stay here and study that Coptic dictionary you gave me.” Jane strolled
over to a small reading-table and picked up a thin volume. “Something tells me it’s going to
come in very handy in the near future.”
“I’ll join you.” The husky timbre of his voice told Alex not to argue with him.
She slid a sidelong glance in his direction before nodding. Jane had already sunk down into
a comfortable chair near the gaslight, and Alex sent her friend a glare of reproof before walking
out into the night. The salty tang in the air filled her lungs and told her they were well out to sea.
With a sigh of appreciation, she looked up at the beauty of the night sky.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
With a nod at his observation, she moved forward across the open deck, her eyes pinned on
the sky. Still a bit woozy from her recent faint, she stumbled forward as the ship encountered a
large swell and lurched over the wave. Strong arms prevented her from falling as he pulled her
into his side.
Fire enveloped her with the speed of a hawk in its dive. Disconcerted by the wanton
sensations racing through her, she arched away from him. Beneath her fingers, his muscles
tensed under the lightweight material of his jacket. In an instant, she was free of his embrace. No
sooner had she put distance between them, than she craved to be back in his arms.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “It seems I’ve been saying that a great deal to you since we
first met.”
“Your gratitude is unnecessary.”
His flat response troubled her. The moonlight cast his dark features into relief, his eyes
staring at something beyond the bow of the ship. His stern demeanor made her think she’d
offended him somehow.
“Perhaps not, but you have my thanks nonetheless.”
His reply was a sharp nod. With a brisk flick of his wrist, he gestured for them to continue
forward along the deck. Strolling across the wood flooring, they reached the ship’s rail. The
sculpted wood was slightly damp from the ocean mist as she grasped the chest-high barrier.
Below, dark waters parted to make way for the ship as white foam and spray threw itself against
the sides of the vessel. Once more, she stared up at the night sky, her body throbbing with an
unexplained awareness of the man standing next to her.
“What will you do if you find Per-Ramesses?” His unexpected question surprised her.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“If you find the ancient city, what will you do? Excavate the entire site or allow someone
else to do it?”
“Someone like the British Museum, you mean?” It was impossible to restrain her bitterness.
He glanced down at her, his gaze unreadable in the dark. “I’m sure the Museum will be
more than happy to look at your findings.”
“And take the credit for my work as well,” she said coolly.
“If you do know where Per-Ramesses is, then you’re about to make history, and no one can
take that away from you.”
“Perhaps, but it won’t stop the Museum from trying. The idea of a woman archeologist is
heresy.”
“I’ve not noticed that it’s stopped you so far.” There was a thin layer of humor in his deep
voice and one corner of her mouth tugged her lips into a small smile.
Silence drifted between them, and Alex leaned on the ship’s raised banister. Staring out over
the water, she watched the moonlight dance across the restless waves. The man puzzled her. He
acted as if it was quite natural for her, a woman, to start out on a quest to find Ramesses’ lost
city. His reaction made her nervous. Why was he so eager to help her?
First, he’d arranged for her to have access to the Rosetta Stone. Then he’d appointed himself
the task of escorting her to Egypt. When the Corinthian revoked her passage, she’d been
annoyed, but put it down to coincidence until this morning when he’d come on board. His blithe
announcement that the Moroccan Wind belonged to him had stunned her.
She didn’t know how, but he was responsible for her losing her berth on the Corinthian. Her
intuition told her that. Somehow he’d maneuvered her into traveling on his ship, and it irritated
her. She had no need of a protector, especially one as disturbing and dangerously attractive as
Lord Blakeney.
Beside her, he shifted slightly, his arm brushing against hers. The instant fluttering of her
heart made her swallow hard. Maybe she did need a protector. Someone to help her guard against
these feelings he aroused in her. Despite her best efforts, every time the man came near her, her
body erupted with fire and heat.
But could she trust him? The only thing she knew about him was that he worked for the
British Museum. That, in and of itself, was enough to make her want to keep him at arm’s length.
Still, as much as it displeased her to admit it, his presence wasn’t completely unwelcome. He did
make her feel safe, especially since she was certain someone had been following her for the past
week.
She’d tried to put it down to her imagination, but that was difficult to do when the same man
kept turning up everywhere she went gathering supplies for the trip. Much to her chagrin, the
man’s presence had unnerved her, making her think back to the recent deaths of her uncle and
father. Their deaths had seemed natural, but the man following her had simply raised more
doubts. Uncle Jeffrey had warned them they’d be met with resistance, but he’d never explained.
His warning had taken on new meaning now.
Could their deaths have been murder? But how? She wouldn’t even question their deaths if
it weren’t for the fact they’d both died of the same illness six months apart. That could not be a
coincidence. But she was at a loss to understand how or, more importantly, why.
And what about her narrow escape in the Museum? That could have easily been an accident,
but her instincts told her differently. Then there was Lord Blakeney’s obvious interference. With
all that had happened she was wary about his motives. Still, despite her distrust of him, his
sincerity seemed genuine, and something about him reassured her, comforted her.
Her father would have liked him. They seemed to have similar temperaments. Uncle Jeffrey
would have simply relaxed and enjoyed the pleasure of having two potential victims for his
rapier wit. Beside her, she heard him clear his throat.
“You mentioned Nourbese’s tomb earlier. It’s unusual for anyone outside the desert to know
that name.”
“Uncle Jeffrey is the one who introduced us to Nourbese.” Alex grinned at the memory.
“Although Father and I were ready to have him declared insane.”
“Why?”
“Because the first time he mentioned her, he claimed he was the reincarnation of Ramesses
and that Nourbese had been his wife.”
He sucked in a quick breath. She laughed at the restraint of his reaction. Her father’s
response had been a bit more explosive. Lord Blakeney obviously found the idea difficult to
accept as well.
“Your reaction isn’t quite the same one Father and I had. I can still remember Father
storming out of the library the day Uncle Jeffrey asked us to find Nourbese’s tomb. It wasn’t
until he produced some clear evidence that we realized there might be some truth to his vision.”
“Vision?”
“Uncle Jeffrey described it as that. He’d been working in the garden when he said he was
transported back to another place and time. His descriptions of the images were quite vivid.
Naturally, we were quite skeptical, but when he drew several hieroglyphic symbols he’d seen on
one of the monuments in his dream, Father and I were convinced he’d indeed had a vision.”
“Why would the drawings convince you?”
Alex turned back to stare out at the ocean. A chill skated over her skin as she remembered
translating the symbols. Trust not the Mazir who lies for he intends only death and destruction to
those in his path. Whoever that person was he was dangerous, and she, for one, intended to keep
her distance.
“Uncle Jeffrey was the quintessential businessman and he amassed a fortune expanding the
family business. The man could tell you to the penny how much his quarterly statements were,
but he wouldn’t have known the difference between the Coptic alphabet or a hieroglyph to save
that fortune.”
“And the hieroglyphs he drew, what was the translation?” There was an intense note of
curiosity in his voice, and Alex stiffened. An inquisitive nature was one thing, but his interest
made her wary.
“Oh, a tribute to Nourbese and references to several landmarks near Per-Ramesses.”
Lying always made her uneasy, especially when the translation was a warning. She didn’t
look at him, but she immediately sensed the tension in him abating. The way he was acting made
her think he knew more about Nourbese than he had admitted. Did he know the entire story
about the doomed priestess?
The first time she’d read Nourbese’s story it had astonished her. Her father had found an
obscure text with the woman’s story in it, and it had taken four or five readings to ensure her
translation was correct. Legend said that Ramesses had fallen in love with the young woman and
married her.
Politics had come into play because Nourbese had not been of royal blood. A member of the
Mazir tribe, her place in the Pharaoh’s house had been a precarious one. So precarious she’d
been murdered shortly after the birth of her son. The politicians had insisted Nourbese’s tomb be
hidden from view as she wasn’t royalty.
Ramesses had disregarded the demand, which resulted in the robbery and desecration of his
wife’s tomb. Devastated, he’d built another tomb for his beloved wife in a secluded location. The
storytellers said that only the rib of Ramesses would identify Nourbese’s current resting place,
but they never described the rib itself.
She was fairly certain the rib was an artifact of some sort, but couldn’t be for sure. Did
Blakeney know any of this? If so, why didn’t he tell her? The thought that he might actually be
working for the Museum sent a note of disappointment sailing through her. She shivered.
“You’re cold.” He immediately slipped out of his jacket and draped it over her exposed
shoulders.
The heat of his body still permeated the coat, his scent lingering in the air. Her senses
tingled at the spicy aroma. Standing in the shadow of his warmth, she trembled again as his
hawk-eyed gaze scanned her face. Once more the image of a pharaoh entered her head as she
looked at him.
A long finger trailed over her cheek, making her throat tighten with a knot of anticipation.
The light touch tensed every muscle in her body as she saw his eyes darken. What was it about
this man that made her want to forget everything but the potency of his touch?
Mesmerized, she couldn’t move, and her pulse rate jumped to more than twice its normal
speed.
His gaze never left hers as his fingers glided across the base of her throat down to the low
vee of her gown. The caress made her inhale sharply, and her breasts pushed against her
undergarments with a painful awareness. The achy sensation skimmed its way through her limbs
until it peaked just below her belly.
Hard hands encircled her arms as his jacket slipped off her shoulders and fell to the deck.
She didn’t care because her body was on fire. Beneath his fingers, the thin slips of material that
served as her sleeves slid downward. The action made her bodice drop to the edge of her corset
and she drew in a sharp breath.
Lord but she wanted him to kiss her again. She needed to feel his mouth dancing across hers.
In some deep portion of her brain, a warning rang out against this dangerous attraction, but she
did nothing to stop the inexorable motion of his body pulling her against him.
Each one of her nerve endings was tuned to a feverish pitch as she trembled in his grasp. Her
hands splayed across his wide chest as she looked up at him. Muscles tense with expectation, she
didn’t protest as he embraced her fully in his arms. Instead she reveled in the wanton sensations
bombarding her body as he held her close.
The sound of the sea enveloped them as Altair drank in the crisp scent of sea mist on her
skin. The soft, delicious smell of honey drifted up from her hair. It suited her. It reflected her
strength and vulnerability, but most of all it whispered a seductive invitation as powerful as the
Nile itself.
Her small tongue darted out to wet her upper lip, and his cock stirred to life at the sight. The
feel of her in his arms made him grow hard, and the image of her lying beneath him on a bed of
silk cushions made him lower his head toward the fullness of her mouth. He knew it was insane,
but he wanted one more taste of her. Perhaps it was the only way to drive her out of his head. Get
these maddening images of her out of his thoughts.
“My lord.” The intrusive sound of Sully’s voice pulled a groan from Altair’s lips. Damn it to
hell. Could the man have not timed his intrusion better? He quickly released Alex.
“What is it, Sully?”
“Captain said to tell you a storm’s brewing from the southwest, and that you might want to
encourage the ladies to stay in their cabins.” Altair looked in the direction the sailor had stated. A
dark mass of clouds had erupted into the night sky with surprising suddenness.
“Thank you, Sully. I’ll see Miss Talbot to her cabin. Please attend to Mrs. Beacon.”
“Aye, my lord.”
He turned to Alex, only to find her gone, his discarded jacket on the deck the only evidence
of her recent presence. Cursing softly, he retrieved the coat and shrugged back into it. Insane,
that’s what he was. Insane. What had made him think to even attempt kissing her? The answer
stirred in his trousers again.
“Bloody hell,” he snarled. Reaching out for the ship’s railing, he gripped it tight beneath his
fingers.
He needed to stay as far away from Alex Talbot as possible or he’d surely suffer the torment
of the damned. She was intoxicating, but he needed to put her out of reach. The dull ache in his
fingers reminded him of the cuts he’d suffered from the broken crystal. It was a rare occasion
when someone could startle him, but Alex had done just that when she’d mentioned Nourbese’s
name. Myths were many among the Mazir tribe, but of all of them, Pharaoh’s first wife was the
most treasured and revered of all names.
Lightning flashed out over the water, accompanied by a clap of thunder. The waves crashing
against the Moroccan Wind’s hull muffled the storm’s roar. From the way the wind had picked
up, Altair knew they would soon be in the midst of heavy rain. He breathed in the fresh tang of
the mist blowing into his face as his thoughts turned back to Nourbese.
Since her death, descendants of Nourbese and Pharaoh had led the Mazir tribe. Even he,
despite his own half-breed existence, carried their blood in him. Her name had disappeared from
ancient texts and monuments long ago, but her story lived on in the fireside tales of the Mazir
storytellers. Throughout his childhood, he’d listened with fascination to the legend of his
beautiful ancestor.
The temple priests in Thebes, afraid of Nourbese’s influence over Ramesses, had murdered
the tribeswoman after the birth of her son. Pharaoh had just come to power, and a political
struggle had prompted the heinous crime. Only the quick thinking of Nourbese’s maidservant
had saved Pharaoh’s son from the same fate as his mother. With the child safely delivered to the
Mazir tribe, Nourbese’s father, the Sheik el Mazir, kept his grandson hidden fearing for the
child’s life.
Mad with grief at the loss of his wife and uncertain as to the fate of his son, Ramesses built
an elaborate tomb for his beloved, burying her with the great ceremony befitting a queen. Not
satisfied with their evil deeds, the priests broke into Nourbese’s tomb and stole her canopic jars,
intent on condemning her soul to wander the void between Egypt and the afterlife.
In return, Ramesses wiped out all existence of the priest sect responsible for the atrocity,
along with their temples and families. Recovering his beloved’s canopic jars and sarcophagus,
Ramesses moved his government to Per-Ramesses, carrying Nourbese’s remains with him. He
interred her in a cloistered location, marking her tomb with the rib of Ramesses—a sign only the
woman crowned with hawk feathers would recognize.
A large drop of rain splattered across Altair’s hand. More raindrops pelted his cheeks as he
turned his face up to the sky. Above him, another bolt of lightning lit the dark, illuminating the
masts and unfurled sails. Captain Balfour stood on the bridge, shouting directions at
crewmembers scrambling to comply with his orders. Something about the man’s stance told
Altair they were in for some rough seas.
The wind had already increased its intensity in the past few minutes alone. Striding over to
the stairs leading to the bridge, he reached the captain’s side in a matter of seconds.
“How bad?” he shouted over the howling gale.
“Bad enough, my lord.” Balfour pointed toward the bow of the ship and the black, starless
sky ready to engulf them. “We can’t go round it. We’ll have to pass through the heart of the
beast.”
Nodding, Altair barely kept his balance as a large wave crashed into the bow, roughly
rolling the ship to one side. Aware he could do nothing but get in the captain’s way, he
descended to the main deck and entered the dimly lit corridor leading to the main cabins.
Rivulets of rain streaked down his back as he braced his hands on either wall of the corridor,
waiting for the ship to recover from its roll.
A loud crash sounded in the cabin behind him, and a muffled scream tensed his muscles.
Spinning around, he moved quickly to the cabin door. With his balled fist, he pounded on the
wooden barrier.
“Alex, are you all right?”
Not hearing an answer, he tried to open the door. It cracked only slightly. No light came
from inside the cabin, and dread scraped a bony finger over his spine. “Damn it to hell, Alex!
Answer me.”
“I’m here.” The faint sound of her voice eased some of his fear.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I’m stuck.”
Altair threw his shoulder against the door and pushed with all his strength. This time the
wood barrier gave way enough for him to peer into the dark cabin. From the corridor’s gaslights,
he could make out trunks stacked from floor to ceiling. He growled a Bedouin curse, and Alex
blew out a puff of air.
“I am not an angel from hell, my lord, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”
“It was an expression of irritation, Alex. And to ensure I don’t use the phrase again within
your hearing, these trunks are going into the hold tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll see about that,” she muttered.
Silently cursing her for her stubbornness, Altair pushed on the door again so he could slide
into the cabin. In the dim light, he could make out the trunk blocking the door. He shoved it out
of the way then turned to see Alex pinned against the wall by a large steamer trunk.
“Are you hurt?” he asked as he set her free.
“No, I’m fine, just a little shaken.”
Once again, the ship rolled roughly to one side. Losing his balance, he stumbled forward,
pinning Alex between him and the wall. With his hands pressed against the wall, her body
molded itself into his hard figure. She fit him perfectly. With great effort he tried to swallow the
knot of desire swelling in his throat. Reluctant to withdraw, he slowly pushed away from her.
The soft gaslight from the corridor revealed the sheerest of nightgowns covering her sensual
curves, and her golden-brown hair curled riotously down onto her shoulders. His mouth went dry
at the enticing sight. Even in the dim light, he could make out the dusky nipples cresting against
the transparent material covering her creamy skin. They were taut buds beneath the sheer cloth.
He ached to lower his head and suck on her. Without realizing his intentions, his hand touched
her side, slowly moving up to just below one tempting breast.
Her gasp of surprise blew warm air across his cheek, but she didn’t resist as his thumb
gently stroked her. Gold lights sparkled in her hazel eyes, and her breasts rose and fell rapidly,
encouraging him to continue. With a slow caress, he slid his thumb over the swollen nipple that
beckoned so invitingly through the fine silk of her sleepwear.
Again, she gasped, but it was a sound of delight. He lowered his head to the side of her soft
neck, breathing in her delicious honeyed scent. She trembled against him as he kissed her creamy
skin. The soft moan parting her lips captured his attention, and slanting his mouth over hers, he
drank in the sweet taste of her. The heady sensation of his lips against hers shook him to the
core.
She tasted even more delectable than he remembered. He cupped her fullness with his
hands, his thumbs tracing circles around the hard pebbles on each breast. As she leaned into him,
his cock swelled in his trousers to a hard length. Damn if she wasn’t the most tempting creature
he’d caressed in a long time. She was like a desert flower, sweet smelling yet exotic to the point
of distraction.
Need surged through him and he impatiently sought the heat inside her mouth. As his tongue
mated with hers, triumph whetted his hunger at her tentative response. She wanted him. It
delighted him that she didn’t try to pull away. Instead, she arched her body closer to him, a tiny
mewl whispering from her throat.
God, but she felt good in his arms. Eager, supple and fiery, she pressed her body to him. She
was a perfect fit against him. How tight would she be around his cock? The image of plunging
into her made his ballocks draw up with need. At the excruciating pleasure it gave him, he
shuddered against her, almost losing his seed.
Sanity lashed out at him as his cock demanded satisfaction. What the hell was he doing? He
wasn’t some barbarian willing to take his pleasure of her in this manner. He was supposed to be
keeping her safe from harm, but instead, he was indulging himself and his craving for her.
His body protested violently as he struggled to bring his raging desire under control.
Damnation, but he wanted to take her here and now. Wanted to feel her hot passage clenching
around his cock as he slid inside her. Shaken by the intensity of his emotions, he roughly pushed
himself away from her. With a sharp shake of his head he tried to clear the lustful thoughts
threatening to overwhelm his self-control.
“Bloody hell,” he growled. “Where’s your robe?”
“On…on the bed.” Her voice throbbed with passion, and he fought the urge to pull her back
into his arms.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw her filmy robe lying beneath a trunk that had fallen
onto the bed. The ship rolled again and he watched the trunks teeter in their precarious positions.
With a quick move, he lifted one corner of the trunk and retrieved the robe. Extending his arm in
an abrupt gesture, he handed the garment to her.
“Put this on before I do more than just kiss you, woman.”
She didn’t hesitate to follow his orders. When she was completely covered, he grabbed her
elbow and pulled her out into the corridor. The rolling ship threw her into his side, and his body
groaned with a need he’d not assuaged in months. He’d disposed of his last mistress more than
four months ago and not replaced her. Now the tempting figure clinging to his side was testing
the very limits of his self-control.
He wanted nothing more than to pick her up and carry her to his cabin. Plunging into her
heated silk depths would be like absorbing the warmth of a desert morning sun. He growled with
self-disgust and dragged her down the narrow passageway to the cabin he knew Jane Beacon
occupied.
His fist slammed into the wood with a knock that echoed the thunder bellowing outside.
“Mrs. Beacon, it’s Lord Blakeney.”
Moments later, Alex’s friend opened the door, her forehead creased with worry. Not waiting
for the woman to ask any questions, he thrust Alex forward. “Miss Talbot’s room is full of
trunks, and the rough seas make it far too dangerous for her to sleep in there. If I hadn’t heard her
scream, she might have been seriously injured or worse. She only just narrowly escaped harm.”
He didn’t look at Alex, but his fingers felt her stiffen in his tight grasp. The ship rolled
again, but his firmly planted feet kept him balanced. Releasing Alex, he made to turn away. Her
hand touched his sleeve halting his departure.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You’re welcome,” he said gruffly. “Tomorrow those trunks are going into the hold.”
“But I can’t risk—”
“Tomorrow, Alex.”
Without waiting for her to argue, he strode away.
Join Monica’s Mailing Lists for Updates on
Mirage’s June 2015 release
§ § §
Awards
2009 EPPIE Winner
2008 RTBOOKreviews Erotic Romance Historical Nominee
2005 Golden Heart Finalist
3rd Annual Passionate Plume – 2nd Place
Critical Acclaim
Top Pick — 4.5 Stars
“A strong storyline, engaging characters and seductive love scenes make this a must-read.” —
Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“With sexual tension as scorching as the desert the novel is set in, MIRAGE is the kind of
historical romantic adventure I cut my teeth on and have been missing for years. Ms. Burns has
written a cinematic, compelling, and highly recommended treat!” — Sylvia Day, New York
Times Bestselling Author
“Elegant prose, believable dialogue, and a suspenseful plot that will hold you spellbound make
Mirage a jewel of the first order. If you are a fan of tortured, heroic male leads, independent
heroines and exotic places…don’t miss this one by the talented Ms. Burns.” — Emma Wildes,
bestselling author
“Mirage kept me up half the night as I raced to the finish of this action-adventure romance… If
you’re a fan…[of] authors like Betina Krahn, you’ll enjoy Mirage.”— Romance Reader At
Heart
Recommended Read
“The love scenes are emotion-filled and wonderfully erotic and Altair’s responses are enough to
make your toes curl…her descriptions of the sight, sound and smell of Egypt transports the
reader there, masterfully conveying the beauty of the culture and its people. I adored Mirage
from beginning to end.” ― Two Lips Reviews
—§ § §—
Pleasure Me by
Monica Burns
Read Three Chapters
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
“I was hooked and spent the whole day reading
this sizzling, sensual, engrossing tale.”
— Barbara Vey, Publisher’s Weekly
Youth and beauty are a courtesan’s greatest assets. At
forty-one, Lady Ruth Attwood appears to have lost both, as
her latest lover just abandoned her for a younger mistress.
Struggling with the knowledge that she’s no longer
considered desirable, she’s uncertain whether to be offended or flattered when a younger man
makes her an unusual offer. In need of funds, she agrees. But then she does the unthinkable. She
falls in love.
Despite his reputation as a man’s man, Baron Garrick Stratfield has never been with a woman.
His physical impairment is such that he knows not even a whore will touch him, and he needs a
mistress who’s willing to be kept without sharing his bed. But passion is just a delicious kiss
away because his new mistress is wreaking havoc with his senses. Worse yet, someone is not only
out to ruin his reputation, but frame him for murder.
§ § §
Chapter 1
London, 1897
“I’m sure you understand, my dear. Miss Fitzgerald and I have formed a tendré for each
other that transcends what you and I have had over this past year. I’m amazed she’s even
countenanced my suit as she’s so much younger than me.”
Ruth flinched as she stood at the window with her back to Marston. What he really meant
was that Ernestina Fitzgerald was younger than her. There was just enough complacency in her
lover’s voice for her to know the bastard was enjoying himself. She’d been through this type of
event so many times over the past twenty some years, but this time it was worse. This was the
second time in less than two years that a lover was leaving her for a younger woman. And at
forty-one years of age she was old—wasn’t she? Her hands trembled despite her death grip.
Steeling herself, she pasted on a smile and turned around to face him.
“Of course, I understand, Freddie.” She deliberately used the nickname and earned a glare
from him. She knew how much he despised anyone calling him that. “I’m certain Miss
Fitzgerald will suit you well. As I understand it, her talent for skilled conversation equals yours.”
Marston sent her a suspicious look, but she knew he would never understand the double
entendre. The man wasn’t nearly as intelligent as he liked to think. In fact, he was hopelessly
inept at conversing intelligently about any subject other than hunting and fishing. Suddenly, she
despised herself for even entering into a liaison with him. She knew why she had. She just hadn’t
wanted to admit it until now. She’d been scared, afraid that time was running out for her. And
now it had.
“Naturally, I’ll see that your allowance is paid through the end of the month.”
“Naturally,” she said coolly, not about to let him see she was shaken by the parting. It
wasn’t as much unexpected as it was humiliating. “And Crawley Hall?”
“I am sorry, Ruth, but that seems a rather extravagant parting gift, don’t you think?”
“I prefer to think of it as a promise you made several months ago.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. She needed the estate. The orphanage on Aston Street was
overflowing, and the more sickly children would benefit from the fresh country air.
“Did I? I don’t recall agreeing to any such thing.”
“Then perhaps I should have Wycombe refresh your memory, as he was present at the time
you agreed to purchase the property for me.”
“I’m sure Wycombe will remember it differently,” Marston said with more than a hint of
smug arrogance. “Besides, you already have property in the country. I see no reason why you
would have need of another one. If you’re concerned about money, you can always sell the
jewelry I’ve given you.”
The sanctimonious pig. The bastard knew why she wanted the Crawley Hall. He also knew
good and well that the house she owned near Bath was far too small for her needs. There was
barely enough room for her, Delores and Simmons let alone half a dozen orphans. And the
jewelry he’d given her would bring her barely enough for half the purchase price of Crawley
Hall. His refusal to buy the Hall meant she would need to dig more deeply into her resources.
Something she’d hoped to avoid. She’d managed her finances well over the years, but buying
Crawley Hall meant utilizing her long-term investments much sooner than she liked. Especially
when her future was far from bright when it came to securing a new patron. She sent him a
contemptuous smile.
“The jewelry you’ve given me? Darling Freddie, those trinkets will hardly fetch even a
paltry sum. But if you refuse to keep your promise with regard to Crawley Hall, who am I to
question your honor.” She caught a glimpse of the anger darkening his face as she turned away
from him with a small shrug. “Since we’ve nothing further to say to each other, I think it’s time
you left.”
Seconds later, a rough hand snaked through her hair and jerked her head backward. She
never liked to show fear, but Marston pulled painfully on her hair and she cried out not only in
surprise, but anguish as well.
“Listen to me, you old hag, if you even suggest that my attentions to you were ever
anything but honorable, I’ll show you just how honorable I can be.”
A door opened behind them, and her butler entered the room. Tall and burly enough to
make any man cautious of crossing him, Simmons occasionally acted the bodyguard in addition
to his many other talents.
“I heard a scream, my lady. Is everything all right?” It wasn’t a question. It was the butler’s
way of telling Marston to release her, which Freddie did with a rough shove.
“Don’t forget what I said, Ruth. I’ll not have anyone sully my good name.”
She remained silent, despite her desire to tell him exactly what she wanted to do to him,
starting with castration. Lord, how could she have actually thought the man attractive? Because
he was the only man who’d been interested enough to enter into a liaison with her. Nauseated by
the thought, she swayed slightly on her feet.
As Marston left the parlor, she crossed the floor and gripped the arm of the settee as she
slowly sank down into the cushions. Simmons didn’t comment. He simply followed her ex-lover
out of the room, obviously intent on seeing the man out of the house. The trembling of her hands
expanded to wrack her entire body, and she closed her eyes against the pain sweeping through
her. First one tear and then another rolled down her cheeks.
She’d always known this day would come, but it was even more horrible than she’d
possibly imagined. Age had always been her enemy, and she’d never been able to find a way to
defeat it. Bent over, she cupped her face in her hands to cry softly. A warm arm wrapped around
her shoulders, and she looked up to see her maid’s concerned expression.
“Did he hurt you, my lady?”
“Not really, Dolores.” She pulled a handkerchief from a side pocket in her skirt and shook
her head as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “More my pride than anything else.”
“I never cared for the man. He never treated you as well as your other beaus.”
“I’m well aware of how you felt about Marston.” She couldn’t help but release a small
laugh at the vehement distaste in her maid’s voice. “I’m surprised I didn’t come around to your
way of thinking a long time ago.”
“You’re stubborn. That’s why. Stubborn, right down to the core, you are. Always so certain
that man was the best you could do.”
“He was the only man who seemed remotely interested at the time as I recall,” she said
with a
self-deprecating laugh. “I can no longer fool myself, Dolores. My age has begun to show.”
“Nonsense.” The maid snorted with disgust. “You still have the figure of a young girl, and
a face as lovely as an angel’s.”
“Thank you, Dolores. You are a true friend, loyal and blind to the obvious.”
She winced at the truth. It wasn’t necessary to look in the mirror to know that her looks
weren’t what they once were. She knew she was still an attractive woman, but her days of
garnering accolades for her beauty were long gone.
“Harrumph. My eyesight is as good as it was twenty years ago.” The maid straightened her
shoulders, hands clasped in front of her, and scowled down at her. “There are plenty of men who
would be more than happy to enter a room with you on their arm. You’re far too hard on
yourself.”
The woman’s chiding lifted her spirits slightly as she contemplated the way Lord
Mackelsby had complimented her several nights ago. Marston had even spared enough time to
leave Ernestina Fitzgerald’s side to come claim her as if she were a piece of property he owned.
The analogy had been accurate at the time. Marston paid her bills and as such was entitled to her
full attention.
But now he was gone, along with her monthly allowance. She released another sigh. It
wasn’t the money that troubled her as much as the fact that Marston, like her lover before him,
had left her for a younger woman. No matter how much she fought it, the knowledge threw her
into a state of despair.
She swallowed back another rush of tears. Crying would do little good, and there were
more important matters to consider than her bruised ego. She stood up quickly to pace the floor
in front of the fireplace. The children had to come first. Whatever it took, she’d find a way to
purchase Crawley Hall or another estate like it.
In addition to the few trinkets Marston had given her, she owned several other pieces of
jewelry she could sell, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She breathed a sigh of resignation. In
order to fetch the remainder of the Hall’s purchase price, she would have to sell her house
outside of Bath. She cringed inwardly at the thought before dismissing her regret. She could just
as easily retire to Crawley Hall as anywhere else.
“I think it’s time I sell some of my investments.”
“What?” Dolores’s horrified astonishment made her smile.
“My jewelry should fetch at least half the sale price of Crawley Hall, and selling the
country house should make up the balance and hopefully pay for the necessary improvements to
the Hall. If that’s not enough, I can easily rent the town house. There should be sufficient monies
from my annual annuities to support me, as long as I’m careful with money.” Ruth glanced
around the parlor wondering how much the house would rent for. It was in a reasonably
fashionable district, which should make it an attractive offering.
“But you bought the house in Bath for your retirement, my lady. And if you rent this house,
where will you live?”
“I shall live at Crawley Hall.” She saw her longtime companion flinch, and quickly moved
forward to grasp the older woman’s hands. “And you’ll come with me, Dolores. And Simmons,
too. You do want to come, Dolores, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid’s expression of fear disappeared. “I just thought perhaps you
might not have need of me anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sat down next to the woman and squeezed her hands. “I don’t
know what I’d do without you. Who else will keep me on the straight and narrow?”
“This is true, my lady. Although I think you’ve a heart that’s far too big for your pocket
where those children are concerned.”
“They haven’t anyone else to look after them, Dolores. I can’t simply abandon them as
Marston has me.”
The words were a vivid reminder of her current state of affairs, and she fought off the wave
of self-pity threatening to wash over her. As much as she wanted to give in to the emotion, she
refused to do so. She’d always been practical in her outlook, and it was time she accepted the
fact that her days as one of Society’s darlings was quickly coming to a close. Marston leaving
her for a younger woman would make her an object of pity among the Marlborough Set,
something she would abhor. The appearance of Simmons at the parlor doorway interrupted her
train of thought.
“Lady Pembroke has arrived, my lady.”
As the butler stepped aside, Allegra Camden, the Countess of Pembroke, swept into the
salon as Simmons retreated from the room. The smile on her face only enhanced her younger
friend’s beauty, as Allegra took her outstretched hands in hers then kissed her on the cheek.
“I’m sorry I’m late, but Shaheen and the children took longer than usual with breakfast.”
“It’s quite all right.” Ruth returned her friend’s affectionate greeting then turned to her
maid. “Dolores, bring us some tea, please.”
The older woman bobbed her head and left the room to do as Ruth had asked. With a small
gesture, she invited her friend to sit down. Her movements elegant, Allegra sank into a wingback
chair as Ruth took a seat on the settee across from her. A frown on her face, her friend eyed her
carefully.
“Something’s happened. Are you ill?”
The concern in Allegra’s voice tightened her throat, and she shook her head. “No. I’m
fine.”
“You look rather peaked.” Allegra leaned forward then suddenly gasped. “You’ve been
crying.”
Before Ruth could say a word, her friend sprang to her feet in a soft rustle of expensive silk
and joined Ruth on the couch. Taking her hands in hers, Allegra studied her with an expression
that said she intended to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling her.
“Tell me.” The command didn’t surprise her. Allegra had always been as protective of her
friends as they of her. She sighed.
“Marston has left me.” Saying the words made tears well up in her eyes again. She blinked
hard, fighting them back. The man wasn’t worth the effort.
“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry, but I confess I never liked Marston at all. He has never treated
you with the respect you deserved.”
“I’ve been a fool.” Ruth drew in a deep breath and shook her head.
“You most certainly have not. You did what you thought you had to do to survive.”
“No, not survival . . . a refusal to admit the truth. I am old, Allegra.”
“Nonsense. You’re only a four years older than me, and you look younger.” Her friend sent
her a look of admonishment. She rejected the observation with a shake of her head.
“He left me for Ernestina Fitzgerald. She’s at least fifteen years younger than me.”
“And the woman is twice as dimwitted as Marston. The two shall make a handsomely dull
pair.” The disgust in her friend’s voice made Ruth choke out a laugh.
“See, you agree with me,” Allegra said with great satisfaction. “There are plenty of men
who would find themselves enthralled with you. And when you attend the Somerset ball this
evening I’ve no doubt you’ll see how quickly men will flock to your side.”
“I couldn’t possibly go this evening.” She stared at Allegra in horror. “Marston will be
there. He’ll have Ernestina with him, and everyone will know he left me for her.”
“Well, they’ll notice it more if you’re not there. You know as well as I do the sharks will
close in the moment they smell blood.” Allegra eyed her sternly before suddenly flashing a
wicked smile in her direction. “Besides, what better time to announce how delighted you are that
Marston has finally found someone who equals his intellectual standing in the Set?”
This time Ruth laughed easily. “When you put it like that, it’s easy to see I’m crying over
the man for no reason at all.”
“Precisely,” Allegra said firmly.
She forced herself to smile at woman seated next to her. No, there was no reason to cry
over Marston’s departure. But her lost youth? She had no doubt there were far more tears still to
be shed for that loss. How had it happened? It seemed only yesterday that Allegra had invited
her, Bella, and Nora to stay with her while her friend weathered the scandal that had made her
the renowned courtesan she’d been before her marriage to the Earl of Pembroke.
How could twenty years pass in the blink of an eye? She didn’t feel old. Her hopes and
desires were still the same, although the ones buried deep inside her seemed doomed to go
unanswered. She envied Allegra and the happiness she’d found with the earl. Her gaze drifted up
to where her portrait hung over the fireplace. The Viscount Westleah had commissioned it when
she was twenty-three. They’d spent almost three years together before they’d parted as friends.
Westleah had bought this house for her then taught her how to manage the generous
allowance he’d given her. It was how she’d made several sound investments that would ensure
her retirement wouldn’t be one of abject poverty as was that of so many other women like her.
She had simply hoped to have a little more time before being forced to retire.
The soft rattling of china caught her attention, and she turned her head to see Dolores
entering the room with tea. The woman set the tray on the round table in front of the settee, and
eyed her carefully for a moment. With a quick shake of her head, Ruth indicated she was fine
and reached for the teapot. The maid, somewhat satisfied with Ruth’s silent assurance, released a
soft grumble then left the salon. Eager to talk of something other than her future, Ruth smiled
offered her friend a cup of tea.
“Motherhood and marriage suit you, my dear. You’ve found a happiness most can only
dream of.”
“I am happy, Ruth. If you had told me five years ago that I would be living such a
wonderful life, I would have laughed at you.”
Neither one of them said it out loud, but for a courtesan to find love, let alone marriage,
was a rare thing. The soft glow on Allegra’s face emphasized how happy her friend was despite
the trials she’d endured in the Moroccan desert. Allegra had only shared some of the pain she’d
experienced, but she knew her capture at the hands of Pembroke’s enemy had taken its toll on
her friend.
Every so often, a dark emotion filled Allegra’s eyes that said the trauma would never leave
her. When Lord Pembroke was present, he seemed to instinctively sense his wife’s distress and
was immediately at her side. Robert, she would never grow accustomed to his Bedouin name,
Shaheen, was devoted to his wife and children. The sound of a teacup clinking loudly against a
plate pulled her out of her reverie.
“We’re not going to let him get away with this.”
“What?” Ruth sent her friend a puzzled look.
“Marston. Tonight, we’re going to see to it that everyone thinks Marston a fool for leaving
you to take up with that flibbertigibbet, Ernestina.”
“And exactly how do you propose to accomplish that?” she asked in a skeptical tone.
“Do you remember how Mrs. Langtry stood out among the rest of the Set by wearing a
simple black dress before Bertie took her under his wing?”
“Lily Langtry stood out because she was beautiful, not because she wore a simple black
dress to catch the eye of the Prince of Wales. I’m reasonably attractive, but far from beautiful.”
“Nonsense. You’re lovely, and you have presence, Ruth. When you enter a room everyone
stops to look at you. And that mysterious smile of yours makes men eager to discover all your
secrets. Tonight you’re going to use that to your advantage.”
“And how, pray tell, am I going to do that?”
“Dolores is going to modify that hideous monstrosity of a dress Marston insisted you wear
to his house party last winter.”
“The purple one with the enormous pink flowers?”
“Yes.” Allegra’s smile broadened. “The dress matches your eyes beautifully, but the
flowers are horrendous. When Dolores makes the changes I have in mind, everyone will think
Marston a fool for choosing Ernestina Fitzgerald over you.”
“Such a transformation seems highly unlikely, but I suppose a miracle is always possible,”
she said with a skeptical laugh.
“Well, I for one believe in miracles,” her friend replied quietly. “And so should you.”
She met Allegra’s affectionate look with a doubtful smile, but her friend’s words were still
in her head hours later as she climbed the steps to the Somerset town house. She should have
known better than to question Allegra’s determination. With Dolores’s skillful sewing and
Allegra’s vision, the two women had managed a miracle. The result was a daring dress that
emphasized her ample bosom and rounded hips. But most of all, it was devoid of any lace,
flounces, ruffles, or bows.
The sleeves, what little was left after Dolores had finished, barely clung to the edge of her
shoulders, mere slips of material. The entire dress was one of stark simplicity, but symbolically,
it represented her casting Marston off. The flowers, the ruffles, every decoration on the dress that
had once weighed down the satin were gone, with the exception of a trail of pink flower petals
bordering the hem. It would give her enormous satisfaction to point out that Dolores had
refashioned Marston’s ostentatious choice into something much lovelier.
Her maid had pulled the original flowers apart to tack the pink trimming along the edge
until they appeared to be actually falling off the hem. Before the night was over, they would be
crushed and dirty. A silent sign of how unimportant Marston was to her. At her throat was the
amethyst necklace she’d worn in the portrait Westleah had commissioned.
Her only other extravagance was a mauve-colored feather fan. As she entered the house, a
tremor streaked through her as she caught sight of Marston entering the ballroom with Ernestina
on his arm. In a mechanical fashion, she undid the frog loops of her cape, allowing the footman
to gently remove it from her shoulders.
As more guests arrived, she stepped out of the way to inspect the sides and back of her
gown for any unexpected wrinkles. It was more a need for time to collect herself than concern
over her dress. The sudden whisper of sensation trailing across the back of her neck made her
hand reach up to touch her skin. Satisfied her hair hadn’t unraveled from the knot on top of her
head, she turned toward the ballroom. Another frisson skimmed its way over her skin as her gaze
met that of a man who casually handed off his overcoat to the household staff without looking
away from her.
He was almost a foot taller than her with hair the color of a moonless night. There was
something intense and riveting about him. If Allegra thought she had presence, her friend hadn’t
met this man. He seemed to dwarf everyone and everything in the entryway. He studied her for
what seemed an eternity, yet she knew it was only a few seconds before another man she didn’t
recognize drew his attention away. But the stranger’s look was enough to leave her heart racing.
She swallowed hard and gripped her fan tightly. Good lord, she was no longer twenty and
attending her first soiree. She flinched at the thought. Suddenly overcome with the need to flee,
she forced herself to cross the foyer floor toward the ballroom rather than claim her cape and
head back out into the night. The sensation she’d experienced moments ago warmed her neck
again, but she refused to turn around to look at the man. She hadn’t come here this evening to
find a new paramour.
The moment she reached the ballroom doorway, her courage sagged. She didn’t see a
single friendly face in the room. Dear God, where was Allegra? She wasn’t certain she could do
this alone. The moment the thought entered her head, she stiffened her back. Her youth might be
gone, but not her dignity. She’d hold her head high, and she’d make damn sure no one, not even
Marston, would be able to tell how she was feeling inside. As she waited for those in front of her
to pass through the receiving line, the tingle at the nape of her neck became a blazing heat.
Lord, it had been years since she’d had this type of a reaction to a man. In the crush of
arrivals pushing their way toward the ballroom, the space between them evaporated. He was so
close to her that the warmth of his breath singed her shoulder. The sudden image of his hands at
her waist, pulling her back into his chest flashed in her head. The mental picture sent a shudder
rippling through her that she was certain everyone around her could see.
Confused by the strength of the sensations assaulting her, she almost stumbled forward in
her haste to greet Lord and Lady Somerset. The reception she received was a polite one simply
because of her relation to the Marquess of Halethorpe. Her stomach lurched at the thought of her
father. She didn’t know whether to despise the man or thank him for sending her down the path
she’d chosen so many years ago. Either one was painful to contemplate.
She turned away from the Somersets and slowly descended the steps into the ballroom.
Despite her attempts to deny it, she wanted to know the stranger’s name, and as she made her
way down the staircase, she heard him introduced as Lord Stratfield. The moment she reached
the ballroom floor, a small group of women to her right caught her attention and her heart sank.
Ernestina. The last thing she wanted was a scene. Desperate to find a friendly face, she strained
her neck to see over top of an older woman with three tall feathers sticking up in her hair.
“Once an old cow is put out to pasture, you would think she’d stay there.” Ernestina’s
comment sliced deep, and Ruth stiffened as she continued forward. She didn’t get far.
“Lady Ruth, what a delightful surprise to see you here this evening.”
Words failed her as the renewed tingling on the back of her neck ignited a fire that raced
across her skin. Dear God, was that the way he always sounded? Like he’d just woken up and
was inviting her to sin in ways she’d never dreamed. The wickedly deep, dark note of his voice
sucked the air out of her lungs as she slowly turned toward him and extended her hand.
“Good evening, my lord.” She fought to keep her voice steady, and a shiver streaked up her
arm as he politely kissed the back of her hand.
“Simplicity becomes you, my lady. I’ve never seen you look so exquisite.”
His gaze suddenly shifted to stare at the ruffles, lace appliqués, and bows adorning
Ernestina’s gown. It was a deliberate snub, and everyone within hearing distance knew it. A part
of her almost felt sorry for Marston’s new paramour. Still, she experienced a twinge of pleasure
to see the other woman’s viciousness silenced, but she was leery of the man’s motives for
coming to her rescue. When her eyes met his again, his gaze revealed nothing, but he smiled as
he offered her his arm. Her heart immediately skidded out of control.
It was a smile that would be lethal to a woman’s heart if she allowed herself to fall under its
spell. She accepted his arm and allowed him to guide her away from Ernestina and her friends.
The frisson skimming over every inch of her body made her want to run as far away as she
could. This man was far too attractive for his own good, which made him dangerous. Besides, he
looked younger than her. A flirtation with him would only serve to make her feel that much
older, and she was feeling far too vulnerable tonight.
“While I appreciate your gallantry, my lord, I can assure you I was not in need of rescue.”
She heard the catch in her voice and forced herself not to look in his direction.
“It was a sincere compliment. The fact that it served to rescue you was secondary.” The
husky note in his voice made her blood flow sluggishly. Lord, but the man was a mesmerist. She
caught sight of Allegra and came to a halt. He turned his head toward her, his eyebrow quirking
upward in either amusement or curiosity. She couldn’t determine which.
“Then I thank you again. If you’ll forgive me, I see a friend I must greet.” Something
flickered in the depths of his vivid blue eyes, and it made her mouth go dry. Lord Stratfield
bowed his head in her direction.
“A pleasure, my lady. I look forward to our next meeting.”
There it was again, that husky note of sin in his voice. Her chest tightened in reaction. Blast
it, she was acting like a woman half her age. She was too well seasoned to allow herself to be
affected so easily. She swallowed hard and gave him a slight nod as she fled his side. And she
was fleeing. She was crossing the floor entirely too fast, not in her usual restrained manner.
Despite reaching the safety of her small circle of friends, her pulse was still racing. Allegra
offered her a small hug then stepped back to study her with a look of concern.
“Good heavens, you’re shaking.”
“It’s nothing, simply nerves.”
“Are you certain it’s not a devilishly handsome stranger that has you in a dither?” The
amusement in Allegra’s voice sent a wave of heat into her cheeks.
“Of course not.” She sniffed with irritation as her friend sent her a look of disbelief, but
chose not to question her.
“You look stunning. I knew Dolores would make this dress a work of art. And the petals
bordering the hem . . . it’s a masterpiece at saying the man isn’t good enough to kiss the hem of
your gown.”
“Let me add to my wife’s observations, my lady.” The Earl of Pembroke offered her a
slight bow. “You look enchanting.”
“Thank you both.”
“Might I add my own compliments as well, my dear? Everyone is talking about how
radiant you look tonight.” The warm voice of Lord Westleah’s voice drifted over her shoulder,
and she turned around with a smile of delighted surprise.
“William. How lovely to see you again.”
He greeted Allegra and the earl with warmth before turning back to her and leaning down
to kiss both her cheeks. It had been months since they’d last seen each other, and to see him here
tonight reminded her how long ago it had been since they’d first met. She pushed the thought
aside as she stared up at her old lover.
“It’s been far too long, Ruth. How have you been?”
“Quite well.”
She forced a smile as she saw him narrow his gaze at her. Westleah knew her well, and
could easily see through the façade she’d deliberately thrown up for the evening’s event. She was
grateful when he didn’t press her. As Allegra and the earl turned away to greet another couple,
Westleah eyed her carefully.
“How do you know Baron Stratfield?” The question caught her by surprise, and she darted
a quick look at her champion, engrossed in a conversation with several gentlemen across the
room.
“I don’t. He overheard a rather nasty comment directed at me when I arrived and rescued
me from further insult.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. He’s a decent fellow. Rarely takes offense at anything except the
mistreatment of others.”
Allegra turned back to them at that moment, and her friend tipped her head to one side in a
questioning manner. “What doesn’t surprise you, Westleah?”
“Lord Stratfield. It seems he rescued Ruth from some rather unpleasant gossip when she
first came into the room.”
“Do you mean the handsome gentleman headed our way?”
Allegra’s question made her turn her head toward the last place she’d seen Lord Stratfield.
To her astonishment, the man was coming toward them. No, her. He was heading directly toward
her. Instantly, her palms felt clammy and her heart was pounding a hard rhythm against her
chest. What in heaven’s name was she going to say to him? The question irritated her. Had she
suddenly lost her wits? The art of flirtation was something she’d excelled at for years. Now
suddenly one man had her doubting herself. No, it wasn’t him. The break with Marston had
shaken her confidence. Nothing more.
Not to mention Lord Stratfield had to be at least five years younger than her, although there
was something about his mannerisms that made him appear older than his years. She winced
inwardly. Her interest in him was bordering on the absurd. The strains of a waltz faded into the
background as her body hummed a melody all its own the moment the man joined them.
Westleah dealt with the introductions before excusing himself to speak with another friend,
and in seconds Allegra had dragged her husband away to greet other guests. If she hadn’t known
better, she would have thought the entire thing staged to leave her alone with Lord Stratfield. The
silence stretched between them for a long moment before he cleared his throat.
“Might I have this dance, Lady Ruth?” The low sound of his voice skimmed along her
senses as she struggled to reply in a quiet, reserved manner. Instead, she simply nodded, then
placed her hand in his. A moment later he whirled her out onto the dance floor. The electricity
pulsing its way through her was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.
Not even Westleah had affected her this way. Frustrated by her faltering composure, she
straightened her spine. For more than twenty years she’d perfected the art of seduction, and she
refused to let this man reduce her to a state of confusion, especially when he was younger than
her.
“How is it we’ve never met until this evening, my lord?” She offered him a small wellpracticed smile.
“When it comes to events such as this, I’ve seen far too many of my acquaintances
ensnared in the spider web of some mother with a marriageable daughter. I prefer my freedom.”
His straightforward response made her laugh. He smiled with a hint of satisfaction.
“Good, I’ve made you laugh. It suits you.”
As much as she wanted not to, it was impossible to keep the heat from flooding her cheeks.
The man was far too charming, and it was irritating to know how susceptible she was to him. She
breathed in his clean, woodsy scent, and her heart skipped a beat. Even at the most base levels
her body responded to him. When she didn’t say anything, he sent her an intense look that sent a
shiver racing down her spine.
“The man’s a fool.”
There was a dark note of outrage in his voice, and she stumbled. He immediately pulled her
closer as she collected her wits.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Marston. The man needs his head examined.”
“Oh.” Forcing a smile to her lips, she gave him a brief nod. “And I should have my head
examined for ever having been seen with the man.”
He released a soft laugh that drifted across her skin like sinful velvet. His large hand in the
middle of her back pressed her into him even tighter. As the heat and scent of him filled her
senses, she found it difficult to breathe normally. A primitive rhythm hummed in her blood, and
her mouth was so dry not even champagne could wet her tongue enough. She tried desperately to
regain control of her senses.
“And I’m certain there are many here tonight who are delighted to know that your heart is
no longer occupied,” he murmured as the music came to a halt.
Slowly letting her go, he stepped back from her as she sank into a low curtsey. His words
eased her bruised feelings for only a split second before she realized he hadn’t included himself
in the compliment. Why would he ask her to dance if he had no interest in pursuing her
acquaintance?
Confused she frowned. What was it Westleah had said? The man rarely took offense except
at the mistreatment of others. Anger slashed through her. Damn him. The bastard had asked her
to dance out of pity. She came upright and snapped her fan open to flutter it quickly in front of
her then collapsed it again in a sharp movement.
“Thank you for your second rescue attempt this evening, my lord. But in the future, please
note that I neither want nor appreciate your interference in my affairs.”
Without giving him the opportunity to respond, she swept away from him with her back
ramrod straight. The insolence of the man. She was more than capable of looking after her own
interests. And she certainly didn’t need any man treating her like a lost cause.
Chapter 2
The fist connecting with the Right Honorable Lord Stratfield’s jaw sent his head flying
backward. Garrick could taste the blood in his mouth, and he quickly stepped to one side to
avoid another blow from his opponent. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Worthington’s fist
heading toward him and quickly ducked before sending his own fist upward into the man’s lower
jaw. Somewhere in the back of his head, Garrick heard the sound of cheers and jeers from the
men forming the circle around him and Worthington.
He blotted the sounds out of his head and landed another hit to the man’s jaw with his other
fist. The minute he hit the man, he knew Worthington would fall. Garrick danced back a couple
of steps and watched the younger man collapse on the grass fresh with early morning dew.
With dueling outlawed, a boxing match was the next best thing for avenging his sister’s
honor. Grace was more than worthy of marrying the Earl of Bainbridge, even if their mother had
abandoned them and their father had committed suicide. Defeating Worthington would also
ensure his reputation as a man of principle when it came to protecting his family’s honor. A hand
slapped him on the back as his friend Charles, the Viscount Shaftsbury congratulated him.
“Brilliantly done.”
Garrick accepted the cloth Charles handed him and wiped the blood from his cut lip. He
wouldn’t go so far as to say his performance had been brilliant, but he was satisfied with the
result. Grace’s honor had been redeemed, and he knew Worthington wouldn’t have the audacity
to make any other comments. He looked at his unconscious opponent, and met the gaze of one of
the man’s friends. He tossed his head toward Worthington.
“I suggest you ice his jaw or he’ll not be able to eat for a week,” he said. Lord Millbourne
nodded his head with a chuckle.
“I’ll see to it. Although if it keeps the boy’s mouth closed for a while, it will do him no
harm. I feel certain he’ll be calling on you to humbly beg your forgiveness in a few days.”
“Then I shall make the apology as painless as possible for him.”
With a cool nod, he turned away from Worthington’s friend and accepted his coat from
Charles. Damn, but he was tired. He needed sleep. After being up for almost twenty-four hours,
he was dog-tired. And the boxing match had done little to ease his exhaustion or his restlessness.
He raked his black hair back off his face and met Charles’s amused gaze.
“What?” He asked as he shrugged into his coat with a wince. His young opponent had
managed to land a couple of well-placed blows, and he was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.
“You let the boy hit you.” At the observation, Garrick arched his eyebrows at his friend.
“He got lucky. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“That I find difficult to believe, but I’ll indulge your delusions and not argue with you.”
Garrick snatched his top hat from Charles’s hand. His friend’s amusement irritated him. It
was the second time in less than a day that he’d been caught acting magnanimous to his fellow
beings. He preferred to keep his benevolent tendencies hidden from the Marlborough Set. To do
otherwise could easily make him appear weak and impotent. He tightened his mouth at the
thought.
Last night the Lady Ruth. Now Worthington. Charles was too damned observant. The truth
was Worthington’s youth and penchant for one too many brandies had gotten in the way of his
tongue when he’d insulted Grace. And what was his own excuse for rushing to the Lady Ruth’s
rescue? He pushed the question aside.
While he couldn’t let Worthington’s insult go unanswered, he’d had no desire to humiliate
the boy. He’d been young once and understood how shame could leave brutal scars. He
grimaced. Worthington was only six years younger than his own twenty-nine years. He felt fifty
at the moment.
“You should have let Bainbridge handle the matter. She’s his fiancée.”
“My future brother-in-law would have pulverized the boy.”
It was an honest statement. If the Earl of Bainbridge had heard the insult, Worthington
would be in the care of several physicians at the moment instead of just his friends. The earl was
as good a pugilist as he was, perhaps better. But Grace’s betrothed would have made
Worthington pay in a far more savage contest.
“True. Bainbridge would be furious no matter how trivial the insult where your sister is
concerned. Short of my cousin Robert, I’ve never seen a man so devoted to a woman.”
“It’s the only reason I accepted his offer for Grace’s hand,” he said coolly.
He’d had Bainbridge investigated thoroughly before he’d agreed to let the man marry his
sister. No one was going to marry into his family without his believing they were devoted to his
siblings. The fact he’d failed Lily in that regard had made him even more vigilant in determining
Bainbridge’s suitability for Grace. He could only hope Lily and her husband worked out their
differences. He wanted his sisters and brother to have the one thing their parents had never had—
a happy marriage. As for him—his fate was already sealed.
“With Lily married and Grace soon to be wed to Bainbridge, that leaves you free to find a
wife.”
Charles’s cheerful tone made Garrick clench his teeth until his jaw ached. Taking a wife
was something he’d never do. Nor did he bother to explain the less than happy state of Lily’s
marriage. He had no desire to let his sister’s marriage become fodder for the gossip mill.
“You’re forgetting Vincent,” he said in a tight voice.
“Surely the boy is capable of finding a wife.” Charles narrowed his eyes at him. “I thought
he was courting the Clayton girl.”
“He is, but I’ve some concerns about her suitability.” He looked away from his friend’s
surprised expression and headed toward his carriage.
“Care to join me for lunch later?” Charles asked as he fell into step beside him. Garrick
shook his head in an apologetic fashion.
“I’ve plans to visit a piece of property I’m thinking of purchasing.”
“Another estate. What the devil are you planning to do with another piece of property?”
“It’s an investment.”
“Yes, but must you buy up the whole of England? Pretty soon, we’ll be calling the country
Stratfield. And I can just imagine how Her Majesty would react to that.”
His friend’s comment tugged a small smile to Garrick’s mouth. He could see where others
might view his numerous holdings as extreme, but they were more than simple investments.
They were necessary. As he opened the door of his carriage, he arched his eyebrow at Charles.
“Property that pays for itself is always a good investment.”
“And a sound means of providing for your children when you get around to marrying.”
His fingers gripped the edge of the carriage door until his fingers ached from the pressure.
The only heir he would ever have would be Vincent. When he didn’t answer his friend, Charles
quirked an eyebrow at him.
“For a man who’s just avenged his sister’s honor, you’re looking rather dismal.”
“I’m tired and my jaw aches.”
“Perhaps your mysterious mistress, Mary, could minister to your . . . aches.”
The words made him grimace. The none too subtle inference was meant to amuse him, but
did just the opposite. It was depressing to acknowledge that the only thing he did when he visited
his mistress was sleep. Alone. But for Charles to call her mysterious . . . he frowned.
“Exactly what do you mean by mysterious?”
“Nothing, except that after more than what, two years without ever having seen the woman,
people are beginning to do more than speculate—”
“Speculate?” His terse response made Charles suddenly look uncomfortable.
“Well there’s always been talk . . . people have always wondered if the woman even exists .
. . or if she’s actually a . . .”
His body went rigid at the unspoken implication. He quickly forced himself to make his
expression unreadable to cover up the sense of stunned dismay he was feeling. Christ Jesus, he’d
been a fool to think he could convince the Set he adored his mistress too much to take her out in
public. There had always been gossip about why he never showed Mary off.
Some rumors he’d overheard, while at other times, friends and family had delicately shared
the fact that he was the topic of curiosity. But this was the first time it had been suggested the Set
was viewing him in less than a manly light. His stomach lurched at the sound of his uncle’s
mocking laugh echoing in the back of his head. He could have at the very least taken Mary to
one of the finer establishments catering to men and their mistresses. No. He could never have
subjected her to that. Not after what Tremaine had done to her, but he could have done
something different. Furious with himself for his lack of foresight, he sent his friend an icy look.
“I can assure you that Mary is quite real. The two of us simply prefer not to socialize in
public. It would be extremely uncomfortable for her. She wasn’t brought up to handle the
savagery that is the Marlborough Set.”
That was entirely true. Mary’s parents had owned a farm on one of his properties. He’d
seen that her education would allow her to mingle with those in the upper classes, but she’d
openly expressed her objection to the idea.
In fact, she seemed far more content with her book learning than she did anything else. Not
even clothes seemed to interest her all that much, although lately she’d taken a heightened
interest in them. He’d taken her to Paris for new clothes twice in the last eight months alone.
“I believe you, but perhaps showing her off from a distance might not be a bad thing either.
I know how you loathe gossip. Perhaps a carriage ride in the park?”
“I have no intention of appeasing the Set’s curiosity.”
“Fine. But be prepared for some people to do more than speculate. I understand Wycombe
made a bet with Marston the other day at the Club that he would prove this Mary of yours didn’t
exist.”
“Bloody hell.” This time he couldn’t hide his shock.
“You’ve a great many friends who will stand by you, Garrick, but we both know Wycombe
will do whatever he can to discredit you.”
His head jerked in a sharp nod. Older by several years, the Earl of Wycombe had been one
of his tormentors at first Eton and then Cambridge. The man had made him the brunt of
malicious pranks for more than three years until Garrick had learned how to box. He’d beaten the
man in a match that was now legendary in the halls of Cambridge.
Wycombe had arrived unconscious in the university’s infirmary, while Garrick had walked
away without even a scratch. The man had even missed his graduation ceremony as a result.
While Wycombe had never crossed him since, the earl hated him beyond measure for that
humiliating defeat. If Wycombe thought he could bring humiliation upon his head, the man
wouldn’t hesitate. Even if it meant lying.
He climbed into the carriage, his body aching more from the battering his friend’s news
had given him than his match with young Worthington. As Garrick closed the door behind him,
Charles looked at him through the window with a sympathetic expression on his face.
“I understand your desire for privacy, Garrick, but you cannot ignore this. I think a weekly
carriage ride might go a long way toward satisfying the avid interest the subject has raised.
Perhaps even an introduction to the Prince himself will prevent Wycombe from making any
mischief.”
“The last thing I intend to do is present Mary to His Royal Highness. The man would
terrify her simply by virtue of his position. I won’t subject her to that.”
“At least introduce her to several of your friends—”
“No. I’ll not sacrifice her simply to protect my own skin. I appreciate your warning,
Charles, but I have no intention of putting Mary on display.”
“Devil take it, Garrick. Wycombe will be merciless where you or your Mary is concerned.”
“The Earl of Wycombe be damned,” he snapped. “I took care of him once, I’ll do it again.”
With the silver head of his cane, he tapped the carriage ceiling to instruct the driver to leave.
Charles eyed him with worry and grimaced, but didn’t argue with him. He gave his friend a
sharp nod good-bye as the carriage pulled away.
It was a bumpy ride across the grassy expanse at the farthest edge of Hyde Park. But then
he’d chosen the isolated spot not for its access, but its seclusion. The quiet grove, in the early
morning hours had seemed the most logical place for his match with Worthington, but the rough
ride was doing little for the headache he’d suddenly developed.
Damn it to hell. He should have anticipated his refusal to bring Mary out into the limelight
would pique people’s curiosity. He’d kept her hidden away to protect her, while insulating
himself from anyone learning the real reason he kept a mistress that no one ever saw. He groaned
and rested his head on the leather squabs behind him.
Now what was he supposed to do? Perhaps Charles was right. Maybe a weekly ride
through Hyde Park would lay to rest some of the speculation. He knew it wouldn’t allay all the
gossip, but Charles was correct. He couldn’t abide rumors or innuendo. Nor could he allow
Wycombe to poke around in his personal affairs.
The thought brought the Lady Ruth to mind. Last night he’d meddled in her affairs and had
earned her wrath. He rubbed his sore jaw in contemplation and immediately grimaced with pain.
No doubt, she would enjoy knowing he was feeling suitably chastened where she was concerned.
It hadn’t been his intent to interfere, but he’d not been able to help himself.
In the Somerset foyer, he’d watched the way she’d gathered herself as if preparing to face a
horde of barbarians. She’d been a beautiful warrior princess ready to do battle with an enemy
whose weapons were words. Word of Marston’s break with her had reached the Marlborough
Club long before evening. It had taken great courage to enter that ballroom alone. And the
moment he’d heard that insult flung at her, he’d been unable to do anything but charge to her
rescue.
He hadn’t helped matters any when he’d asked her to dance. His motives had been not
quite as suspect as she’d believed. While his first rescue had been rooted in sympathy, dancing
with her had been a spontaneous action. It had also been a mistake. Not because he’d angered
her, but because holding her in his arms had been far too pleasurable.
The carriage rocked to a halt, and he grunted with annoyance. What else could go wrong
with his life at the moment? He got out of the vehicle and wearily climbed the steps of the small
house he’d provided Mary with. He’d been so busy thinking about the Lady Ruth, he still had no
solution as to how to handle Wycombe’s intent to malign him. He sighed. Sleep would help clear
his head, and he’d be able to come up with a plan of action later today.
He didn’t even have to pull his key from his pocket, as Carstairs opened the front door
when he was only two steps from the top of the stoop’s stairs. He handed the butler his top hat
and cane then headed toward the staircase. Carstairs cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, my lord, but Miss Mary would like a moment of your time.”
“Now?”
He pulled out his pocket watch to see the time. It was only six forty-five. She was an early
riser like him, but never quite this early. He frowned. What could be so urgent—had Wycombe
been so crass as to visit her unannounced? The staff had explicit instructions not to let anyone
cross the threshold unless he or Mary said otherwise. Sleep would have to wait.
“Where is she?” he asked as he met the butler’s stoic gaze.
“In the parlor, my lord.”
With a nod, he headed toward the salon where Mary spent a great deal of her time studying
with the tutor he’d hired for her. As he entered the room, she was waiting for him. She jumped to
her feet at his entrance, a look of trepidation on her face. Her blonde hair was piled fashionably
on top of her head, and her blue day dress complimented her peaches and cream complexion.
While he knew other men would find her exquisite, he’d never found himself aroused while in
her company. It was one of reasons he’d offered to provide for her with the understanding that
their relationship would be strictly platonic.
“Good morning, Mary. You’re up unusually early.”
“I wanted to talk to you.” She seemed nervous. He frowned, but forced himself to smile at
her.
“What about? Is the new cook not working out to your liking?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Boardwine is wonderful.” She hesitated then rushed onward. “Actually, I
needed to tell you that I’m getting married.”
If she’d pulled a gun and shot him, he couldn’t have been more stunned. What the devil
was happening to his life? First, the Set trying to root out information about his mistress, and
now Mary was telling him that she was leaving him for another man. No, she was getting
married.
“Who is he?” It was impossible to keep the sharp note of anger from his voice, but he was
too upset to care.
“Jeremy . . . Mr. Routh.”
The tutor. Christ Jesus, he’d been cuckold by the goddamn tutor. His mistress no less. No,
that wasn’t possible. One couldn’t be cuckold if one hadn’t consummated the relationship. And
he and Mary had never been together in that way. The fact was he’d never been with a woman.
At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he’d yet to discover whether a woman could find him
desirable. He cringed inwardly.
Did it matter? Did he really care what anyone thought? He didn’t need to explain himself to
anyone. The harsh voice in his head sounded as clearly as if his uncle were standing in the same
room with him. You’re half a man, boy. No woman will have you, let alone want you. You’ll
never understand what it’s like to be a real man.
“I see.” His voice bitter, he glared at Mary.
“Oh please, Garrick. Please don’t be angry. We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”
Knowing Mary as he did, he knew she was telling the truth. He suddenly grew still and
narrowed his eyes at her.
“Does he know the truth?”
“Yes.” She nodded as a look of sorrow flitted across her features. “I told him everything.
He loves me in spite of it all, and he wants us both. He loves Davy as if he were his own son.”
The mention of his godson made his heart sink. Naturally, she’d take the boy with her, and
the knowledge cut deep. Davy had become the son he’d never have. He’d been there at his birth,
held him and loved him. Parting with the two of them would not be easy. Damn it, he didn’t want
things to change. He wanted everything to stay the way it was.
Guilt streaked its way through his veins. He’d made Mary into a whore in the eyes of
others. For almost three years, he’d deliberately ignored that fact. The two of them knew the
truth, but it didn’t change the fact that in everyone’s eyes, even the servants’, she was a fallen
woman. Remorse snagged at him like a piece of cloth ripping on a nail. Christ, he was a selfish
bastard. He’d used her for the sole purpose of impressing on Society that he was something his
uncle had continuously said he wasn’t. A real man. Closing his eyes, he turned away from her.
“I regret ever offering you such a devil’s bargain. It was self-serving of me.” She was at his
side in seconds to tug hard on his arm, forcing him to look at her.
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it,” she snapped. “As I recall, you were the one who
found me after . . . after what happened. You offered me a safe harbor.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I took advantage of you as well. You were vulnerable. I
could have taken you to a different part of the country. Presented you as my recently widowed
sister. I should have found some other way to protect you from Tremaine.”
“He would have found me no matter where I went. He found me here.” A flash of emotion
flared in her blue eyes. “The only reason Tremaine never came back was your threat of having
him thrown into prison.”
The memory of finding Viscount Tremaine here in the house still made his gut clench. The
libertine had threatened to take Davy from her in his attempt to get Mary to leave with him. The
man had been lucky he’d not beaten him to an inch of his life. Instead, he’d dragged Tremaine
down the stairs and thrown him out of the house with the warning that if he ever laid eyes on the
man again, he’d kill him. But not even that excused his own selfish behavior. Almost as if she
could read his mind, Mary gave him a slight shake.
“It didn’t matter to others whether or not the bastard forced himself on me. I was soiled
goods in the eyes of everyone who knew me. I had few options open to me. You saved me from
a horrible existence. You saved Davy, too.”
Perhaps she was right. They’d needed each other at the time, and the arrangement had
given Mary a chance to heal emotionally and physically. Her resilience amazed him given what
she’d gone through. And the fact that she’d insisted on keeping her baby despite the violence of
the conception had made him admire her that much more.
“You’re generous in your assessment of me.”
“And you are far too hard on yourself. You’re a good man, Garrick. The woman you marry
will be a fortunate one.”
Her words sent a chill through him. If she knew the full truth, she’d realize such a thing
would never happen. Resigned to his fate, he walked across the floor to stare down into the fire
in the hearth.
“How soon before the wedding?”
“We were hoping to be married this week. Jeremy accepted a headmaster position in
America. A boys’ school outside of Philadelphia, and he needs to be there in two weeks. They’ll
even take Davy as student.” She crossed the room to touch his arm. “I was hoping you . . . that
you might give me away.”
Anyone else might have thought it a strange request, but with her parents dead, she had no
one. He actually found it touching that she thought so highly of him as to even ask. He glanced at
her and nodded.
“It would be an honor to do so, Mary.” His response elicited an impulsive hug and a kiss on
his cheek as she smiled happily.
“Oh thank you, Garrick. You don’t know what it means to have you say you’ll give me
away. It just wouldn’t seem right to not have you there.”
He released a sigh of resignation at her enthusiasm. While he was happy for her, he
couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy at the joy that made her face glow. It filled him with a
longing for something he knew he’d never find. No woman would be able to accept him as he
was, let alone his inability to sire children. Garrick squeezed Mary’s hand and forced a smile.
“I’m happy for you my dear. I shall have to think of a suitable wedding present.”
“But you’ve given me so much already.”
“All the same, it would be remiss of me to let you run off and marry your Mr. Routh
without a dowry. I’ll have my solicitor see to it.”
“You’re far too generous, Garrick. I only wish you could find someone to make you
happy.”
“I’m quite content with my life the way it is, thank you.” He suppressed a yawn.
“You’re tired,” she exclaimed softly. “I should have waited until this evening, but I—”
“It’s all right, Mary. You expected me to be up early, not just coming home at this hour.”
He flinched. Home. This was home. More so than Chiddingstone House. This was where he
came when he wanted peace and quiet. It was a place to gather his thoughts. Chiddingstone
House, on the other hand, was a house of constant frenetic energy, and as much as he loved his
siblings, he found it wearing on his soul. Now everything was going to change.
“I have an afternoon appointment, which shouldn’t take long. Why not invite your Mr.
Routh to dinner? I would like to ensure he intends to be good to you.”
“I’m sure he’d be honored.”
With a kiss to Mary’s forehead, he left the salon and quietly closed the door behind him.
He leaned against the hardness of the carved mahogany for a moment before he pushed himself
away and climbed the main staircase. Now what was he going to do? It had always been difficult
keeping his secret, but at least the illusion of a mistress had left everyone thinking that he wasn’t
ready for a wife yet.
He muttered a harsh oath of frustration, and the door to his bedroom crashed back into the
wall before he slammed it shut. With a vicious movement, he removed his coat and threw it over
the back of a nearby chair. Unlike his friends, he had no valet. Shame had taught him to do
without a manservant. He jerked off his tie then unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, uncaring when
a button popped off and flew across the room.
Stripped to his bare skin, he caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-length mirror he
passed on his way to the bed. He paused at the sight of his reflection. A sense of revulsion rose
up inside him. His uncle was right. With only one ballock, he wasn’t a real man at all. He
abruptly turned away from the mirror.
He’d been eleven at the time of his father’s suicide, when Beresford had assumed
guardianship of him and his siblings. Not only had his uncle managed Garrick’s home and
inheritance as if they were his own, but for some twisted reason, the man had taken pleasure in
tormenting him. His uncle had tried to do the same to his sisters and brother, but Garrick had
managed to shield his siblings from the majority of the man’s cruelty. And Beresford had
excelled at it. A sliver of a memory taunted him, and he fought to push it back, but failed.
An image of Bertha flashed through his head, and he drew in a sharp breath. He closed his
eyes as the painful past reared its ugly head. His uncle had routinely held parties, inviting the
worst of the demimonde to the house. Bertha had been a pretty ballerina he’d stumbled across
the first night of one of Beresford’s decadent house parties. He’d been smitten with her from the
moment he’d first laid eyes on her.
At seventeen, he’d thought himself in love. He’d courted her persistently, and when she’d
asked him to visit her rooms, he’d been giddy with excitement. But what was supposed to have
been a night of passion had turned into one of deep humiliation. It wasn’t until he’d undressed in
front of her that he’d realized his mistake. Bertha had been revolted by his physical deformity.
Mere moments later, her revulsion had changed to mocking peals of laughter he could still hear
in his head.
His hands curled into tight fists at the memory of his uncle barging into the room. At that
moment, it had been evident the entire event had been staged by Beresford for his own sick
amusement, which only sealed Garrick’s mortification. His gut knotted viciously as he fought to
bury the past deep in the back of his mind.
From that night forward, he’d done everything in his power to make people view him as a
man who other men wanted to emulate. A man who could ride and hunt better than anyone else,
an exceptional boxer, a man of discriminating taste in all things, even women. The illusion where
women were concerned had been the most difficult one to create and preserve.
He’d made it a point to develop a skill for kissing, but had used it sparingly. On the one or
two occasions when desire had actually become a problem, he’d quickly extricated himself from
the situation. Mary agreeing to pose as his mistress had freed him from those types of problems.
Now she was leaving, and with it his ability to keep up appearances.
He didn’t begrudge Mary her happiness, but hearing that Wycombe had a wager to learn
more about his mistress made the timing of her impending nuptials awkward. The mattress gave
way slightly beneath his weight, and he pulled the covers over him. Well aware how hedonistic
sleeping in the nude was viewed, he took a small amount of satisfaction in defying the social
norm.
Arms tucked behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling as he tried to figure out what to do
next. Where in the hell was he going to get a new mistress who wouldn’t question why her
patron refused to touch her? Ruth’s face fluttered its way into his head. Absolutely not. He was
far too attracted to the woman. And she was far too intelligent not to question his reasons for
their relationship to remain platonic. A groan rolled out of him. Maybe he could go to Paris for a
few months. No, he had responsibilities, and he wasn’t about to walk away from those.
Perhaps he could say he was between mistresses at the moment. The thought was
laughable. It had always been difficult to avoid the marriage-minded matriarchs who constantly
pushed their daughters in front of him. The moment news circulated that he was no longer
supporting a mistress the vultures would circle. Even the somewhat rakish reputation he’d
worked hard to foster would do little to keep some mothers away.
Images of Ruth forced their way into his thoughts. She’d been a tantalizing vision in the
gaslight with hints of gold in her chestnut hair. The dress she’d worn had highlighted every
delicious curve of her, right down to the fullness of her breasts. His cock stirred to life as he
recalled the sweet sensuality of her lips. She had a mouth begging to be kissed. Even more
pervasive was the memory of her scent. A mysterious, exotic mix of jasmine with a touch of
spicy citrus. Would she taste as delicious as she smelled?
The moment the question dashed through his head, he cast it aside. Christ Jesus, that fact
was precisely why he needed to forget about Ruth as a replacement for Mary. He rolled over and
punched at his pillow. All too aware of his growing erection, he groaned. He was exhausted, but
his body was demanding something he couldn’t give it.
What would it be like to have Ruth beneath him? To taste her throat, her breasts, and her
nipples. He swallowed hard at the image. He wrapped his hand around his stiff rod and allowed
himself the pleasure of visualizing her in every carnal position he could imagine as he worked
his cock hard until he spilled his seed. It wasn’t enough. He wanted something more. Something
he could never have.
Even if he did the unthinkable and offered his protection to Ruth, this was the closest he’d
ever get to being with her. He dragged in a deep breath as he cleaned himself up. God, he was
tired. He yawned. His problems weren’t going anywhere. They’d be here when he woke up. He
closed his eyes and just before he drifted off, he thought he heard the sound of his uncle and
Bertha laughing. It made his stomach lurched.
Chapter 3
Through the black veil covering her face, Ruth slowly turned around to study every aspect
of the parlor. Nothing about the room had changed since the last time she’d visited Crawley Hall.
It was still as bright and cheery as she remembered. Behind her, Smythe waited impatiently in
the doorway.
The man was beginning to become annoying. She wanted to take her time viewing the
house. She’d already made up her mind to buy the estate, but she knew it was important to
scrutinize it just in case her instincts were wrong. The only time she’d visited Crawley Hall had
been shortly after she’d become involved with Marston. Their carriage had broken a wheel near
the entrance to the Hall, and the owner had invited them to tea while repairs were made.
Although they’d never met before, Ruth had immediately recognized the woman as a
former mistress of the Prince of Wales. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but the older woman
had been a prophetic sign of Ruth’s future. Perhaps that was why she’d never forgotten Crawley
Hall. Subconsciously, she’d known then that her own retirement was close at hand. When she’d
heard the woman had died and the estate was for sale, she’d mentioned to Marston that she was
considering buying the house.
He’d immediately offered to purchase the estate for her, but requested she wait a couple of
months for some of his investments to mature. She released a soft noise of disgust. She should
have pressed him about the estate weeks ago. although something told her the man would have
put her off just as he had the first time.
The sound of a carriage rolling across the gravely drive caught her attention, and she
crossed the drawing room floor to peer out the window. Having removed her gloves earlier, the
sheer curtains that lined the interior portion of the window brushed over her skin like a fine
sandpaper as she pushed the material aside. The position of the carriage made it impossible to
see who’d arrived. With a frown, she turned back toward the salon doorway to see that Smythe
had disappeared.
Her chest tightened with fear. Damn, the little toad. This couldn’t be a coincidence. The
man knew she had limited funds. The sales agent was using her simply to extract a higher price
from another potential buyer.
Perhaps the other bidder wouldn’t like the house. It had been on the market for more than a
year, and that meant Smythe might find it difficult to sell to this new prospective buyer. Male
voices echoed in the hall, and she sighed with resignation as she moved toward the doorway.
She’d taken only two steps into the foyer when she came to a dead stop.
Stratfield.
Almost as if he were expecting to see her, the man bowed in her direction, and as he
straightened, a small smile curved his sensuous mouth. She clenched her teeth as she directed a
sharp nod toward him.
“Lord Stratfield.”
“Lady Ruth.”
He moved toward her and she was forced to offer him her hand. The moment his mouth
brushed across her skin, it was as if she’d been burned. She jerked her hand free of his to turn her
attention toward the sales agent.
“I would like to see the upstairs now, Mr. Smythe.”
“Of course, my lady.” The sales agent bowed slightly, his manner hesitant. “Would you
mind, if Lord Stratfield joins us?”
“Not at all,” she bit out. Did she mind? Of course she did. She didn’t want the bastard
anywhere near her. That wasn’t exactly true. Determined to ignore the small taunting voice in
her head, she turned away from Lord Stratfield in a dismissive manner and pinned her gaze on
the sales agent. “Might we continue, Mr. Smythe?”
“Certainly, my lady. If you’ll both follow me.” The sales agent, suddenly realizing she
wasn’t happy, bowed obsequiously to her as he headed toward the main staircase. At least the
man finally understood that his efforts to provoke a bidding war might be in danger. But she
already knew Crawley Hall was lost. She was certain Stratfield was far better off financially than
she was, which meant the man could outbid her.
Muscles stiff with anger, she followed the balding sales agent toward the steps. It seemed
pointless to see the remainder of the house, but perhaps Stratfield would decide the estate wasn’t
to his liking. Fingers sliding over a burnished oak railing, she climbed the stairs that rose up from
the center of the foyer to branch off to the left and right at the first landing.
As they reached the second floor’s main hall, she counted the number of doorways. Eight
rooms. She entered the first bedroom and carefully assessed its dimensions. If the rest of the
bedrooms were this size, she could easily accommodate more than twenty children on this floor
alone, while still leaving two rooms for her and Dolores to use. The servants’ quarters would no
doubt allow for two or three more children. She moved toward the window to look out at the
landscape.
The sunshine made the late winter snow on the ground glisten. It was lovely now, but in the
spring it would be even more so. She whispered a silent prayer that her rival wouldn’t want the
house. The children she brought from the orphanage would flourish here. Smythe’s voice echoed
in the corridor in an obvious attempt to capture Stratfield’s attention. She turned back toward the
door only to see her competition leaning against the doorjamb. There was something beautiful
about him in the nonchalant position he’d assumed that stole her breath away.
Irritated that she could even think to find him attractive after last night, she gripped the
stem of her umbrella so tightly she thought it might snap. Not bothering to speak, she crossed the
floor and waited in silence for him to move. With a frown, he straightened and she quickly tried
to pass him. As she drew abreast of him, his hand caught her upper arm to hold her in place.
“Let me go,” she snapped.
“I’d like to explain about last night.”
“There is no explanation necessary, my lord.”
“I think there is,” he said as he leaned into her. She immediately shrank back, aware of the
heat spreading its way through her that was becoming all too familiar. Equally familiar was that
steady gaze of his. “I danced with you because I wanted too, Ruth. Not because I pitied you.”
Surprised by his fierce declaration, she stared at him in silence. In the deepest reaches of
her mind, she acknowledged that she liked the way he’d said her name. There was a warm
intimacy to the sound that threaded its way through her senses. She swallowed hard as she
remembered the humiliation she’d felt last night as she walked away from him. Was it possible
he was telling the truth?
The earnest expression on his face made her think he was. There was such an intensity
about him that she could almost swear he was mentally willing her to believe him. The
knowledge that he’d danced with her because he wanted to sent a warm rush of pleasure pulsing
through her veins. Alarmed by her reaction, she gave him a quick nod and drew in a deep breath.
“I believe you.”
“Thank you.” The simplicity of his response made his confession all the more sincere.
Rattled by the intensity of his gaze, she looked down at the hand wrapped around her arm.
“I’d like to see the remainder of the house, my lord.”
“Garrick.”
“I beg your pardon?” She knew exactly what he was doing, but the intimacy of using his
first name frightened her. Everything about this man frightened her.
“My name is Garrick.” A stubborn look crossed his handsome features, and she studied
him for a minute before nodding.
“Very well. Garrick.” She kept her tone crisp, expecting him to say something else, but he
didn’t. He just stared at her. She grew self-conscious under his gaze and nodded toward his hand
one more time. “May we continue, my . . . Garrick.”
“What? Yes. Of course.”
He seemed almost dazed for a moment as she darted a glance in his direction. He quickly
released her, and stepped back to give her access to the hallway. As she moved past him, a whiff
of cologne teased her nostrils. It was a heady aroma of spice and cedar. The scent lingered on her
senses as she put distance between them. Smythe appeared out of one of the other rooms down
the hall.
“There you are. If you’ll come this way, my lord, my lady, I’ll show you the master suite.”
Eager to finish viewing the property so she could escape, she hurried toward the sales
agent, all too aware of Stratfield following close behind. As she entered the master bedroom, her
first impression was that she’d entered a male domain. The furniture was heavy and masculine,
while the drapes were a deep maroon brocade. She darted a look in Stratfield’s direction as he
strode to the window and flung the curtains back. The room was a perfect complement to his
sinfully dark looks. He turned around and as he met her gaze, his mouth curled upward in a small
smile as if he had a secret. She immediately looked away.
“Is the furniture included in the sale price, Mr. Smythe?” she asked quietly as she looked
around the room. There was little here she could use.
The stocky sales agent nodded his head. “Everything is included, but if the buyer prefers,
the furniture can be sold at auction prior to moving into the house. Of course, this room in
particular was clearly made for the master of the house.”
The reminder that she wasn’t the only one considering the purchase of Crawley Hall
renewed her sense of frustration. The Hall should have been hers. Now she was forced to bid on
the house and hope that Garrick didn’t offer more money.
“I’d like to see the dining room and kitchen if you please,” she said with a brisk note in her
voice. She quickly turned toward Garrick. She winced. How quickly she’d fallen into thinking of
him by his first name. “That is, if you’ve seen enough on this floor, my lord.”
He arched his eyebrow at her abrupt tone, but his only response was a brief nod and a slight
bow. It was as if he was humoring her, and she didn’t like it. Struggling to keep her irritation
hidden, she turned around and headed toward the door.
“Smythe, do you know anything about the current owners of the estate?”
Garrick’s question brought her to a halt as she turned and waited for the short, stocky sales
agent to answer. To her surprise, Smythe suddenly appeared distinctly uncomfortable. He threw
her a quick glance then averted his gaze.
The owner died recently and her heirs wish to sell the Hall.”
“And the lady who owned the house. Do you know anything about her?”
“Only that she was one of the Prince’s . . . lady friends from his youth.” Smythe’s pained
expression almost made her laugh, and her gaze met Garrick’s, whose mouth was twitching with
amusement.
“Ah, then that explains the mirror.”
Puzzled, she watched Smythe swallow uncomfortably as the sales agent’s gaze shifted
toward her then back to Stratfield. “Mirror, my lord?”
“I’m disappointed, Smythe. Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed it.”
With a nod toward the bed, Garrick arched his eyebrows at the sales agent. Frowning, she
crossed the floor and looked up at the underside of the canopy. Attached to the ceiling, the
canopy hid a large mirror centered over the bed. Etched boldly into the glass was the inscription
For Queen and Country.
“Good lord,” she gasped, trying not to laugh.
The woman Ruth remembered from their only meeting had exhibited a wicked sense of
humor, and she wondered if the Prince of Wales had actually slept in the bed. Somehow she was
more inclined to believe Bertie’s old mistress had commissioned the mirror long after her affair
with the Prince had ended. It didn’t really matter. She was certain Bertie wouldn’t want anyone
else to see the mirror, and she was certain Mr. Smythe knew it too. No wonder the man looked so
uncomfortable. “Forgive me, my lady. My lord.” Smythe cleared his throat and one glance
showed sweat milling on his forehead. “I apologize. I left word the mirror was to be removed
this morning. Obviously my instructions were not followed.”
“I trust you’ll see to its removal soon,” Garrick said with a hint of steel in his voice.
“Most assuredly, my lord. If word ever reached . . . well I’d be ruined.” The sales agent
eyed both of them with terror in his eyes.
“I have no desire to see your livelihood jeopardized, Mr. Smythe,” she said with a sigh.
Despite his annoying manner, the man wasn’t to blame for the previous owner’s decorating
choices. “But I agree with Lord Stratfield that the mirror should be removed without delay.”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you.” The sales agent bowed his gratitude then hurried toward the
bedroom doorway. “Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the remainder of the house.”
Ruth resisted the impulse to look in Garrick’s direction as she turned to follow the sales
agent out of the room. In the space of less than an hour, the man had forced her to completely
redefine her opinion of him. It had been easy to keep her distance from him when she found him
despicable. But now . . . now she was struggling hard not to like him.
Unable to help himself, Garrick was entranced by the gentle sway of Ruth’s hips as she
turned and walked toward the bedroom door. There was no artifice in her movements, and the
sensual elegance with which she moved stirred his blood in a manner he’d not experienced since
he was seventeen. But not even Bertha had created this strong of a reaction in him. He ran his
finger just beneath his stiff collar in an effort to ease his breathing. Christ Jesus, the woman was
a heady experience.
Just moments ago, she’d sent him reeling when he’d inhaled that sweetly tart scent of hers.
It beckoned a man to see if she tasted as good as she smelled. It was a distinctly different
fragrance from last night. Today she smelled crisp and fresh, while last night she’d been an
exotic mystery for his senses. He suppressed a groan.
The minute he got Smythe alone, he was going to pummel the man for putting him in such
a devilishly tight spot. He wanted Crawley Hall, but it was clear she did, too. And that was a
problem he’d not had to consider on his way here. Although she didn’t show it openly, he could
tell by the way she touched the doors, the banisters, everything, she wanted the property badly.
She didn’t just touch things. She caressed them. As gently as she might stroke a lover. He
swallowed hard as his collar tightened around his neck again. He followed her out of the
bedroom at a deliberate pace. He was walking a dangerous path with the woman. First last night,
and now the proposition he’d seriously contemplated the entire ride to Crawley Hall.
It would have been best to just let sleeping dogs lie. Easier to let her think pity had been his
motivation last night when he’d asked her to dance as opposed to his spontaneous desire to hold
her. No, the only thing piteous about dancing with her last night had been his reaction to her. As
he followed her down the corridor, his gaze dropped to small of her back, where his hand had
rested as he’d guided her around the dance floor. She’d been a soft heat in his arms, and he had
no doubt she’d be a fiery creature in a man’s bed.
He shook his head slightly as he obliterated the images beginning to take hold in his head.
That was never going to happen. It couldn’t. But if the woman could cloud his senses so easily in
the company of others, what would it be like when he was finally alone with her? He clenched
his jaw as they made their way downstairs.
Perhaps Smythe had done him a favor. In the light of day, he was seeing just how difficult
things could be if he were to approach Ruth about being his lover in name only. It wouldn’t be as
cut and dried as it had seemed in the carriage this morning. In fact, he had the distinct feeling it
would be one of the most difficult challenges he’d ever undertaken.
Despite the dimly lit hallway leading to the back of the house, the kitchen was bright and
open. It was an enormous room with a large brick oven and a cookstove that was so shiny clean
it could have easily been brand-new. Delight lit up Ruth’s features as she carefully rolled her veil
up onto the brim of her hat.
He couldn’t remember ever having seen a more beautiful woman. Her cheeks had a slight
blush to them, and a pair of widely set eyes offset her slender nose. He could think of no one
he’d ever met who had eyes the color of hers. They were dark violet and filled with secrets. But
it was the dark pink of her full, plump lips that made his own mouth go dry.
Clasping his hands tightly behind his back, he jerked his gaze away from her animated
features. His reaction to her was aggravating. He knew better than to let physical desire take
command of his senses. If he had any intention of presenting his proposition to Ruth, he needed
to make damn sure he could maintain control of himself when near her. It was the only way the
arrangement would work between them. He needed to keep the relationship strictly platonic.
“Do you know if the flue is capable of supporting a second cookstove, Smythe?”
Startled by her question, he looked in her direction. What the devil did she need a second
cookstove for? The sales agent seemed equally puzzled as he shook his head.
“I’m not certain, my lady. I would have to have the local blacksmith inspect it.”
“Before I even consider making an offer, I would need that question and several others
answered.”
“Of course, my lady,” Smythe said with a look of defeat.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see some of the garden.”
“But there’s snow on the ground, my lady!”
“Thank you for that observation, Smythe, but all the same, I’d like to take a walk outside.
I’m sure Lord Stratfield has questions, so there’s no need to accompany me.”
Before either of them could stop her, Ruth headed toward the door that led to a small
mudroom and then outdoors. Smythe’s dumbfounded look almost made him laugh out loud. The
agent had no idea how to react to her, but then he wasn’t sure he would have had a response
either. As she disappeared out the back door, Smythe turned to him with amazement.
“My lord, do you have—”
“I think I’ll join the Lady Ruth for a stroll outside as well, Smythe. I suggest you wait for
us in the main hall.”
He grinned as he walked past the man on his way outside. For a second time the stocky
sales agent was at a complete loss for words. The door to the kitchen closed behind him as he
paused for a moment in the mudroom. Had Ruth actually gone out into the snow without
overshoes? He rapidly donned a pair of the rubber coverings and followed her out into the snow.
From the size of her footprints, she’d foregone the galoshes, which meant she could easily
fall if she wasn’t careful. Concerned for her welfare, he moved quickly along the path she’d
made in the snow. The garden was lifeless at the moment, small bits of dead plants pushing
through the few inches of snow on the ground. Fruit trees, their bare branches like spider legs
crooked in every direction, lined the rear of the garden, while a barren white arbor crossed the
path he followed.
Ruth’s footsteps led toward an orangery a short distance away, and he could see her
shadowy figure through the steamed windows of the hothouse. He reached the building quickly
and stepped into its humid warmth. The size of the indoor garden was larger than he expected.
Someone had obviously been caring for it as he could see tomato plants bearing small fruit.
Ahead of him, he saw the top of Ruth’s hat. He really needed his head examined for
seeking the woman out. But something beyond his comprehension drove him forward. Worse, he
knew whatever was compelling him onward would most likely bring him nothing but trouble. He
rounded a corner to find Ruth examining an ornamental pear tree. Whether she’d been so
preoccupied inspecting the hothouse or that his tread had been lighter than he expected, she cried
out in surprise the moment she turned and saw him standing behind her.
“Good lord,” she gasped as her eyes flashed with anger. “You scared me half out of my
wits.”
“Forgive me. I thought you heard me come into the building.”
“No. I didn’t.”
She turned away from him to continue along the pebble-lined path in silence. With a frown,
he followed her. After several steps, she whirled around to face him.
“Is there something I can help you with, my lord?”
“I thought we’d settled on you calling me Garrick.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. Is there something you want, Garrick?”
He ignored the lustful images that immediately flooded his head at her words. Folding his
arms across his chest, he eyed her cautiously. “Why do you want Crawley Hall?”
“What?” Shocked, she took a step back from him and shook her head as she stared at him
in mute surprise.
“I asked you why you want Crawley Hall.”
“I . . . it’s an investment,” she snapped.
“No. It’s more than that.” He frowned at the way she blanched. “You want this estate.
Badly.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. You show it with every thing you touch in the house, even with these plants.
A man could easily die in your arms of pleasure if you were to stroke him the same way.” He
stiffened as he saw her eyes widen, and he realized he’d said too much.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sniffed, her cheeks flushed with color. “It’s a house, nothing
more.”
“If that’s true, then why don’t you answer my question, Ruth?”
He saw her swallow hard the moment he said her name, and the flash of emotion in her
eyes propelled him forward until there was little more than an inch between them. She was
breathing rapidly, and her scent filled his nostrils as he concentrated on the lushness of her lower
lip. He stood there breathing her in, feeling her heat press into him despite the fact that he wasn’t
touching her.
What the devil was wrong with him? At the first sensation of desire, he’d always managed
to put distance between himself and a woman. But not this time. Christ Jesus he knew it was a
mistake, but he wanted to taste her. He lowered his head toward her, but she suddenly darted out
of reach.
“You must excuse me, my lord. I must return to London now in order not to be late for a
supper engagement.” Clearly agitated, she started to move past him, but he blocked her path.
“Not until you tell me why you want Crawley Hall.” His persistence puzzled him. Why was
it so important to him to know her reasons for wanting the Hall? The answer to that question
eluded him. He simply knew he had to know.
“Step aside please, my lord. Your tenacity is most annoying particularly when I’m not
obliged to tell you anything.”
“True,” he said quietly. “But I would like to know why it’s so important to you.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze filled with a wariness that made him frown.
He wanted her to trust him as she might a friend. The thought made him question his sanity
again. Resignation furrowed her brow as she released a sharp sigh.
“Very well. I wish to retire here.” Another emotion darkened her gaze as he stared at her.
He was certain she was telling him the truth as to why she wanted the estate, just not the whole
truth. She didn’t need a house as big as Crawley Hall. It was meant for a large family, or as in his
case, as a home for orphans. He clasped his hands behind his back and arched his eyebrow.
“Retirement? You’re far too young for that.” It was a sincere observation, but it made her
eyes open wide with amazement. Suddenly, she laughed out loud. It was a melodious sound that
generated a bolt of pleasure inside him. He liked the sound of her laughter.
“I thank you for the compliment, but I’m forty-one. And for a woman in my position, that
makes my prospects shall we say . . . limited.”
“I think you underestimate your charms, Ruth. There are plenty of men who would eagerly
seek out your company. You’re a beautiful woman.” And younger looking than she gave herself
credit for. The woman could have easily passed for little more than a few years older than him
instead of the twelve that was between them.
“You flatter me, but you have the blindness that comes with youth, something I lost a long
time ago.” She sent him a wry smile. It irritated him that she could dismiss his compliment so
easily. She was more desirable than she realized. He ignored the alarm ringing in his head.
“You seem to think me a callow youth attempting to gain your favor with flattery,” he
snapped. “I’m not in the habit of saying something I don’t mean.”
Her violet eyes turned a stormy hue as she stared at him in surprise before she tipped her
head in his direction.
“Forgive me. I’ve clearly forgotten how to accept a compliment.”
Despite her quiet apology, he was still annoyed. There might be a substantial gap in age
between them, but it wasn’t as if he was fresh out of the schoolroom. Nor had she captivated him
so completely that he’d lost his senses. An unconvincing lie, but one he could live with at the
moment. He might not have the experience of a woman’s bed, but he was far from innocent as to
what happened between a man and woman. More importantly, he wasn’t the kind of man who
would unceremoniously discard a mistress simply because of her age.
And Marston had made that point brutally clear by his comments and current relationship
with a woman half Ruth’s age. What the bastard had done to Ruth was reminiscent of the
humiliation he’d suffered more than ten years ago. He’d lost his youth and innocence in one fell
swoop the night his uncle and Bertha had deliberately humiliated him. He understood more than
she’d ever know how deeply insults could cut.
The thick silence between them obviously made her uncomfortable, and he saw her fingers
fidget with the handle of her umbrella. A ridiculous thing to be carrying out here in the snow. Of
all the things about women, their fashions and need for fripperies was the one thing he’d never
understood.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lor . . . Garrick, I think I’ll return to the house.”
“You continue to have difficulty with my name. Do I make you nervous?” He narrowed his
eyes as he saw color flush her cheeks.
“It . . . it denotes an intimacy that doesn’t exist between us.”
“There are various forms of intimacy, Ruth. Could we not at least be friends?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Because there are a couple of years difference between us?” He saw her flinch at the
question. The devil take it, he would have to remember how sensitive she was about her age.
“No, of course not.” The tone of her voice told him the age difference between them was
precisely the reason why she’d refused his offer of friendship.
“And if I bought Crawley Hall for you? Would that change the way you feel?”
Bloody hell, had he lost his mind? This was the largest place he’d found in months that
would house more children, while allowing for the expansion he knew would be needed in the
future. And here he was offering it up to her on a silver platter. He frowned as she glared at him.
“A generous offer, my lord, but I must refuse. I’m not ashamed of how I make my living,
but I am not so desperate as to sell myself off to the first man who comes calling after another
breaks with me.”
With a scornful nod, she spun away from him and left him to stare after her with what he
could only define as intense remorse. A feeling he didn’t like at all. Not only had he jeopardized
his own plans where she was concerned, he’d proven her right. His inexperience in securing the
services of a mistress was more than evident and only served to emphasize his youth all the
more.
Irritated by his lack of finesse, he clenched his teeth in self-disgust. He’d insulted her. It
wasn’t his habit to insult people he liked. And he definitely liked Ruth. He grunted with anger.
There was definitely a protocol involved in these types of matters, but in his ignorance, he’d
blundered badly.
Worse, his treatment of her, whether intentional or not, differed little from the contempt
Marston had shown her. The sound of the hothouse door slamming shut jerked him out of his
stupor, and he ran after her. As he stepped out into the snow, he saw her making her way
quickly, yet cautiously, down the slight hill toward the garden. He easily caught up with her
before she could reach the barren rose trellis.
“Ruth . . . I’m an ass.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” she bit out viciously.
He touched her elbow only to have her yank herself free of his grip to continue toward the
garden. She’d only taken two steps when her feet went out from under her. Her soft cry made
him leap forward, and he caught her in his arms as she fell. The scent of her swept over him as a
soft shoulder pressed into his chest. He’d never realized a woman could smell so delicious all in
one breath. The sound of her ragged breathing stirred something deep inside him.
It was a predatory response on his part. He knew it wasn’t the fall that had affected her
breathing, and it excited him. A tremor shook her body, which only heightened the sensation.
Desire barreled its way through him as he glanced down to see his fingers splayed against her
stomach, mere inches from the lush fullness of her breasts.
An image of her naked, her nipples stiff and begging to be licked flashed through his head.
Almost immediately, his cock swelled in his pants. Christ Jesus, the woman was temptation
personified. Her head was slightly turned away from him, exposing a delectable neck he wanted
to nibble on. Without thinking, he bent his head toward her, his mouth barely brushing across her
skin.
Her sharp gasp made him jerk his head up. Where the hell was the control he’d always
managed to maintain with other women and the desire they’d aroused in him? He’d already erred
with her twice and had no wish to repeat his mistake. He immediately pulled back and helped her
straighten upright. The minute she pulled away from him, his body protested with a strength that
tightened every muscle in his body. A stark hunger gripped his insides as he noted the slight
flutter on the side of her neck. He crushed his urge to reach out and drag his finger across the
spot. Instead, he took a step back from her.
“I made a mistake.”
“More than one,” she snapped.
“Perhaps we might start over.”
His gaze met her wary one as he watched her mulling his suggestion over. Her violet eyes
darkened suddenly, and a composed mask settled over her features.
“I see no point in doing so, my lord. I have no wish to enter into a new liaison with any
man. Particularly one who thinks gaining access to my bed is little more than a simple monetary
transaction. I’m not ashamed of the way I make my living, but I offer a great deal more than the
ordinary whore you mistake me for. Even Marston, for all his faults, knew that much.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned away and proceeded to make her way
to the house. He stood there watching her walk away, her back ramrod straight with what he was
certain could only be indignation. The idea that she’d placed him on a rung lower than Marston
made him stiffen with anger. He wasn’t sure if his irritation was rooted in self-disgust or if it was
the fact that Ruth didn’t like him. Either way, it was best that he stayed away from her, and the
idea he’d even thought of asking her to be his mistress in name only was laughable.
Unfortunately, he was far from amused.
Buy Pleasure Me Now
§ § §
Awards
2011 RTBOOKreviews Reviewers Choice Award
2012 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Best Historical
Desert Island Keeper status at AAR (All About Romance)
Georgia RWA Maggies – Finalist, Historical
ACRA Heart of Excellence – Finalist, Historical
Aspen Gold – Finalist, Historical
Critical Acclaim
“I loved every passionate, captivating word of Pleasure Me. I have never anticipated a love scene
with such fervor before. This book will enchant you.” — Julianne MacLean, USA Today
Bestselling author
“I was hooked and spent the whole day reading this sizzling, sensual, engrossing tale.”
— Barbara Vey, Publisher’s Weekly Beyond Her Book
“Ruth and Garrick have great physical and emotional chemistry. They perfectly complement
each other…”
— All About Romance – Desert Island Keeper status
“PLEASURE ME is one of those rare and exquisite love stories that comes along once in awhile
and just blows up the romance genre with a memorable book that is going to remain a reader
favorite for years.” — Romance Junkies
“It’s mature and smart reading that doesn’t get better than this. Pleasure Me as a fabulous read
and one of the best books released for this spring season.” — Babbling About Books, And
More
“Delectably sensual…intensely emotional.” — Lucy Monroe, USA Today bestselling author
§ § §
KISMET by
Monica Burns
Read Three Chapters
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
“This sizzling hot historical and its compelling
characters will leave you panting for more!
Monica Burns writes with sensitivity and
panache. Don’t miss this one!”
— Sabrina Jeffries, NYT bestselling author
It was a gamble she was born to make…
Raised in a brothel at a young age, Allegra Synnford quickly learned that survival meant taking
charge of her destiny. Now, a renowned courtesan skilled in the pleasures of the flesh, she
chooses her lovers carefully—vowing never to be vulnerable to any one man. Until a
mesmerizing Sheikh strips that control from her…
With a man who wasn’t used to losing.
Sheikh Shaheen of the Amazigh has been hiding from his past for a long time, but not enough to
forget how another courtesan made him abandon his life as the Viscount Newcastle. It’s why the
yearnings this dangerous temptress ignites within him are so troubling. Worse, thoughts of
Allegra pervade every fantasy, threatening to undermine his cover. With old enemies circling,
experience tells him he must resist her charms at all cost. In fact, he’s betting on it. That’s a
risky wager when it comes to a woman of pleasure. But Allegra has her own reasons for playing
games…with a man who can’t afford to lose.
What happens between them is Kismet…
§ § §
Chapter 1
Marrakech, Morocco, 1893
Organized chaos. Allegra could think of no other way to describe the train station. The
rhythmic sound of the Berber dialect mixing with the French language created a colorful
cacophony of sound that engulfed her the moment she stepped onto the crowded platform. A
whoosh of steam from the engine blasted its way out into the air, adding to the din.
It wasn’t any louder than London’s Paddington Station, but it was much more colorful and
interesting. Spices and exotic fruits scented the air in a tantalizing fashion, while people pushed
their way in and out of the one-story station house. A man, dressed in the flowing white robes of
the Bedouins she’d read so much about, made his way along the platform followed by a woman
dressed in a bright blue garment with a veil across her face. A porter dodged the couple and
headed straight for Allegra. The small, wiry man came to a halt in front of her and bowed deeply.
“Mademoiselle Synnford, I am Ali. I come from Major Hastings and his bien-aimé.”
“Wonderful,” she said as she turned to see her maid directing the removal of their luggage
from the railroad car. “Millie?”
“Yes, Miss Allegra.” The older woman turned her head toward her.
“This is Ali. He’s here to take our luggage to the carriage Isabelle’s fiancé arranged for us.”
Millie nodded before she gestured for the porter to see to one of the trunks sitting on the
platform. Allegra bit back a smile as her maid started to bark orders like a general commanding a
strategic assault.
Efficient and thorough, Millie managed everything in a way that always ensured a positive
outcome. Over the years, numerous attempts had been made to lure Millie away from her and
into the employ of others. Her friend would have none of it.
The shrill, high-pitched scream of a horse broke through her thoughts and she turned
toward the sound. Hooves crashing against wood followed the animal’s loud shrieks.
Over the past fifteen years, she’d learned a great deal about horses. She’d even acquired a
sizable stable of thoroughbreds, which she ran at Newmarket in all the major events. Since her
first riding lesson at the age of seventeen, she’d learned to recognize the difference between
animals in distress and those that were merely high-strung.
This particular horse wasn’t suffering, although it was clearly agitated. Curiosity got the
better of her and she carefully made her way along the crowded platform toward the disruption.
She’d passed almost five coaches when she saw a railcar designed to transport cattle and
other animals. A wide plank ran from the straw-strewn floor of the car down to the platform so
animals could be led off the train. Another shrill whinny erupted, followed by a violent thrashing
of hooves on the sides of the car. Excited shouts filled the air, and in the next instant, a white
Arabian stallion bolted down the wooden ramp and onto the platform with a young boy valiantly
clinging to its halter rope. The already crowded platform exploded with panicked shouts as the
horse released a shrill cry and reared up on its haunches before falling back onto all four legs.
Despite the panic around her, Allegra could only stare at the magnificent animal. It was the
most beautiful horse she’d ever seen. Not even her champion thoroughbred, Seabreeze, could
compare to this stallion. She was still caught up in the beauty of the horse when someone
charged past her, knocking her off balance. Several more people rushed by, bumping her aside as
they raced toward safety. Her balance precarious, she had almost righted herself when a man
shoved her out of his path—she staggered to one side then tumbled to the ground.
Eyes rolling wildly in its head, the stallion reared up and brought its front hooves crashing
back down in a vicious blow near where she lay. The boy still struggled with the animal, but he
was no match for the stallion’s strength. The realization sent fear streaking through her as a pair
of hooves again pounded the wood floor of the platform, which reverberated beneath her with the
force of the blow. The horse seemed close to gaining its freedom, and she froze as the animal
reared up over her head.
In that breathless instant of terror, a dark shadow abruptly blotted out the image of the
uncontrollable horse. The man took charge of the animal and brought it under control. His voice
low and hypnotic, he soothed the animal in the language of the Bedouins. As the horse slowly
grew quiet, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Dazed, she pushed a loose strand of hair
away from her face with a trembling hand.
The strand of lace that had ripped away from the cuff of her sleeve brushed across her
cheek causing her to study it ruefully. She was extremely fortunate it was the only damage to her
person. Gratitude swelled in her for the man who’d come to her rescue.
She was just about to stand up when strong hands gripped her waist and lifted her to her
feet. The light scent of bergamot tinged with an exotic spice teased her nose as she stared up at
the man towering over her. It was impossible to stifle her gasp as the rest of her senses absorbed
the full impact of his close proximity.
When she’d arrived in Morocco yesterday, she’d seen men who epitomized the romantic
image her travel guide had painted of a Bedouin sheikh. But this man defied all those
impressions. Dressed entirely in black, his kaffia was draped across his face so all she could see
were his dark brown eyes.
A rush of heat warmed her skin at the intensity of the look in his hooded gaze. She was
accustomed to being in the presence of powerful men, but never one such as this. This man
possessed a raw, savage mystique about him that sent her heart skidding along at breakneck
speed.
He was at least six feet tall, with wide shoulders and equally strong hands. Hands that only
just now were releasing her. Even with her limited knowledge of the nomadic tribes of the
Sahara and surrounding regions, she knew his height was unusual for a Bedouin. Instinct told her
it was an advantage he used on a regular basis, just as he was doing now.
Transfixed, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had intimidated her. But this one
did. The invisible, unrestrained aura of his maleness enveloped her. Here was a man of power. A
man who bowed to no one. A man who conquered everything in his path.
Including her.
A shiver raced down her spine as she took a quick step back from him. His gaze narrowed
and she realized her trepidation showed. With one hand pressed to the base of her throat, she
swallowed hard.
“Thank you,” she choked out from her suddenly dry mouth.
“You are unhurt then.”
His voice was just like him, dark and mysterious. His French was impeccable and
mimicked that of the bluest of aristocrats, yet she doubted there was a drop of Gallic blood
flowing through his veins. Still, it was easy to understand why the horse had been so easily
soothed. The man had the seductive voice of a dark angel, the sound of which could easily make
the most pious of women consider the possibility of sin. Realizing she’d not responded to him,
she brushed her hand across her temple in another attempt to straighten her appearance.
“I’m a bit shaken, but none the worse for wear.”
She dropped her gaze and swatted at the dirt still layering her skirt. Those deep brown eyes
of his made her feel as if he could see straight through her. It was a disconcerting sensation, and
she didn’t like it. It made her feel out of control, something she never allowed herself when she
was with a man. Fire blazed through her as strong fingers captured her lower jaw. He tilted her
face to one side.
“You should ask the hotel manager to give you ice for that cheek, ma belle.”
It appalled her that she liked hearing him call her pretty. She knew it was ludicrous to take
pleasure in such a small compliment. Even worse, her body was responding to him in a way it
had never done with any other man. The elemental force of personality that flowed from him set
off alarms in her head. Swallowing hard, she put distance between them. The moment she did, he
arched an eyebrow at her and his eyes became unreadable mahogany.
“Thank you for your concern, monsieur. I shall ask for your suggested remedy when I
arrive at my friend’s home.”
“Then we say, adieu, mademoiselle.”
He gave her an abrupt nod then turned and moved back to the stallion he’d saved her from.
Flabbergasted by his sudden departure, she felt her mouth fall open as he walked away without
another word. Unaccustomed to men simply walking away from her as if she were of no
consequence, she watched in disbelief as he took the horse’s halter rope from an older Bedouin.
It was an unpleasant experience to have a man ignore her. Annoyed, she grimaced at her
emotional reaction.
The older man said something to the dark stranger then nodded in her direction. Horrified
that her rescuer might turn around to find her watching him, she spun around on her heel and
hurried back to where she’d left Millie. She reached the train car and frowned when her maid and
the porter were nowhere in sight. She turned around to face the direction she’d just come from
and across the distance saw her mysterious Bedouin watching her.
The unexpected frisson sliding over her skin appalled her. This wasn’t a man to be toyed
with. That she found him intriguing and mesmerizing made him even more dangerous. He was
the type of man who would demand total submission, and not since that first night in Madame
Eugenie’s had she ever allowed a man to control her. That night had taught her a hard lesson and
she’d turned it to her advantage. She knew when to leave well enough alone, and this Bedouin
sheikh was a man to avoid at all costs.
She drew in a deep breath and directed a polite nod in his direction before dragging her
gaze away from him. Despite her desire to run, she forced herself to walk at a sedate pace until
she reached the interior of the railway station. The moment she escaped his watchful eyes, she
hurried through the building toward the doors leading out to the street.
The chaos from the railway platform had moved out into the city street. A man with a
monkey on his shoulder walked by her, while a vendor across from the railroad station hawked
his wares at the people passing his small shop.
“Miss Allegra,” Millie called out with a note of relief in her voice. “Thank heavens. I
thought we’d lost you.”
With a smile, she turned to face her maid. “I’m sorry, Millie. I was distracted by the most
incredible horse I’ve ever seen.”
“Another horse.” The older woman snorted with disgust as she pulled out a handkerchief
and dabbed at the side of Allegra’s skirt. “Look at your gown. Did you ride the beast as well?”
Although she’d been intrigued by far more than the horse, Millie’s question made her
realize she’d missed the opportunity to make an offer for the white stallion. Irritated that she’d
allowed the mysterious stranger to be such a distraction, she pursed her mouth with rueful
frustration. If the man hadn’t addled her brain so much she might have been the new owner of
that splendid animal. Shaking her head, she touched her companion’s shoulder.
“No, I didn’t ride him, although I should have made an offer. I’m certain he’d make a
wonderful sire.”
“I admit you have an eye for horses, Miss Allegra, but bless me if I understand why you’d
need another one.”
“I suppose you’re right, Millie.” She smiled as she followed the maid toward a waiting
landau. “I don’t really need another horse, but he was magnificent.”
Once they settled themselves inside, their coachman guided the vehicle into the busy street
and set off for Isabelle’s. Seated beside the driver, Ali occasionally pointed out an item of
interest to them. Well into the middle of the day, the sun lashed its heat downward. The parasol
she carried deflected a large amount of sunlight, but the temperature was still stifling. She would
be grateful to reach Isabelle’s, where she could quench her parched throat with a cool drink.
Seated across from her, Millie eyed the scenery warily. The maid had never been
comfortable journeying outside of England, but Allegra had given up suggesting the woman
remain at home when she traveled. Her friend refused to be left behind. She returned her
attention to the exotic setting they were driving through. It was beautiful and mysterious with its
Moorish arched windows, small alleyways, and the minarets rising up toward the crisp blue sky.
The seductive sounds, the pungent scent of spices, and the vivid colors created the impression of
a rich opulence that stirred an emotion deep inside her that she was unable to define.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Allegra didn’t expect Millie to actually answer her. The customary
response was generally a grunt, but the maid surprised her.
“A bit too heathenish to my liking, but it is interesting.”
Laughing, Allegra shook her head. “I’ll make a traveler of you yet, Millie.”
“I highly doubt that.” The older woman sniffed her dissension at the idea.
With a fleeting smile, Allegra turned her head to study the lovely intricacies of the large
building they were passing. The architecture was beautiful and mysterious. Almost as darkly
inscrutable as her Bedouin sheikh. She released a small sigh of disgust. What was it about the
man that intrigued her so much?
He’d been far too arrogant for her liking and dismissive as well. Was that what bothered
her? She had to admit that she didn’t like the fact she’d not made the slightest impression on
him. Even happily married men didn’t walk away from her like the stranger had. Perhaps her age
was beginning to show. She frowned. Ridiculous. She was barely past thirty.
No, she was nettled because she’d been unable to capture his attention completely. Her ego
smarted from his blatant dismissal of her. It had not happened before. That was the only reason
she couldn’t forget him. She suppressed a sigh at the thought. Was it? She wasn’t so sure.
Not even the Prince of Wales had intrigued her quite this much. But then Bertie had been a
known quantity, just like her other lovers. The dark-robed sheikh represented the unknown to
her. Many of her lovers had often been more like spoilt schoolboys with power. Always
amorous, yet prone to the occasional tantrum.
She allowed herself a small smile as she recalled one of the Prince of Wales’s ill-tempered
moments. It had been easy to feel affection for him, just as it had been easy to feel affection for
all the other men she’d allowed into her bed. Affection, but never love.
There were many men who’d thought themselves in love with her, but she knew better.
Although she was attractive enough with her green eyes and dark red hair, it wasn’t her beauty
that drew men to her. The image of her as a courtesan unparalleled was what intoxicated them. It
was the illusion that had evolved out of Arthur’s death that drew men to her.
She understood how the persona had developed, but the creation of it had been far from
pleasant. The one positive in the entire nightmare of Arthur’s death had been her ability to
choose the men she welcomed into her bed. It had cultivated an independence she would never
have known at Madame Eugenie’s. It was a liberty she protected by avoiding the emotional
attachment of love. The emotion was even more of an illusion than the misguided notion that she
was an incomparable lover.
Quite possibly Arthur might have protested her ideas about love, but he wasn’t here to
chide her or challenge her on the issue. All the same, she was certain he would be proud of her. It
would have pleased him to see her so self-sufficient. Arthur’s patronage and tutelage had brought
her a long way from that frightened girl he’d first met at Madame Eugenie’s. Even Millie had
changed since her days cooking in the brothel’s kitchen. The woman was more than her maid
and occasional cook. Millie was a friend and companion who watched over her.
Devoted and incredibly stubborn, Millie was one of the few people she could count on to
stand by her in even the worst of circumstances. Her friend Isabelle was made of the same cloth
as her maid, but then the three of them had all emerged from the bowels of the East End at
almost the same time.
Her gloved fingers tightened on the wood handle of her parasol as she banished the
memory. This was a time of celebration. Isabelle had found her heart’s desire in the form of
Major Brant Hastings. The couple were to marry in two days’ time and she couldn’t be happier
for her friend. She only wished she could be happy about the second invitation she’d received
just before leaving London.
With an adept move, she used her free hand to open the drawstring reticule in her lap and
retrieve Cordelia’s letter. The missive already showed distinct signs of wear, evidence of the
numerous times she’d read and reread her niece’s words. This time wasn’t any different than the
hundreds of other instances she’d studied the letter. The content was always the same. She
heaved a sigh.
Married.
Her sweet, lovely Cordelia was to be a countess.
She’d always imagined that a country squire or perhaps a wealthy merchant would steal her
niece’s heart. It had never occurred to her that the girl might actually marry a member of the
Marlborough Set. But not even in her wildest dreams would she have envisioned her niece
becoming engaged to the nephew of her first patron.
Arthur would have found the entire matter uproariously funny. That his nephew, the current
Earl of Bledsoe, was to marry the niece of his onetime mistress would have appealed to his sense
of humor. But as much as it would have amused her paramour, she was equally certain his wife,
the Dowager Countess of Bledsoe, would not find it humorous if she discovered the truth.
The chill coursing its way down her back forced her to adjust her parasol so the sun’s heat
could warm her shoulders. If the dowager were to find out she and Cordelia were related—no.
She wouldn’t let that happen. She just wouldn’t go to the wedding. She sighed. It wasn’t quite
that simple, and she knew it.
The carriage turned off the street and rolled through the black wrought iron gates outside a
small mansion. As the vehicle came to a halt, Allegra returned the letter to her reticule and
focused her attention on the government residence. The Petit Palais was appropriately named.
Isabelle’s new home was a beautiful little palace. Rounded arched windows culminating in a
sharp point were complimented by sculptured stonework that gave the impression of stiff lace
across the façade of the mansion. The stone itself had a delicate pink tinge that only enhanced the
image of something magical and fragile.
Accepting the coachman’s assistance, she stepped out of the carriage as she continued to
admire thePetit Palais. Although elaborate in its Moorish design, there was a welcoming quality
to the house that made her suddenly realize how fortunate her friend was. Isabelle hadn’t just
found love, she’d found a home.
It was something she’d never had. There was her house in London, of course, but it was
simply a place to live. A home was much more than a place to rest one’s head. It represented
something more intangible. It was a symbol of comfort, acceptance, and happiness. And it was
that intangible she was determined to give Cordelia, no matter what the price.
“Allegra! Oh, how wonderful. You’re here at last,” Isabelle Denten exclaimed as she
hurried out of the enchanting house with her arms outstretched. “I’m so happy to see you.”
Her friend’s excitement contagious, Allegra hastened forward to embrace the dark-haired
beauty. Stepping back to look at her friend, Allegra smiled as she shook her head in admiration.
“Belle, you look positively radiant!”
“It’s Brant’s doing. I never thought it possible to be so happy.” Isabelle laughed as she
turned toward Allegra’s maid. “Hello, Millie. Are you keeping my friend here in line?”
“I do my best, Miss Isabelle. I do my best.”
The woman’s world-weary sigh pulled another laugh from Isabelle as she issued a quick
order to the butler who’d joined them outside and stood discreetly a few feet away. “Teabury,
please have Ali see to the luggage and ensure Millie is settled in the room adjoining Miss
Synnford’s.”
Satisfied everything was running smoothly, Isabelle wrapped her arm around Allegra’s
waist and drew her inside. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’ve come to be my
witness at the wedding.”
“How could I possibly refuse,” Allegra said with a warm smile. Arms entwined, they
moved through a cool foyer into a cheerful, brightly lit salon. “Although I confess I was relieved
to escape London.”
“Escape? Whatever from?”
“Cordelia is engaged.” Allegra sank down onto a green chintz-covered sofa.
“But that’s wonderful.”
“She’s to marry the Earl of Bledsoe.”
“Oh dear Lord.” Isabelle, an expression of horror on her face, collapsed onto the seat
beside her.
“Quite.” Allegra closed her eyes for a brief moment. “I received her letter just before I left
London. Apparently, she met Arthur’s nephew while on her holiday in Italy.”
“My dear, Allegra, I am so sorry. What are you going to do?” Isabelle reached over and
squeezed her hand in a gesture of comfort.
“I don’t really know.” She shook her head at her friend’s question. “I only know I cannot
do anything that might jeopardize Cordelia’s happiness.”
“What if you told her the truth?” Isabelle asked.
“The thought of doing so terrifies me.”
“Cordelia loves you, Allegra. She’ll understand.”
Isabelle turned her head at the sound of china rattling. A smile on her face, she instructed
the maid to set the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch. With a sense of detachment,
Allegra watched her friend pour a tall glass of lemonade. Would Cordelia understand? She
wasn’t so sure.
It was true, her niece loved her, but she could easily lose that love if she tried to explain the
lies of the past fifteen years. Falsehoods that had been difficult and expensive to maintain. And
all of it paid for by some of the most prominent members of the Marlborough Set. Men who’d
showered her with money and jewels in exchange for her company and the right to share her bed.
“I’m not convinced Cordelia will be as understanding as you think.” Allegra shook her
head as she accepted the glass Isabelle offered and took a sip of the cool drink. “She’ll be hurt
and angry. And she’ll feel betrayed. I understand far too well what that means.”
“Betrayed in what way, dearest? Do you really think not telling her the truth is betrayal?
You protected her.” Isabelle stared at her with an expression of fierce affection and
protectiveness. “Your mother betrayed you and Elizabeth. You have nothing to be ashamed of.
Cordelia is a sensible girl. Her anger will be for what you and her mother went through—not
because you kept the truth from her.”
“That may be true, but it’s too large a gamble for my peace of mind. I have no desire to
involve Cordelia in a scandal. The last one was vile enough.”
“Ah yes, Lady Bledsoe has a strong predilection for vicious behavior, doesn’t she,” Isabelle
said with a resigned sigh. “But if young Lord Bledsoe is of Arthur’s character he’ll stand by
Cordelia regardless of what his aunt says.”
“Perhaps.” Allegra closed her eyes for a brief second. “It would have been so much easier
if Cordelia had fallen in love with someone other than Lord Bledsoe.”
Somehow, she’d convinced herself that Cordelia would never need to know the truth. It had
been a foolish assumption to make on her part. She sighed. She couldn’t help who she was or
where she’d come from, and her current lifestyle was infinitely preferable to working in a
brothel. It had also given her niece the kind of life Allegra had never had.
Nor could she deny cherishing the independence she’d gained due to the generosity of the
rich and powerful men she’d chosen as her lovers. And she had chosen them. Her selective
decisions as to whom she allowed into her bedchamber had only enhanced her elusive image. It
made men all the more eager to seek her favors.
Cordelia had no knowledge of what her aunt did to ensure that she received only the best
money could buy. Nor did she have any idea as to her less than illustrious parentage. Telling the
truth meant she might easily lose Cordelia’s love. But what other option did she have? The
moment someone discovered their relation, a scandal would be inevitable. Of that, she had no
doubt. Keeping the truth from her niece would only make matters worse in the end. She knew
firsthand how devastating scandal was. Cordelia was unprepared for the malicious gossip, the
vicious innuendos, and outright lies.
All of which would be exacerbated if Lady Bledsoe had any say in the matter. The scandal
would be far more savage and poisonous than the last time. A shiver raced down her spine. The
storm she’d weathered at the time of Arthur’s death had been horrible, but she’d survived. This
was a different type of tempest altogether, but it would be no less terrible, and quite likely worse.
Allegra took another swallow of her lemonade and met Isabelle’s sympathetic look with a
sense of sardonic self-pity. “I suppose I could disappear into the desert for several months.
Cordelia would have no choice but to marry without me being present.”
“What a splendid idea,” Isabelle exclaimed with sarcasm. “Simply ignore the problem and
hope it goes away. Look what happened the last time you refused to face something.”
“I suppose you mean Charles.”
“Precisely.” Her friend sent her an abrupt nod of confirmation.
Isabelle was right. She’d disregarded all the signs that the Viscount Shaftsbury was
becoming enamored with her. Her hope had been that he was merely infatuated. She’d been
wrong. It had taken his offer of marriage to open her eyes. He was the first man who’d ever
made her such a proposal, and for the briefest of moments, she’d actually considered accepting.
The fleeting thought had been discarded at almost the same moment it occurred to her.
Still, rejecting him had not been an easy thing to do. There had been a part of her that liked
the stability and companionship a marriage to Charles might bring her. But she didn’t love him,
and even if she had, her independence would have been too high a price to pay for such a
permanent arrangement. Up until Charles, she and her lovers had always parted on good terms.
Many of them were still close friends. But ending her affair with Charles had been a disaster.
The gossip had been particularly vicious, and even on occasion the public, and especially cruel
denouncements, from Charles had cut deep. Even more painful had been the destruction of a
friendship she’d valued dearly. She met her friend’s censorious gaze and sighed.
“You’re right. I have no other option except to tell her the truth. Although how I’ll do that,
I’ve no idea.”
“Between us, we’ll develop a plan of action.” Isabelle patted her arm. “For the moment, I
think you need some rest. You look fatigued, and your journey here would have been difficult
enough without this matter about Cordelia weighing on you.”
“Surely I don’t look that exhausted.” She sent her friend an amused look.
“Of course not, but tonight we dine at the Sultan’s palace. Mulay Hassan is hosting a
celebratory reception for Brant and me. It’s a tremendous honor.”
“Oh, Belle, I don’t know if I’m up to a lavish affair.”
“But you must come. The only women attending are wives of officers and attaches.
They’re most likely to ignore me unless forced to acknowledge me. I’m afraid Brant has rather
scandalized the Imperialists by marrying me.” Isabelle sniffed her disdain delicately. “I’ll be
bored to distraction unless you’re there.”
Unable to help herself, Allegra laughed at her friend’s determined expression. Belle had
always been adept at persuading people to do as she wanted, but there was a hint of loneliness in
her plea. It reminded Allegra that her friend’s social circle was most likely limited given her
social position. Even once she was married, Belle would have a difficult time being accepted into
many circles.
“Very well, since it means that much to you, I’ll go.”
“Wonderful,” Belle exclaimed as she impulsively leaned forward to hug Allegra. “Who
knows, perhaps you’ll meet a handsome sheikh tonight who’ll fall madly in love with you and
whisk you off to his desert tent.”
“Good heavens, perish the thought.” Allegra shook her head sharply as her heart skipped a
beat at the memory of a darkly robed Bedouin. “You know I’m far too strong-willed to submit to
the edicts of a demanding sheikh.”
“Perhaps, but even you might find such a man exciting.” Springing to her feet, Belle
gestured for Allegra to follow her. “Come, let me show you to your room.”
As she trailed after her friend, Allegra recalled the Bedouin she’d met earlier. He
represented a danger she knew better than to long for, but there had been something about the
man that tugged her thoughts to him. Would he be at the Sultan’s palace tonight?
Dismayed by the thought she frowned. What on earth would possess her to consider such a
notion? She had no desire to be conquered, and the man would do precisely that. He would take
what he wanted, and in the end he’d bend her to his will.
The prospect appalled and excited her in the same breath. Swallowing her fear, she
fervently offered up a plea that she wouldn’t see her dark sheikh tonight or any other night. But
even as she climbed the steps with Isabelle, a small voice in the back of her head begged for just
the opposite.
Chapter 2
Standing in the shadow of a decorative palm tree, Shaheen studied the room and its
occupants with guarded interest. Bejeweled mosaics covered the walls of the Sultan’s drawing
room and most of the furniture had gold inlays. Although he knew the wealth inside the palace
was the accumulation of several hundred years, it was hard to ignore the fact that just one ruby
from the wall’s artwork would be enough to feed one of the poorer Bedouin tribes for months.
Rich and opulent, the palace interior was a sharp contrast to the simple tent Shaheen lived
in almost year-round. Although his adopted people were quite prosperous, even they had years
when the herd was not as good as others and the riches here would ease hardship.
Still, the Sultan, for all his wealth, was a man of simple tastes and he was generous to his
people if he saw a need. If Mulay Hassan had any faults when it came to excesses, it was his
fondness for the social customs of the British Empire. It explained the abundance of bright red
military uniforms and colorful evening gowns filling the room this evening.
It would please the Sultan if he knew this particular affair emulated London society
perfectly. His jaw tightened at the remembrances threatening to flood his head. He seldom
thought of England anymore, but when he did, the old wounds opened up as easily as if they
were fresh cut. He shoved the bad memories aside, burying them as deep as he could. It had been
more than fifteen years since he’d left London, and there was little reason to return. The
Amazigh were his people now, and his home was here.
He scanned the room for Hakim. The boy had been insistent they attend the reception
honoring Major Hastings and his bride-to-be. Shaheen had consented partly because he knew his
young charge would enjoy himself. Social events such as these were perfect training for the heir
to the largest tribe in Morocco. When Hakim eventually succeeded his father, Khalid, as Sheikh
of all the Umayyad Amazigh, the boy would need social skills that only events like this could
give him.
After several seconds, he saw Hakim deep in conversation with Major Hastings and the
French ambassador. Hastings had been the other reason for attending the dinner party. He’d
come tonight out of his respect for the British officer. The man had become a valuable ally in
Shaheen’s efforts to negotiate treaties between the different Bedouin tribes in the Sultan’s name.
Thanks to Hastings, the French and Spanish governments had been amenable to the
unification of the Bedouins under the Sultan’s rule. More importantly, Hastings’s interventions
enabled Shaheen to work behind the scenes without jeopardizing the treaties. He’d been a part of
the Amazigh nation for so long that most Bedouins, including himself, had forgotten he was
actually British But political repercussions could destroy all his hard work if someone were to
raise questions about his nationality.
Arms folded across his chest, he continued his surveillance of the room. It was unlikely
Hakim was in danger here in the palace, but vigilance was a habit Shaheen had developed living
among the Amazigh. Even Hakim’s ability to defend himself didn’t alleviate Shaheen of his
duty. A soft chuckle off to his left made him turn his head. He immediately bowed low as the
Sultan stopped at his side.
“Good evening, Excellency.”
“You watch over Sheikh Mahmoud’s son like a worrisome mother hen.”
“It’s important to guard the Amazigh’s future, sire, particularly when he will be a staunch
ally of yours, just like his father.”
“True. And you are among my strongest supporters as well, Shaheen.” The Sultan clasped
him on the shoulder. “Without your clear-headed reasoning, many of the treaties we’ve made in
the last two years would not have been possible.”
“I am honored you think so.” Shaheen bowed his head in a gesture of gratitude and respect.
“The well-being of the Amazigh tribes is all I desire.”
“Were there more like you and Sheikh Mahmoud, my friend. Then I would feel more
confident that this fragile peace we have would not be trifled with by those who wish more
wealth and power.”
The veiled reference to Sheikh Nassar made Shaheen grimace. Nassar was one of the main
reasons for the tribes to band together. The man’s lust for power was surpassed only by his
unscrupulous nature. It didn’t matter what it was. If Nassar wanted something, he took it, either
by force or subterfuge. A leader of one of the larger tribes in the Amazigh nation, Nassar coveted
the title Hakim would inherit. It was a title the man didn’t deserve, and Shaheen would give his
life to ensure Nassar never possessed it. Beside him, the Sultan released a soft noise of pleasure.
“Ah, I see Major Hastings’s bride-to-be has brought with her the newest arrival to
Marrakech.”
Shaheen looked in the direction the Sultan nodded. The sight of a familiar face pulled the
air out of his lungs in a quiet rush. He’d experienced the same sensation today at the railway
station. He hadn’t liked it then, and he liked it even less now.
His gaze narrowed as he watched her being introduced to Hakim. In the candlelight, gold
flecks shimmered in her dark auburn hair. He could only see her profile, but it was all too easy to
recall a pair of green eyes slightly tilted up at the corners giving her an exotic look. Then there
had been her small, yet plump, mouth. It was the kind that begged a kiss. His jaw grew painfully
stiff at the thought.
As much as he hated to admit it, he’d been preoccupied with the thought of tasting those
lips for most of the afternoon and into the evening. He saw her smile at something Hakim said,
and a pang of irritation nipped at him. She exhibited none of the vulnerability and discomposure
he’d seen in her this afternoon. Tonight she was a confident, graceful siren, and men were
gravitating toward her like sailors hearing Circe’s call.
Despite his determination to remain unmoved by her, the gown she wore did nothing to aid
him in his resolve. Luxuriant blue green silk wrapped its way seductively around her lush figure
while accentuating the beautiful line of her neck and soft shoulders. Like this afternoon, he once
again noted the fullness of her breasts. She’d be soft and full if she were naked beneath him. He
swallowed hard at the vivid image forming in his head and resented the way his cock stirred
beneath his gambaz. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Sultan watching him with interest.
“She’s quite lovely,” he murmured with a slight nod.
“Lovely?” Mulay Hassan sent him a look of disgust. “That, my friend, is Allegra Synnford.
It is said that one night with her and a man will die a thousand pleasurable deaths.”
“A courtesan?” Tension held him rigid as he studied her closely.
“Ahh, not just any courtesan, my friend. This is a woman of such skill in the art of pleasure
that shechooses her lovers. I am told that men vie for her favor as children beg for candy.”
“Then it is fortunate I’m not a child,” Shaheen said as a thread of bitterness wound its way
through him. He’d been a child once—tempted by the favors of a woman like Allegra Synnford.
“You disappoint me, Shaheen.” Mulay Hassan frowned. “I would have expected you to
find a woman such as this, intriguing.”
“One can be intrigued by a rose, but one must always remember it is laced with thorns.”
Shaheen’s gaze narrowed as he studied Allegra Synnford from behind the fronds of the palm tree
that partially concealed him and the Sultan. Where courtesans were concerned, thorns could be
deadly.
“Come, let me introduce you. Perhaps you will find Miss Synnford fascinating enough to
weather whatever thorns she possesses.”
“Thank you, sire, but I think it best I remain focused on my responsibilities where young
Hakim is concerned.”
“As you wish. I admire your ability to withstand the charms of Miss Synnford and your
commitment to Hakim, my friend.” The Sultan laughed. “But I, on the other hand, am fascinated
by the woman and have no desire to avoid her charms.”
With a light clap on Shaheen’s shoulder, Mulay Hassan headed in Allegra Synnford’s
direction. Anger slid through him as he watched the stout ruler join Hakim and the other men
circled around the woman. A courtesan. What a fool he was. He’d spent the better part of his day
preoccupied with thoughts about her only to discover she was the type of woman he avoided
with resolute determination.
Her complete lack of guile and flustered behavior this afternoon had made him think she
might be a widow or a spinster visiting a family member. When she’d disappeared into the train
station, he’d debated going after her. He wasn’t certain which had irritated him more, his
fascination with the woman or his indecisiveness as to whether to go after her. The need to know
more about her had overridden his desire to stay away from her.
When his men had lost her trail, he’d tried to put any thought of her out of his head, but
even as he’d entered the palace this evening, he’d found himself wondering if she might be
present. He clenched his teeth. It had been a long time since any woman had piqued his curiosity
as this one had, and the fact that she made her living by accepting favors from men only
heightened his annoyance. He should have listened to his gut and ignored his fascination with the
woman.
The sound of her laughter echoed in his ears as he saw Hakim offer her a glass of
champagne off the salver a footman held. He frowned at his charge’s expression. Damm
gahannam, Hakim was already besotted with her. The woman would have the boy for breakfast
then discard his rotting carcass when she was through.
She laughed again, her heading tipping backward as she did so. He didn’t understand how,
but she made the slight movement appear erotic and seductive. His fingers dug their way through
the soft wool of his gambaz to pinch deeply into his upper arms.
One would think that after all these years he’d know better than to be intrigued by a woman
of Allegra Synnford’s ilk. With perhaps the exception of this woman’s mastery of seduction, he
doubted there would be any difference between her and Frances.
The sudden onslaught of emotions made his body grow taut as he remembered his one-time
mistress. Calculating, greedy, and without a heart, Frances had been interested in one person and
one person only. Herself. It hadn’t bothered her in the least to take two lovers at the same time.
Nor had she cared that both of them had thought themselves in love with her.
He returned his attention to Hakim, and he clenched his jaw at the expression of adoration
on the boy’s face. Christ, had he looked like that when he’d been in love with Frances? No, not
love. He’d been in lust with the woman, never in love. If he’d realized that all those years ago,
would it have mattered?
His skin grew cold as he remembered how the feathery snow had brushed across his face
that wintry, dark night. If he’d been late reaching Frances that evening, perhaps things might
have been different. He grimaced at the wishful thought. The past was written, and it was useless
to consider what might have been.
He focused his attention on Allegra once more to see her smile at one of the men in her
circle. With a low growl of annoyance, he watched her continue to weave her spell on the men
around her. Even from here he could understand why her audience was so captivated.
She had an elusive, mysterious quality that served as a silent temptation to every man
around her. With a simple tilt of her head or a soft smile, she invited every man to lure her into a
liaison. He might know what she was, but he couldn’t help but feel the urge to answer her
unspoken challenge.
Every laugh, every turn of her head pulled at him, enticed him to join her. His lack of selfcontrol infuriated him. He took pride in his ability to avoid temptation, but this woman
fascinated him more than he cared to admit. Muttering a violent oath, he strode quickly out to the
open terrace that led down into the Sultan’s gardens. He could just as easily monitor threats to
Hakim’s safety from the patio.
The night air was cool and he drew in a deep breath of it. Merde, he’d gone without a
woman for too long. When this hellish event was over he’d take Hakim back to the house the
family maintained in Marrakech, then he’d find a brothel where he could wear out his cock.
Maybe he’d even take the boy with him, just to convince him that whores were all alike. The
scent of citrus floated up from the gardens and filled his nostrils. It reminded him of Allegra
Synnford. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and blew out a hard breath. Behind
him the sound of applause made him turn his head and he saw a small contingent of dancers
begin to perform for the Sultan’s guests.
Instinct made him search the small gathering for Hakim’s familiar figure. Mere seconds
later, he saw the young man enjoying the performance in front of him. His gaze continued to
sweep the room in search of Allegra. To his surprise, he saw she’d freed herself of her circle of
admirers and was moving away from the other guests. Slowly, she put distance between the
gathering and herself, and it took him a moment to realize she was headed toward the terrace.
He wasn’t sure why, but he retreated into the shadows as she stepped out onto the
balustrade-enclosed patio. When she reached the marble railing, she gripped the smooth stone
and stood there quietly. Eyes closed, she tilted her face up toward the moonlight. Several long
moments passed before a soft sigh escaped her and she turned her head to look back into the
palace.
The vulnerability he’d witnessed in her earlier today had returned. She seemed reluctant,
yet resigned to going back into the drawing room. A surprising behavior for a woman who made
her living the way she did. But then the worried expression on her face was startling, too. It
stirred in him a sudden desire to offer her comfort from her troubles. The idea created a
restlessness in him, and he shifted his position slightly. The moment he moved, his gambaz
brushed against the branch of a small pomegranate tree that hung over the railing. She jerked her
head toward the rustling sound with a low cry.
“Who’s there?”
“Someone else who sought a moment’s solitude,” he said, not leaving the shadows.
The moonlight illuminated her surprised expression, and she took a step toward him,
peering into the shadows in an effort to see him. “I know you. Your voice. You were at the train
station today.”
“Most fortunate for you it seems,” he said with a touch of irony.
She winced at his words. “I know it was foolish of me to be so close, but I was spellbound
by your horse. He’s magnificent.”
“I agree.”
“I don’t suppose . . .” She nibbled at her lip in hesitation. “Would you consider selling him?
I would give you a fair price.”
“Abyad isn’t for sale.”
“Oh.”
The soft word reflected a disappointment that was unexpected. She turned away from him,
and moonlight drifted across the side of her neck like pale, translucent silk. It surprised him that
she would give up so easily. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. Frances would have
immediately switched tactics and tried to seduce him into getting what she wanted. But this
woman wasn’t even making an attempt to persuade him to change his mind about Abyad.
Was it possible for a courtesan not to use her wiles to get what she wanted? The thought
intrigued him. Fascinated, he moved closer without leaving the shadows. His fingers itched to
trace the moonbeam’s path and he almost gave in to the temptation.
“Perhaps other arrangements could be made,” she mused as she stared out at shadows of
the garden.
“What sort of arrangements, ma belle?” he bit out through clenched teeth. It infuriated him
that he’d actually contemplated the possibility that she was different than Frances. She might be
the most sought after courtesan in Europe, but she was no less manipulative than the next whore.
No doubt she thought she could earn the horse by lying on her back.
“I could purchase a mare from one of the traders in Marrakech and then breed her with
your horse. I would pay you a fair price.”
She turned back toward him with a hopeful expression on her face. For a moment, he
couldn’t believe his ears. The woman wasn’t propositioning him; she wanted to conduct an
ordinary business transaction. In the next instant, he realized he hadn’t just expected her to
propose a liaison, he’d been hoping she would.
Frustrated by the traitorous thought, he silently berated himself. The only reason he wanted
her to offer herself to him was so he could prove she was no different than Frances. But she
hadn’t done that. No, she was more interested in discussing the possibility of breeding Abyad.
And to make matters worse, he didn’t enjoy coming in second to his horse. Any horse. He
stepped completely out of the shadows and he watched her green eyes widen. In the moonlight,
her gaze was darker and more mysterious than he’d expected.
Although her features were rather ordinary, she had a mystique about her that made her
exquisite. With the tip of his forefinger, he lightly traced the line of her jaw. Beneath his touch,
she quivered before she abruptly tipped her head away from him. But not even the dim shadows
of the terrace could hide the way her breasts rose and fell at the same rate as her rapid breathing.
That he affected her shouldn’t have given him any pleasure, but it did. The best course of
action would be to tell her to stay away from Hakim and leave her on the patio. He chose to
ignore his own advice. Instead, acting solely on impulse, he reached out to touch her again. The
smoothness of her shoulder was like a rich, lustrous satin beneath his fingertips. She immediately
put distance between them at his touch. Her reaction made him smile.
“Tell me why I should say yes, chérie?”
“Because it will be a profitable venture for you,” she said in breathless voice. There was a
guarded expression on her face as she met his gaze.
“Hmm, perhaps.” He took a step closer, but she stood her ground.
“I’m certain we could reach an agreement on a sum you’d find acceptable.”
Excitement lit up her face and she leaned toward him ever so slightly. His gaze took in the
myriad of emotions dancing in her eyes as she waited for his answer with a touch of impatience.
She clearly understood the significance of Abyad’s pedigree, otherwise she wouldn’t be so
insistent on settling for the opportunity of offspring. The fact impressed him.
He didn’t want to be impressed. He didn’t want anything to do with her. The lie stabbed at
him with vicious glee. With a jerk, he turned back toward the moonlit garden. Damm gahannam,
he was insane. Why draw out this ridiculous barter session? It accomplished nothing when he
knew full well he had no intention of accepting anything less than a night in her bed. He didn’t
like admitting it, but he wanted her.
“I must refuse, mademoiselle. I believe you will consider my price too high.”
“I think you should let me decide whether or not I have the funds to meet your price.”
The fresh scent of honey and lemon made his nostrils flare as he breathed in the essence of
her. She’d moved closer, her expression filled with the hope that he would agree to her request. It
was the fact that she didn’t even attempt to use her charms in any way that made her even more
persuasive.
Her manner indicated nothing more than an earnest desire to convince him their transaction
would benefit them both. The smell of her was soft and enticing as she leaned into him, creating
an overwhelming desire to give her what she wanted. Sweet and warm, her breath brushed his
cheek as her hand touched his arm. Electricity pulsed from her fingers through his gambaz and
into his body. He immediately stiffened at the shock of her touch, while alarm bells clanged
wildly in the back of his head. His attraction to the woman was far more dangerous than he’d
realized. The sooner he ended this farce, the better.
“All the same, if what I’ve heard is true, you will not agree to the transaction, ma belle,” he
murmured, and she abruptly took two steps away from him. He turned his head and saw her face
was devoid of emotion. That she was still even on the patio told him how badly she wanted
Abyad to sire a foal. A tiny sliver of guilt nicked at his conscience, but he shoved it aside. She
was a courtesan. She gave herself to men for other things, what made this transaction any
different?
“What do you want?” She held herself rigidly, her voice icy and distant.
The answer was immediate. He wanted to see her naked on top of him, riding him with
abandon. The erotic image tugged the air out of his lungs as he pictured his sun-darkened hands
sliding across the lusty curve of a peach-colored hip and thigh. His fingers dug into his arms as
he fought to destroy the sudden blast of desire barreling through him.
“One night, chérie.” He clenched his jaw as he realized it might take more than one night to
ease his lust for her.
Her gaze slid over him with a scathing look he knew was designed to humiliate him. It
didn’t work, but he begrudgingly admitted to himself that if looks could maim, he would be
bleeding heavily. A small voice in the back of his head told him it would be no less than he
deserved.
She turned her head away from him, a frown marring her features as if she were in deep
contemplation. There it was again, that air of vulnerability he found puzzling. Intriguing. Perhaps
he’d been judging her unfairly. He crushed the thought. Silence stretched between them for a
long moment before she pulled in a deep breath as if reaching a decision. The change in her was
instantaneous. The vulnerable woman vanished, replaced by a creature so sensual and enticing,
she was breathtaking.
“One night?” Her voice was a low, beguiling whisper that wrapped its way around him
with gentle yet relentless persuasion. “No more than that?”
The witch thought to turn the tables on him. She was doing a damn good job of it, too.
Tension flowed through him as he resisted the urge to pull her into his arms. Experience had
taught him to avoid this type of temptation, and yet each passing moment in her presence made it
difficult to do so. He hadn’t experienced lust this strong in years.
“One night,” he bit out, not about to admit that he should have asked for more.
“And what is it you want for this one night, monsieur?” Her voice was soft and seductive,
but he could still hear a hint of anger behind her words. He forced himself to smile if only to
keep her from realizing her attempt to tie him into knots was succeeding. But he refused to give
her the upper hand.
“I’m not one for games, Allegra. We both know what I want.”
She stepped forward and brushed her fingertips across his mouth. Her touch was light,
almost nonexistent, and yet his entire body grew taut with need. The seductive smile curving her
lips signaled her confidence in her ability to tempt him. Slowly, she leaned closer and the heat of
her breath warmed his ear.
“You want me,” she whispered.
Instantly his cock was hard as iron. With the grace of one of the Sultan’s dancers, she put
several feet between them before facing him again. The moonlight draped its softness over her
entire body and he was certain the move was a calculated one. Somehow she knew the pale light
would only heighten the sensuality of her figure. Silently, he watched her fingers brush across
the side of her neck in a slow stroke. It was the same type of caress his own hand itched to
perform.
Lips parted in a small, knowing smile, she closed her eyes and allowed her hand to fondle
her skin in a light caress. Mesmerized, he watched her continue the stroke downward to the base
of her throat and beyond until two fingers slid into the valley between her full breasts. With a
leisurely stroke, she caressed the darkened slit in an up and down movement that had his body
howling for release. He dragged in air between his clenched teeth in a soft hiss, and she opened
her eyes at the sound.
Across the small space between them, she met his gaze with a sultry smile and his heartbeat
thundered in his ears. Eyes gleaming with confidence, the tip of her tongue slid out to lick her
upper lip in a quick stroke, leaving it glistening in the moonlight. It wasn’t just an invitation; it
was a goddamned command performance. White-hot need lashed through him and he swallowed
hard. For the first time, he understood completely why her name was uttered with such
fascination by other men.
Her skill at seduction was extraordinary. But she wasn’t dealing with a weak-willed
Englishman she could manipulate to her own ends. He wasn’t one of her infatuated admirers she
could control. The dramatic presentation she’d just shown him illustrated that she fully expected
him to fall in line like every other man she’d ever been with. But for the first time, Allegra
Synnford had met her match. With a nonchalance he didn’t feel, he clasped his hands behind his
back and arched an eyebrow at her.
“An exceptional performance, chérie. I confess it’s quite possible I’ll be receiving the
better end of the bargain.”
In a split second, her expression went flat and lifeless, but the way she held herself rigid
revealed her anger. “For anything even resembling that performance, monsieur, you would need
to give me your horse, not his seed, and I confess I no longer have interest in either.”
She whirled around and stalked toward the doorway leading back into the drawing room.
Despite his surprise, his quick reflexes allowed him to reach her in two strides. His arm snaked
around her waist and he dragged her backward into the shadows with him.
“Let me go,” she snapped with hushed fury.
“And if I gave you the horse, chérie?” He couldn’t believe he’d just offered her Abyad for
a single night in her bed. He had to be mad to offer her such a proposal even if his entire body
ached for a physical release. That she could stir his desire so easily infuriated him. Well, he was
damned if he’d let the tempting witch get the best of him.
“I believe I made myself perfectly clear that I have no intention of conducting any business
with you,monsieur.” She struggled against his hold and he deftly twisted her around to face him,
while holding her tight against his chest.
“Surely, you’re not afraid, Allegra.”
“Of you? Not at all,” she responded with a vehement shake of her head and glared up at
him.
“You should be, ma belle.”
“And why is that, monsieur?” The sneer in her voice almost covered her trepidation, but
not quite.
“Because I’m not like your other lovers,” he murmured. As her gaze locked with his, he
smiled. “I’m the one man you won’t be able to control.”
Chapter 3
His words and the dark emotion glittering in his intense brown gaze sent fire streaking
though every inch of her body. From the first moment she’d heard the seductive familiarity of his
voice echoing out of the shadows she’d known exactly who he was. At the railway station, he’d
been dark and dangerous, but tonight—tonight he epitomized everything male she knew to
avoid.
Pinned against his chest, it was impossible not to breathe in the warm spicy scent of him.
The effect he’d had on her senses earlier today was nothing compared to what she was
experiencing now. Wickedly handsome in a barbaric fashion, the sheer power of his presence
sent her blood flowing hot and fast through her veins.
Black, wavy hair brushed against his shoulders at a length that was almost heathenish, but
she found herself wanting to lace her fingers through the silky-looking curls. The headdress he’d
worn earlier in the day had hidden his strong, narrow nose and the way it emphasized the fullness
of his mouth. His high forehead ended in a widow’s peak, and a thin scar crested across the
browned skin of his cheek in a vivid white line. The mark gave him a rakish air that she found
far too tantalizing for her own good.
He was right.
She should be afraid of him.
This man wouldn’t be satisfied until she was in his bed. And it didn’t help matters that she
was sorely tempted to give in to his demand without her usual forethought. That was something
she never did. She swallowed hard. She could always cry for help, but she was too stubborn to
let any man get the better of her. No, she would find some other way out of the situation.
“I’m afraid, monsieur, that it’s you who doesn’t understand the rules of this game. I pick
my lovers, and I never enter into a liaison on such short acquaintance.”
“And I never take no for an answer,” he murmured.
She struggled to suppress a tremor. God, but the man had a wicked voice. She immediately
clenched her teeth. It irritated her that she couldn’t control her reaction to him. Over the years,
there had been many men who had arrogantly declared they intended to become her lover, and
they’d all failed. But this man’s confidence unnerved her. She believed him when he said he
wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The worst of it was she knew a liaison with him could have devastating consequences. Just
the way her body responded to his told her it would not be a simple dalliance. He would bend her
to his will, and not since Arthur had rescued her from Madame Eugenie’s had she allowed any
man to do that.
“It would seem we are at an impasse,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice steady.
“Are we? Then one of us must yield.”
Something about the determined glint in his eye kindled a firestorm of panic inside her. He
narrowed his gaze at her, his mouth curved in a seductive smile. As his hand captured her chin,
her trepidation vanished in a wave of heat and she barely suppressed her whimper of desire when
his thumb stroked her lower lip. Dear God, what was wrong with her? She needed to end this
madness now, before she really did surrender to him
“I shall be happy to have you yield to me, monsieur,” she said in a breathless rush.
“Doing so is not in my nature. But for a kiss I might be persuaded otherwise.” The
amusement in his voice made her stiffen.
“A ki—you arrogant beast. I have no intention of—”
The scents of cedar and anise drifted across her senses just before his mouth silenced her.
The outrage holding her rigid evaporated in an instant, replaced by a sharply pitched desire.
Up until this moment, pleasure had been a simple, uncomplicated experience for her. But
this was something altogether foreign. It was raw. Primitive. Completely out of control.
His tongue laced across her lip until she willingly parted her mouth for him. He tasted hot
and savage, just like the desert. She’d always enjoyed kissing, but this was a hedonistic assault.
He didn’t take—he cajoled.
Every stroke of his tongue was a dance of seduction that heightened each of her senses
until what little control she had left spiraled away into oblivion. A rush of heat made the insides
of her thighs slick, and she gasped as his mouth skimmed across her jaw and down the side of
her neck.
His touch demonstrated just how precarious her position was where he was concerned. For
the first time in memory, she wasn’t the one doing the seducing, and it made her feel powerless.
The realization set off alarm bells in her head and she wrenched herself free of his embrace.
The harsh sound of her breathing echoed loudly in her ears as she stared up at his features,
visible in the light spilling out from the palace drawing room. He appeared completely
unaffected by the kiss. Not even a hint of desire darkened his expression. Horrified, she pressed
her hand to the base of her throat. She was always the one who seduced. The one in control. Men
succumbed to her not the other way around. She flinched at the small smile slowly curving his
mouth.
“It would seem we have resolved the question of who will yield,” he murmured. “A step
forward in the negotiation of your fee, chérie.”
Dear God, he was mocking her. It was bad enough she’d succumbed so easily to him, but
for him to realize it as well infuriated her. And to autocratically suggest they’d been discussing
an arrangement—money—it was an insult. She might be a courtesan, but her benefactors had
always treated her with respect. Money was never openly discussed.
When she did welcome a man into her bed, he simply contacted her attorney at a later date
to make arrangements for a substantial allowance that ran for the length of their association.
She’d never demanded a specific amount of money for her time, but her lovers had always been
generous. Now this man thought he could barter his way into her bed as if she were one of those
poor creatures she’d left behind at Madame Eugenie’s.
She shuddered. What this man wanted, she refused to give, and she wouldn’t let him treat
her like soiled goods. She’d not chosen her lifestyle, and she was damned if she’d apologize for
the method of her survival. The man thought she had yielded, but she’d only surrendered to his
touch. Now he was about to discover exactly how unyielding she could be when it came to
selecting a benefactor. Holding herself ramrod straight, she eyed him with cold anger.
“We were not negotiating, monsieur. You are the last man here tonight that I would
consider taking into my bed.”
“We both know that’s untrue.” There it was again, that amused autocratic note in his voice.
It appalled and angered her in the same instant.
“Your arrogance has made you delusional. There are at least half a dozen men inside who I
would eagerly welcome into my bed over you.”
His gaze narrowed and the mocking amusement in his dark-eyed gaze became a hard, bitter
gleam. “If you think to impress that fact on me by using Hakim as an example of your allure,
think again.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I’m sure you’ve already learned the boy is worth a king’s ransom.”
“I don’t know—”
“Your protests fall on deaf ears, ma belle. The boy might be infatuated with you but I’ll not
allow you to use him to prove your point.”
He had to be referring to the young man who’d not left her side since their introduction.
The boy was the reason she’d come out onto the patio in the first place. As charming as the
young man was, she’d needed an escape from his effusive compliments. She knew the boy was
already infatuated with her, but she would never encourage him. Younger men had a habit of
demanding more of her than she was willing to give. Namely her heart. She shook her head and
glared at him.
“This is absurd. I—”
“Hakim is uneducated in the rules of your game. Stay away from the boy or you’ll answer
to me.” Cold fury hardened his features, and she ignored the flicker of fear sliding through her.
“I answer to no man,” she snapped fiercely.
“In this matter you will.” The menace in his words scraped across her spine like an icy
dagger. “The boy’s my charge, and I’ll not have you toying with him.”
“You should learn the rules of my particular game as you refer to it, monsieur. I never
welcome schoolboys into my bed.” She struggled to keep her tone even as she sent him a baleful
look. “How I earn my living doesn’t determine my personal conduct.”
His hand whipped out to stop her as she turned to walk away. He didn’t speak—he simply
studied her intently. It was easy to see he was uncertain of her, but it mattered little. She’d
experienced the condemnation and contempt of far too many others for this man’s opinion to
make any difference to her. The sound of mocking laughter whispered through her head, but she
ignored it.
“Surprised, monsieur?” she said coldly as she peeled his fingers off her arm. “Don’t be.
You’re not the first to think me unprincipled simply because of my profession, and I doubt you’ll
be the last.”
With as much dignity as her anger allowed, she walked stiffly toward the doors leading
back into the palace. Compared to the shadows of the patio, the light of the drawing room was
blinding. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she fought to control the myriad of emotions
raging inside her. Anger, disappointment, pain, and humiliation all converged to make her long
for a home. A place where she could go to nurse the wounds he’d inflicted on her.
She was no stranger to contempt, but it always stung when she encountered it. For some
inexplicable reason, the man’s scorn—God, she didn’t even know his name—had cut deeper
than she was accustomed to. The knowledge dismayed her. Why should she care what the man
thought?
Her hands clenched in fists, she dragged in a deep breath. She would not let him upset her.
Slowly, she forced herself to release the emotions holding her tense and rigid. She was enamored
with the romantic imagery of a desert sheikh. It was the only explanation for the way she was
feeling. She would be back to her usual self by bedtime.
Buy Kismet Now
§ § §
Awards
2010 CAPA – Best Erotic Historical
Critical Acclaim
“This sizzling hot historical and its compelling characters will leave you panting for more!
Monica Burns writes with sensitivity and panache. Don’t miss this one!” —Sabrina Jeffries,
NYT bestselling author
“Burns’ story is hotter than the desert sands! She succeeds with a classic captive/captor romance
akin to a Johanna Lindsey classic. Relax and enjoy the sizzling show — complete with a lesson
in bananas and seduction.” —RTBOOKreviews – 4 Stars
“After reading the bio posted on her website, I was afforded a deeper understanding into the
wealth of emotions she poured into Kismet. Tenacious, sassy heroines and strong, sexy heroes
are her signature style and she’s boldly penned one of the best books I’ve read in years.” —
TwoLipsReviews
“…a wonderful historical fiction voice. The way she builds up the attraction between her hero
and heroine shows her skill as an author…”— Babbling About Books, and More
“The imagery that Monica Burns paints of Morocco and its people is mesmerizing. So
captivating is the love story that is truly romance at its best, purest and most captivating that you
will regret not absorbing every word on the page.” — Book Junkie
“The romance is passionate and the end is heartbreaking, leaving the reader in a puddled mush of
tears and smiles.” — Lovin’ Me Some Romance
“Kismet is a strong debut, and a strong historical romance in general, and Burns has a
charismatic and confident writing style.” — Sacramento Book Review
“Burns has crafted a sensual tale set in the mysterious deserts of Morocco, populating the story
with characters that are authentic to their culture and demonstrating that a love that brings out the
best in people…” — Book Binge
“There are fewer things finer than discovering a new author!” — Ramblings on Romance, etc.
etc
“KISMET is an epic romance that brings to life the vibrant land of Morocco and its
people….looking for something new, edgy and passionate, look no farther than KISMET. The
romance is passionate and the end is heartbreaking, leaving the reader in a puddled mush of tears
and smiles.” — Lovin’ Me Some Romance
“Kismet is a great historical romance…I am admonishing myself as to why I have never read
Monica Burns before! Kismet is definitely a keeper.” — Joyfully Reviewed
“I was so emotionally invested that by the end of the book, I was in tears and couldn’t turn the
pages fast enough ” — The Romance Studio Winner of 2010 CAPA
“KISMET has everything a good novel should, romance, passion, action, adventure, and intrigue.
KISMET is definitely a book I would recommend to anyone” —Romance Junkies
—§ § §—
Assassin’s Honor by
Monica Burns
Book 1 in the Order of the Sicari series
Read Four Chapters
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
Archeologist Emma Zale sees the past when she touches
ancient relics. It’s how she uncovered evidence of an
ancient order of assassins—the Sicari. When a sinfully
dark stranger shows up on her Chicago doorstep
demanding an ancient artifact she doesn’t have, he
drags her into a world where telekinesis and empaths
are the norm. Now someone wants her dead, and her
only hope of survival is an assassin who’s every bit as
dangerous to her body as he is to her heart.
Ares DeLuca comes from an ancient Roman bloodline of telekinetic assassins. A Sicari, he’s
honor bound to kill only in the name of justice. But when the woman he loved was murdered,
Ares broke the Sicari code and used his sword for revenge. Love cost him dearly once before,
and he’s not willing to pay the price again. At least not until hot, sweet, delectable Emma walked
into his life. Not only does she hold the key to a valuable Sicari relic, she might just hold the key
to his heart.
§ § §
Chapter 1
“Oh my God, they were right,” Emma gasped.
She shifted her body so the light behind her shone directly on the ancient tomb’s wall. Her
parents had always said the Sicari weren’t a myth. No one had believed them. Not even her.
Guilt bit into her. She should have trusted their instincts, even if they hadn’t always trusted
her academic knowledge. With a gentle stroke of her brush, she tapped another piece of dried
mud off the wall. The tangible icon was evidence the elite guild of assassins had really existed.
Her father had always said the Sicari were descendants of Ptolemy’s personal guard. And here
was the proof her father had been looking for.
Awed, she stared at the partially revealed symbol on the sandstone wall. The hilt of a sword
rested against the rim of a chakram while the blade interlocked with the circular handheld
weapon. The simplicity of the design didn’t minimize the mark’s ominous appearance.
Excitement raced through her as she peered at the emblem more closely. Her fingertip
lightly brushed across the surface of the chakram portion of the icon. The chakram, when
thrown, could slice through a skull when it hit its victim before returning to its owner. She knew
several warrior clans in India had used the chakrams against Alexander the Great’s troops.
Ptolemy had been at the conqueror’s side then, and his men could have easily adapted the
weapon for their own use.
She’d grown up listening to her dad talk about the Sicari. Labeled assassins by the
Praetorian Guard under the Roman Caesars, they were ruthlessly hunted down, arrested, and
executed. Her father had never found any explanation for the persecution of the Sicari, but he’d
had numerous theories. The most plausible being a power struggle within the Guard itself when
Constantine I had been Caesar and abandoned pagan beliefs for those of the Church. Her father
had hypothesized that the few Sicari who had escaped the persecution had gone into hiding only
to become what they’d been branded simply to survive. He’d even speculated that they still
existed.
Carefully, she dusted a fleck of dirt off the wall to reveal a little more of the emblem. For
once, she appreciated her unique gift as well as her clumsiness. If she hadn’t tripped over her
toolbox, her hand might never have touched the spot where the icon was hidden. She could have
done without the unexpected static shock, but her vision of a scribe etching a symbol into the
wall had been enough incentive to scrape away the top layer of plaster.
While her special talent was generally limited to ancient artifacts, it didn’t make the initial
contact any less pleasant. Just as unpleasant were the fleeting images she sometimes saw when
someone handing her an artifact brushed against her finger.
With another stroke of her small, delicate brush, more of the mark appeared through the
dried mud. The radio attached to her belt hissed softly, and she suddenly remembered Charlie.
He’d kill her for not calling him right away with the news of her find. He might be her friend, but
he was boss and mentor first. Grabbing the walkie-talkie off her belt, she pressed the talk button.
“Charlie?”
Releasing the button, she waited for a response. After several seconds of nothing but a
quiet hum, she tried again. “Charlie, I know you’re there, so stop ignoring me. I’ve got
something I want you to see, and it’s important.”
She might be deep inside the burial chamber of Cleopatra’s ancestor, Ptolemy I, but she
knew the radios worked. She’d heard from Charlie over the damn thing just an hour ago. This
time after a long pause, she heard static echo out of her radio. Gritting her teeth, she waited for
her teacher’s easy Southern drawl to warm up the dark, musty chamber she’d been exploring.
When he remained silent, she stared at the walkie-talkie and frowned. She hit the talk button one
more time.
“Stop fooling around, Charlie. This is important,” she snapped into the receiver before
releasing the communication switch.
A gurgling noise burst out of the radio followed by a few seconds of static before the
chamber grew quiet again. She growled in disgust. One of these days, he’d cry wolf once too
often with her and then where would he be if something really was wrong.
The memory of his heart attack more than a year ago made her frown. It hadn’t been
severe, but the doctors had warned him to take it easy. Advice he’d ignored as usual. The thought
of something serious happening to Charlie sent a wave of fear sluicing through her. If he was
having a heart attack . . . spinning around, she grabbed her flashlight off the cool, stone floor and
dived for the narrow opening leading out of the burial chamber.
The tight squeeze had her cursing her wide hips, and not for the first time. Coughing from
the dust her movements stirred up, she crawled as fast as she could through the narrow tunnel
toward the main chamber where Charlie had been working.
If he was having a heart attack, they were in trouble. There wasn’t anyone except a couple
of locals at the base camp. Mike and the rest of the team had gone to survey the artisans’
cemetery almost a mile away. Not to mention the fact that Sayid, the dig’s foreman, had taken
the truck back to Abydos this morning to pick up their monthly supplies. He wouldn’t be back
until late in the evening at the earliest, and until then the camels were their only other form of
available transport.
Reaching the main chamber of the tomb, she slid out onto the dusty, stone floor. All the
lights were out, except for the dim glow of a bulb at the chamber’s main entrance more than half
a football field away. What the hell had happened to all the lights they’d strung up two months
ago?
Sayid. He’d promised her that damn generator wouldn’t break down again. If it weren’t for
the Magna flashlight she carried, she’d be virtually blind. As it was, she could barely see
anything. How many ways could she grill the man’s ass? She stumbled a few steps toward the
center of the huge stone room while thinking about it.
“Charlie?”
Silence. Sweeping the light across the floor of the massive chamber, she pushed aside her
fear. But she had a hard time ignoring the déjà vu slithering its way into her head. The whisper of
a sound reached her ears and she spun around trying to determine its origin. She saw nothing
except muraled walls and several sarcophagi yet to be opened. The quiet seemed even heavier
than the ancient pillars looked. She shuddered.
“Goddamn it, Charlie. Answer me.”
The cold silence pushed the hairs on her skin upward. No, she wouldn’t go there.
Everything was fine. People couldn’t respond when they were unconscious. That’s the only
reason why he didn’t answer her. The beam of the flashlight swept its way across the wall to the
last burial tunnel. It illuminated the elderly man slumped over at the tunnel entrance. Emma
leaped forward and raced to his side.
Flashlight clattering to the ground, she gently eased Charlie back until he was lying flat on
the floor. Kneeling beside him in the near darkness, her fingers pressed into the meaty flesh at
the side of his neck. The wet and sticky feel of his skin beneath her fingertips made her swallow
hard.
God, he was sweating so profusely. Not a good sign. When she didn’t feel a pulse, Emma
reached for his wrist, praying for a miracle. Even a fluttering heartbeat beneath his leathery skin
would ease her fear. Nothing. Panic latched on to her as she grabbed her radio and screamed into
it. Mike knew CPR. He could—no. Mike was at the cemetery with the rest of the team.
The blaring silence from the two walkie-talkies only emphasized how far away help was.
A clattering of falling rock echoed off in the distance. Fear coiled in her belly as her fingers
brushed across the gritty floor and she grabbed the flashlight. The sturdy metal tool cooled her
hand as she pointed it in the direction of the noise. Not even a rat staring back at her. She
shivered and tried to ignore how the mural on the ancient tomb’s wall looked almost menacing in
the stark beam. She dragged in a deep breath. This wasn’t five years ago. She sagged deeper onto
her haunches, her Magna slipping out of her hand to hit the floor with a soft metallic thud.
Charlie’s heart hadn’t been any good. She knew that. But she hated how helpless and lost she felt
at the moment. A tear slid down her cheek.
One drop became two until a steady stream of tears soaked her face. She didn’t think, she
simply reacted as a wave of fury swept over her and she pounded Charlie’s chest with her fists.
“Wake up, goddamn you! Wake up.”
With every sob, she hit him harder, but he still didn’t move. As her crying subsided, her
anger gave way to a cold numbness. There were things she needed to do, but she didn’t know
what. She couldn’t even think straight right now. She dragged the back of her hand across her
eyes in an attempt to wipe away the remaining tears. The sudden, pungent scent of copper made
her wrinkle her nose.
There was something familiar about it. Her stomach started to churn. Oh God. That smell
had been on her hands the day her parents were murdered. Their blood had stained her hands
when she’d held them, and she’d never forgotten the way the musky metal scent had permeated
her skin. Teeth chattering from the icy fear sliding through her, she reached for her light.
For the first time she realized the metal had a sticky feel to it, and she wanted to throw up.
Blood was sticky. The beam of her flashlight hit her friend’s face, and she screamed. The mark
carved into his cheek was the same one they’d found on her parents’ faces.
Worse still was the slit across his throat and the blood trailing down his neck. Blood she’d
mistaken for perspiration. The flashlight clattered against the stone floor as she frantically rubbed
her hands against her khaki dungarees. Even without a light shining directly on it she knew some
of Charlie’s blood had already dried on her hand. She could feel the flakes of it between her
fingers and it terrified her. Instinct made her recoil from his body, and she scurried backward like
a crab racing for safety.
Murder.
Someone had murdered Charlie. Killed and marked him the same way they had her parents.
She froze. Whoever had killed Charlie might still be in the tomb. Hiding in the dark. Waiting.
Waiting for her. Self-preservation took over, and she scrambled back toward her Mag. Clutching
the heavy-duty light in a death grip, she lurched to her feet and raced toward the light at the end
of the vast chamber.
Her boots hammered against the stone floor as she ran, the sound filling her ears with a
thunderous roar. By the time she reached the foot of the steep slope leading up to the tomb’s
entrance, she was gasping for air. Slipping and sliding, she made her way up the dirt-covered
incline into the brilliant sunlight.
Blinded, she tripped over the two steps leading down the hill to the base camp. Tumbling
head over foot, she careened down the hillside with a loud cry of pain and fear. Shouts answered
her scream, and when she staggered to her feet, she saw Mike and several other team members
running toward her.
The next several hours passed in a blur. She wavered between hysteria and an icy
numbness. It wasn’t until she entered the Cairo police station that she realized how desperate her
situation was. She and Charlie had been the only ones in the tomb. For the police, it was cut and
dried. Literally. The moment she’d arrived she’d been ushered into a small room, which had a
large window overlooking the station’s central desk.
The main area of the police headquarters wasn’t well lit and she imagined it helped keep
the room cooler. The interrogation room she sat in was the exact opposite. Already she could feel
the heat from the glaring lightbulbs pushing down on her. Through the window, she watched
Mike Granby arguing with a swarthy-skinned police officer. Behind her, Roberta Young, the
dig’s financial backer and self-declared intern, paced the floor. The tall woman’s restless
movements only served to shred Emma’s nerves that much more.
“Roberta, please,” she rasped. “Sit down.”
The woman immediately pulled a chair out from the table and sat down next to her. With a
gentle pat of Emma’s arm, the woman’s gaze turned toward the action in the squad room.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, it registered that Roberta looked like a fashion plate for the
latest in archeological field gear. The woman was a Swedish goddess, tall with flowing blond
hair that she pulled back in a ponytail. She was always gorgeous. Even in the field the woman
managed to look like she could go straight to a fancy dinner with just a change of clothes.
“How are you holding up, dear?”
“I can’t believe he’s dead.” A tremor rushed through her. “I’d talked to him just an hour or
so before I found him. He was alive. I swear it.”
“I believe you, Emma. I’m sure you’ll be cleared of all charges. It’s not like you and
Charlie fought all the time.”
“What?” She stared at the woman in amazement.
“A couple of interns said they heard you cussing Charlie out last week,” Roberta said with
a careless shrug. “I’m sure the two of them misconstrued the episode.”
“I don’t understand . . . when . . . oh God, the police aren’t going to believe anything I say.”
“Christ, I’m sorry I brought it up.” Roberta rubbed her hand in a reassuring manner. But it
didn’t calm Emma’s nerves.
“Why don’t they tell me whether they’re going to charge me or not.”
“They aren’t going to charge you. Everyone knows you couldn’t have done this,” Roberta
said in that cultured voice of hers.
The inflections were the result of her boarding school upbringing and immense wealth.
And money was something the woman had in spades. She’d inherited the family import business
when her parents were killed in some type of freak accident. Emma had never heard the details
and had never asked. Roberta wasn’t one to put on airs, but when the woman wanted something,
she usually got it.
Would Roberta use her wealth and power to help her out? It wasn’t as if the two of them
were best friends. But if the woman kept her out of jail . . . her stomach lurched at the thought of
incarceration. Closing her eyes, Emma leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. She
couldn’t believe this was happening. The police were going to think she killed Charlie. They’d
lock her up.
“For someone who complained that he’d be a better team leader if Charlie weren’t around,
I’m unimpressed by Mike’s leadership skills at the moment,” Roberta said with disgust.
Emma raised her head to look at the other woman, who nodded toward the window. With
Charlie dead, Mike was next in line to lead the excavation team. Emma watched him gesture
angrily in her direction, but the policeman’s less than conciliatory expression didn’t change.
Frustration evident in his manner, Mike wheeled away from the officer. Seconds later, he burst
through the door of the interrogation room, his tall, burly frame filling the cramped space. He
squatted down next to her and grabbed her hand.
“Emma, they’re refusing to let you go.”
“Well, there’s a surprise.” Roberta’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
Mike ignored the woman, but Emma saw his mouth thin with anger. He tugged on her hand
to make her look at him. “I need you to listen carefully, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay, I understand why they don’t want to let me go.” She slowly nodded her head.
“Damn it, it’s not okay.” Mike growled. “Look, you’re in shock, but I need you to hang on
for a little while longer. I’m going to the consulate to get some help, and I’ll be back as soon as I
can.”
She stared at him in silence. It made sense that the police wanted to close the case quickly.
She was the prime suspect, no, only suspect, in Charlie’s murder. Blaming her for Charlie’s
death simplified their job. The way her parents had been killed didn’t help matters either. The
reality of all of it seemed distant somehow. Almost as if she was watching it happen to someone
else. Mike grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
“Emma, listen to me. You’re not to say anything until we get you a lawyer.”
“I’m not to say anything,” she whispered.
Mike’s large hand squeezed hers tightly and he gave her a hug before he stood up. “Hang
in there, doll. We’re gonna get you out of this mess.”
“I think I’ll tag along with you,” Roberta drawled.
“No, someone needs to stay with Emma.” Mike glared at the Swedish blonde.
“I have some powerful friends at the consulate, which means I’ll get results.”
Mike didn’t bother to hide his anger, but he didn’t argue with the woman. Instead, he
jerked his head in agreement. With one last pat on Emma’s hand, Roberta stood up and a
moment later she was alone. The moment they were gone, a shiver raced through her until goose
bumps rose up on her flesh.
God, she felt sick. Bowing her head, she shivered despite the room’s hot temperature.
Whoever killed Charlie had to have been involved in her parents’ deaths. That mark mutilating
his cheek had been the same one she’d seen on her parents’ faces, a diagonal line with a
backward C just above it. Bile rose in her throat again, but she swallowed it along with her fear.
There was nothing she could do at the moment except wait. The minutes ticked by and she
tried to occupy her thoughts by watching the activity outside the interview room. Anything to
avoid thinking about the moment when she’d found Charlie’s body. She glanced down at her
watch.
Had it been an hour since Mike and Roberta had left or two? She couldn’t remember. The
hair at the base of her neck stood on end as she suddenly sensed someone watching her. Her gaze
scanned the station’s front desk. Seeing nothing unusual, she shifted her gaze to the area behind
the main counter.
It took her a moment to see him because he stood in the darkest corner of the office space.
The shadows concealed his face, but something about his body language told her he was
studying her carefully. Arms folded across his chest, he stood with one shoulder pressed against
the wall in a relaxed pose. Despite his casual stance, she was certain a police station wasn’t his
normal environment, yet there was nothing about his manner that marked him as an outsider
either.
Unable to take her eyes off him, she felt a light touch against her cheek. Almost as if
someone had brushed the back of their hand across her face. There was something comforting
about the sensation. It was a soothing touch that made her think everything would be all right.
She closed her eyes and drew in a quiet breath. Perhaps Charlie’s spirit was here trying to
reassure her. Another feathery caress touched her cheek and she reached up expecting to feel a
warm hand. She sighed with disappointment when she encountered nothing but her own skin.
The door behind her opened and she turned her head. She immediately recognized the
policeman entering the room. She’d seen him when she’d first entered the station. He nodded
politely at her.
“Miss Zale, I am Detective Shakir. I will be investigating Dr. Russwin’s murder.” The
officer took a seat opposite her and laid a pad of paper on the table. “I have a few questions I’d
like to ask you about your colleague.”
“I don’t think I should say anything until I have an attorney present.”
“Certainly, but perhaps you could tell me if you’ve seen this symbol before.”
With several swift strokes of his pencil he drew a mark she knew well. Her palms suddenly
damp with sweat, she struggled to hide her fear as she met the detective’s watchful gaze. She
swallowed hard at the memory of Charlie’s bloody corpse.
“Yes,” she said as her breath caught in her throat. “Someone . . . it was on Charlie’s face.”
“Can you tell me what it means?”
“No. I’ve been trying to find out what it means for the past five years, but I can’t find
anything like it.”
“So you have seen this mark before.”
“Yes.” She nodded as she stared down at the roughly drawn symbol. “My parents were
mutilated with it, just like Charlie.”
“Ah yes, your parents were murdered in the same fashion as Dr. Russwin, correct?”
“I . . . yes . . . I really don’t want to say anything else until my friends return.”
“I quite understand, Miss Zale, but you would like to find the person who killed your
friend, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.” She bit her lip as she met the man’s unreadable gaze.
“As I recall, you were the one to find your parents, correct?”
“No, Kareem found them.” A warning shot fired off in her brain, and she shook her head in
protest. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait until my lawyer gets here before we continue.”
“Certainly.” He turned in his seat to look over his shoulder.
Following the direction of his gaze, Emma saw the man in the shadows move his hand
slightly. The almost indiscernible movement echoed with the air of a man accustomed to power
and how to use it. Her heart ricocheted off her chest wall as she watched the silent exchange
between the two men.
Her gaze jerked back to the detective as he grunted with disgust. Irritation pulling his
mouth downward, the policeman sent her a hard look. Whoever the man in the shadows was, the
detective definitely didn’t like taking orders from him. And that hand gesture had been a
command.
“Miss Zale, can you tell me what Dr. Russwin might have been searching for in the tomb?”
For moment, she just stared at the officer. What kind of question was that? They were
excavating the burial site of a Pharaoh dead for more than two thousand years. What did the man
think Charlie had been looking for? It would take hours for her to explain everything they were
hoping to find compared to what they would actually discover.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Was Dr. Russwin looking for something special? Something specific? An artifact or
inscription you might not have known about?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Emma frowned and shook her head. Charlie had always been open
with her and the team. Although he did have the habit of keeping a new discovery to himself
until he’d confirmed its authenticity.
“What about this?” Detective Shakir tossed a small medallion onto the table.
The metal object had a flat, hollow ring to it as it bounced against the wood surface until it
spun to a halt. Dull and darkly colored, it blended in with the dark wood of the tabletop. Startled,
she barely glanced at the coin before she looked up at the detective’s surly expression. The
officer was far from happy, and her gaze immediately swung toward the man in the shadows.
She could almost see him narrow his eyes as he lowered his chin just a bit. He had an air of
anticipation about him that she recognized. It was the same kind of excitement she always felt
when she and Charlie hovered over a new find. The exhilaration that came when you shared a
breakthrough with someone who would appreciate its importance. Whoever he was, this guy
wasn’t a member of the Cairo police department. What made it equally strange was her sudden
conviction that he was trying to help her. Dragging her gaze away from the man in the shadows,
she stared down at the coin on the table.
It took her a full minute or so to grasp the magnitude of what she was looking at. When her
chest became tight from lack of air, she sucked in a deep breath. A Sicari coin. She jerked her
head up to look in the stranger’s direction. The anticipation she’d sensed in him had evolved into
satisfaction. Almost as if it pleased him immensely that she’d recognized the artifact.
“I take it you’ve seen this before.” Detective Shakir’s words made her start and she saw the
hard look of accusation in his dark eyes.
“No, I’ve never seen the coin before.” She stared at the artifact in the center of the table for
a little longer before lifting her gaze to meet the policeman’s dour expression. “But the symbol
represents an ancient order of assassins called the Sicari.”
“Would the doctor have recognized the coin?”
“Absolutely,” she said with a sharp nod. “He and my parents wanted to prove the Sicari
Order wasn’t a myth. Charlie would have been ecstatic if he’d found something like this.”
Without really thinking about it, she stretched out her hand toward the artifact then
stopped. She hated that first moment when she touched any type of antiquity. She never knew
what to expect.
“It’s quite all right to look at it more closely,” the detective said.
Still she hesitated, but when his eyes hardened with suspicion, she had no choice but to
pick up the ancient currency. The instant she touched the coin, the familiar flash that always
accompanied her visions occurred.
It was like watching a badly edited movie on fast-forward. Scenes from the distant past
flowed through her head like a raging river. First, she saw the coin’s creation and the Roman
centurion who carried it as a good luck charm. The surreal vision grew more confusing as it
exploded in a bloody composite of crucifixions, persecutions, and assassinations.
Then in a brilliant flash, the vision threw her forward to the last few seconds of Charlie’s
life. The emotions her friend experienced at the moment of his death barreled through her and
she dropped the coin with a gasp. Christ, Charlie had been carrying this artifact when he died.
Trembling, her gaze was inexplicably drawn to the man hidden in the shadows. He was
connected to the coin, but she didn’t understand how. She saw him stiffen, and in the next
moment, the door of the interrogation room flew open and slammed against the wall. Startled,
she cried out in fear then found herself enveloped in Mike’s bear hug of an embrace. Exhausted
and overwhelmed with emotion, she sank into a dark well of silence.
Chapter 2
Emma came upright in bed with a small scream. Her heartbeat pounded loudly in her ears
as her gaze darted from one corner of the dimly lit room to the next. Where the hell was she? She
sagged as she remembered—Chicago.
Was it morning? She turned her head to look at the clock. Almost six in the evening. Her
heart sank with dismay. Just another nightmare. There’d be more of the same later tonight.
Pushing a shaky hand through her tousled hair, she scrambled off the bed.
She bit back tears. God, she felt old. Not much past thirty, she was beginning to feel twice
that age. A single teardrop slid down her cheek. With a swipe of her hand, she wiped it away. If
Charlie were here, he’d ream her good. Don’t go gettin’ that hangdog look, Emma Zale he used
to say. Life is a gift, enjoy it while you can. No, he wouldn’t want her to grieve for him. But it
was hard not to. Even harder not to deal with the resurrected sorrow for her parents that she’d
buried deep inside her.
With the force of a machine gun, rain pelted her bedroom window. She winced at the sound
and pushed her feet into a pair of sneakers. It had been raining just as hard at the cemetery earlier
today. She shivered in the October chill. Grabbing her sweater off the rocking chair, she
shrugged into it as she made her way downstairs.
Quiet filled the house, and it unnerved her. She kept waiting for the sound of shovels
scraping against sand or Charlie’s gruff voice chastising Sayid over a small indiscretion. Some
sound to tell her it had all been a horrible nightmare and she really hadn’t left Egypt after all.
Thunder rumbled overhead as she entered the study. Another flash of lightning lit up the
sky followed by an ominous thunderclap. After so much time spent in the desert, Emma couldn’t
remember the last time she’d seen so much rain. She crossed the room to stand at the window
overlooking the small garden at the back of the house where she’d grown up. One hand pressed
against a cool glass pane, Emma stared out at the water-soaked grounds barely visible in the
fading gray light.
The memorial service today had been a messy affair. Charlie had to have been laughing his
ass off at everyone huddled beneath umbrellas outside the mausoleum. He had despised Western
funeral traditions. The bastard had probably made it rain as payback for his siblings refusing to
spread his ashes across the Ptolemy dig.
The gloomy weather matched her depression and, deep inside, her fear. The nonstop rain
since her return just a few days ago reinforced how tired she was of the foul weather. It had taken
almost a month for Mike to settle matters with the authorities and arrange transport of Charlie’s
remains back to the Windy City. More like an eternity.
If not for two of the locals and their testimony about the stranger dressed in a monk’s robe
leaving Ptolemy’s tomb, she’d probably still be sitting in a grimy jail cell at this very moment.
Throughout the three-week investigation, Mike and Roberta had been her saviors. Somehow,
Mike had convinced the police to release her into his custody, and between him and Roberta,
they’d bullied the Cairo authorities into moving more quickly with their investigation.
While Mike had returned to the excavation site to deal with the representatives from the
government’s Supreme Council of Antiquities. Roberta had stayed behind to keep her company.
The days had passed slowly, but the other woman had kept her entertained with stories of highsociety intrigue and folly.
Roberta’s wit was every bit as sharp as Emma’s friend, Ewan Redmurre. Perhaps that
explained why Ewan couldn’t stand the woman. As an Oriental Institute board member, Ewan
hated it when someone upstaged him. And Roberta had done that and more by buying herself an
internship with her financial backing of the Ptolemy dig. It hadn’t made Charlie happy either.
Although they’d released her, the Egyptian authorities remained suspicious of her, and the
university’s Oriental Institute hadn’t hesitated to yank her out of the country the first chance they
got. After the dean’s call this afternoon, she had the distinct impression she wouldn’t be working
a dig anytime in the near future either. In fact, if Stuart had his way, it might be never. That
thought depressed her even more.
She turned and crossed the study’s hardwood floor to sink into the large, swivel chair her
father had loved so much. The well-worn leather held the distinctive aroma of her dad’s pipe
tobacco. She closed her eyes and drank in the smell. Amazing how after five years the scent still
clung to the leather. Her fingers brushed across the smooth, dark wood of the mahogany desk as
she scooted closer.
A small stack of mail sat in the center of the desk, and she sorted through it. The invitation
to the opening of the Oriental Institute’s latest exhibition made her grimace. Just what she
needed—intense scrutiny from her peers and other interested parties. Not showing up wasn’t an
option either.
Most everyone knew about Jonathan’s infidelity, and she refused to let him, or anyone else,
think she was afraid to be in the same room with the son of a bitch. Resigned to attending the
event, she pulled on the handle of the middle desk drawer in search of a pen. It didn’t give way
easily.
Exasperated, Emma released a sound of frustration. The drawer had been cantankerous
since her parents had left home for the last time. She’d just never taken the time to try and fix it.
Now was as good a time as any. She bent over and looked at the drawer slide. In the darkened
space, she could see where a wad of paper had been jammed up into the groove, making it
difficult to budge the drawer.
With a sigh, she tugged harder. It gave way a small amount, enough for her to grab the
drawer with both hands and jerk on it. Her efforts pulled the entire drawer free of its tracks so it
scattered its contents out onto the floor.
“Damn it to hell,” she muttered.
The only things left in the drawer were a couple of paperclips and some crumbs from God
knew what. Wrinkling her nose, she scooted her chair closer to the trashcan and flipped the
drawer over to knock out the dirt. The moment she saw the envelope with its crumpled corner,
taped to the edge of the tray’s bottom she frowned. So that’s what had been keeping the tray
from sliding open smoothly.
The drawer resting on her knees, Emma carefully peeled the yellowing tape off the wood.
She reached for the letter opener on the desk. Why would her father tape a letter to bottom of the
drawer? Maybe a safety-deposit box she didn’t know about? The opener lifted the envelope flap
with relative ease and she pulled out the folded square of paper.
A Vigenère cipher written in hieroglyphs. Why would her father have written a cipher in
hieroglyphics? Puzzled, she studied the paper and blinked. Over the years, she’d solved a lot of
difficult ciphers her dad had written for her. This one made her think she should have taken up
Latin instead. It would have been easier.
By using hieroglyphics instead of letters, her father had brilliantly combined the two
mediums. A computer hacker might be able to decipher it with the right database, but by hand—
the person decoding the message would need to know cryptology and hieroglyphics. She was
pretty certain there weren’t too many people running around Chicago fitting that description.
Quickly cleaning up the drawer’s spilled contents, she shoved the tray back into its slot and
picked up the cipher. Why had her dad hidden the coded message? For that matter, why tape it to
the bottom of a desk drawer?
As she studied her father’s familiar handwriting, a tremor went through her. If only her
parents and Charlie were here to help her sort out this whole mess. Maybe she’d have answers to
questions she was still asking.
Her gaze fell on the Sicari coin lying next to the stack of mail. She set aside her father’s
coded message to pick up the medallion. She’d found it in Charlie’s personal effects a couple of
days ago. How the authorities had missed it when they’d searched through his things, she had no
idea. She expelled a noise of disgust. The police had taken greater care with his belongings than
hers.
The coin was almost identical to the one Detective Shakir had shown her, except this one
was far more weathered. When she’d first found the artifact, she’d been terrified to touch it. But
when she’d finally succumbed to the necessity of it, she was relieved the artifact had only shown
her images from the distant past, nothing recent.
Emma tilted the coin so the overhead light outlined the profile of Constantine I on its head,
before flipping it to study the Sicari icon on the reverse. The writing was indecipherable, but the
icon was the same as the one she’d seen on the wall of Ptolemy’s tomb. She frowned. The coin
she’d touched in Cairo had been found near Charlie’s body. She knew that because her vision
had shown him holding it when he died. But this one—this artifact had been in his possession
long enough for him to leave it with his belongings and return to the dig.
She turned the coin over to study the worn text. Iter Sicari Domini factis, non verbis
aestimatur. She frowned and released a sigh. The last six years had been spent reading
hieroglyphics, and her Latin was really rusty. She’d need to download some translator software
to verify a lot of the text. At least she recognized two of the words. Domini was Latin for “lord”
and Sicari meant “assassin.” Did domini refer to a deity or was it used in a different context
here?
A soft creak of wood echoed in the hall. She jerked her head up at the sound and her heart
slammed against her chest. Had she forgotten to lock the front door? No, she distinctly
remembered turning the dead bolt.
God, when had she become so irrational? She rubbed her forehead with a sense of selfdisgust. What on earth made her think the person who’d killed Charlie would come after her? As
the memory of her parents’ murder flitted through her head once more, she shivered. They’d died
the same way Charlie had and with the same mark on their cheeks. It was stupid to think their
deaths weren’t connected.
The Cairo police obviously thought they were. It was why they’d taken the easy way out
and focused on her as a suspect. But what about the mysterious cloaked figure the locals had
seen? An unidentifiable man carrying a sword. Emma could understand why the locals’ story had
raised eyebrows at police headquarters. It sounded worse than a B-movie plotline. A puff of air
blew past her lips as she flipped the coin over to study the opposite side again.
Even as far back as his college days, her father had believed the Sicari assassin order still
existed. When he’d first met her mom, he’d been an intern for the Sorbonne in the south of
France in Cathars territory. Even then he’d been searching for signs of the Sicari Order.
Her father had been involved with another woman at the time, but the minute he’d seen her
mother, there had never been anyone else. Their marriage had been one of deep love and trust.
Something Emma never expected to have. Her parents’ kind of relationship was far from the
norm.
The coin came back into focus, and her thoughts drifted back to the story the locals had
told about the stranger at the scene of Charlie’s murder. They’d made the man sound like some
avenging monk from the Elizabethan era. Had the Sicari ever dressed like that? Maybe the man
at the dig . . . Emma snorted with disgust at the wild notion.
God, that had to be the most ridiculous thing she’d considered yet. She’d found an icon
proving the Sicari had existed. She hadn’t found one them alive and living in Chicago. Another
squeak of the hall floor whispered its way into the study. Her gaze jerked up to stare at the
room’s dark doorway. The pitch-black beyond the softly lit office reminded her of Ptolemy’s
tomb and finding Charlie’s body. With the memory came the fear once again.
The chill of it wrapped its tentacles around Emma. Burying the coin and her father’s cipher
under some papers, she quickly stood up and glanced around. A weapon. She needed a weapon.
The Egyptian dagger on the bookshelf caught her eye. She’d given it to her father on his last
birthday. It was just for looks, but it had a sharp point. Better that than nothing at all.
Her hand slid around the metal grip as she unsheathed the blade. Looking down at the
silver weapon, she winced. Christ, she was losing it. She’d locked the frigging front door. She
knew that. It was just the house settling. Houses did it all the time. Particularly old houses like
this one. She didn’t like the way a voice in the back of her head laughed at her attempt to dismiss
the soft noises. Fine. She’d check the locks in the house. When she finished, she could feel like a
fool. But at least she’d be a safe fool.
The dagger sleeve didn’t make a sound as she set it down on the papers at the desk. With as
much stealth as she could manage, she circled the desk and started toward the door. She only got
halfway across the room when a man suddenly filled the doorway of the study. Terror kept her
immobile, her scream locked in her throat.
Tall and solidly built, he would have been intimidating no matter what the setting. Dressed
completely in black, he moved with a raw power reminiscent of a large predator. The effect was
so striking she half expected to hear a low-pitched growl fill the room. Black pants hugged long
muscular legs, while a thick, black turtleneck sweater and hip-hugging black leather jacket
shouted danger. He wore his dark blond hair cropped short, and his strong features resembled the
busts she’d seen of early Roman emperors.
Emma swallowed hard. Throughout history, scribes had depicted Lucifer as a beautiful
blond angel. Maybe they were accurate. Her fear almost paralyzed her, but her fingers tightening
on the dagger reassured her that she could protect herself. She waited for him to rush her, but he
simply stood quietly just inside the doorway. Something about the way he watched her sent a
chill down her back. He seemed familiar and yet she was certain she’d never seen him before.
This was a man one didn’t forget.
“Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?” she managed to croak.
“I’m here to collect something that doesn’t belong to you.” The deep richness of his voice
had a soothing, almost hypnotic, quality to it. Her fingers flexed around the dagger’s metal grip.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I didn’t.” His evasive answer held a mocking note that irritated her.
“If it’s the coin you’re looking for, I don’t have it anymore,” Emma sneered with more
bravado than she felt. “So you’d better get out before the police arrive.”
“Never lie unless you can be convincing.” Amusement curled his lips in a slight smile.
“I’m not convinced.”
The mockery in his expression kicked her anger into high gear. Arrogant bastard. Why in
the hell hadn’t she taken those karate classes her mother tried to push her into years ago? She
might have been able to take him. Then again, maybe not.
Just the breadth of his chest and width of his shoulders would have made Emma think
twice about going up against him even with martial skills. He could easily crush her. So why
didn’t he? His amusement grew more pronounced as he moved deeper into the room. Sweet
Jesus, was he wearing a sword on his back? Her heart skipped several beats before it settled back
into a frantic rhythm. Taking a quick step back, she raised her meager weapon in a defensive
gesture.
“Come any closer and you’ll be sorry.”
This time the man actually chuckled. He arched his eyebrows at Emma as a strange
pressure bit into her skin at the base of her palm. They were the only two people in the room, but
she could swear someone had her by the wrist. The unseen hand squeezed tighter until her
fingers flexed open and released the dagger.
The pressure vanished as the blade left her hand. But it didn’t hit the floor. Instead, it
hovered in the air just below her hand before it flew across the room to become embedded in the
wall on her right. The blade wobbled back and forth for a moment, until it grew still and
remained buried deep in the wood.
“Now then,” he murmured. “I want to know where the Tyet of Isis is.”
Horrified, she simply stared at the dagger sticking out of the wall. What the—he’d done the
impossible. No, she knew differently. Anything was possible. All she had to do was look in the
mirror for proof of weird science. But it didn’t change the fact she was in trouble. Trouble with a
capital T. She didn’t know how he’d performed that particular trick, but it made him even more
dangerous than she’d realized. Determined not to show any fear, she shook her head as she
dragged her gaze back to his.
“The Tyet of Isis is a symbol, not a thing.”
“Correct,” he said as his mouth tilted upward. “A symbol in the form of a knot often used
to represent the Egyptian goddess Isis. But I’m looking for an artifact that goes by the same
name.”
Arrogant bastard. He was laughing at her. “Well, I don’t have what you’re looking for.”
“I see.”
He narrowed his gaze to study her for a long moment. She didn’t like the way his intense
scrutiny seemed to bare her soul to him. It disturbed her. He walked past her to study the artifacts
shelved on the wall behind her father’s desk. So much for making him think she was a threat. But
with his back turned, she’d be stupid not to make a run for it.
Emma leaped toward the door. It slammed closed before she’d gone two steps. Still racing
forward, she tugged on the doorknob, desperate to escape. The door didn’t budge. Oh God, if he
could make knives stick in the walls, close doors, and keep them shut, what else was he capable
of? A sinking feeling gnawed at the pit of her stomach. He’d managed to squeeze her wrist
without touching her—could he choke her to death, too?
Panic set in. Whirling around, she realized she had nowhere to run. Her back flat against
the door, she rebelliously met his gaze as he moved toward her. Large hands braced on either
side of her, the man pinned her between himself and the door. She drew a quick hiss of air into
her lungs.
Dark blue eyes narrowed as his gaze slowly dropped to her mouth. It lingered there for a
breathtaking moment. A slight shudder rippled through her as his gaze slid downward in open
appreciation. She didn’t know what was worse, his blatant interest in her physical attributes or
the pleasure his interest gave her.
God in heaven. Had she totally lost her mind? The man had broken into her home,
practically threatened her with bodily harm. There her thoughts stumbled. Well, he hadn’t
actually threatened her. All he’d done so far was intimidate her. Emma flinched as he exhaled a
harsh breath.
“You really don’t know where it is, do you.” Not a question, but a resigned statement.
“Show me the coin.”
“I’m not showing you anything,” she snapped. “Except the door.”
If she had to die, then she damn well wouldn’t make it easy for him. His amusement
returned as he leaned into her more. Less than an inch separated their bodies now. She caught a
whiff of spice wafting off him as his warm breath caressed her ear. Damn. She was an idiot to
even think the guy smelled heavenly.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” His whisper tickled the side of her neck with heat. She
swallowed hard at the way her body reacted to him.
“Curious about what? How you got into my home? Why you’re threatening me? Whether
you’re going to kill me?” At her words, he jerked back from her, his features hard as an ice
sculpture.
“If I wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now show me the coin.”
Something in his voice warned her to do as he said. She sidled past him, noting the small
earpiece and wire that disappeared beneath his clothing. Her heart sank. He wasn’t alone. He’d
brought backup.
Shaking with fear, she leaned over the desk and pushed the papers aside, taking care not to
expose the cipher. Her fingers never even came close to the coin before it flew past her into his
hand. God, how in the hell did he do that?
Transfixed by his ability, Emma stared at him in awe and terror. She’d heard of telekinesis,
but never seen it in action. And unless he was a magician, she couldn’t come up with any other
explanation. He studied the antiquity for a long moment then sent her a grim look.
“Where did you get this?”
“Charlie Russwin. I’m not sure where he found it,” she answered automatically.
“This one is different from the other one,” he murmured as he looked at the coin again.
“The Sicari emblem isn’t as clearly defined.”
Floored by his statement, she stared at him with her mouth open for several seconds. How
did he know about the other—? Cairo. He was the man she’d seen in the shadows at the police
station. She should have realized it sooner. It was why he’d seemed so familiar and yet
unrecognizable. Her gaze narrowed as she watched him examine the coin.
“You were at the police station.” At the quiet accusation, he slowly raised his head to look
at her. His expression revealed nothing, but she thought she saw a glint of admiration in his dark
gaze.
“Yes.”
His brevity annoyed her.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“For the moment.”
There it was again, that amusement of his. She wanted to punch him. Who was this guy?
There weren’t many people who knew about the Sicari Order, even among academicians. He
extended his hand to return the coin to her. She hesitated. What kind of thief would give it back
as if they’d been discussing work?
His amusement deepened as his dark eyes dared her to take it from him. Infuriated by the
challenge in his glittering gaze, she snatched the bronze currency from his grasp. The moment
she came into solid contact with the coin and his fingers, a strong charge of electricity charged
through her. The images came fast and furious. Dark, mysterious, and potent, they held her
powerless.
Suddenly, death filled Emma’s mind with its foul stench. Dark, torturous, and bloody. The
Roman solider was dying. He laid the coin in the palm of a young man’s hand and wrapped the
fingers around the coin. The new owner lifted a young boy up onto a horse then gave the child
the coin, pointing to the words on its surface.
As if someone had spun her around until she was dizzy, the images collapsed in on one
another until a clear picture came into focus. The hooded figure, his cloak flowing out behind
him, strode through a massive cathedral. Deadly purpose filled the assassin’s stride, the coin in
his pocket a family talisman. He vanished in the shifting images until a woman’s face flashed
before her.
Death had frozen the woman’s pain on her face. Then with the speed of a freight train, the
vision threw her forward. The stranger stood over a dead man, his sword dark in the moonlight.
Blood covered his hands and she wanted to scream at the sight of it. Rage, pain, grief, love, and
something much darker flowed through the coin and his fingers and into her mind. The
overwhelming power of it made the room spin as she fought to remain upright.
Desperate to break the connection and find sanctuary from the deluge of emotions, she
jerked her hand free of his. The Sicari coin fell to the floor, where it bounced several times with
a repetitive clang until it went silent.
The man reached for Emma, but she staggered away with a cry that stopped him. Falling to
her knees, she bent over to touch the floor and prayed for the nausea to pass. Once in a while,
she’d pick up images from another individual when they’d hand her an artifact. Never anything
like this. The intensity of the graphic scenes and the emotions she’d felt had been overwhelming.
“Let me help you.”
His words struck her as funny. He’d broken into her home, demanded she hand over an
object she didn’t have, and now he wanted to help her? It was his fault she felt so crappy. She
choked out a bitter laugh.
“No . . . thank you. I think you’ve done . . . quite enough for the moment.”
“You’re a telepath.” Crouching beside her, he studied her with thoughtful deliberation.
Like Lake Michigan during a storm, the deep blue of his eyes echoed with a mysterious, dark
danger. And he was dangerous. He’d killed before. She’d seen the blood on his hands. It chilled
her. No, it was the coin. Everything she’d seen had come from the coin. None of what she’d seen
was related to the stranger. Her breathing hitched at the memory of those last images. She had
never been a good liar.
“If you mean . . . I can hear what people . . . are thinking. No,” Emma muttered as her
equilibrium began to right itself. She uncurled from a fetal posture and eased herself up into a
sitting position. “When I touch inanimate objects—antiquities, I see images, flashes of past
events.”
“Does it always make you this ill?”
“No.” She pulled in a deep breath. “But then it’s unusual for me to see things when I touch
someone.”
Unusual? This was the first time she’d ever had a physical reaction this strong—this
overwhelming—when taking an artifact from someone else. Occasionally, she’d glimpse some
small tidbit of a colleague’s past when objects had changed hands. But even then, her physical
reaction had been little more that a bite of static electricity. Nothing so intense it would make her
sick to her stomach. Even then, all she’d ever experienced was an awareness of incidents, not
images. And most definitely not images like the ones she’d seen with this man. She shuddered.
He must have served as a conductor of sorts.
“But you did see something when I handed you the coin.”
The flat, emotionless statement made her heart pound as fear pumped blood through her
veins at an accelerated rate.
“Everything was pretty much a blur,” she lied as her gaze slid away from his. Strong
fingers grasped her chin, and she stiffened, waiting for the electric shock and the visions to
happen again. But they didn’t. She closed her eyes in a brief prayer of gratitude. He’d simply
been a conductor for the coin, which explained why some of what she’d seen had been
associated with him.
“I seem to recall advising you not to lie unless you do it well.”
A hint of irony touched his lips as he effortlessly pulled her to her feet. Large hands cradled
her waist as he steadied her. The touch made her heart skip a beat as a jolt of awareness slid
through her veins. Primal and intense, the sensation swept through her like a wave crashing
against a rocky coastline. Suddenly realizing she hadn’t contradicted him, she swallowed hard.
“No. Really. Everything was jumbled together. Most of it didn’t even make sense.”
Releasing her, he folded his arms across his chest to study her with a watchful gaze. His
features suddenly brought to mind the bust of Ptolemy they’d uncovered at the dig last year. The
arrogance and unrelenting expression on his face only emphasized his likeness to the ancient
Pharaoh.
“Most of it?” His eyebrow arched with wry skepticism. “What did make sense to you?”
That hadn’t been a question. More like a command. If she obeyed, he might let her live.
Chapter 3
Ares knew he intimidated her. The fear flashing in those wide hazel eyes simply confirmed
the knowledge. Yet she remained defiant. He liked that about her. Even that day in the Cairo
police station he’d admired her strength and courage.
She’d been even more frightened then. Frightened and vulnerable. It had been that
vulnerability that had made him reach out to comfort her when he shouldn’t have. But he’d been
intrigued by Emma Zale then just as much as he was now. And that wasn’t good—especially
when she was so easy on the eyes.
Her light brown hair barely touched her shoulders, and there was just a trace of red running
through it. The color suited the fire in her. A flash of spirit that still burned in those beautiful
eyes. Long, dark eyelashes almost brushed her cheeks as she averted her gaze in an attempt to
hide her rebellious expression.
Then there were her curves. She’d lost some weight since that day in the Cairo police
station, but she was still full and lush in all the right places. His fingers bit into his biceps.
Christus, he needed to focus on why he was here, not Emma’s softly rounded body.
But it was difficult to ignore the way her cardigan caressed amply rounded breasts or how
her jeans hugged her voluptuous hips. A man could get lost in her body if he played his cards
right. He grimaced at how easily she could distract him. She tilted her chin up and met his gaze.
“You’ve killed before,” she said softly.
He went rigid. Merda. What else had she seen? Tension stretched the muscles in his jaw so
tight his whole face ached. God help him, and her, if she knew too much. If the Praetorians
suspected for one moment—he dismissed the thought. She flinched as he narrowed his gaze at
her.
“You seem quite certain of your facts.”
“Well, I didn’t actually see you kill someone, if that’s what you’re implying,” she snapped.
“But I know death when I see it—feel it.”
He didn’t doubt her. He’d seen the morgue photos of her parents in her case file, and he’d
seen Russwin’s body in Cairo. He could empathize with her, too. But when it came to denying
his past—he couldn’t. As a Sicari, he was trained to kill. Blood stained his hands, but he killed
only to protect the innocent or administer justice when the legal system failed. A Sicari didn’t
kill for pleasure. It was against their code of honor. Now Praetorian warriors—those bastards
enjoyed torturing their prey. They didn’t believe in honor. If they’d ever had any honor at all, it
had died out of their bloodline when the Roman Empire fell.
“There are some who find killing a pleasurable occupation,” he said coldly. He didn’t like
admitting it, but the condemnation in her voice stung.
“I’m sorry.” She heaved a sigh. “I felt the pain of your loss, and I understand what it’s like
to want justice for someone you care about.”
The muscle in his cheek twitched. Mater Dei, the woman had seen a hell of a lot more than
he thought. Did she know the Sicari Order had a file on her—on her entire family? He should
have left the house the moment he realized she was here.
But he hadn’t.
Biting the inside of his cheek, he turned away from her. Leave it to him to trust his
librarians’ research and not his gut. Sandro and Octavia were going to wish they were still file
clerks when he got through with them. Emma Zale had never heard of the Tyet of Isis until
tonight. He’d bet his life on it.
Fotte. He’d put her at risk by coming here. All it took was one fleeting thought for a
Praetorian to realize she knew something—even if it was only a sliver of information. A growl of
frustration rumbled out of him. At this point he wasn’t left with much in the way of choices. He
whirled around to face her. She jumped back, her hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“Look, I don’t have what you’re looking for. So just go. I promise to forget the whole
thing.”
“It’s not quite that easy,” he muttered.
“Of course it is. You just turn and walk out of here.” She pointed toward the door. “You
can still walk, can’t you?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, her sarcasm made him laugh. She refused to be bullied
in spite of her fear. Eyes wide with surprise, she stared up at him. With another chuckle, he bent
his head toward her.
“I like you, Emma Zale.” She looked at him in amazement, and he laughed softly. “You’re
going to need that humor of yours.”
“How in the hell do you know my name?”
“The same way I knew where to find you.” He shrugged. The less she knew, the safer she
was. The more she knew, the harder it would go for her if the Praetorians caught up with her.
“That’s not an answer and you know it.”
“True, but it’s the only one you’ll get for the moment.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you’ll have to come with me,” he said with resignation. Taking her with him was
the last thing he wanted to do. Emma Zale meant trouble. And problems he could do without.
She’d only complicate matters for him.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Her mouth tightened in a rebellious pout.
“Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice.”
“That’s what you think,” Emma snapped. With a vicious shove, she knocked him off
balance and leaped toward the door.
“Deus damno id, woman.”
He quickly recovered his equilibrium then reached out with his mind to stop her. She
stumbled as he forced her to face him. Gritting his teeth, Ares narrowed his eyes at her. It was
time Emma Zale realized exactly what she was up against. Slowly, he pulled her toward him.
She fought every step of the way, but he easily overpowered her resistance. His ability had
limits dependent on distance as well as his physical and mental exertion, but she didn’t know
that. And manipulating her wasn’t that difficult. With little effort at all, he forced her to cross the
room until she stood less than a foot away from him. Jaw clenched in anger, his thoughts sent her
stumbling forward until her body pressed into his.
The scent of coconut butter filled his nostrils as his body reacted to hers. The primal
response startled him. Arms at his sides, he held her tight against him with nothing more than his
thoughts. Damno, she felt good.
“Afraid?” he growled, irritated she could affect his senses so easily.
“No,” she snapped.
“Not even just a little?”
His anger gave way to something else as he studied the succulent fullness of her mouth.
The moment he visualized rubbing his thumb across her plump bottom lip, she gasped. Her hand
flew to her mouth, her fingers touching the spot that fascinated him.
“Let me go.” Anger made her eyes flash with amber sparks. Definitely feisty.
“I don’t see me holding you against your will.” He clasped his hands behind his back with
a sense of satisfaction. A second later, he pictured her arms sliding up to encircle his neck.
Outrage parted her lips in a loud gasp as she reached up to cling to him. He bit back a smile at
the sound.
“If you don’t let me go, I’m going to scream,” she snapped.
“No. I don’t think you will.”
Lowering his head, he lightly brushed his mouth across hers. Her body went rigid with
surprise, but he barely noticed as he unclasped his hands and reached for her waist. Sweet. She
tasted sweet with just a tinge of citrus. He wanted more. His hands cupping her face, he
deepened the kiss, teasing himself with the warm flavor of her. Releasing his mental hold on her,
he half expected her to pull away. She didn’t.
He nibbled at her bottom lip, waiting to see if she’d open herself up to him. When she did,
he eagerly explored the heat of her soft mouth. His body hardened in a split second. Christus, she
was hot against his tongue. Hot, sweet, and delectable. His hands slid down over her shoulders
and across her back until he cupped the lush curve of her bottom.
With a tug, Ares removed the breath of air between their bodies, his cock pressing into her
soft thigh. Desire sent his hand upward over her hip until his fingers brushed across the fullness
of her breast, and his thumb rubbed over a hard nipple. She felt good. Sexy and tempting in the
best possible way.
The image of her naked beneath him sent his temperature skyrocketing. His control slipped
further as she shifted her hips against his in a carnal move that left him throbbing with need. The
buttery sweet fragrance of her filled his senses, whetting his appetite for more. A moment later,
her hand caressed him through his trousers. He groaned with pleasure as he eagerly pressed
himself into her palm.
Damno, he wanted her hand around his bare flesh. No, he wanted a hell of a lot more than
that. And God knew she was eager and willing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been
laid, and this woman would be a hell of a lot more than just a one-night stand. The sweet softness
of her would keep him coming back for more of the same. The jarring thought pierced the
emotions raging through him. Fotte. What was he doing?
He jerked free of her and shoved his fingers though his hair. He’d only meant to silence
her. He’d known she’d be trouble, but this had the makings of a disaster. He shot her a quick
glance then looked away. That flushed, just kissed, look of hers only managed to make him
hotter and a damned sight more uncomfortable. Furious with his behavior and his lack of
discipline for the second time in one evening, he gritted his teeth. The best way to deal with the
problem Emma Zale posed was to keep his distance mentally and physically. Still infuriated by
his inability to master his attraction to her, he scowled at her.
“Do you wish me to continue my demonstration?”
“Of what? Your ability to control my physical movements or your unwanted attentions?”
She returned his glare as she deliberately wiped her hand across her mouth. His eyes narrowed.
“I don’t recall you protesting too loudly,” he snapped.
Heat crested in her cheeks as Emma clenched her fists. Hell, he was a manipulative bastard,
but he was right. She had kissed him back. She’d enjoyed kissing him. Worse than that, she’d
caressed the hard thickness of him with the intimacy of a lover. And she’d wanted him. Wanted
him in the worst possible way. The hot ache between her thighs told her that.
What had possessed her to get so caught up in a kiss she’d been willing to let him do
whatever he wanted with her? She winced with disgust at her thoughts. She was out of her
frigging mind. The man had broken into her home, held her hostage—how in the hell could she
be attracted to him?
The muted chime of the doorbell suddenly echoed in the study. He jerked his head toward
the closed door. She watched him as he evaluated the situation in the same way a predator
calculated threats. The doorbell rang again. Without a word, he reached out and grabbed her arm.
Dragging her with him, he pulled her into the dark hallway. The blackened corridor made her
balk. It had been this dark when she’d found Charlie.
“No,” she exclaimed. “I—”
In a heartbeat, he covered her mouth with his large hand and jerked her backward into his
chest. The moment his hard, muscular frame pressed into her back, a rush of heat flooded her
veins. Nestled against him like this created a pleasurable, intimate warmth she didn’t want to
enjoy. But she did. She liked it far too much. God, she really had lost her mind.
“Were you expecting someone?” he breathed into her ear. “Just nod yes or no.”
She nodded. Earlier at the memorial service, Ewan had said he might come by to check on
her. If it was anyone she knew, it would be him. The doorbell chimed again and once more
immediately after. Only Ewan rang the bell like that. Impatient and often irritating, it didn’t
change the fact that he was brilliant when it came to ancient civilizations.
“It’s my friend, Ewan,” she mumbled into the hand covering her mouth.
The intruder tightened his hold on her, his arm riding up to brush against the underside of
her breasts. Her body tingled at the contact. The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek as he
pressed his mouth to her ear.
“It’s not safe for you here, Emma.” He hesitated. She could feel it in the way his hard body
relaxed against hers.
He eased his hand away from her mouth and turned her to face him. The indecision in his
expression startled her. After everything she’d seen, she knew it was a foreign emotion to him.
For the first time she began to think he really was concerned for her welfare. She shook her head
slightly.
“Why isn’t it safe?”
“I can’t tell you that right now. There’s no time. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Oh right,” she sniffed with derision as the doorbell rang again. “Look, if I don’t let Ewan
in, he’s going to call the police.”
“Answer it,” he rasped with harsh resolve. “But when he’s gone, you’re coming with me,
Emma. Count on it.”
“Go to hell,” she snapped in a breathy whisper as the doorbell rang again.
He gave her a slight push toward the foyer. Although it was still dark in the hallway, her
eyes had adjusted to the small amount of available light. And for some reason his presence made
the darkness a little less threatening. That made it official. She was insane. Stumbling forward,
she moved down the hall as the doorbell rang for a fourth time.
“Hold your horses! I’m coming,” she called out.
As she reached the front door, she looked over her shoulder. She couldn’t see her fallen
angel hidden in the shadows, and her heart jumped with dismay. With a quick flip of the hall
light switch, she illuminated the entire corridor. He’d simply vanished. A shiver trailed down her
spine. God, what the hell was going on here? This guy made Houdini look like an amateur. No,
not a magician. The stranger was anything but that. Her hand slid over her wrist as she recalled
his uncanny ability. Turning back to the door, she reached for the doorknob then froze. The
deadbolt hadn’t been touched. How in the hell had he gotten into the house? The sudden
pounding on the opposite side of the door made her jump.
“Emma? Are you quite all right?” Ewan’s distinctive English accent echoed through the
door, and she heaved a sigh of relief.
Without hesitation she unlocked the door and tugged it open. For once, she welcomed the
sight of Ewan’s angular features and graying hair. Most of the time, his pompous attitude grated
on her, but after the day she’d had, well, even the devil himself would be welcome. She winced
inwardly. Definitely the wrong choice of phrase. Lucifer had come and gone already, leaving her
more confused than she’d ever been in her life.
Always meticulous in appearance, Ewan Redmurre was a throwback to a fifties-era
professor. Any fashionista would have a stroke just looking at him. But Ewan’s look fit his
personality. Somewhat stuffy, rich in anal-retentive detail, but mostly—brilliant. Tonight,
though, the rain had left him drenched and he was obviously displeased about it.
“What the devil took you so long?” he groused as he stepped into the foyer. “I’m soaking
wet.”
She jumped aside as he shrugged out of his trench coat and proceeded to shake the rain off
it onto the entryway’s floor. Gritting her teeth at the action, she took the coat out of his hands.
Okay, warm fuzzies about Ewan were gone. Didn’t the man believe in umbrellas? Not waiting
for him to shake the water off his fedora, she lifted it off his head then hung both items on the
peg hooks next to the door.
“I was . . . talking with someone . . .”
Remembering the intruder’s concern for her safety, she frowned. Her hesitation surprised
her. Ewan might be an ass sometimes, but she’d known him since before she could walk. He’d
been a friend of her parents since their college days. Like Charlie, he’d been a rock she’d leaned
on after her parents’ murder five years ago. She’d relied on him again today at Charlie’s
memorial service. But the stranger’s concern had been so compelling . . . and for some crazy
reason, she trusted him to keep her safe. No, she’d tell Ewan later when she had a better grasp of
the situation.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked.
“Whiskey neat, if you please.”
She nodded at his request and passed through the living room into the kitchen. It didn’t take
long to find the whiskey because the pantry was bare. She made a mental note to go grocery
shopping.
“This someone you were talking with wouldn’t be that Frost fellow, would it?” Ewan’s
crisp accent floated into the kitchen like a brisk breeze. “The last thing you need is to be talking
to that moronic jackass.”
The mention of Jonathan made her flinch, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at
the older man’s comment. She chose to laugh. Jonathan would have been livid to hear himself
referred to as a jackass, let alone stupid. Her ex-fiancé believed himself to be urbane and
sophisticated, but he was really a liar and a cheat. Whiskey bottle in one hand and two glasses in
another, she returned to the living room and arched an eyebrow at her guest.
“I haven’t seen Jonathan since the Institute’s annual fundraiser last year.”
It had been an awkward evening at best since it had been the first time they’d met since the
end of their relationship. She finished pouring the whiskey, and the liquor bottle clinked softly
against the wood surface of the coffee table as she set it aside. She forced a smile to her lips and
offered Ewan a glass of amber-colored liquid. Deliberately, she ignored the frown of concern
furrowing his brow. Instead, she plopped down into the plush corner of the couch. Ewan sent her
a discerning look.
“I see. At least you’re not still carrying a torch for the fellow.”
“Nope,” she said in a carefree tone. She might not love Jonathan anymore, but the mere
mention of his name could still make her stomach churn with nausea and pain. Finding him in
bed with his anthropology intern two years ago hadn’t been nearly as painful as discovering the
real reason for his marriage proposal.
“Your reluctance to discuss this mysterious individual leads me to assume this is an affair
of the heart. Have I met the young man?”
“I don’t think so.”
She could have told him about her visitor, but she really didn’t want Ewan to fuss over her
safety. The stranger’s dire warning flitted through her head again. He’d been convinced she was
in real danger and equally concerned about her safety.
An oxymoron given the man had accosted her in her own home. Well, maybe “accosted”
wasn’t the right word. Hell, he hadn’t even told her whom she needed to be afraid of. On top of
that, she didn’t even know his name.
“Have you heard from the Institute about when you can return to work?” Ewan’s words
made her shake her head.
“Dr. Stuart wouldn’t give me a date. Apparently, there’s some concern that I’ve become a
liability for the university unless I shift my field of expertise to something more local.”
“Local?”
“I believe he mentioned the word ‘classroom.’” She didn’t bother to hide her disgust.
“Bloody hell! The man is mad to think about putting you in the classroom.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence regarding my teaching skills,” she said with more than
a hint of sarcasm. He waved her protest aside as he leaned back in the recliner opposite her.
“No, no, my dear. Stuart’s a fool not to send you back to Egypt. Your work in Ptolemy’s
tomb has been exceptional. Charles found the damn thing, but you’re the one whose work has
made the excavation the success that it is. Even Michael Granby admits that, despite the man’s
proclivity to tout his own credentials.”
Ewan pulled a pipe from his coat pocket with a pouch of tobacco. With his usual precision,
her friend packed the bowl and proceeded to light it. Emma closed her eyes briefly as the
tobacco’s aroma drifted across the room to tease her nose. The same brand her father had
smoked. Her dad had always enjoyed his after-dinner pipe. She could still see him sitting in his
recliner ready to debate his favorite topic—Ptolemy and the Sicari who’d served him.
The image was so real in her head, she tensed as she waited for her mother’s voice to echo
out of the kitchen. But the sound never materialized. She opened her eyes and smiled at the man
across from her. Ewan Redmurre rarely handed out compliments, and earning his praise meant
she’d done something special—significant. She savored the thought.
She’d worked hard to build her reputation without the use of her unique gift. An ability
Jonathan had thought he could exploit to his advantage. She thrust all thought of her ex-fiancé
out of her head. Ewan Redmurre had just paid her one of the highest compliments she could ever
receive. His approval wasn’t to be taken lightly given his degree of influence at the Oriental
Institute. A member of the Institute’s Board of Directors, his power could easily advance or
sidetrack any career.
“Thank you, Ewan.”
“You’re welcome.” He gestured at her with his pipe. “I don’t suppose they allowed you to
keep your notes, did they?”
The subtle change of subject didn’t surprise her. Ewan always kept the best interests of the
Institute at the forefront of anything he did. “Actually, they did. That and something else.”
“Something else?”
“It was in Charlie’s belongings. A coin.”
“Good God,” Ewan exclaimed.
“Well, it’s not like I knew it was there,” she snapped in a defensive tone. “It’s not my fault
the authorities didn’t find it when they searched through everything.”
This last statement held more than a trace of bitterness as she remembered her ordeal in
Cairo and the way her things had been recklessly tossed into several large boxes. Ewan sent her a
sympathetic look.
“I can’t imagine they made it easy for you. I take it they brought up the subject of your
parents as well?”
“Yes.”
She bobbed her head and glanced away from him. The rawness of the pain still lingered
beneath the surface even after five years. Charlie’s murder had brought it all back. The memories
she’d managed to keep at bay. There hadn’t been anything unusual about the dig she and her
parents had been excavating. Everything had been quite normal until the night her mother and
father failed to show up for dinner. When it grew late, she’d ordered the men to spread out and
find the couple. Kareem had been the first one to find her parents. Even now, she could still hear
his wailing cry of terror. She crushed the dark memories and turned her head back to Ewan. A
look of assessment darkened his brown eyes.
“So where is this coin?”
“Let me go get it,” she said as gulped down the rest of her whiskey and unfolded herself off
the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
Heading down the hall to the study, she half expected her mysterious stranger to
materialize out of thin air. She certainly didn’t like the disappointment that flared through her
when he didn’t appear. As she entered the office, she glanced to her left, fully expecting to see
the knife still stuck in the wall. But it was gone.
Startled, she came to an abrupt halt. It had been in the wall when Ewan had rung the
doorbell. She turned toward the desk. The knife sat on top of the papers covering the desktop.
Her stomach lurched with apprehension as she sprinted forward.
Pushing papers first to one side and then to another, she realized the worst had happened.
The bastard had let her answer the door while he came back here to take the coin. Furious, she
slammed her fists into the desktop.
Chapter 4
The rain eased slightly as Ares DeLuca stood in the shadows surrounding the Zale house.
The Emma he’d just met bore no likeness to the dry information in her file. She was feisty,
vulnerable, and intelligent, with a bite of sarcastic humor. That, and a body designed by Titian.
Id damno. If he didn’t get his head back on straight, he’d make an even bigger mess of
things. He’d made more mistakes tonight than in the entire time he’d been Legatus of the Order’s
Chicago guild. Mistakes like knowing zip about Emma’s special ability.
How in the hell had Sandro and Octavia missed that? Her file mentioned nothing about a
psychic trait. He frowned as he studied the dark window of her study. With just one touch, she’d
learned far more about him than she needed to know. Knowledge was power, but it was also
dangerous if you didn’t have all the facts. And Emma was a babe in the woods when it came to
knowing anything about the Praetorians. It certainly hadn’t helped matters that she’d seen his
past as well. The horror in her eyes had reflected his past in all its darkness. It was the first time
he’d ever regretted being a Sicari. His jaw clenched at the thought.
Regrets. He wished he’d never kissed the woman. In Cairo, he’d allowed himself to reach
out with his thoughts to caress her cheek. She’d seemed so lost, and he’d wanted to comfort her.
But kissing her tonight? That had been madness in itself. All his Sicari training had fallen by the
wayside the moment her body had pressed into his.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d failed to block out all emotions and focus on the
assigned task. He hadn’t screwed up this badly since . . . he released a grunt of anger. The past
was done. Emma was the priority now. And it took only one Praetorian passing by her in public
to pick up on her thoughts.
Once the pride of Ancient Rome, and Caesar’s personal guard, the Praetorians had made
the Sicari outlaws. From behind the cloak of the Church, they’d denounced the Sicari as
assassins with evil powers. They’d rounded up men, women, and children like cattle and burned
them at the stake or crucified them.
Those who escaped went into hiding, eventually becoming the assassins the Praetorians had
branded them just to survive. Nor was it surprising their enemy had conveniently forgotten to
mention anything about their own special powers. Abilities the Church would have viewed as
coming from the devil. Telling their superiors in the Church they were telepathic would have
made the Praetorians a target for persecution as well.
Fotte. He should have made Sandro and Octavia double-check their information on Emma
before he barged into her home. Russwin’s notes had made it sound like she had the Tyet of Isis,
and he’d been more than willing to believe it. He’d gotten his hopes up thinking he was finally
going to learn where the Tyet of Isis was. He didn’t like making mistakes like this. Just one
fleeting thought stirring in her head about him, the Tyet of Isis—any of it—could mean her
death. Clearly the Zales hadn’t shared what they knew with Emma. Unless, of course, she was
already working with the Praetorians . . .
Tension made his muscles grow taut. He hadn’t considered that possibility. In the next
breath, he dismissed the notion. Her confusion tonight had been genuine. The Order had placed
her under surveillance some time ago. If she’d been involved with the Praetorians, there would
have been a note in her file. Her parents had been under surveillance for almost five years prior
to their deaths, and extensive background checks had turned up nothing on the couple. It had
been the same in Emma’s case. There hadn’t been even the slightest connection to the sworn
enemy of the Sicari. And despite what some in the Order believed, working for the Institute
didn’t make her guilty.
Scowling, he released a harsh breath through his clenched teeth. It had been a mistake to
come here tonight. Merda. He should have been more patient. More careful. The Tyet of Isis had
been missing for more than two thousand years. A few more weeks of surveillance on Emma
would have been prudent. But he hadn’t chosen that path. Instead he’d put her in danger by
plowing into her life like a bulldozer.
Once Emma got rid of her visitor, he’d convince her to come with him. He grimaced. More
likely he’d have to kidnap her. The Sicari complex on Wacker Drive would have to suffice until
he could figure out a way to protect her. He snorted with disgust. Protect her? He was delusional
if he really believed Emma would ever be able to live by herself again. The Praetorians would
stop at nothing to destroy the Sicari, even if it meant murdering innocent bystanders. He’d
dragged her into this centuries-old conflict and he refused to let her become a victim of it.
Buy Assassin’s Honor Now
§ § §
Critical Acclaim
Reviewers Choice Award
“…fast paced, deliciously sexy and highly unique — another winner [for Burns] and most
definitely a must read.” — Two Lips Reviews
TOP PICK
“Monica Burn’s weaves a wonderful tale, building a mythical world and blending it beautifully
with modern civilization. I loved her voice, it was so full of passion and adventure.” — Night
Owl Reviews
“The sexual tension that builds between these two is exciting and delicious and when they finally
come together, the wait is certainly worth it.” — Fiction Vixen Book Reviews
FRESH PICK
“The Fresh Pick is chosen by a group of readers…appeals to us and we like to share our diverse
tastes in reading and hope you’ll give it a try. — Fresh Fiction
“The lead couple is a terrific pairing while the support cast enhances the sense of a long running
deadly feud. Assassin’s Honor is a spellbinding tale.” — The Best Reviews
“Sizzling talent Burns kicks off the Order of the Sicari series, exploring a deadly and ancient
feud between the Praetorian Guard and the legendary Sicari assassins. Besides the main
protagonists, there are a number of intriguing secondary characters. A great start in a very
promising series!”
— RTBOOKreviews
—§ § §—
Assassin’s Heart by
Monica Burns
Book 2 in the Order of the Sicari series
Read Four Chapters Now
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
“…delicious sensuality and heroes to die for?
Look no further than Monica Burns’ Sicari
brotherhood.”
— Lucy Monroe, USA Today bestselling
author
The truth of the soul.
Lysander Condellaire never understood why he had telepathic and telekinetic powers until the
night his Praetorian father tortured him and left him for dead. Now, the half-angelic, halfdemonic face he sees in the mirror is a reminder of the monster he must keep hidden or face
expulsion from the order of assassins know as the Sicari. But his dreams of Ancient Rome hint at
a destiny he finds hard to accept, especially when it involves the woman he loves, but can never
have.
The consequences of desire.
A gifted healer in the Order, Phaedra DeLuca witnessed her mother’s murder when she was just
a little girl. The haunting memory makes her loathe everything Praetorian. When she travels to
Rome in search of an ancient artifact, she must work alongside a man who once cruelly rejected
her love and healing touch. But her dreams of Ancient Rome tell of an irreversible and possibly
dangerous future. For the distant past and present are about to collide–with the one man she is
destined to love.
§ § §
Chapter 1
A Year Ago, Chicago
Lysander woke to screams. Pain was the next signal he was still alive. The cut on his thigh
ached with the force of a charging bull ramming a horn into him. The screams intensified. They
sounded like an animal’s high-pitched squeals of terror and pain. His gut twisted. Dominic? Or
Peter? He instantly reached out with his mind, and tried to figure out how many Praetorians were
in the other room. Not a single emotion or thought.
Christus, how long had he been out? His telepathic ability had never been that strong, but at
least he should have been able to know how many of the bastardi were out there. A salty taste on
his tongue said his mouth was full of blood. He spit it out onto the floor and opened his eyes. The
darkened room was not much bigger than a storage room. Nylon rope bound his wrists, pulling
his arms up over his head in a painful stretch. He tugged on his restraints gently.
Merda, he hurt. How long had he been hanging here? The screams on the other side of his
prison’s door rose on a wild crescendo until they died down to low piteous cries. Praetorians had
developed their torture skills during the Inquisition. Technology had just updated those skills. A
cold, vicious bite of unfamiliar emotion tried to surge through him. He suppressed it.
No one survived Praetorian torture sessions, and the remains of the Sicari he’d seen said
they’d died an agonizing death. He closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to shut out those
gruesome images. Think about something else. Phaedra. The ugly emotion building inside him
eased slightly. Deus, she had a gorgeous mouth. And her hair. Soft as silk. Threading his fingers
through that dark silk last night . . . last night. He winced as grief lashed at him. Maybe the
Elysium Fields would let him recreate those incredible moments with her as often as he wanted.
Beside him, a soft whimper of fear forced him to turn his head. Marta. A few feet away, he
saw his healer tied to the wall. Praise Jupiter, at least she was still alive. In the next breath, he
remembered what happened to healers. Guilt gnawed at him with savage glee.
“Marta?”
“I’m scared, Lysander.” The terror in her voice almost made him give in to his own fear.
“I know, cara.”
“They took Peter first.”
It was a simple statement, meant only to inform, but it sent more guilt slicing through him.
This was his fault. He should have known something was wrong the minute they entered the
warehouse.
“Marta—”
“Let it go, Lysander. You’re not to blame.” Her forgiveness ate away at him, but he
ignored it.
“We’re getting out of here.” His fingers explored the knot of nylon holding his wrists
together in a painful grip. Sailor’s knot. Immediately, he visualized the rope slipping apart in
opposite directions until it released him. Nothing happened. In the near darkness, he saw Marta
turn her head toward him.
“It won’t work.” The word was a quiet sigh of defeat. “They gave the three of you some
type of drug to suppress your telekinetics. Dominic tried to free himself all the way up to the last
minute, but he couldn’t. We’re going to die here.”
No. The Praetorians wouldn’t let her die. She was breeding stock.
He buried the thought and returned his attention to the rope holding him hostage. Closing
his eyes, his fingers helped him memorize the way the rope was tied. The screams in the other
room gained momentum again, and almost as if they came from a distance, he heard Dominic’s
thoughts. A whisper more than anything else. Nothing clear. The drug had to be wearing off. But
would it wear off in time to get him and Marta out of here?
The thought heightened his desperation to free himself. There wasn’t anything he could do
for his friend, but maybe he could get Marta out of here. Save her from a fate worse than what he
would end up enduring. Even knowing that didn’t make it easy to shut out the screams.
Almost as if she could read his thoughts, her fear vibrated through the room like an
instrument being played with a wild fury. It reinforced his belief that his abilities were returning.
He focused his attention on the knot, concentrating hard on mentally undoing the twisted fibers.
Dominic’s screams grew louder—bouncing off the walls of the room at a frightening level.
A sickening dread clawed at him. Concentrate. His friend was as good as dead. He had to focus
on getting Marta out of this torture chamber. Overhead, he felt a slight movement in the rope.
Triumph rolled through him. He wanted to tell Marta, but he didn’t. It would be cruel to
raise her hopes only to see them crushed if he didn’t succeed in time. The thought made him
work harder. The rope nudged its way free a tiny bit more. In the back of his mind, he heard
Phaedra’s voice whispering encouragement.
He was certain it was a figment of his imagination, but it bolstered his courage in a way
nothing else could. He’d be damned if he was going to lose her, just when he’d found her. He
turned his attention back to the rope, only to sense what seemed to be Phaedra’s fears for him.
Impossible. He knew full well it was simply his mind compensating for the pressure he was
under right now. The mind did strange things when it was under stress.
Once more, he focused on the rope, blocking out everything but the nylon knot. After
several minutes, the mental drain made him ease up on his concentration. Christus, this was
almost as hard as when he’d taken Cleo’s dare as a kid to unlock the cabinet holding the Order’s
sacred Assent of Office parchments. This time his failure wouldn’t be the Indictio. And right
now, he’d willingly take on that hard labor. He visualized the rope’s knot unraveling when a
sudden shift in emotions echoed in the back of his head. Dominic’s shrill screams swelled even
louder in the small prison then abruptly went silent. A dark emotion slithered through his veins.
“Lysander.”
The minute Marta said his name, he turned his head toward her. The resignation on her face
filled him with rage, guilt, and fear. He’d failed. He was going to die, and Marta—he shut down
the images of what she was going to endure.
“I’m still here, cara.”
“They’re coming.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely.
He frantically pictured the knot above his head falling open, releasing him from its hold.
When that didn’t work, base animal instinct took over, and he sawed at the nylon with his wrists
in a hopeless effort to free himself.
“Lysander?”
“I won’t let them breed me,” she whispered, almost as if consoling herself. “I’ll find a way
to keep that from happening.”
“Fotte,” he roared as the door to their prison flew open.
Blinded by the sudden light streaming into the room, he stretched out with his thoughts to
determine how many Praetorians there were. Two. Fear and rage swelled inside him as he
continued to saw at the rope with his wrists. Someone rushed at him and his last thought was of
Phaedra before the light in the room blinked out.
He awoke to find himself in restraints on a hard surface, his head locked into place by a
leather strap. The rafters directly above him said he was still in the warehouse. The soft clink of
metal tools hitting against each other made him want to turn toward the sound, but he couldn’t. A
quiet chuckle echoed in his mind, and he instinctively threw up a shield against the mental probe.
“Do you have a name, Unmentionable?”
The pleasant tone of the man’s voice didn’t ease the sudden fear crawling across his skin. It
increased it. He closed his eyes and tried to stem the emotion that threatened to drown him. No.
He couldn’t give in to the terror. It would drain his ability to keep this bastardo out of his head.
He swallowed hard and tried to focus on something pleasant. Something the Praetorian couldn’t
use against him. Flowers. When was the last time he’d bought flowers for someone? The thought
was idiotic, but he could sense the Praetorian’s irritation as his mental barrier kept the man from
probing deeper.
“Come now, Unmentionable. Tell me your name.”
“Why? It doesn’t really matter, does it?” An image of Phaedra slipped past the shield.
“Not really, but it does personalize the experience.” There was a note of amusement in the
man’s voice that said he’d seen Phaedra. It sent a bolt of rage through him.
“I’m sure it does,” he snarled as he opened his eyes to meet the flat gaze of the Praetorian.
He rolled saliva and blood around in his mouth and spat it at the man. “Lysander Condellaire,
Primus Pilus of the Order of the Sicari, son of Aurelia and Massimo Condellaire.”
“A Primus Pilus. I’m honored.” The man pretended to brush off a fleck of the spit that had
not even come close to him. “It’s not often I have a First Spear to administer redemption to. I am
Nicostratus. Your judge and jury. As a heretic, you may repent at any time.”
He didn’t answer. Something said this bastardo liked to talk to his victims, and he wasn’t
going to give the son of a bitch that satisfaction. In fact, he was going to fight hard not to give
the man any kind of response, no matter how bad—a red-hot needle of pain scraped its way
across his skin. He nearly bit his tongue off to keep from screaming out loud.
Instead, he dug his fingers into his palms, and his body jerked violently against his
restraints. It was impossible to escape the needle’s persistent fire or the excruciating pain. When
it stopped, he found himself breathing raggedly with relief—ready to sob. A moment later, his
body bucked hard against the straps holding him down.
Ever so slowly, the skin on his face gave way to the man’s cruel touch. Nerve endings sent
horrifying signals to his brain at their sudden exposure to the air. He almost wept from the pain,
but swallowed the cries he wanted to let loose.
“You’re a brave man, Condellaire. It’s not often I encounter an Unmentionablecapable of
holding back his cries when I strip his skin.”
Lysander opened his eyes and he choked on a rush of bile as Nicostratus showed him a
strip of flesh dangling from a pair of small forceps. He swallowed the bitter fluid in his throat,
but not before a wave of helplessness crashed over him. The emotion sent him spiraling down
into a dark place where he wanted to hide from what was happening to him. No sooner did he hit
the bottom of that hellish pit than he fought back. He bucked his body against his restraints.
“Fotte you, you Praetorian bastardo,” he mumbled, each word more agonizing than the last
as the movement of his lips tugged at the exposed muscles on his cheek. In his mind, he
visualized his fist driving itself into the man’s face.
His effort was rewarded by Nicostratus’s head flying backward from the invisible punch. In
less than two seconds, the man recovered and quickly reached for something on the tray next to
the table. Needle in hand, the Praetorian pushed up Lysander’s sleeve and proceeded to inject
him with something.
“You’re stronger than I thought. But this should keep you in check,” Nicostratus said with
just a hint of anger. The man started to push Lysander’s sleeve down but stopped. “Well now,
what have we here? A birthmark?”
The man’s voice was coaxing in a way that sent an icy sensation creeping over Lysander’s
skin. An instant later, the exposed nerve endings on his cheek lit up in a bitter blast of fiery pain.
Christus, the Praetorian was patting him on his exposed muscle. He fiercely bit down on the
groan rising in his chest. When he didn’t answer, the man made a small noise that indicated
curiosity.
“Tell me, Condellaire, did your mother ever explain where this mark comes from?”
“My father, you bastardo.”
“Your father. I see.”
A whisper of sound drifted through his head. The son of a bitch was trying to read his mind
again. Desperately, he fought to fortify the shield around his thoughts and filled his head with
nonsensical images. Anything to block the man’s probe. He would not let his mind betray the
guild or the Order. The Praetorian’s thoughts strengthened in an effort to dig deeper.
Lysander shored up the fragile wall he’d built inside his head with images of his mother.
Determination and willpower helped him to pull every memory of his mother he could find
inside him. The Praetorian chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Rather it encouraged the
helplessness that had taken root in his stomach and spread through every muscle in his body.
The man’s mental probe withdrew and Lysander’s muscles shuddered into a limp state, his
ability almost on the edge of failure. Christus, he couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t give this bastardo
that satisfaction. The sound of metal against metal told him the carving was going to begin anew.
Eyes closed and fists clenched tightly, he locked his jaw in preparation for the fiery needle to
carve its way into his skin again.
“This is for not knowing me, boy.”
Puzzled by the statement, the tension in his body eased just before the laser hit his skin.
One thin stream of fire after another flew across his eye in an X pattern. Deep in the back of his
mind, he started to sob from his inability to save his friends or himself from this hell. He was
powerless, and the knowledge crushed him. Somewhere he heard the sound of screaming, and he
realized it was him as the laser continued its terrible path across his cheek. He sank into the pit.
When he came to, he immediately wished he could crawl back into oblivion. He
automatically opened his eyes, and the action shot a bolt of lightning deep into the back of his
head as his eyelid pried itself off his seared eyeball. It pulled another roar of pain from him.
Nicostratus laughed.
“Now then, my son. We need to talk as we don’t have much time.”
“Just end it, you sorry fotte.” The pain it cost him to speak made him slide toward the dark
edge of the abyss, and he closed his eyes again.
“I’m not going to end it, Lysander. I couldn’t kill my own son.” The words ripped through
him with the same painful force of the laser the man had used on him. This son of a bitch wasn’t
just insane, he was sadistic.
“Merda di toro.”
“No, it’s true. I’m as surprised as you are. And I find it interesting that no one told you
about your mother and me. We had a . . . well, let’s say she resisted my charms.”
Pain made his thoughts sluggish. Resisted. Was the bastardo saying he’d raped his mother?
Not possible. The man was taunting him in an effort to break him down. The Praetorian made
one more attempt to break the last defensive wall he’d built around the Order’s strategic
information. Unable to think straight, an image of Phaedra filled his head, and he clung to the
memory of the night before. Nicostratus made an insulting noise.
“Ah, yes, that reminds me of how I fucked your mother. If I’d known she was ready to
breed, I would have taken her with me.”
“You’re a liar.” Each word sent fire shooting up into his brain; it took him a moment to
realize he was sobbing the words.
“No, my boy. Take a look.”
Lysander tried to keep his eyes closed, but fingers pinched his eyelid, forcing open the only
eye he had left. He stared at the mark on Nicostratus’s arm. Immersed in agony, he couldn’t
focus. Despite his uncertainty as to what he was really looking at, he wanted to throw up. Deep
inside him, a vague thought registered the image, but he refused to believe it. He tried to shake
his head.
“What?” he whispered, barely able to speak.
“Look closer, Lysander. It’s proof I’m your father.”
“A mark?” He closed his eye, praying for oblivion. Fingers pinched his eyelid again.
“The eagle. Do you see it?”
He groaned as he blinked and focused on the mark the man had on his arm. The bastardo
had lost it. That mark wasn’t an eagle—it was a bird. His mark was an eagle. His mother had
said it belonged to his father.
“Your’s . . . bird. Not . . . eagle.” He barely got the words out as he hovered on the brink of
consciousness.
“Look again, boy.”
Suddenly, there were two arms with matching eagles in almost identical spots thrust in
front of him. They blurred. He was seeing double, that’s all. The helplessness reached his heart,
tearing it apart like a rabid animal. He stared, his mind trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
“No.” He didn’t have the strength to shout, and the Praetorian laughed.
“But of course it’s true. I knew the minute I probed your mind. How else do you explain
your extraordinary ability to resist my repeated probes for information? A true Sicari might show
some resistance to me, but they would not be as strong as you.” Nicostratus made a soft sound of
amused disapproval.
“Not true,” he rasped then roared with pain as the Praetorian bastard lightly tapped his
skinned cheek again.
“You would have made a fine Praetorian, my boy. Your ability to defy the pain you’re in is
exceptional.”
The laser hit his skin again from his ear down to his jaw. The pain pulled a pitched scream
of agonized terror from him, and he fell backward into a black pool of nothingness—his last
thought was of ancient Rome and Phaedra running to meet him. He was home again.
He had no idea how long he’d been out, but when he awoke, everything was silent and
dark. Was it nighttime in the Elysium Fields? He tried to sit up. The slight movement sent fire
streaking through every cell in his body. He started to cry. The Praetorian had left him here to
die. Alone. His own son.
He grew still with horror. He wasn’t Sicari. He was Praetorian. The obscene thought pulled
a cry of denial from him. His mind hovered on the brink of despair. Impossible. It couldn’t be
true. But they shared the same birthmark. The whisper of truth curled through his head. He
wouldn’t believe it. The bastardo was lying. A teardrop rolled over his skinned cheek, and it
pulled a sob of anguish from him.
“Fotte. Fotte. Fotte.”
It was a roar of fear and helplessness, as well as a cry of agony. More tears flowed over his
bared muscles, until the pain sent him back to that dark place again.
Voices filtered their way down into the pit, and he shuddered with terror. They’d come
back for him. Like a wild animal anticipating more torture, he tugged at his restraints, ignoring
the fire that consumed his body. He wouldn’t be able to keep the son of a bitch out of his head
this time. He heard running feet, and then he smelled the soft scent of a woman. Marta?
“Dulce matris Deus.” Cleo leaned over him, her cool hand brushing across his forehead.
Horror widened her eyes as she stared down at him. In the next instant, she spoke into her mike.
“Lysander’s alive, but I don’t know for how much longer. He needs the Curavi. Now.”
He couldn’t hear the response she got, but a sudden image of Phaedra filled his head. She
was here. A subtle warmth filled him as her fear and worry for him whispered sweetly across his
mind. Deus, he needed her right now. Needed to feel her touch. Her hand in his, her healing—no.
The sound of feet pounded on the warehouse floor once more, and first Ares then Phaedra
came into view. He’d never seen a more beautiful, yet terrifying, sight in his entire life. He
couldn’t take part in seeing her lovely face marred by his injuries. Couldn’t let her see the
monster inside him. Terror lanced through him as she reached for his hand. Tormented, he
tugged at the restraints. If she touched him—tried to heal him, she’d see him for what he was. He
couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let her perform the Curavi.
“No. No Curavi.”
Cleo clamped down on his arm. “Christus, he’s out of his mind with pain.”
“For the love of God, Cleo. Tighten those restraints.” Panic laced through Phaedra’s voice.
“I can’t heal him if he’s fighting me. I’ll heal the lesser injuries first. Then we can transport him.
When we’re home, I’ll . . . I’ll do what I can for his other wounds.”
He saw her swallow hard and recognized her fear. The idea of her taking on his injuries
was a nightmare, but he knew without a doubt that when she touched him she’d be able to see all
the darkness inside him. He was too weak to keep her locked out of his thoughts if she touched
him. She’d see. She’d see everything because the pain was too horrible to prevent her from
learning the truth.
“No,” he roared. “No Curavi.”
The strength of his voice echoed loudly in the room, and he heard Ares utter a vicious curse
while Cleo grasped his hand in a death grip. Fear and horror darkened Phaedra’s eyes as she bent
over him. Her mouth brushed across the ear on his unmarked cheek.
“Let me do this for you, carino,” she whispered in a sweet, gentle voice. “I’m not afraid.”
“No. Refuse the Curavi.”
He tried to shake his head as he forged through the pain and ground out the words
forcefully. Couldn’t let her see. Her parents’ murder . . . hated Praetorians . . . couldn’t bear her
hatred. He felt himself slipping off into oblivion and climbed up the cliff back into the pain.
She’d heal him without his permission if he didn’t protest.
“Listen, you dumb son of a bitch.” Cleo’s voice was harsh. “You let Phaedra heal you or
I’m going to rip you a new one. You hear me?”
“No . . . dead already.” And he was. He was Praetorian, and if anyone found out . . . he’d
rather die.
“Give me your hands, Lysander. With your permission, I must touch you to heal your
injuries.” There was a frantic desperation in Phaedra’s voice, but it only made him clench his
hands into tight fists.
“I. Refuse. Curavi.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it was strong and determined. He heard someone nearby release
a vicious sound. Ares. His Legatus forcefully pushed Cleo aside to grip his arm.
“Take the goddamn Curavi, you sorry bastardo,”his guild leader ordered in a fierce voice.
Something wet hit his unscarred cheek and his gaze shifted from Ares to Phaedra. In the
dim light, he could see tears clinging to her lashes. He wouldn’t hurt her. Wouldn’t let her see he
was everything she hated. He loved her too much. He couldn’t let her see that or his shame. He
released a sob of pain.
“Is. My. Right. Refuse. Curavi.” Each word was a labor of effort to say.
“No,” Phaedra exclaimed violently. “I’m not about to let you die, you dumb bacciagalupe.
Ares, make him take the Curavi.”
“No. My. Right.” He hovered on the edge of light and dark.
“I can’t, Phaedra. If he’d been unconscious, it wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s refused.
There’s nothing I can do.” Ares’s voice was fierce with disgusted anger.
“Please, Lysander. Don’t refuse me.” His cheek grew wet as Phaedra bent over him, her
mouth against his ear. Her hand bit into his arm and he felt a pulse of energy as she pleaded with
him. “Don’t try to save me from the pain. Let me save you. I want to do this for you. I don’t want
you to die.”
The heat in her hand grew stronger, and a roar built in his chest. With a wild cry, he bucked
against the restraints holding him in place. Restraints that proved he’d been powerless against the
Praetorian, but he wasn’t helpless anymore. He had the right to refuse the Curavi. And for her
sake, he wasn’t about to let her heal him.
“Get the fuck away from me. I don’t want your goddamn healers touch. I refuse Curavi.”
The blast of words made him pay a dear price as a cloak of needles wrapped itself around him,
digging into every part of his body. He saw the agony flare in her beautiful brown eyes, and deep
inside a voice cried out for her. The only thing that kept him from taking his words back was the
darkness welling up inside him. He was Praetorian. There was nothing that could change that.
But it was his secret. A truth he couldn’t share with anyone, not even the woman he loved.
Chapter 2
Demetri. Phaedra awoke with a start. She’d been dreaming again. No, more of a nightmare,
because she’d been scared. The fragments of the dream were like dark tendrils she recognized
but couldn’t really see. The only thing she remembered clearly was that she’d been in ancient
Rome. Lysander had been there as well, but how or why, she couldn’t remember. It wasn’t the
first time she’d had this type of dream. But it had never made her feel this disoriented and scared
before.
Even her bed felt wrong. She shot upright. It wasn’t her bed. It was a sleeper chair in
Lysander’s hospital room. A quick glance at her watch said she’d been asleep about two hours.
That made for a total of about four hours in the last thirty-six. Her ability was always weaker
when she didn’t get enough sleep or if she drank too much. And she wasn’t sure her touch would
be strong enough to help Lysander if he woke up, let alone if he actually agreed to her
performing the Curavi this time.
Her gaze focused on the still figure in the hospital bed, and the soft sound of the heart
monitor filled her ears as if it were a booming church bell. Between his internal injuries, sword
wounds, and the side of his face stripped of skin, he was lucky to be alive. Bandages covered
most of his face, while she could see the black sutures on his lower lip. A white sheet and
blanket covered the rest of his visible injuries.
An overwhelming need to touch him swept through her, and she left her chair to move
toward the bed. She brushed her fingers through his short blond hair. He looked so helpless,
something she instinctively knew he’d hate. He shouldn’t be here. He should be completely
healed.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Why had he refused the Curavi? What had
possessed him to reject her healer’s touch? The only answer she could think of was that he didn’t
want her to suffer what he had. He’d been afraid for her. A tear slid down her cheek. Didn’t the
man understand she was willing to go to the depths of Tartarus for him?
The delicate creak of the room’s heavy oak door drew her attention away from Lysander as
she saw Ares enter the room. She immediately averted her head, and with a furtive swipe of her
hand, she dried her damp cheek. A strong hand clasped her shoulder, forcing her to turn around.
“I just talked to the doctor. He’s going to be okay,” Ares said. “He can have plastic surgery
to eliminate most of the damage.”
The words eased some of her fear, but not all of it. He’d been through a Praetorian torture
session. Something few Sicari had ever survived. The physical trauma was repairable, but the
emotional toll it extracted was high. A large number of survivors had deliberately thrown
themselves into combat situations where there was no hope of survival. The thought of that
happening to Lysander terrified her.
“Hey, you don’t have to stay here,” Ares said gently.
“No,” she whispered and looked at the wall clock. “There may still be time. It’s not been
quite twenty hours since we found him. There’s still a four hour window. It might be enough.”
She’d not explained her reasons for coming with Lysander to the Order’s central
headquarters in Genova, Italy, but Ares had agreed to her demand without any objection. Her
brother probably thought she was hoping to convince Lysander to accept the Curavi once he
woke. Doctors could repair his face, but she was the only one who might be able to give him
back his sight, and there wasn’t any guarantee she could do that for him. But there was a window
of time for healing wounds hardly ever extended past twenty-four hours. The longer the time
frame, the less likely the Curavi would work. Ares frowned at her.
“Phae, you’re the best healer the Order has, but the odds are he’s already past the turning
point, and not even you can heal him then.”
“Maybe, but I need to at least try.” She shook her head at her brother’s exasperated
expression.
“If Lysander rejected the Curavi when he was close to dying, what makes you think he’d
accept it now?”
“I don’t, but if he wakes up in time, I have to try.” She didn’t look at Ares. Instead, she
turned away from the bed and went to stand at the sliding glass door.
Designed with an eye toward a patient’s physical and spiritual needs, the secluded and
fortified hospital gave the Order’s patients access to sunshine and fresh air as part of their
recovery process. A large garden stretched its way outward from the small patio adjoining
Lysander’s room. In the early morning light, the beauty outside was a stark contrast to the pain
and darkness she knew Lysander was experiencing.
Deus, she hated the bastardi who’d done this to him. For almost two thousand years, the
Praetorians had hunted the Sicari. At one time, the Sicari had been a part of the Praetorian Guard.
Like their enemy, they’d served as bodyguards to the Caesars of ancient Rome, they’d had
wealth, position, and power. But the Guard had split at the time of Constantine I, and those in
power had cast out a select group of brothers. They labeled the outcast Sicari. Assassins.
They called the Sicari heretics, and yet like vermin they were, the Praetorians hid from the
world behind the robes of the Carpenter’s church. Using the banner of righteousness, they’d
sought to exterminate the Sicari, inflicting terrible atrocities on her people as well as the
innocent. A soft groan drifted through the air to pierce her thoughts. She whirled around to see
Ares move quickly to the bed, his hands on the bed rail, bending over his friend.
“Hey, how you feeling, amici?”
“Like stronzo.” Lysander’s voice was so soft she had to strain to hear him.
“Yeah, well you could be feeling a lot worse,” Ares joked. From where she was standing at
the door, she saw Lysander suddenly grab her brother’s hand.
“Marta?”
The one word question was little more than a hiss of air, and she saw Ares struggle to come
up with an answer. They’d found Dominic and Peter, but the Sicari woman was gone. Marta
would live, but in a living hell. The Praetorian bastardi would rape her constantly both for
physical pleasure and in an effort to impregnate her. Any children Marta bore would be taken
from her. The males raised in the Praetorian Collegium and the females murdered. The woman
would have been better off dying in that warehouse. Without hesitating, she went to the opposite
side of the bed.
“They took her,” she said, hating herself for it. She should have lied to him, but he would
eventually learn the truth. Stretching out her hand, she lightly touched him on the shoulder. With
a violent jerk, he retreated from her hand.
“No.” His dark growl was fierce and intense.
“Take it easy, pal.” Ares gently grasped the warrior’s arm. “It’s just Phae. You’re safe
here.”
“Leave, now.”
He didn’t say her name, but she knew he meant her, and the demand sent pain slicing
through her until she swayed on her feet. Fingers wrapped tightly around the cold metal of the
bedside rail, she met his gaze with her heart pounding like mad in her chest. Something wasn’t
right. She could almost feel the erratic swell of his emotions crawling across her skin. It was
unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Nothing was truly discernible except the bleak
darkness that consumed him. Wild and thrashing, it was frightening in its intensity.
Deus, it would eat him alive if he didn’t release it. It wasn’t unusual for her to feel or see
emotions or images when she healed someone. If she healed him, he might be able to release
some of the dark emotion inside him through her. The thought of taking on that horrifying
darkness sent a streak of terror slithering down her spine like a serpent poised to strike. She
shuddered. It didn’t matter. She could do this. She could do it for him.
“Ares, leave us.” Her soft command whispered across the bed, and Lysander almost
managed to jerk upright.
“No.” This time his objection was stronger, more forceful. Determined to get him to agree
to the Curavi, she glared down at him.
“Lie back down, you dumb bacciagalupe. You’re going to rip out some stitches or worse,
your IV,” she snapped fiercely. “Ares, get the hell out of here, now.”
The furious response silenced both men, and without another word, Ares left the room.
Alone with Lysander, she held on to the metal bar of the bed guard for dear life and stared down
at the stranger in the hospital bed. Her voice died in her throat at his granite expression. Dolce
matris Deus, what had they done to him, and would she survive the knowledge?
“Leave, Phaedra.” Cold and detached, the command made her flinch.
“Not until you let me try to heal you.” She fought to keep her voice steady, yet resolute.
“There might still be a chance I can—”
“You don’t know when to give up do you?” His voice was husky with pain, but there was
an odd note in his voice that had her nerve endings standing on end.
“No. Not if I believe I can help you.”
“I don’t want your help.” He shifted in the bed slightly, a grunt breaking past his lips. She
had to stiffen her body to keep from reaching out to touch him.
“I know you’re worried about my pain, but it comes with the territory. I promise you, I
won’t melt.” Her words tugged a soft laugh from him. It was a cruel sound, and it made her
flinch.
“Stop trying so hard, Phaedra. There’s no need to get sentimental on me.” The chiseled
expression on his face didn’t reveal anything. “We both know you can’t give me back my eye.”
“You don’t know that, and we won’t find out if you don’t at least let me try.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she gasped. “Because I want you whole again.”
“You want me whole again.” He repeated her words with a sarcasm that cut deep.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
She grabbed his forearm in anger. He knew damn well what she was trying to say. She
wanted to erase the horror he’d endured. She wanted to try and ease the darkness she sensed in
him. Free him from the inner pain that was gnawing at him like a mad dog. An invisible pressure
pried her fingers off his arm.
“Look, all I want is you out of this room and away from me,” he said in a disgusted voice.
She shivered. He was hurt. That was all. He’d seen the horror on her face last night. He
knew what a healer went through during the Curavi. He had to have known that first sight of him
had triggered fear. It was why he’d refused her touch. It’s why he was rejecting her now. He was
looking for a reason to get rid of her. But she wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
“Christus, do you really think it matters to me what you look like?” She smacked the cold
stainless steel barrier between them with desperate fury. “I don’t give a damn what you look like
as long as I’m with you.”
Her words hung in the air for a long minute as he just stared at her, his expression slowly
easing into one of amusement. It sent a wild streak of fear winding through her.
“With me?” His snort of laughter held a note of cold cruelty that made her clutch at the bed
rail in a frantic effort to stop her trembling.
“Yes, the other night . . .” Her voice trailed off for a second as a sneer tugged at his mouth
and his eyebrow went skyward. When he didn’t speak, she stumbled forward. “I thought that . . .
you and I—”
“Come on, bambino.” His green eye held an insolent gleam as he raked his gaze from her
face to her breasts then back up again. “The sex wasn’t bad, but did you really see it going
beyond a one nighter?”
The words hit her with the force of a hard slam to the training mat. She couldn’t move. All
she could do was struggle to find a way to absorb the blow. Her grip on the steel rail tightened to
the point she was certain she would bend the metal. He was lying. He had to be. Didn’t he? She
stared at the amused condescension on his face, her stomach lurching with a nausea that made
her want to throw up.
“If you’re doing this because you think last night changed things between us—”
“Look, dolcezza, it was just one fuck. Let’s not make it into something bigger than that.”
If his words weren’t crippling enough, the boredom in his voice was the same as if she’d
taken a Praetorian blade in her back. The pain of it made her legs buckle beneath her until the
only thing holding her up was her deadlock on the metal rail of the bed guard. Desperation
snarled its way through her as she stared down at him.
“You bastard,” she breathed as humiliation churned her stomach so hard she thought she’d
throw up what little food she had in her stomach.
She turned away from him slowly, her legs feeling rubbery. His face was almost out of her
vision when she thought she saw a flash of agony cross his face. She paused to look back, but
she realized she was wrong. He still wore the same contemptible smirk. Unable to bear looking
at him, she stumbled out into the hospital corridor. Ares was walking toward her and tried to stop
her. She brushed him off and headed for the main entrance. The sooner she was back in Chicago
the better. There were Praetorians to kill, and maybe, just maybe, she’d get lucky enough to find
a way to end her misery. The glass doors of the hospital entrance opened with a quiet swish, and
she walked out into the sunshine knowing the life she’d thought she had was over before it had
even begun.
Chapter 3
Rome, Seat of the Roman Empire
310 a.d.
“I intend to marry him.” Cassiopeia stared across the atrium at the tall Roman general
conversing with her father. Beside her, Octavian Julius Valeria frowned darkly.
“It’s a ridiculous notion, my pet. Maximus has nothing to offer in the way of family or
fortune. You should marry me.”
“I don’t love you, Octavian. But I do love Maximus.”
Her gaze never left Maximus. She was grateful for the cool night air that streamed in
through the opening in the atrium’s roof and the cross currents that pulled a soft breeze into the
peristylium. Watching Maximus made it much warmer in the house than it was. The sight of him
filled her with an ache that heated her blood with Apollo’s fire until it settled between her legs in
a rush of liquid warmth.
“Romans don’t marry for love. We marry to keep the patrician houses strong.” Octavian’s
tone was sharp, telling her he wasn’t happy at all.
“And Maximus will make the Atellus name stronger when father adopts him. Maximus
Caecilius Atellus. Just the sound of it rings with great strength. Our sons will ensure my father’s
name continues, and I shall have Maximus. It’s an excellent arrangement.”
“I’ve known Maximus for a long time. The man has an aversion to marriage.” Octavian
snorted with amusement. “What makes you think you can change his mind.”
“Because I intend to make him fall in love with me.”
Across the room, Maximus laughed at something her father said and that familiar tug on
her senses increased. His plebian family hailed from the northern part of the Empire, and the
Gaul influence showed in the dark blond hair he wore short. Although she couldn’t see his green
eyes from here, she knew how striking and unusual they were. He might not have patrician
blood, but he had the air of one. His strong nose and sensual mouth lent itself to the impression
that he was a noble. Venus could not have designed a man more delicious if she’d tried.
Normally, he wore his military uniform when he visited her father, but tonight he was dressed in
the fine robes indicative of the position Emperor Maxentius had given him in the Senate. She
preferred his uniform. It showed off his strong, sinewy legs and the strength of his arms. Arms
that held the promise of all measure of delights. She wanted to see all of him bared before her.
“If this is an attempt to have me express my feelings in poetry reminiscent of Ovid, I will
do that if necessary,” Octavian said quietly. When she didn’t answer, his voice sharpened.
“Don’t be a fool. He’s not good enough for you, Cassiopeia.”
Slowly turning her head, she studied the anger on Octavian’s face. It was unlike him to be
so quarrelsome with her. Octavian had been the one to introduce Maximus to her father. Eager to
appease her friend, she touched his arm lightly.
“Octavian, how can you say such a thing? Maximus is your friend.”
“Friendship is one thing. Marrying into a Patrician household is something completely
different.”
She frowned. Was her childhood friend right? As one of the senior statesmen in the Senate,
the name of Gaius Quinctilia Atellus was associated with fairness and levelheaded thinking. But
would he object to Maximus as a son-in-law? No. He liked her handsome Roman general very
much. If anything, her father would welcome Maximus into the family with open arms. The only
thing needed of her was to convince Maximus to fall in love with her. She shook her head.
“You disappoint me, Octavian. I never thought you would be in the camp of those who
prefer the Patrician class to remain pure. The fact that Maximus is your friend only makes it
worse.”
Without allowing the man to utter a response, she moved away from him. As hostess, she
found it necessary to stop and greet several prominent guests she’d invited at her father’s request.
It seemed to take an interminable amount of time to make her way around the shallow, waterfilled impluvium with its resplendent mosaic to where her general and her father stood. When
she finally reached the two men, she saw Maximus grow rigid with tension. His physical reaction
made her bite back a smile. He was aware of her more than he cared to admit. “Father,” she
murmured a greeting as she kissed his cheek before she turned to the man she intended to
conquer. “General, I’m delighted you could join us.”
Her hands outstretched, she forced him to take her hands in his. They were large hands,
rough and strong. The hands of a soldier. She wanted to feel their roughness against her skin. As
she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and then the other, he had no choice but to lower his head
toward her. Her cheek brushing against his, she pressed her mouth against his ear.
“There isn’t a woman in this room who can take their eyes off you. Including me.”
At her whisper, he pulled back abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at her. The
vivid green of his gaze studied her for a long moment before he looked at her father. She glanced
over her shoulder to see her father barely restraining his amusement.
“Forgive my daughter, Maximus. I’ve given her free rein for so long, it’s impossible to
control her.”
“Perhaps it’s simply a matter of finding the right hand to gentle her.”
The amused note in Maximus’s voice sent irritation spiraling through her. This wasn’t the
way he was supposed to respond to her. She suppressed her annoyance and forced a smile to her
lips as she summoned Adela to her side with a wave of her hand.
With only a small command, the freedwoman hurried away to find the dancers hired as the
evening’s entertainment. As music filled the room, she looked up at Maximus and offered him
her most beguiling smile. His green eyes darkened, and she quickly turned her gaze to the erotic
dance being performed in front of them. Suddenly, she realized it might be difficult to make him
dance to her tune.
Another senator hailed her father from across the room, and he excused himself, leaving
her alone with Maximus. Tension as finely taut as a spider’s web wove through her as she
watched the dancers. After a long moment, she braved a quick glance up at him. To her surprise,
he was openly studying her, and she could feel the heat of a blush cresting over her cheeks.
“You blush like a vestal virgin, my lady.” The whisper was almost a caress against her
skin, and the sound of his voice sent the blood pounding through her veins.
“Do I?” she choked out.
“Most certainly,” he said with a soft laugh that made her legs go weak. “It enhances your
beauty.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” Startled, she looked up at him in surprise.
No one, not even her father had ever said she was beautiful. A look of hunger swept across
his face and it sent a thrill whirling through her. Strong fingers bit into her upper arm as he
quietly pulled her away from the festivities, through the peristylium, and into one of the empty
rooms reserved for the family’s use. The scent of the flowers in the large garden that was the
peristylium drifted into the small room as he pulled the privacy curtain closed behind them. Her
heart skipped a beat, and she breathed in Maximus’s raw male scent as he advanced on her until
her back came up against a cool marble column. She was certain it was her imagination, but she
could almost feel his fingers caressing her throat before they trailed their way down to the valley
between her breasts. The fanciful sensation made her nipples grow hard as unripe cherries.
“You’ve been playing with fire for several weeks now, mea mellis,” he growled. “Exactly
what is your game?”
She’d seriously misjudged her attraction for him. He was far more devastating alone. She
swallowed hard and shook her head. “I don’t play games.”
“Then what is it you want from me, Cassiopeia?” The flicker of emotion in his piercing
gaze sent her pulse racing.
“You. I want you for my lover.” Unspoken emotion charged the air, and she knew better
than to elaborate any further.
He jerked upright with a shake of his head. “You’re a senator’s daughter.”
“And this figures into the equation how?” she said in an annoyed tone. She’d expected him
to scoff at a relationship, not to point out their different social stations.
“I’m a simple soldier.”
“Are you saying that in service to the Empire you’ve been injured in some way that
prevents you—”
In a split second, arms solid as oak pulled her into the heat of his body. He felt as good as
she had imagined he would. Hard, sinewy, and all male. Her body ached with need as his
erection beneath his robe pressed into the apex of her thighs. Desire spiraled through her and she
shifted her hips forward, wishing there was nothing between them to prevent him from sliding
into her. His mouth plundered hers and she sighed as his tongue forced its way past her lips in a
kiss filled with passion. He was hers. She knew that with even more certainty now. Almost as if
he could read her mind, he released her and put several feet between them. His breathing was
ragged as he studied her in the low light.
“You’re playing with fire, mea dulce.”
“No.” She shook her head and closed the distance between them. She curled her hand
around his neck then pulled his head down and brushed her lips against his. “I know what I want.
And I want you.”
He kissed her hard before his mouth trailed a hot path over her jaw and down the side of
her neck. Deus, the man’s touch was all she’d imagined. She trembled in his arms in anticipation.
The desire building inside her forced her hips forward to brush against his hard length beneath
his tunic. Heat pooled between her legs. She drank in the rough, male smell of him. If this was
what love felt like, what heights would her desire for him take her to?
The thought sent a shudder through her. It was still possible to lose him. He desired her, but
could she make him love her? What if she failed? She refused to consider the possibility. She
would win. She would have this man’s heart. There was no other option for her.
His hands skimmed up her arms to tug at the fragile material that was her gown. It gave
way beneath his rough fingers until the bodice fell to reveal a breast. Ever so slowly, his mouth
caressed its way from her shoulder to the taut nipple. He suckled her for a delicious moment then
eased his lips back up to her throat.
“Please, Maximus.”
“There will be no going back, mea dulce.”
“I have decided. You have no choice,” she whispered.
She was floating and she realized he was carrying her to one of the couches. By the gods,
he was going to make her his right now. Her heart tightened with love and joy. Now he might
feel only desire, but love could not far behind. The soft pillows of the couch pressed against her
back. With a gentleness that was at odds with his soldier’s hands, he pulled her gown up to her
hips.
Heat spread its way across her thigh as his fingers undid the cloth concealing her core. A
guttural noise rolled out of him as he exposed her to his eyes. His throat bobbed violently as he
swallowed. Against her skin, she felt his fingers tremble. Amazement swept through her as her
gaze met his. There was something else besides passion glowing there. It reassured her that she’d
made the right decision to force his hand. His touch parted her and she arched up against his
fingers . . .
§ § §
Rome, Italy
Present Day
The buzzer on the alarm clock shattered the dream, and Phaedra groaned with
disappointment as she slapped the snooze button to eliminate the annoying sound. She
desperately wanted to go back to sleep. It had been such a deliciously wicked dream. The only
problem was her body ached for the man in her dreams. Lysander.
Damn, it had been more than a year since he’d brutally rejected her that night in the
Order’s Genova medical center. Why was the man still haunting her dreams? She winced. She
knew why. Just because he’d crushed her heart hadn’t stopped her from loving him. She was as
big a fool as they came. Why couldn’t she get the man out of her heart and her head? The
thought tugged a groan out of her. And these dreams. They made no sense at all. Why would she
be dreaming about the first Sicari Lord and his wife, Cassiopeia?
For that matter, why did Maximus look like Lysander before the Praetorians tortured him?
She rubbed sleep out of one eye with the heel of her palm. Whatever the dream was trying to tell
her—and dreams always meant something—all she wanted was the man she’d fallen in love with
more than a year ago. A sigh of resignation whispered out of her. Whatever those Praetorian
bastardi had done to him, they’d destroyed that man. The man in that hospital bed hadn’t been
the same man who’d made love to her.
Her thoughts drifted back to that horrible morning. Pain forced her eyes closed. Hearing
those cruel words from him had been the most humiliating moment of her life. But worse was the
pain that had come with it. She’d left the hospital numbed to anything but her desire to strike
back. To make him hurt as bad as he’d hurt her.
And she’d worked hard to do that from the moment he came back to Chicago. Every
chance she had, she flung her barbs at him as if they were darts. But he never acted as if any of
her sharp jabs had hit their mark. That is until the night of Julian’s Rogalis, his memorial service.
The moment she’d blamed Lysander for her friend’s death she’d wanted to take the words back.
Her words had finally found their mark, and the anguish on Lysander’s face had twisted her
insides in a way that said she had gone too far. Out in the small sitting room, the sound of the
apartment door opening and closing with a loud bang echoed into the bedroom.
“Phae, you awake?”
She groaned. Cleo. Didn’t the woman ever sleep? Her friend had picked her up at the
Order’s private hanger at Rome’s International Airport when she’d arrived late last night, and
now she was up before her. She adjusted the spaghetti strap of her camisole nightshirt and slid
out of bed. Her friend wasn’t about to let her sleep any longer. Not that she’d be able to. She was
going to be on tenterhooks until she talked to Lysander and asked him why he’d summoned her
to Rome. Even more importantly, she was going to do something she never did. Apologize.
She grimaced at the thought. Apologies meant she’d screwed up. And even if the words
had been said in the height of her own grief and remorse, he’d not deserved the blame she’d laid
at his feet. Clearing the air between them would make the difference between this assignment
being tolerable or unbearable. The room’s cool air made her shiver, and she reached for her robe
as she headed toward the sitting room. The sight of Cleo seated on the couch, chewing on a
bagel, tugged a smile to her lips.
“Did you bring anything for me to eat?” Her question made the Sicari fighter turn her head
to look at her, a grin on her lovely features.
“Absolutely.” Cleo pointed to a small plate of fruit and cheese. “All I could find in the
fridge was some Romano. It’s a tad salty, but the fruit should take the bite out of it.”
Beautiful enough to be a cover model, her friend was tangible proof of their Roman
heritage. Mysterious dark eyes, midnight black hair, and a smile that could charm even a
Praetorian. But then Cleo was more interested in killing the Sicari’s sworn enemy than charming
them. An opinion Phaedra held with even more vehemence than her friend did. The bastardi had
stolen her childhood, and hurt the man she loved. As far as she was concerned, the only good
Praetorian was a dead one.
Phaedra curled up at the opposite end of the couch and reached for an apple. After a couple
of bites, she leaned forward to take some Romano off the plate. The hard cheese had a kick to it
and was a little salty like Cleo had said. Still, the Italian cheese was one of her favorites,
specifically for its sharp bite.
“So, what do you think this is all about?” Cleo sent her an arched look.
“What kind of question is that? We’re in Rome because Atia thinks the Tyet of Isis is
here.”
“Mother has always thought the Tyet of Isis was here in Rome, and you know damn well
that’s not what I’m talking about.” Her friend snorted. “For the past year Lysander’s been
emphatic about not having you on any of his teams then suddenly, whoosh, you’re on his team
here in Rome.”
“You’ll have to ask him that question.” She shrugged and took another bite of her apple.
The last thing she intended to do was let Cleo know how confused she was by this change
in him. But had he really changed? When she looked back over the past year without anger
fueling her perceptions, she was coming to realize he’d always had her back.
On the three occasions they’d actually served on the same reconnaissance team, his sword,
not her partner’s, had always been the one to save her at the last second. Then there was the night
Ares had run the gauntlet. Running through a corridor of armed Sicari warriors wasn’t supposed
to be painless. The brutal punishment for breaking one of the major laws of the Order had almost
killed her brother. For a healer to touch a survivor during the first twenty-four hours was a
punishable offense as well. But breaking the rules ran in the family. After healing Ares’s internal
injuries, she’d been weak as a kitten.
Lysander had been the one to see she got back to her room. The man had actually carried
her there. A moment that had delivered her into the Elysium Fields only to be pulled back into
Tartarus far too quickly when he’d left her alone. And he’d not betrayed her to Atia, the Prima
Consul. He’d kept her secret when the Order’s leader questioned them about the whole incident.
If he didn’t care about her, why would he do all that? Was it because he was Ares’s friend,
or was there something more to his behavior than she realized. Deus, she really was a fool to
think that. She suddenly realized Cleo had asked a question and was watching her like a hawk.
She frowned as she met her friend’s intense gaze.
“What?”
“I asked if you were okay with all of this?”
Without even trying, she could easily read Cleo’s concern. While her healing ability was
the strongest of her Sicari skills, Phaedra also had the ability to sense emotions in others. It was
like emotional radar. Sometimes it gave her only a sense of someone’s intentions, while at other
times she could read emotions buried deep beneath the surface.
Cleo wasn’t probing, she was just worrying about her as any friend would, and they’d been
friends a long time. It had been Cleo’s mother, Atia, who had taken her and Ares in after the
Praetorians had massacred their parents. The memory of those terrifying moments flashed in
front of her eyes.
The priest’s closet her mother had pushed Ares and her into as she kissed them good-bye.
The sound of her mother’s screams as she was being butchered. The peephole she’d peered
through to see her mother’s murderer. The face of the Praetorian that had haunted her all these
years. His cruel laughter as he’d reached out with his mind, trying to read their thoughts and
discover their hiding place.
From the age of six, she’d learned how to shield her thoughts from Praetorians, but her
skills and Ares’s hadn’t been fully developed then. The man had known it. He’d known it was
simply a matter of time before he found them. The only thing that had saved them was another
Praetorian ordering the murderer to leave.
“This whole thing really does have you shaken up, doesn’t it?” Her friend frowned with
concern.
“It’s a job, Cleo. Nothing more.”
“If that’s true, then why do you keep zoning out on me?” Cleo said with a snort of
disbelief.
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Right. So what are you going to do about it?”
“Do about it?” She knew exactly what Cleo was referring to but refused to go there.
“You need to talk to him about it.”
“About Julian’s Rogalis?” She grimaced and dodged the true intent of Cleo’s remark.
“I’m not talking about that, and you know it.” Her friend glared at her. “I’m talking about
that night in the warehouse.”
The statement immediately threw Phaedra back into the past, the pain of it sweeping
through her like a wildfire. The sight of Lysander lying on that metal slab, his entire body
reflecting a man on the edge of death. When she’d reached him, she’d expected him to be
unconscious, but to see him alert and in agony had been devastating. Then when he’d refused the
Curavi—she swept the memories aside.
“There’s nothing left to say.”
She recognized the hollow note in her voice. It represented that piece of her that was
missing. Cleo was right. There was a lot more she wanted to say. But Lysander didn’t want to
hear it, because he just didn’t care. Her heart contracted as she remembered his cruelty that night
in the hospital.
“Oh, puhleeze.” Cleo released a soft snort of disgust. “I know you better than that. Both of
you. That man didn’t refuse the Curavi for the hell of it. He was protecting you that night.”
The apple crunched as Phaedra bit into it. The sound reminded her how bruised and
battered she’d felt the morning she’d left Lysander’s hospital room. The pain had eased, but the
numbness was still there after all these months. A painful sign that she was still in love with him.
“Even if what your saying is true, he’s not willing to discuss what happened, and neither
am I,” she said with a glare at her friend.
“Oh, really?” Cleo snapped.
“Yes, really. I don’t know what makes you think there’s more to this than what I’m telling
you.”
“Well, let me think . . . oh, right, the two of you have been at each other’s throats since . . .
since that night in Englewood. No wait—you’ve constantly eviscerated the man, while the dumb
son of a bitch has just taken it without blinking.”
“We’ve always argued. You know that.”
“But it’s different now.”
“Different how?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but her friend narrowed her beautiful eyes
at her.
“There’s something under the surface of it all. It’s not something I can put into words.”
Cleo’s perceptive observation made her cold with panic.
“The reason you can’t put it into words is that there is nothing different.”
“That’s bullshit,” Cleo snapped as she sent her a dark glare. “Ever since that night at
Julian’s Rogalis, it’s been like watching two wildcats snarling their way through some sort of
mating ritual.”
“You’ve got one hell of an imagination,” she bit out through clenched teeth. The analogy
had only served to increase her anxiety level. If Cleo saw it, did Lysander? “Now if you don’t
mind, I need to shower then check in with the Primus Pilus.”
“Va bene,” Cleo said with a stubborn grimace as she stood up. “But I’m right about all of
this, and you know it.”
“I’ll just leave you to your delusions,” she lied as she glared upward at her friend.
“Christus, you’re as stubborn as Lysander. I’m betting the minute the two of you have it
out with each other you’re going to be in bed together faster than someone can say fotte.”
Speechless, Phaedra watched Cleo smile with satisfaction. “Interesting. Phaedra DeLuca doesn’t
have a comeback for a change.
“I don’t have a comeback because you sound like a lunatic.”
“Not really. In case you haven’t noticed, whenever the man thinks no one’s watching him,
he can’t take his eyes off of you.” Cleo arched her eyebrows and popped another grape into her
mouth.
Phaedra froze at the other woman’s statement, her heart skipping a beat. Was it possible
Cleo was right? But if he cared, why didn’t he do something about it? Why would he have shut
her out the way he had? It didn’t make sense.
“Have you thought about seducing the man?” Cleo’s voice filtered through her thoughts.
“What?” She gaped at her friend’s mischievous expression. Appalled at the direction of the
conversation, she shook her head vehemently. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Not willing to risk failure, eh?”
Riled by the comment, she clamped her jaw shut before she said something else she’d
regret. The notion of seducing Lysander was far too tempting a thought—not to mention a
hopeless one. The fact was she wasn’t willing to risk failure. Failure would mean an even greater
heartache than she was experiencing now. She shook her head.
“I’m not going to let you provoke me into doing something stupid. So drop the subject.”
Clearly disappointed, Cleo grimaced as the small desk clock chimed the hour, and she
immediately sprang to her feet. “Crap, I’ve got to run. Ciao, bambola.”
With that final parting shot, her friend was gone, leaving her in a state of confusion. Left
alone, Phaedra stared at her surroundings with a sense of fear. Could she do what Cassiopeia had
done in her dreams? What would happen if she tried to seduce Lysander as Cleo had suggested.
Did she have the courage to even try? She blew out an angry sigh of disgust.
She was crazy. No, Cleo was crazy. Falling into bed with Lysander was something she did
only in her dreams now. Dreams where he was Maximus and he loved her. But that’s all they
were, just dreams.
Chapter 4
Rome, Seat of the Roman Empire
310 a.d.
He watched her. From the open doorway of the small spa, he studied the voluptuous curves
of her body as she stepped out of the marble bath. A slave tried to cloak her in a pristine white
cloth, but with an elegant wave of her hand, she took the towel and sent the servant away.
Tendrils of hair the color of a midnight sky escaped the makeshift knot on the top of her head to
caress the nape of her neck.
Outside, the final heat of the day had eased, leaving Rome cool. But in here, his body
burned hotter than Apollo’s chariot blazing its way into the west. Marble cooled his shoulder as
he leaned against the hard column of the bath’s entrance. The stone’s chilly smoothness did
nothing to quench the fire in his blood or stop his cock from growing hard at the sight of her.
Arms folded across his chest, he drank in the beauty of her full curves. The olive bronze of
her skin shimmered beneath the layer of water skimming down her back before it danced off her
softly rounded buttocks. The lushness of her body shot a familiar ache through him. Cassiopeia,
daughter of Gaius Quinctilia Atellus, Roman senator, was his.
There had always been women in his life, but the idea of leaving a wife behind if he died in
battle wasn’t a worry he’d been willing to accept. Of course, that was before she chose him.
What had made her choose him over all others? He was a soldier. A plebian by birth. Far
removed from the patrician clan she belonged to. It was doubtful he would ever know the reason
why. He could only thank the gods that she had chosen him.
His gaze greedily swept over her, his body reacting as it always did whenever he was near
her. He suppressed a sudden growl of desire as she bent over to pat her legs dry with the linen
towel. The view from this angle was more than enticing—it was erotic. He remained where he
was. He had no desire to rush tonight. If he did do so, she’d know he would be gone at dawn.
“Really, husband. Must I beg you to lay with me?”
Cassiopeia turned to face him, her sultry expression of amusement making his erection
even harder. He folded his arms across the breastplate of his military uniform and shook his head
as he smiled at her teasing.
“Never, mea amor. I simply wanted to watch you and take pleasure in the knowledge that
you’re mine and no other man’s.”
The linen cloth she held slip out of her hand and pooled at her feet. With the grace of one
of the gazelle’s he’d seen in Africa, she walked toward him. The moment she reached him, she
pressed her hand into his forearm. The touch sent a pulse of gut-wrenching emotion racing
through him straight to his heart. How he loved this woman. A somber look flitted across her
features. He tried not to listen, but her thoughts rushed at him with the speed of a charging lion.
The first of her thoughts reached him. She knew he was leaving. Her mind screamed a protest,
but she remained calm and composed on the outside. The hardest thing for him was the images
he saw in her head. Her imagining him being injured or killed on the battlefield.
“When?”
Her voice was tranquil almost, but he heard the note of fear in the single word question. He
sighed. Even if she had never learned about his special skills, she would have been able to read
him almost as well as he could read the minds of others.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured as he touched her cheek. The moment she blanched, he shook
his head. “It’s only for a few weeks. Maxentius wants me to visit one of the provinces to ensure
the governor is doing his job.”
“The emperor relies on you too heavily. He forgets that you and I have been married less
than a year.”
“Most soldiers are ready to leave their brides much sooner than I have been willing to part
with you.” He chuckled as he gave her a quick kiss. “Besides, we both know that my return will
be even more pleasurable than tonight will be.”
He envisioned his hands grasping her waist then sliding upward so his thumbs brushed over
the tips of her breast. The soft purr rolling out of her throat made him smile as her gaze met his.
Pleasure made her lovely lips part in sensual invitation as his mental touch slid down to her
cunny, and his invisible caress stroked through the velvety-soft folds between her legs.
As her eyes fluttered closed, she whimpered from his invisible caress. Eager to love her, he
quickly removed his uniform. The red cloak attached to his breastplate fell to the floor where it
deadened the sound of the chest armor. His fingers quickly undid the leather laces of the brassstudded leather skirt he wore, and it followed the breastplate to the floor. The leather was a stark
contrast to the brightly colored cloak. Her eyes flew open as his concentration slipped. In silence,
she knelt to help him finish undressing. Warm hands caressed the back of his calves as she
removed the sandal boots that covered his feet and calves. The last of his uniform, a red tunic,
flew off his head, leaving him bare to her.
With a gentle touch, she caressed him with a reverence one might expect from a priestess
of Vesta. She looked up at him, and the depth of love in her expression sucked the wind from
him. A second later, she had him in her mouth. Pleasure and need melded into one stark emotion
that engulfed him like fire. With exquisite skill, her tongue and mouth loved him until each
caress pulled him closer to an edge only she could take him to. His sacs drew up tight underneath
him and he uttered a sharp cry . . .
Lysander Condellaire shot upright in bed. The vivid reality of the dream still haunting his
senses, he jerked his head in first one direction and then another, searching for any sign that he
might not be where he expected to be. The morning sun and the sound of traffic outside his
window reassured him he was still in the Sicari installation in Rome. He glanced downward and
grimaced at the pool of white fluid on his stomach.
“Fotte.”
He climbed out of bed and moved into the bathroom to clean himself up. When he’d
finished, he gripped the sides of the free-standing basin and stared at the grotesque reflection in
the mirror. He hadn’t had a dream that intense since the last time he’d visited Rome, the week
before . . . he threw up a wall to fight off the memories threatening to take over. With a skill he’d
become adept at, he shoved his thoughts back into the dark hole where he’d buried them. The
single green eye of the half man, half monster in the mirror glared back at him. With a low hiss
of anger, he shoved one hand through his dark blond hair as he wheeled away from the sink and
turned on the shower.
For as long as he could remember he’d had dreams of ancient Rome and the Roman plebe
who’d worked his way up the ranks to the rank of Legatus. He’d even had glimpses of the
woman before, but never like this. Never this vivid. This arousing. And not until now had the
woman been a dead ringer for Phaedra DeLuca. His mind embraced the image of the Roman
woman again, and he shuddered.
He stepped into the shower’s spray of hot water. Eyes closed he let the water sting his face.
It was just a dream. It was his mind’s way of compensating for his wish to have Phaedra back in
his bed. That one night of incredible sex between the two of them was going to have to be
enough to last him a lifetime. With a deep growl, he grabbed the bar of soap and scrubbed at his
body. Anything to take his mind off the erotic dream and Phaedra’s role in it.
When he emerged from the bathroom a little later, he pulled on the standard black leather
pants and dark shirt he always wore on duty. During the summer months, it would have been
necessary to rethink his clothing given the heat factor. But the air still had a bite to it in late
February—even in Rome. He stepped out of the small bedroom into the sitting room. Designed
as a temporary residence, the apartment offered up just the right amount of amenities for rest,
work, and relaxation.
“Come in,” he commanded sharply at the sound of a knock on his door.
A young woman entered the room with a tray of food. Although he hadn’t called for
breakfast, the Vigilavi were excellent at anticipating the needs of their employers. Most of the
Vigilavi had served the Sicari for generations. Their forebears were people the Sicari had saved
from different life-or-death situations. They were an integral part of the Order’s structure, and
their contributions in law enforcement, academics, medicine, and other areas were invaluable.
With an abrupt gesture, he silently ordered her to set the tray on the table out on the
balcony. The sunshine made it warm enough for him to enjoy eating outside. The woman moved
quickly to do as he instructed. The speed with which his thoughts reached out to search hers
didn’t surprise him. It was a natural ability. An ability his mother had warned him never to reveal
to anyone. She’d died on his sixth birthday, the day after giving him her warning, and it had
reinforced her advice.
What irritated him was his unintentional probing showed he wasn’t in control, and it
emphasized the intrusive nature of his action. A wave of disgust sailed through him as he quickly
broke the link. The connection hadn’t been strong, but it had been enough for him to see the stark
image of the girl with her lover.
He used to find it easy to prevent his telepathic ability from sifting through the thoughts of
others. But ever since that night more than a year ago—merda, that was the last thing he wanted
to think about at the moment. Infuriated by his lack of control, he flicked his hand and watched
as several files flew off the nearby desk and into his hands. Still irritated by his thoughts, he
followed the girl out to the balcony. As she gestured at the tray, Lysander nodded his thanks.
“May I bring you anything else, il mio signore?” Her formal deference made him grimace.
The title of Legatus wasn’t something he’d asked for. Atia had made him Legatus strictly
to lead a hand-picked team of Sicari in search of the Tyet of Isis. He’d tried to convince the
woman that Ares was better suited for the task, but she’d emphatically dismissed the idea.
Lysander knew the Prima Consul would eventually put Ares back in charge of the Chicago guild.
He’d merely been keeping his friend’s spot warm for him until the Order’s leader reinstated Ares
as Legatus. In truth, he preferred being Ares’s Primus Pilus. Life was a lot easier as his friend’s
second-in-command.
“No, grazie.”
“Molto bene. My name is Irini. If you change your mind, please just ring.” With that
cheerful reply, the girl left the room. Stomach rumbling, he pulled out a chair and sat down. The
Colosseum was visible from where he sat, and there was a familiarity about the monument that
called to him with a strength that seemed more than simple recognition. Merda. He was
imagining things. He had a fondness for ancient Rome’s history, and his mind was manipulating
that fact. Just like in his dream.
The image of Phaedra, naked at his feet, had barely formed before he slammed the door on
the vivid mental picture. He reached for a panino and slathered jelly on it. Focus. He needed to
keep the mission front and center in thoughts.
The remainder of his team had arrived last night after he went to bed, and by tomorrow,
he’d have everyone working to isolate the possible hiding place of the Tyet of Isis. The Prima
Consul always played her cards close to her chest, but Atia was convinced the artifact was here.
She’d even told Lysander that she was reasonably certain the artifact was a small box decorated
with carvings or paintings of an Egyptian knot called the Tyet of Isis, hence the artifact’s name.
Other than that, there wasn’t much to go on, but when he’d called to ask Emma some questions
about the search two nights ago, even she’d been pretty convinced the artifact was here in Rome.
He glanced at the file on top of the stack he’d set on the table. He didn’t even need to open
it. The Prima Consul’s personal bodyguard, Ignacio Firmani, had trained Cleo Vorenus. It was
one of the reasons why he’d asked for her specifically. Atia hadn’t been pleased that he’d
selected her daughter for the mission, but she’d not overruled him. When it came to combat,
they’d worked together so long they knew exactly when and where the other needed help in a
tight spot. She wasn’t just like a sister to him. She was the kind of partner who always had his
back. He took another bite of his roll, followed by a drink of the quickly cooling cocoa.
Cleo had been the first one to find him that night in the warehouse, and weeks later, she’d
been the one ordering him to either live or just die so everyone else could get on with their lives.
He’d chosen to live, despite losing Phaedra. The image of her beautiful face pushed its way into
his thoughts. It was gone in an instant as a loud knock announced Marco Campanella’s arrival.
The man quickly crossed the small living room to join him on the balcony.
“Scusi, il mio signore, but you wanted to see the files of the last team members when they
arrived.”
Lysander nodded at the man he’d chosen for his Primus Pilus. It hadn’t escaped his notice
that the younger man had Julian’s temperament without the rash nature. Had that been why he’d
given him the role of Primus Pilus? His First Spear? Was it his way of trying to atone for Julian’s
death? He clenched his teeth at the thought. No. Choosing Marco to act as his second-incommand hadn’t been done out of guilt. The man had earned the right to be Primus Pilus on this
mission.
His expression solemn, Marco handed off the files he carried before stepping back to wait
quietly as Lysander reviewed them. Lysander had consulted with the Prima Consul on potential
members for his team, and everyone he’d requested had arrived two nights ago. The newest
arrivals had been handpicked by Atia herself without his consultation.
He didn’t like it, but as Prima Consul she was well within her right to do so. He was
fortunate her earlier career had been as a fighter. It gave her greater insight on how to build a
balanced team, unlike a fat politician such as Cato. The worm. He opened the first file.
“Have you reviewed these yet?” He already knew the answer.
“Yes, il mio signore. Violetta Molinaro is a skilled fighter with strong intuitive skills. She
has limited healing abilities, but she has a talent for closing her thoughts off to Praetorians.”
Lysander nodded at the man’s assessment of the Sicari woman’s skills. Even his friend,
Ares, couldn’t match the woman’s talent to avoid Praetorian detection. What bothered him was
that her healing abilities were so limited. Atia knew they were in the heart of Praetorian country.
He needed a healer on his team. A good one.
He flipped open the next chart. Luciano Pasquale. He released a noise of satisfaction. The
man’s reputation was excellent. He had a way of getting a job done. Quietly. Lysander flipped
opened the last chart and his heart slammed into his chest.
“Il Christi omnipotentia. The woman’s gone mad,” he exclaimed as he stared at Phaedra’s
file.
“Il mio signore?” Curiosity filled Marco’s voice, and Lysander shot the other man a quick
glance.
“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “Team assignments. Angelo and Maria Atellus stay
together, but they’re not to do any nighttime reconnaissance without backup. Partner Pasquale
with Cleo. You’ll work with Molinaro. DeLuca will work with me. I want everyone assembled in
the conference room at two o’clock. That should be enough time for the late arrivals to overcome
their jet lag.”
Out of the corner of his only eye, Lysander saw his Primus Pilus hesitate. He turned his
head and sent the younger man a hard look. One mistake in his career didn’t mean he’d allow his
Primus Pilus to question even the smallest decision he made. With a sharp bob of his head,
Marco left him alone on the balcony.
Lysander turned back to the file in his hand. What in Jupiter’s name was Atia thinking by
sending the Order’s most valuable healer into the heart of Praetorian territory? Of course, he
should have asked what she was thinking the minute she put him in charge of this mission.
The last assignment he’d led had ended in two fighters tortured to death and a Sicari
woman taken for breeding purposes, leaving him the sole survivor. In the far recesses of his
mind, he heard the shrieks of his friend Dominic or were they the sound of his own cries? He
grimly silenced the screams. The memory of that failed assignment made him inhale a deep gulp
of air before he released it in a loud whoosh.
Based on that information alone, he was beginning to question Atia’s sanity. Something
that could jeopardize the woman’s role as Prima Consul. The job was for life unless the leader of
the Sicari Council retired or someone proved them unfit for duty. Right now, he was thinking
maybe someone needed to at least question Atia’s judgment if not her sanity.
The papers in front of him detailed Phaedra’s experience, her capabilities, and her
weaknesses. He bit down on the inside of his cheek as he stared down at the information. He
didn’t have to read Phaedra’s qualifications. He knew them well. With a vicious swipe of his
hand, he slapped the file closed against the wrought iron table.
“Goddamn it, I don’t need her here.”
That wasn’t true and he knew it. Of all the healers in the Order, Phaedra was the best, and
someone with her abilities would be a valuable asset to the team. His fingertips brushed across
the ravaged tissue that barely covered the muscles of his face. She’d actually been willing to heal
him that night in that hellhole a year ago, but he’d rejected her attempt.
Phaedra had believed he’d been afraid to watch her suffer his injuries during the healing
process. That was partly true, but even if he’d given in to her pleas that night, not even her
abilities could have destroyed the monster hiding beneath the surface.
Worse, she would have seen him for what he was during the healing process. Many healers
experienced not only the injured’s physical pain, but the emotional trauma of the event as well.
He hadn’t been willing to risk that with her. He closed his eye, all too aware of the empty,
misshaped socket on the other side of his nose.
The Order had offered him plastic surgery, but he knew it wouldn’t have changed anything.
He knew what he was. What he saw in the mirror everyday served as a constant reminder of the
ugliness in him. A monster he’d never known until it had revealed itself that night. It made him
vigilant against letting that darkness hurt his friends or the Order itself.
He shoved his way out of his chair, and it toppled over backward as he stepped out of the
sunlight and into the small living room. Enough. He wasn’t going to let the past, or Phaedra
DeLuca, get in the way of him accomplishing his task. A taunting laugh surfaced in the back of
his mind.
With a grunt of anger, he returned to the bedroom to snatch his eye patch off the
nightstand. It wasn’t a necessity, but he’d found the patch helped minimize the initial impact his
scarred face had on most people. Then there were the occasions when it served to make unsavory
characters uncomfortable. The circular leather piece settled into place over his sunken eye
socket, and he walked back into the sitting room as a sharp rap hit the small apartment’s door.
“Enter,” he ordered, expecting Irini had returned to pick up his breakfast tray.
In the next instance, his entire body went rigid with surprise as Phaedra entered the suite.
Desperately, he tried to ignore the fact that every nerve ending in his body was on fire with
tension.
She’d woven her ebony hair into a braid that ran down the middle of her back to a spot an
inch or so past her shoulders. The memory of that dark hair spilled out around her on a pillow
made the knot growing in his throat expand and tighten. Her complexion was flawless, and her
skin was the golden brown typical of southern Italy natives. Like him, she wore the standard
work uniform of the Sicari Order, only on her, it clung to curves that stirred up sensual images he
knew best to leave buried.
But it was her eyes that always managed to draw him in and hold him paralyzed. They
were a warm brown with gold flecks that flashed whenever she was angry or excited. Slanted
just enough to give her an exotic look, they were narrowed at him right now. A sign she was
assessing the situation. He immediately acknowledged the fact that at any minute he’d be
drowning in deep waters.
Buy Assassin’s Heart Now
§ § §
Awards
2011 PRISM Award Best of the Best (of all entries)
Critical Acclaim
“This book has one of my least favorite things in a romance, something that I avoid at all costs,
and yet I still loved it….I am looking forward to seeing if Monica Burns can top Lysander and
Phaedra.” — The Good, the Bad, and the Unread – Grade A“I read [Assassin’s Heart] from cover to cover in one sitting and kept thinking that THIS is the
reason why I love reading.” — Kerin Hanson, Reviewer
“I can say this is a series where I find myself anticipating the next one. With adventure and
romance, angst and tension, this book is a really fun read.” — SmexyBooks.com
Top Pick
“The plot is complex, interesting and keeps you caught in the tangled web it weaves. The
characters are personable, multi-faceted and…the love is so strong that it has lasted 2000
years.” — Night Owls Reviews
“The emotional tension between Lysander and Phaedra keeps the pages turning. I finished this
read in one sitting…Monica Burns is a masterful storyteller.” — Kristal at The Season For
Romance
Recommended Read
“..Assassin’s Heart earned a spot on my Keeper Shelf, Lysander has stolen a piece of my
heart…I wouldn’t trust his heart to anyone other than Phae…” — Two Lips Reviews
“I really intended to read it over at least two days – I really did! But then I started and I just
couldn’t stop. If you liked Assassin’s Honor, you’ll love Assassin’s Heart.” — Cid at BookAddicts
“Assassin’s Heart” offers an exciting adventure with a heart-wrenching love story – my heart is
still bleeding for poor Maximus. I was in no way disappointed with this book – and given how
high my expectations were, this was a distinct possibility. The Order of the Sicari is an excellent
series – and I am so looking forward to more.” — Romance Novel News Blog
“Burns’ vivid descriptions add to the menace and action in this tightly written novel. As her
protagonists fight both themselves and an overt danger, their relationship is rocky and intense.
Burns doesn’t disappoint!” — RTBOOKreviews, 4 Stars
—§ § §—
Inferno’s Kiss by
Monica Burns
Book 3 in the Order of the Sicari series
Read Four Chapters
Novel Length - Standard
Heat Level - 3.5 Flames
The laws of desire…
Dante Condellaire, heir apparent to the Sicari
Lords, knows that being a true leader means
sacrifice. For Dante it was relinquishing all erotic
pleasures. But he never expected his willpower to be
tested so fiercely by Cleopatra Vorenus, expert
assassin of the Order, and daughter of the man he is
positioned to succeed.
The rules of battle…
Cleo prefers working alone—until she meets Dante who shares her goal: to destroy a Praetorian
stronghold where Sicari women are imprisoned for devious purposes. Bringing the mission off
without a hitch pumps up more than their resolve. It sets off a sexual spark too combustible to
ignore.
Are all made to be broken.
As their attraction flares like an inferno, the stakes are raised. So are the risks. Before the
mission is over, Dante and Cleo will be plunged into a dangerous conspiracy where a traitor
threatens the very foundation of the Order, as well as the fiery bond between Dante and Cleo—
warriors and lovers now torn between duty and desire.
§ § §
Chapter 1
“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”
Atia heard the angry confusion in her daughter’s voice and trembled at the wave of grief
and fear welling up inside her. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever envisioned being
backed into a corner so bleak and inescapable twice in a matter of hours. First Gabriel and now
Cleo. She didn’t think she could bear losing both of her children in the same day.
Images from the Pantheon flashed through Atia’s head. The vivid memory of Gabriel
attacking his father and Marcus being forced to kill their son still filled her with horror. The
terrible moment had played over and over in her head ever since their return to the safe house.
Then there was Phaedra and her sacrifice. First she’d saved Marcus from certain death,
only to save Lysander and lapse into a coma. She’d never seen Lysander so distraught, and with
Ares’s help, he’d taken Phaedra to the Order’s private hospital in Genova. Outside the study
window of the Rome installation, the city was starting to stir. But she wasn’t ready to face the
new day. Nor was she ready to face the inevitable now.
“Tell me why, mother,” Cleo’s voice was soft, yet inflexible. “Why didn’t you tell me I had
a brother?”
“Because it was too painful.” Atia knew the question was her chance to tell Cleo the truth,
but her courage was wafer thin. “The Praetorians…”
She looked at Marcus as her voice trailed away to nothing. His features were rigid with his
own grief and guilt. A guilt she wanted to tell him not to feel. He looked at her for a long
moment before he turned to Cleo.
“The Collegium kidnapped Gabriel before you were born. He was two when they took him
and trained him to hate the Sicari,” Marcus said with a quiet grief that tugged at her heart.
Atia could feel the anguish and sorrow vibrating off him, but didn’t know how to comfort
him. Perhaps she never would. Yet despite all he’d been through tonight, there was a strength
flowing from him that bolstered her for what was to come.
It reminded her why he was the reigning Sicari Lord. She wanted to reach out to him, but
bowed her head instead with grief. The emotion battered every inch of as she struggled to retain
her composure. The loss of Gabriel and all that might have been if she’d kept him safe consumed
her with sorrow. She shuddered and an instant later, Cleo’s arms were wrapped around her.
“I’m sorry, mother.”
The simplicity of her daughter’s words and the warmth of her hug reminded Atia just how
big her daughter’s heart was. Despite her tough exterior, Cleo had a soft side she didn’t display
often. Now the heartfelt sympathy of her daughter’s embrace pushed tears against her eyelids,
but Atia refused to cry. She needed all her wits about her for what was to come. Cleo released
her and looked in Marcus’s direction.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Eminence, and the manner in which you lost your son.” Cleo’s
gentle sympathy made Marcus flinch.
Atia drew in a sharp breath at the pinched look on his face. He’d been forced to kill their
son, and it was her fault. She’d not done what she should have done all those years ago. As a
result, her penance might very well be the death of her relationship with Cleo. And it was more
than possible Cleo wouldn’t forgive her for hiding the truth.
“Cleo…I need.” Deus, she didn’t know how to do this. Telling Cleo that her father was
alive was the hardest thing Atia had ever done. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”
“What?” Cleo turned toward her mother and the puzzlement on her beautiful face quickly
became an expression of horror swept. “No. Please don’t tell me my father was a Praetorian.”
“No, carissima, no.” Atia reached out and caught Cleo’s hands in hers. “Your father isn’t a
Praetorian.”
“Isn’t?” Cleo frowned. Atia tried to swallow the lump of fear closing her throat.
“Your father isn’t dead.”
“What?” Cleo’s voice was so soft, Atia almost wondered if her daughter had said anything
at all.
“I know I should have told you, but—”
“You knew?”
A dark silence filled the room as Atia studied her daughter’s stunned expression. With a
slow movement, Cleo pulled her hands out of her mother’s, and Atia drew in a sharp breath. Fear
speared its way through her as the shock on Cleo’s face slowly gave way to a cold, marble-like
expression. Not even the sunlight streaming through the French doors eased the chill seeping its
way through the study of the safe house. She’d expected outrage. Fury even, but not this icy
silence.
Cleo was never at loss for words. Never. Even as a child, her daughter had openly
expressed her enthusiasm or dislike for anything and everything. Not even when Cleo had been
hurting so badly over Michael’s betrayal had she been like this. Silent and completely
emotionless. Atia swallowed the bile rising in her throat and frantically tried to form a plan of
action. Her daughter’s silence was the one thing she’d not expected.
Desperately, she tried to think of something that would force Cleo to break her
silence. Deus, how she wished she’d done things differently. No. She’d done the right thing.
Cleo’s safety had been the only thing she’d cared about. She would give her life for her daughter.
The mantle clock over the fireplace announced the morning hour with six melancholy
chimes. The sound penetrated the room like a soft death knell. Beside her, Marcus assessed
Cleo’s mood with a deliberate patience that was frighteningly familiar even after all the years
they’d been apart.
The tendrils of his thoughts mixed with hers for an instant before she recoiled from the
gentle, mental probe. He pulled his thoughts from hers with an unspoken apology. Fingers
interlocked in a tight grip, Atia fought not to reach out and pull her daughter into her arms. She
was certain doing so would only make things worse.
“Cleo, I wanted to tell—”
“Don’t.” The command was an angry hiss of fire on ice, and Atia flinched beneath Cleo’s
harsh stare. “You lied to me.”
“No,” Atia exclaimed.
“Exactly what do you call it, mother?” The sneer in Cleo’s voice was a blade striking deep
into Atia.
“I never said your father was dead. I simply allowed you to believe it. It was to protect
you.” It was a pitiful defense, and she knew it.
“Protect me from what, exactly?” Cleo said coldly. “I have no abilities. Not even the
fucking Praetorians would know what to do with me.”
“They could…you could have passed on your father’s abilities to a child.”
“Well those bastardi fixed that problem three years ago, didn’t they?”
Atia didn’t look at Marcus, but her body was so attuned to his that she could tell the instant
he went rigid at their daughter’s words. She knew she should have explained things to him
before now, but she’d been consumed with the fear of what would happen when she told Cleo
the truth. She’d felt too fragile to deal with anything else. Now it made her look even more
deceitful.
Her gaze shifted back to Cleo’s face, and she caught the brief flash of despair on her
daughter’s face. Atia’s stomach lurch. Her beautiful daughter would never know the joy of
motherhood. That had been snatched from Cleo’s hands the minute a Praetorian blade had killed
Cleo’ unborn child and left her barren. But Cleo wouldn’t know the pain either. The pain that
came from trying to protect your child. And Atia had done everything she could to protect Cleo.
Since those few short hours in Marcus’s arms at La Terrazzo del Ninfeomore than thirty
years ago, everything she’d done for Cleo had been done out of love. She pushed through her
grief to find the strength to reach out to her daughter once more. Her son was lost to her forever,
and now she had to fight to keep her daughter.
Cleo hated it when anyone lied to her, and Atia had done that, albeit the sin of omission.
She’d allowed her daughter to believe her father was dead. And it was a lie Cleo might never
forgive her for. Marcus’s tall, imposing presence at her side only emphasized how much Cleo
had to forgive.
“I did it to protect—”
“Who is he?”
It wasn’t a question, it was a command, and Atia’s voice died in her throat as she saw the
contempt she saw on Cleo’s face. With a shake of her head, she fought to find her voice, and the
seconds expanded into a long silence before Marcus cleared his throat.
“I am.”
The quiet authority in Marcus’s statement made Atia sag slightly as Cleo’s anger and
contempt gave way to shock again. Surely she could make Cleo understand now that as the
daughter of a Sicari Lord her safety had been Atia’s only thought. Hands trembling, she reached
out to Cleo, but her arms fell to her side as Cleo took a step back from her. The silent move of
rejection was like a poison that spread its way through her limbs leaving pain in its wake.
“Your father and I—”
“Don’t say that.” As if suddenly remembering her place, Cleo turned and bowed her head
stiffly at the Sicari Lord. “Forgive me, il mio signore, I mean no disrespect.”
“We realize this is a shock, but I understand your mother’s motives,carissima.” Marcus’s
voice was soft and level, but Atia heard the note of regret in his words.
He had nothing to be remorseful for. This was all her doing. Atia briefly closed her eyes
against the painful thought. If only things had been different. She looked at Cleo again, and the
stubborn gleam in her daughter’s violet eyes only heightened her fear. Atia didn’t want to lose
her. She’d already lost one child tonight. To lose another would be unbearable. Somehow she
had to make Cleo understand her reasons for hiding the truth.
“I didn’t tell anyone who your father was. Not even Ignacio. And I didn’t tell your…” She
saw Cleo’s expression harden. “I didn’t even tell Marcus.”
“So you chose to let me grow up without a father.”
“I chose to keep you safe. And I’d do it again,” Atia snapped, her fear and frustration
getting the better of her.
“Safe from what? Every goddamn member of the Order is always at risk, what makes me
so special?”
“Because you are the daughter of a Sicari Lord.” Atia stepped forward to reach out to her
daughter again. She tried to touch her cheek, but Cleo smacked it away.
“I still had the right to know,” Cleo said in a tight voice.
“And I had a duty to protect you,” Atia replied with determination.
“Duty or not, Madame Consul. You lied to me. You lied to me about my brother, you lied
to me about who my father is, and you allowed me to believe he was dead.”
The formality of Cleo’s address made Atia sway slightly. An unseen hand settled on her
shoulder to steady her. She waved her hand at Marcus to dismiss the touch. His offer of comfort
wouldn’t ease her fears.
“I was terrified of something happening to you, carissima. The thought of the Praetorians
taking you the way they took Gabriel…it was unbearable.” Atia’s quiet statement sent a flash of
understanding across Cleo’s face before her expression hardened again. It was so reminiscent of
her father’s.
“I can understand why you’d keep me in the dark when I was a child, but when I was
older?” Cleo said fiercely.
“I wanted to tell you, but with each passing day it became harder to do so. I knew you’d see
my silence as having lied to you, and I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” Cleo snorted with angry disbelief. “You’re fearless, mother. You take on Council
members like a lioness does her prey. You chose not to tell me the truth because it was easier not
to.”
“It was not easier. From the moment you were born, I’ve lived in fear. If the Praetorians
had known who your father was, they would have stopped at nothing to take you like they did
Gabriel.”
“So why now? Why not three years ago?” Cleo bit out. “You couldn’t tell me the truth
then? The Praetorians don’t have any use for women they can’t breed.”
“If I had told you then, would it have changed anything?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know, but you should have told me.” Cleo’s voice echoed with confusion,
and Atia ached to reach out to her daughter and fold her into her arms as she had when Cleo was
younger.
“Please, Cleo. I want us to—” She started to close the physical distance between them, but
Cleo jumped back.
“No.” Cleo snapped. “Not another word, mother. Now, unless there’s someother dark secret
you’d like to reveal, may I leave?”
Once again Atia leaned toward her daughter, but Marcus stepped forward to intercept her.
The physical touch of his fingers digging into her arm silently ordered her not to continue.
“We understand you need time to adjust to everything your mother has shared with you this
morning.” Marcus’s voice was one of serene calm, but she couldn’t tell if it had any effect on
Cleo. His voice softened even more. “I know how difficult this must be for you, Cleopatra. It
wasn’t easy for me when your mother told me about you. But if you’ll give me the opportunity,
I’d like to get to know you. All I ask is that you think about it.”
Cleo acknowledged him with a sharp nod. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Atia
thought she might say something, but Cleo simply wheeled about on one heel to stalk out of the
study without a glance in Atia’s direction.
The moment the door closed behind her daughter, Atia jerked away from Marcus and
slowly circled the corner of the desk to sink down into the leather office chair. She’d lost her.
Cleo would never forgive her for not telling her the truth. Head bowed, she closed her eyes and
tried to think, but couldn’t. For the first time in a very long time she didn’t have a plan. Didn’t
have any sense of what direction to turn. It made her feel lost and alone.
“She’ll eventually see her way to forgive you.” At Marcus’s quiet statement, she lifted her
head up to look at him.
“No. She won’t,” she said bitterly. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” There was no accusation in his words. It was just a simple
observation, but it filled her with guilt all the same.
“She hates being lied too. It started when she was a child. Her best friend fell three stories
when the two of them were playing on the rampart of the east wing at the White Cloud estate. I
told Cleo her friend would live. The child died. She’s demanded the truth ever since. She can be
very unforgiving.”
“Then we’ll make her see you had no other choice.”
“And do you believe I had no other choice?” She met his gaze steadily, remembering how
furious he’d been when he’d learned of Cleo’s existence.
“You did what I would have done. You protected our daughter,” he said quietly, but there
was a flash of emotion in his vivid blue eyes that worried her. “I can’t fault you for not telling
her truth.”
“But?”
“You should have told me, Atia. I had a right to know that I had a daughter. I could have
watched her grow up from a distance. You denied me that small joy.”
“If you want me to say I’m sorry, I can’t.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t risk you taking
her from me.”
“And yet you risked her life in attempting to raise her alone thinking no one would
discover your secret. I could have helped protect her.”
“Her life was at risk no matter what course of action I took,” she bristled with resentment.
“I did what I thought best for my daughter. I won’t apologize for that.”
“Our daughter.” The fierce intensity of his words emphasized he was still angry that she’d
hidden the truth from him. Like Cleo, he would have a hard time forgiving her. And the fact that
she wanted his forgiveness frightened her. It showed how quickly he was becoming a part of her
life again.
“Our daughter.” She nodded with resignation.
Eyes closed, her fingers rubbed at her temple. Another headache. They seemed to come so
often anymore. A gentle, unseen touch stroked her forehead, and she sighed at the invisible
caress.
“Why are you so certain, Cleo won’t forgive you?” At the quiet question, she raised her
head to meet his puzzled gaze. “Her concern for you last night at the Pantheon demonstrated how
much she loves you.”
“Cleo is like you. She has a stubborn streak. When she makes up her mind about something
it’s difficult to convince her otherwise.”
“Then perhaps she’s met her match in me.”
Although his gaze was somber, there was just a hint of amusement curving his lips as he
watched her. It stirred something deep inside her that helped ease some of the grief still
assaulting her body. She closed her eyes at the memory of Gabriel’s death and how close Marcus
had come to joining their son.
A tear squeezed its way out from under her eyelid, and a harsh oath escaped Marcus. Her
eyes flew open in surprise at the sound, and she saw Marcus move quickly to pull her up out of
the desk chair. The moment his arms wrapped around her, she burst into tears. A shudder went
through him, and she knew she was shedding tears for both of them.
The grief she’d experienced the day the Praetorians had taken Gabriel from them had been
different from the pain she was feeling now. Then she’d been filled with terror for Gabriel’s life
and her own. She’d killed one Praetorian before the second one had dealt her what should have
been a deathblow.
Until Cleo was born, she’d wished thousands of times that the Praetorianshad killed her
that horrible day. It would be better than living with the fact that she’d failed Gabriel. Failed to
do her duty. She’d not had the courage to take her son’s life that day. She’d allowed herself to
hold onto the hope that she could defeat the bastardi that had surprised her and their bodyguards.
But she hadn’t. And the Praetorians had laughed at her as they’d dragged a crying Gabriel
from her arms. Like her, they’d been certain she was as good as dead. They’d taunted her with
departing words about how Gabriel would become one of them.
It was a memory that haunted her every day. The bastardi had deliberately left her to die
knowing the last few minutes of her life would be spent agonizing over the fate of her child. She
was the one to blame for Gabriel and the fact that she’d lived—if Marcus ever learned the truth,
he’d never forgive her.
She’d lied to him. She’d told him she’d been unconscious when they’d taken Gabriel. Even
if she’d had the strength to do so, she could not have killed their son just to keep the Praetorians
from taking him. Suddenly, she wished she were far away from Rome.
She gently pulled out of his arms, grateful he’d not attempted to probe her thoughts. Her
ability to keep her mental shield in place was sorely limited at this point. If he really wanted to
know what she was thinking, he would have no difficulty breaking through her thoughts. The
realization terrified her.
To face his condemnation so soon after Gabriel’s death heightened the deep-seated fear that
had never left her since the day of their son’s kidnapping. Afraid her expression might reveal
more than she cared for him to see, Atia turned away from Marcus and brushed away the wetness
on her cheeks.
“What are you afraid of, mea kara?”
His voice was a soft caress on her senses. His beloved. The endearment enveloped her with
warmth. It made her feel treasured. Safe. And it emphasized her vulnerability where Marcus was
concerned. She had always wanted to tell him the truth, just as she had wanted to tell him about
Cleo. She simply hadn’t ever found the courage to do so.
Her inability to explain her mistake only emphasized the fact that she’d never stopped
loving him. She trembled as his hand caught her chin and he forced her to look at him. There was
a frown of concern on his face as he studied her. She pulled away from his touch and shook her
head.
“I’m not afraid, Eminence.” She winced at the dark cloud of irritation that swept over his
features. “With your permission, I’ll take the Tyet of Isis back to White Cloud. It’s not safe here
in Italy.”
“Agreed,” Marcus growled. “I need to speak with Dante before we leave.”
“We?” She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp.
“Yes. We,” he said in a firm voice. “I wish to examine the documents that are in the
artifact.” The minute he mentioned the artifact, she stiffened. The thought of working closely
with him in studying the antiquity was alarming. She swallowed the knot in her throat.
“The Order has several researchers, including me, who are extremely knowledgeable about
the Tyet of Isis.”
“Perhaps, but I wish to examine the parchment as well. My memories of my past life as
Tevy may prove useful.”
“But—”
“No arguments, Atia. I’ll not be put off in this matter.” His mouth thinned slightly with
determination. “I intend to study the parchment with you. But that’s not the only thing I plan on
doing. I also intend to claim what is rightfully mine.”
“And I told you that I’m not your property.” A sharp hiss of air blew past her lips. “The
blood bond is one of mutual agreement.”
“Which you agreed to thirty-six years ago next month, if memory serves me correct.” His
words made her jump with surprise. He remembered the day of their blood bond. His eyes
narrowed. “Did you think I would forget? We belong to each other, Atia. And I’ll go to Tartarus
and back to make you see that.”
The intensity in his voice made her even more apprehensive. He was acting as if everything
between them was settled. It wasn’t. And his arrogance in assuming so irritated her. Her gaze fell
to the paperwork on her desk. Work. It had always been a sanctuary, it would be again. She sank
down into her chair and brushed several papers aside to find a pen.
“Forgive me, Eminence. I have work to catch up on.” Her dispassionate comment pulled a
sharp hiss of air from Marcus.
“You would try the patience of the Carpenter himself, Atia,” he said harshly. “You always
found it easier to hide from your problems than face them. I see nothing’s changed.”
“I’m not hiding from anything. As Prima Consul I have responsibilities I cannot avoid, and
unlike you, I don’t have someone waiting in the wings to help me perform those duties.”
She didn’t bother to look up at him as she spoke. A moment later, she felt him at her side as
he came around the desk. The moment the palm of his hand cracked loudly on the desktop in
front of her, she jumped. As he jerked her chair around with his other hand, she retreated deeper
into the soft leather as he bent over her.
“I’m willing to give you time, carissima, but nothing has changed since the other morning
when we watched the sun rise over the city at La Terrazzo del Ninfeo. I said you were mine, and
I meant it.”
“Deus, but you are an arrogant son of a bitch,” she snapped as she violently pushed the
chair and herself away from him to stand. “What makes you think you can walk back into my
life and simply demand the right of blood bond? I’ve built a life without you, and as difficult as it
might be to accept, I’ve been happy without you.”
That wasn’t exactly true. She’d learned to adapt and find what happiness where she could.
She didn’t dare tell him how many nights she’d lain awake through the years wishing he were
lying beside her. Something she’d been doing nightly since their initial meeting in the Santa
Maria sopra Minerva.
But it changed nothing. What they’d had in the past had cost her dearly. And she was too
tired—too old—too scared to start over. She tightened her jaw and glared up at him. His vivid
blue eyes immediately narrowed as he studied her face. It was that assessing look that always
managed to see more than what she wanted to show. But over the years she’d had lots of practice
hiding her thoughts from others, even more so since becoming Prima Consul. With a vicious
grunt of anger, he took a step toward her, and she immediately retreated. Something flashed in
his eyes that made her want to reach out to him, but she forced herself to remain still.
“You said not to long ago that the past is always with you. It’s with me as well. It would
serve you well to remember that,” he said harshly.
With one last hard look in her direction, he turned away and strode out of the study. Left
behind, Atia watched as the door closed behind him. He intended to have his way, and she was
suddenly of a mind to let him do exactly as he wanted. She closed her eyes at the thought.
Marcus could be persuasive when he wanted to be. In the few short years they were
together, she’d invariably given in to him when they argued. Even when he’d become leader of
the Absconditus, he’d never forced her to do anything despite the fact that his command was
virtually law. He’d simply seduced her with words. And his touch.
The memory of the last time they’d made love caressed her thoughts. Cleo had been the
result of that union. And now everything hung in the balance. Just as it had when Gabriel had
been kidnapped. The heartache of that event had driven a wedge between her and Marcus. It was
the only time Marcus had ever deserted her.
She’d needed him in those days and weeks after Gabriel had been taken from them. But
he’d shut her out. He’d carried a burden of guilt that wasn’t his to carry. Perhaps she would have
been able to tell him the truth if he’d not left her. She shuddered as the memories rushed at her
with the fury of a raging Praetorian. Legs weak, she sank back into her chair.
Perhaps Cleo was right. Maybe she didn’t know how to tell the truth. But then the truth was
never as easy to reveal as her daughter thought. Her fingers brushed across the papers on her
desk. And she was anything but fearless. She was a coward. That was the real reason she didn’t
want Marcus back in her life. She didn’t have the courage it would take to face him and the truth.
Like Cleo, it was unlikely he would forgive her sin. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her
chair trying desperately not to let the tears flow. She failed, and in the silence of her office, she
sobbed for what might have been and for what could never be.
Chapter 2
Cleo grunted as she took a hit to the back of her calf. It was like someone giving her an
instant charley horse. She went down on one knee and waited for the pain to subside. She
couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to take such a beating. That wasn’t true.
Just a few days after a Praetorian blade ended her pregnancy and the doctors had told her that she
could never have children, she’d gone looking for trouble. She’d found three different Sicari
warriors at the White Cloud estate and deliberately insulted them.
It had been her attempt at cathartic exercise. It hadn’t worked then, and she doubted it was
going to work now. Mario would have been just as happy listening to her rant as he was to spar
with her. But she needed to do something, and she wasn’t ready to talk just yet. From the
confusion on his face though, she was certain he was wishing he’d offered her a bottle of beer
instead. She grimaced.
Despite the short time they’d known each other, Mario knew her pretty well. Not as well as
Lysander and others she’d grown up with maybe. But she and Mario had confessed almost as
many secrets between them as they had beers. She’d met the martial arts instructor several years
ago when she’d visited Rome on assignment. They’d become fast friends and drinking buddies.
She should have realized he wouldn’t beat her into the hazy oblivion she was
seeking. Christus, if she’d given it any thought, she should have gone out looking to spill
Praetorian blood. She needed something to help her forget that her mother had been lying to her
for years about her father. She was the daughter of a Sicari Lord. A fucking Sicari Lord.
How in Jupiter’s name was that possible? She didn’t have the tiniest bit of Sicari abilities.
No healing powers like Phae, no sensitive abilities like other Sicari women, not even a small
amount of telekinesis ability like her mother possessed. Okay, maybe a molecule of precognition,
but that was so fleeting and unreliable, it didn’t count.
“Come on, Cleo. I think you’ve had enough.”
“No,” she exclaimed in a hoarse voice. “I decide when I’ve had enough, not you.”
“Damnit, Cleo. I don’t want to hurt you,” Mario snapped with frustration.
“Fuck you.”
She wanted to numb the pain in her heart. Something workouts to the point of physical
exhaustion had always accomplished in the past. She forced herself to block out the physical pain
and got to her feet. Limping her way back across the training mat, she met Mario’s exasperated
gaze. With a jerk of her head, she invited him to attack her again. This time she wasn’t going to
let him past her defenses. The martial arts instructor shook his head in disgust as he reluctantly
stepped forward.
With several quick hand strikes, she forced Mario into a defensive position. Deliberately
ignoring the pain signals shooting up her injured leg, she kicked her good leg upward and landed
a hard blow to the trainer’s solar plexus. He staggered back, and Cleo leaped forward to throw
two more hard punches to first his chest then his side.
Mario landed flat on the hard rubber of the training floor. It should have made her feel
good to drop him to the ground. It didn’t. Instead, her desire to kick someone’s ass was still
pounding its way through her veins. Deus, where was a Praetorian when you needed one. An
image of her dead brother flitted through her mind and the sound of her mother’s cry of pain. Her
throat closed up at the memory. Swallowing hard, Cleo limped across the mat to stand over
Mario.
“Again,” she said viciously. “And don’t hold back this time.”
“Christus, what the hell is the matter with you, Cleo?” her friend exclaimed fiercely. “If I
really let loose on you, you’re gonna get hurt.”
“Again, you son of a bitch. Just because I don’t have any special abilities doesn’t mean I
can’t beat you.”
The trainer arched his back then pushed himself to his feet in one fluid motion. “This is my
training room, and I say you’re finished for the day.”
Something exploded inside her. Splinters of anguish, fear, and anger bombarded her heart
in an almost physical pain that made her chest feel like it was on fire. She wasn’t ready to quit.
The physical pain wasn’t bad enough to mask the hurt inside. She launched herself toward the
trainer, her movements hard and fast as she tried to land one blow after another on Mario.
With a loud cry, she blocked his hand then with a twist of her body, she tried to pull his
arm behind him. He blocked her attempt with a blow to her mid-section, which sent her flying
backward until she crashed on the mat. Stunned, she slowly rolled over and came up on all fours.
Her chest was still on fire, and she struggled to quiet her ragged breathing.
“That’s enough.” Ignacio’s deep voice made Cleo turn her head.
Her mentor stood at the edge of the training mat, a dark scowl on his face. He pointed his
finger in her direction before he ordered her off the hard rubber mat with a jerk of his thumb.
“Hit the showers, Cleo.” His scowl grew darker when she started to protest. “Now.”
Something in Ignacio’s voice penetrated the turmoil she’d been engulfed in since early this
morning when her mother had introduced her to a father Cleo had always believed was dead. She
didn’t know what hurt worse the fact that she’d lost out having a father while she was growing
up or the fact that her mother had lied to her about it. Lied to her for almost thirty-three years.
That fact alone cut deep. With a nod of her head she acknowledged Ignacio’s orders and
limped her way toward the edge of the mat. When she reached Mario, the worry in his
expression made her feel ashamed of the way she’d been using him as a human punching bag.
“I’m ass. I’m sorry,” she said huskily.
“You don’t need to apologize to me, carissima. Whatever’s wrong, I know you’re hurting,”
he muttered as he pulled her into a tight bear hug his gruff voice muffled by her hair. “You don’t
fight like this unless you’re trying to beat off some demon inside you. If it helps you let off a
little steam, fine. But locking everything up inside you isn’t good, bambino. It’ll make you
sloppy when you can least afford it.”
“How do you always manage to make me feel like I belong, when I feel like I’m on the
outside looking in?” She swallowed hard and managed to fight back her tears at the affection in
her friend’s voice as she hugged him back.
“Outside looking in? Jupiter’s Stone, bella. Is that what all this is about? You not having
special abilities?” Mario exclaimed softly. “Christus, don’t you know how powerful you are?
You’re the most beautiful woman in Rome. Men see you coming and their jaws drop. They can’t
think straight when they see you. That’s one hell of a powerful ability if you ask me.”
“It’s not the same thing,” she murmured.
Although she’d never hesitated to use her looks to her advantage, her face was a poor
substitute for a Sicari ability. Her lack of powers among the Sicari wasn’t a secret. With a mother
who was such a prominent figure in the Order, it was natural that people talked. And now that
she was barren, she had nothing to offer a Sicari warrior looking to ensure his family lineage
continued, not to mention keeping the Sicari gene pool strong.
Michael had been her last chance of happiness, and even he’d deserted her at a time when
she’d needed him the most. He’d left her to deal with the pain of her loss all alone. She
swallowed the knot lodged in her throat as Mario frowned at her. It wasn’t something she could
make her friend understand. She doubted there were any Sicari who could understand how she
felt.
“Damnit, Cleo.” Mario gave her slight shake. “You’ve got incredible fighting skills, you’re
intelligent, and you’re drop dead gorgeous. If you had anything else, you’d be a goddamn Sicari
Lord.”
The words made her grow cold. Her expression must have revealed her pain because Mario
frowned with puzzled concern. Not about to explain, she forced a smile to her lips.
“I’m too sweaty to be drop dead gorgeous,” she said. Her effort to sound cheerful fell short
from the look on Mario’s face and she turned away. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“How about I take you to dinner at that little place we went to last month. The one with the
ziti you liked.” His offer made her glance over her shoulder at him. The boyish grin on his face
suddenly made her want to cry.
“You’re just not going to let me have a self-pity party, are you?” she asked with a watery
smile.
“Nope.” Mario chuckled as he jerked he head toward the locker room. “Hit the showers
like Ignacio said then meet me in the salon this evening at six.”
His gaze held hers for a moment before she nodded and made her way toward the showers.
The ladies locker room was empty, and Cleo winced as she tugged off her sweat pants. Every
one of her muscles ached from the brutal workout she’d put herself through since early this
morning. She glanced at the clock over the entryway. Seven hours.
It had been little more than seven hours since her mother had revealed the truth about who
her father was. As if it wasn’t bad enough to discover she had a brother, correction she had had a
brother. What would things have been like if the Praetorians hadn’t taken Gabriel? Would she
have been as close to him as she was to Lysander?
She felt funny not mourning Gabriel like her mother was grieving. It was hard to be sorry
he was dead when he’d been a Praetorian. Maybe not by birth, but in everything he’d done,
Gabriel had been one of the enemy. For her mother it was clearly different. The Prima
Consul mask was on, but Cleo had seen her mother’s sorrow underneath. And despite the way
her mother had lied to her, Cleo didn’t like seeing her mother in pain. Then there was Marcus
Vorenus. He’d been grieving too, but his grief was buried even deeper than her mother’s sorrow.
The image of the man fluttered through her head as she tugged off her shirt and stuffed it
viciously into her gym bag. Here she was saddled with a father she’d thought was dead, and a
dead brother she never knew. It was like she was living some twisted Shakespearean tragedy.
She grabbed soap and shampoo from her locker and limped her way into the shower. The
hot spray went a long way to ease some of the tightness in her body, but the heat only alleviated
the physical pain. It did nothing to ease the ache in her heart.
Her mother had lied to her. No, she’d simply not bothered to correct Cleo’s assumption that
her father was dead. It was a lie of omission, and a betrayal of trust. Her mother had promised to
always tell her the truth, no matter how much it might hurt.
Cleo had extracted that bargain from her mother as a child. She didn’t doubt it had been a
childish promise to demand, but even then her mother had known her father was alive. How was
she supposed to forgive something like this, let alone believe anything her mother said again?
And what about Marcus? A Sicari Lord. Deus, the irony of it was almost hysterically funny. She
was the daughter of a man who had the strongest abilities of any Sicari, and yet she had none.
Zilch. Nada.
It only emphasized her feelings that she was an outsider among her own people. Not even
Mario’s comment about her not needing special powers could ease the sensation that she didn’t
fit in and never would. That feeling was something Michael had helped cement when he’d
walked away from her three years ago. He’d wanted children, but not someone else’s. Something
she couldn’t give him. She closed her eyes and willed the heartache to ease out of her. It didn’t
work, so she buried it and focused her thoughts on her shower.
A little more than twenty minutes later, she walked into the changing room to see Violetta
sitting on the bench centered between two sets of lockers. The first time they’d met had been
when they’d both been assigned to the team searching for the Tyet of Isis. She liked Violetta, but
she wasn’t someone Cleo felt close enough to confide in. She ignored the woman and went to her
locker to dress. As Cleo pulled on a clean shirt, she heard Violetta clear her throat.
“Why don’t you let me take a look at that leg of yours?”
“I’m fine.”
She didn’t look at Violetta as she pulled on a pair of jeans. Reaching for a comb, she
viciously dragged it through her hair. When she’d finished, she gathered her long hair up in one
hand and secured it in a ponytail with a scunchie.
“Mario’s worried you might have some nerve damage after the blow he gave your leg.”
“I don’t need the Curavi for sore muscles.” She knew healers sometimes saw things during
the healing process. And even though healers swore to hold in confidence whatever they saw,
Cleo didn’t want to risk Violetta seeing something. She just wasn’t ready yet for anyone to know
that her long-lost father had shown up, and that he just happened to be a Sicari Lord.
“Then you’d better tell that to Mario. He’s convinced your leg is going to be permanently
damaged if I don’t heal you.” There was a prickly tone to the woman’s voice, and Cleo realized
she’d been to sharp with the healer.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bitten your head off like that,” she said with regret. She turned
her head in the healer’s direction. “Mario’s a worrywart. I don’t deny that my leg still hurts, but
I’ll be fine.”
“Most people are irritable when they’re in pain. No apology needed.” Violetta offered her
smile. “But I’ll be honest. The way you walked in here a few minutes ago, you sure looked like
someone who could benefit from a healer’s touch.”
“I’ll be fine, but if the pain worsens, I promise I’ll come see you.”
“All right, but just so you know, Mario isn’t the only one worried about you,” Violetta said
as she stood up. “Ignacio is waiting for you outside.”
“Fuck.” Cleo’s response made the healer laugh.
“I think that was his response when Mario explained how you got hurt. So be prepared to
have him read you the riot act with you. And you know where to find me if you change your
mind about that leg.”
Still laughing, Violetta turned and left the locker room, leaving Cleo to stew about Ignacio
waiting outside the locker room. Damn, she didn’t want to deal with Ignacio’s fatherly concern
at the moment. She frowned. How was he going to feel when he learned Marcus Vorenus was
her real father?
Probably just as blown away as she was. With a sharp movement Cleo tossed her gear into
her gym bag and slammed her locker shut. As she emerged from the locker room, she saw
Ignacio leaning against the wall just outside the door.
“You should have put ice on that leg right away.”
“It’s sore muscles, not a sprain.” Her response made his mutter something under his breath.
“Come with me.”
It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and he didn’t bother to hide his angry frustration. With
a sharp movement, he pushed himself away from the wood paneling outside the locker room and
headed out of the gym. She followed him in silence, certain he was going to grill her as to why
she’d spent seven hours in the gym working out to the point of exhaustion. And pain.
She probably should have let Violetta heal her. No, she wasn’t ready to deal with all the
questions, the curiosity. Keeping up with Ignacio’s long stride wasn’t easy, but she just clamped
her jaw tight and limped after him. She wasn’t going to protest. Complaining would have been
pointless as far as Ignacio was concerned.
Her mentor wouldn’t feel sorry for her one bit. Not that she wanted his pity. They reached
the library, and Ignacio gestured toward one of the room’s big, comfortable chairs.
“Sit down.”
The order was one she was happy to obey because her leg hurt like hell. She eyed her
mentor carefully as he sank down into the chair opposite her. By the look on Ignacio’s face, she
could tell she was in for a grilling or a lecture. One or the other, and she didn’t want either one.
She tried to put off the inevitable.
“Is there any word about Phae?”
“Ares sent word that she’s stable, but the doctors don’t know when she’ll come too.”
Ignacio leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs and stared at her for a long moment. “I
didn’t order you in here to talk about Phaedra. Now, talkto me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t give me that crap. Do you really think after all this time you can fool me? I’ve
known you since you were born,” Ignacio scolded. “I know something’s bugging you, and I’ve
got a pretty good idea what it is.”
“How the fuck would you know what’s wrong.”
“Shall we rehash what happened a few hours ago in the Pantheon?” Ignacio eyed her with a
stern look.
“What? My shock at finding out I have a Praetorian brother. No. Had a Praetorian brother.
Something my mother never told me. Not exactly the kind of news you can swallow in just an
hour or two.”
“Your brother’s situation is a terrible tragedy.”
“Yeah, I know.” She bobbed her head as she remembered her mother’s frantic cry last night
in the Pantheon as they fought to keep the Praetorians from taking the Tyet of Isis. No matter
how angry she might be with her mother, Cleo still hated to see her suffering.
“But that’s not what’s really wrong, is it?” Ignacio’s voice was firm and unflappable.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I know you met with Atia and Marcus this morning.”
“So?” she bit out fiercely.
“She told you the truth, didn’t she?” His softly spoken question stunned her. He grimaced.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“My mother told you about Marcus? Before she told me?” Not only had the woman lied to
her, she’d told Ignacio who Cleo’s real father was. She wasn’t sure what was worse, being lied to
or that the man she thought of as a father had known the truth before she did.
“She didn’t tell me willingly.”
“So what, you twisted her arm? Give me a fucking break. You can do better than that.”
“No one has ever twisted your mother’s arm, bambino,” Ignacio said with a light snort of
amusement before his expression grew somber. “The truth is she was backed into a corner.”
“By him?”
A sudden wave of anger swept over her at the thought of the Sicari Lord intimidating her
mother. She might be angry at being deceived, but she didn’t like the idea of someone pushing
her mother around. Her mentor shook his head slightly.
“I always thought he’d walked out on you and Atia. When I insulted him—” Ignacio
rubbed his hand against his throat. “He wasn’t happy about it. Your mother convinced him that
she’d not betray their blood bond with me, and she told me…the truth.”
“Right, she told you the truth, but not me, her daughter,” she bit out in a sharp voice.
“You judge her too harshly, Cleopatra.” He always used her full name when expressing his
disapproval of something she’d done. That he continued to defend her mother irritated her and
made her want to lash out at him.
“And you judge her too gently because you’re in love with her.” Her fierce words made
Ignacio jerked upright in the chair as she released a harsh noise of disgust at her tactless
observation.
“I see,” he murmured. “So I’m an object of amusement in the Order for loving a woman
who has never given much thought to me, other than as her Celeris. Her bodyguard.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve never heard anyone say anything about the two of you.
Not even that worm Cato has suggested it, and if anyone were going to say something he’d be
the one.”
The man she thought of as a father frowned as he nodded and leaned back in his chair to
contemplate her words. Her heart ached for him. Not once had she ever seen her mother give
Ignacio any indication that there might be hope for him. In fact, she wasn’t even sure her mother
realized her Celeris was in love with her.
For as long as she could remember, Ignacio had been there for her and her mother. Ignacio
was the one who’d taught her how to fight, how to stitch up a wound. He’d been there when
she’d lost in the final round of the Invitavi, and he’d been there when the doctors had told her the
baby was gone and she’d never have children. And it had been Ignacio who’d been there for her
when Michael had walked away less than a month after her injury.
Ignacio had always been there when she needed him, and she loved him like a father. But
he wasn’t her father. Marcus Vorenus, Sicari Lord, was. No,reigning Sicari Lord according to
her mother. Fuck. He couldn’t just be a Sicari Lord? He had to be the goddamn commander-inchief.
“Fuck.” She exploded out of her chair in a swift leap then collapsed back into her seat with
a sharp cry of pain. Ignacio leaned forward with the obvious intent to examine her leg, but she
dismissed him with a vicious wave of her hand.
“Goddamnit to hell. She should have told me the truth.”
“It couldn’t have been easy for her Cleo. Telling you the truth three years ago or today had
to be a terrifying thought for her.”
“So she said, but I’m having a hard time buying it,” she said bitterly.
“When I brought her back here the morning your…your father found out about you, she
was badly shaken up.” An odd expression crossed her mentor’s face. “Your father had demanded
to meet you, and the thought of telling you the truth terrified her.”
“My mother isn’t afraid of anything.”
“She’s definitely afraid of losing you.” Ignacio shook his head in sharp disagreement.
“Why do you keep defending her? Besides the obvious.” She glared at him. Ignacio sent her
a patient look.
“Because I’ve known your mother for a very long time, and after last night, I understand
her even better than I ever have before.” He leaned forward again, his hands spread in a cajoling
gesture. “Atia isn’t invincible. None of us are, bambino. Your mother has lost a great deal in the
last twenty-four hours. She’s pretty fragile right now, whether you want to believe it or not.”
Cleo leaned back in the chair to rest her head in the soft cushions. Eyes closed she released
a harsh breath. “But she lied to me.”
“Yes, but you should be asking why she lied to you. The Praetorians took her son when he
was barely old enough to know his own name. Then you came along. Can you imagine how
terrified she must have been every time you were out of her sight? I can easily understand why
she’d keep the identity of your father a secret. From everyone, including you.”
“Stop making it sound so goddamn logical.” She opened her eyes to meet his sympathetic
gaze. “Okay, so she lied to protect me, but sweet Jupiter, she could have said something three
years ago when those Praetorian bastardi…she could have told me then Nacio. She didn’t have
wait until today to tell me my father is alive. And oh yeah, by the way, Cleo, he’s a fucking
Sicari Lord.”
She saw him flinch slightly as she used her childhood nickname. Christus, was he thinking
Vorenus would take his place? That she’d just forget about him and everything he’d been to her.
“Sicari Lord or not, he is your father, Cleopatra.” Again with the disapproval.
Leaning forward, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. The hard edges of the ring he
wore bit into her palm. She’d given him the jewelry for his birthday when she was just twelve.
She’d earned money cleaning swords and other weapons over a period of several months so she
could save enough to buy the ring.
When he’d read the inscription, from your daughter Cleo, it had made his eyes water. That
moment was as vivid now as if it had just happened. Ignacio had always been there for her. She
would never desert him.
“He’s not you, Nacio. He never could be,” she said fiercely. He patted her hand and there
was a glitter of emotion in his eyes that sent the hair on the back of her neck dancing before she
dismissed the sensation. Whatever it was she thought she’d seen it was gone as he sent her a
tender smile.
“He might not be me, but he is your father, Cleo. He deserves your respect not just because
he’s a Sicari Lord, but because he’s your father.”
Cleo didn’t answer him. She simply pulled her hand from his and got to her feet. The ache
in her leg deepened to a sharp pain. “Sweet mother of Juno.”
“That does it,” Ignacio said in an authoritative tone as he came to his feet. “You’re going to
let Violetta perform the Curavi on that leg if I have to hold you down myself.”
“I don’t need it. All I need is some heat to loosen up the muscles, a little liniment and I’ll
be good as new in a couple of days. A good soak in the tub will do wonders.” She hobbled
toward the door. “Besides a healing will put me out like a light, and I have a date with Mario and
a bottle of wine in a few hours.”
“Va bene, but it will take at least two weeks for that leg to heal so I’ll send Emilio after
Angotti next week instead of you.” His words made her stop where she was to turn her head
toward him.
“Jupiter’s Stone, you mean they actually made a decision about that son of a bitch?” She
stared at her mentor in surprise. Every territory in the Order had a Tribunal that reviewed the
cases of targets designated for execution. The three judges in Rome’s Tribunal were notorious
for their slow review process.
“All the evidence checks out, and the Tribunal issued its verdict this morning. Of course,
since you’ll not be up to the task for at least…” Ignacio cocked his head to study her leg. “What?
Two or three weeks? I’ll—”
“You’re not giving this assignment to anyone but me.”
“You realize your mother and…Vorenus will probably object. Rome has never been a safe
place for a Sicari, but for you—it could be deadly.
“There isn’t any safe place for me,” she said with quiet exasperation. “As for my mother
and Vorenus, you don’t have to tell them anything. I’ll deal with them, but Angotti’s mine. I’m
the one who brought him to the attention of the tribunal a year ago when I was here on
assignment.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if that’s a good idea,” Ignacio said as he studied her with quiet
assessment. “You sound a little too involved for my liking.”
“I know not to make this personal,” she said in a level voice, but deep inside a tiny nugget
of satisfaction warmed her. Finally, she was going to get a shot at freeing Marta.
“Do you? I’m not so sure. In the past three years, almost every one of your assignments has
involved targets connected with children who’ve been harmed. It’s starting to look like you have
a vendetta. ” Ignacio gave her a forbidding look. “You know the tribunal doesn’t take kindly to
fighters breaking the Code. If anyone even thinks your targets suffered a slow or painful death,
they’ll bring you up on charges. The Gauntlet isn’t an easy punishment to survive.”
“I haven’t broken the Code, Nacio, and I won’t. But if I can’t have kids, then the least I can
do is protect other children from all the bastardi out there.”
“Then let’s get you to Violetta. It’ll take at least a week to plan the assassination, but I
don’t want anyone questioning your fitness for duty.” Ignacio gestured to the door, and she
limped her way out into the hall in the direction of her rooms.
Cleo was seated on her living room couch tugging her hair out of its braid when Violetta
arrived. The woman didn’t comment on Cleo’s change of heart, but quickly performed
the Curavi. When she finished, Violetta ordered her to rest and left. A healing was always a
draining process for both the healer and the injured party, and Cleo’s eyes drooped as the door
closed behind Violetta.
Despite her exhaustion, she struggled with the tangled mass of images shifting randomly in
her head. The memory of her mother’s confession made her shift restlessly on the couch. Atia’s
remorseful expression fluttered through Cleo’s head. She winced. Maybe Ignacio was right.
Maybe she was being too hard on her mother.
A sigh parted her lips as she realized her mother had only been doing what any good
mother would do. Atia have been protecting her. Would she have done any less if she were a
mother? Her heart clenched painfully in her breast. She certainly hadn’t been thinking about her
child’s welfare the night she’d gone out on assignment. She could have easily asked for reserve
duty until after the baby was born. She hadn’t, and she’d paid the price. It was the last thought
she remembered as she slipped into the darkness of sleep.
Shafts of moonlight streamed down through the girders of the abandoned bridge overhead
as she quietly moved forward. A few feet away to her left, she could barely see Lysander’s tall
form. That was a good thing. The longer they went undetected, the easier it would be to execute
their target. Assassinations weren’t easy. Most of their targets had a tendency to shoot first and
ask questions later.
“Just like we planned, okay.” Lysander’s command echoed quietly in her earpiece.
“I’m ready if you are.”
Her whisper seemed to echo all the way up to the train bridge above her head. It made her
uneasy. The whole situation didn’t feel right. And that was saying a lot since she wasn’t like
most Sicari females who could sense danger.
She put the sensation down to an over active imagination, and moved toward the black
sedan that was parked at the opposite end of the bridge. She’d gotten halfway to the car when it
roared to life and gravel sprayed everywhere as the car spun out from underneath the bridge and
onto the nearby pavement.
“What the—Cleo we’ve got company.”
Lysander’s clipped words were followed by the sound of a sword hitting metal three times
in rapid succession. Instinct made her pull her sword out of the sheath on her back and whirl
around all in one fluid motion. Even as fast as she moved, she still failed to block the sword
coming at her. The Praetorian’s finely honed blade sliced into her raised forearm as neatly as if
he were slicing a piece of steak.
“Goddamnit. Son of a bitch.” A soft chuckle followed her cry, and her gaze met the
menacing amusement in the man facing her.
“You’re quite right, Unmentionable,” the Praetorian murmured in a silky tone that was all
the more unsettlingly because of its pleasant sound. “My mother was a bitch. A Sicari bitch who
had the decency to die giving birth to me.”
The callousness of the statement made Cleo’s blood cold. This guy was more malicious in
his hatred than most Praetorians she’d encountered. His sword headed toward her again, and she
quickly shifted her weapon into her opposite hand to block and parry. The instant her blade cut
into the man’s chest, she saw the surprise on his face. She managed a tight smile of satisfaction.
“Didn’t expect to meet a switch hitter with a sword, did you, you sorry ass bastardo.”
With a vicious oath, her opponent swung his sword in a furious round of strikes that had
her stumbling backward. His skill was on the same level as hers, but it was the strength of his
blows she couldn’t match. And the option of darting out of his reach wasn’t really a viable option
when the guy was almost two times her size. The Praetorian’s sword sparked against hers as the
two weapons slid downward against each other to lock at the hilt. The gleam of triumph in the
man’s eye vanished as she kneed him in the groin. With a loud cry of pain, the Praetorian’s
sword hit the ground’s mix of dirt and gravel as he dropped to his knees clutching his jewels.
The tip of her sword immediately pressed into his chest ready to drive through the man’s heart.
“You fought well, Praetorian. I now ask for your forgiveness,” she said quietly. “Do you
give it?”
“May your soul rot in hell, Unmentionable,” the man snarled and with a flash of speed that
surprised her, his forearm came up to viciously slam into the edge of her blade.
The move knocked the sword away from his chest, but the price the Praetorian paid was her
blade slicing deep into his arm until she struck the bone. With a fierce noise of anger, she
grimaced as blood spurted its way onto her hand. In the next instant, an icy chill streaked across
her skin as the Praetorian retrieved his sword and dragged it deep through the layer of skin
beneath her belly button.
“Oh fuck,” she whispered as her brain reacted frantically to the injury and began to shut
down everything but the most important organs necessary for survival. “Lysander…I’m sor…”
The Praetorian’s vicious laugh rang in her ears as her hand pressed against her wound. She
heard the man’s laughter cut short just as she sank to her knees and tumbled to the ground.
Gasping for air, Cleo shot upright on the couch. Christus, she hadn’t dreamed about that
terrible night in more than a year. She pushed her dark hair back off her face. Where the hell had
that come from? Right. Feeling empathy for her mother. Cleo raked her fingers through her then
shook her head and closed her eyes. She understood why her mother had kept her in the dark
about her father. She just needed to process it. What she hated the most were the cruel things
she’d said to her mother. They were all each other had.
An image of Marcus Vorenus flitted through her head. Not true. At least not at the moment.
And the Sicari Lord didn’t act like he was going anywhere anytime soon. In a way, she wasn’t
really surprised by it. The two of them were blood bonded. That wasn’t the sort of thing you
walked away from.
Fuck, was he really trying to get back together with her mother? She winced. She wasn’t
going there. The first thing she needed to do was deal with her mother then she could figure out
how to deal with Marcus Vorenus’s return to their lives.
Deus, she wished Lysander was here. He was the closest thing to a brother she had, and if
anyone could make her see the logic in the situation it was him. Thinking of her friend reminded
her of Angotti and how the bastardo would tell her what she wanted to know. Information that
would give her the chance to help a friend. Two actually.
Of course when Lysander heard what she’d done, he’d thank her, then kick her ass, then
thank her again. As for Marta—who knew what her friend would do. Cleo swallowed hard.
Marta might wish she were dead. Even worse, her friend might beg Cleo for the Nex Cassiopeia.
She shuddered. No. Marta was stronger than that. Besides, killing her friend just wasn’t part of
the plan.
Chapter 3
A sliver of light from a window above the alleyway made the slimy cobblestones glisten.
The rank smell of sewer made Cleo wrinkle her nose as she waited patiently in the dark. Like
most old cities, Rome’s current drainage system had been in place for a very long time, and the
smell reflected the fact. Even despite the amount of time she’d been standing here, she still
wasn’t used to the stench.
The sooner she returned to the safe house for a good soak in the tub the better. For the past
week, she’d been too busy planning Angotti’s execution that she’d not been able to take any time
for one of her favorite activities. A bubble bath followed by a glass of Lambrusco, Italian opera
and her one guilty pleasure—a romance book. The combination had a way of easing all the
tension from her body.
At least her involvement with Angotti’s fate had enabled her to avoid her mother and
Marcus Vorenus before they’d left for Chicago a week ago. It hadn’t surprised her that the Sicari
Lord had gone with her mother. Although, the idea that her mother might renew her relationship
with Marcus Vorenus was unsettling for some reason. A small part of her was feeling jealous
that she’d have to share her mother all the time. It was selfish to feel that way, but for years it
had been just the two of them. Now, Cleo was faced with having a father in her life when she’d
gone so long without one. Focus. She didn’t need to be thinking about her mother’s confession.
Angotti was her concern at the moment.
Her gaze focused on the door a short distance from where she stood. Hopefully
the bastardo wouldn’t be long now. Angotti had gone into his mistress’s house a little more than
two hours ago. More than enough time to fuck the woman two or three times. The Vigilavi police
officer assigned to watch Tito Angotti had detailed the son of a bitch’s varied schedule for
almost twelve months. It had taken the Tribunal almost that long before reaching a judgment.
Roberto, Isabella, Giovanni, Rosa, and Julius were the primary reason she’d insisted on this
assignment. She remembered the pictures of five kids mixed in with the paperwork on Rinaldo
Verdi’s precinct desk in Rome. The oldest one had been eight, but it was six-month-old Isabella
that locked a vise around her heart. Five lives snuffed out by Angotti’s greed.
For once she was glad Rome’s three-man court had taken their usual lengthy process in
debating Angotti’s fate. It had given the Vigilavi more time to continue their observation of
Angotti. Time to turn up an unexpected present. Angotti was in bed with the Praetorians.
It was why she’d come alone tonight. She didn’t want another fighter questioning her
actions with Angotti. Of course, when Ignacio found out she’d come without backup, he was
going to put her on the bench for at least a month when he got a hold of her. Well, it couldn’t be
helped. She wanted the information Angotti had, and she was going to get it before she executed
the bastardo.
The sound of a door opening drew her up straight as her gaze narrowed on the short, stocky
figure that turned around to speak to someone shielded in the darkened doorway. She heard a
feminine laugh and grimaced. How in Juno’s name could the woman even allow the man to
touch her. Cleo gritted her teeth. This was one target she wouldn’t feel any remorse over killing.
Deep in the back of her mind, she heard Ignacio’s warning to make sure Angotti’s death
was a merciful one as the Sicari Code forbade revenge killings. She almost snorted with derision.
This wasn’t revenge. It was justice. She ignored the small voice in her head that suggested
maybe her motives were less than honorable. Dishonorable? There wasn’t a goddamn thing
wrong with executing a baby killer.
As the man stepped away from the doorway, Cleo heard the door shut and she looked
toward first one end of the alley and then the other. Angotti always traveled with a small
entourage, but she’d entered the alleyway after his soldiers had scouted out the dark corners from
both ends of the narrow back street.
Sometimes Praetorian tactics were a good thing, especially when it meant rappelling off a
roof to escape detection. Of course, that sort of entrance made dressing for tonight a little more
challenging. Angotti loved beautiful women, and looks she had in spades.
But she knew it was important to dress as seductively as possible to ensure the man
allowed her to get close to him. She needed to be able to silence him quickly. The downside to
everything had been the limits to what she could wear since she was jumping off a building.
So she’d had to settle for wearing a low cut red shirt with a pair of soft, black leather pants.
While she had a couple of dresses, she was utilitarian by nature and her closet was mostly filled
with serviceable outfits. Although she did have a secret weakness for slutty underwear and shoes.
Even like the stylish boots she was wearing tonight.
When she’d seen the flat-heeled boots with their cuffed top and intricate pleating in a Rome
storefront window, they’d appealed to both her utilitarian and feminine sides. The boots were
perfect for a mission like this. Spiked boots made it virtually impossible to defend herself if she
ran into any trouble.
Not to mention the noise spiked heels would have made on the side of the wall as she
dropped three stories down into the alley. It was bad enough that the two long scarves around her
neck kept fluttering up into her face as she’d rappelled off the roof. But she needed a gag and
something to bind Angotti’s hands with. She snorted a whisper of disgust at her analysis of her
attire. If the son of a bitch remained true to his profile, his eyes would be on her chest and her
cleavage.
She pushed herself away from the side of building she’d been leaning against to quietly
follow the man. The man was far more aware of his surroundings than she’d expected as she saw
him turn around brandishing a weapon. The handgun had a silencer on it. Goddamnit.
“Please, signore. Please don’t hurt me.”
Lysander would have laughed at the way she feigned being a helpless female, but Angotti
seemed to buy her act. The man peered at her closely in the dark, relaxing his posture slightly.
He didn’t speak, but flicked his wrist and used his gun to order her out into the small stream of
light she’d been avoiding. The man’s eyes widened as she came out of the shadows, and he
smiled with more than a hint of lust.
Angotti’s reaction didn’t surprise her. His taste in beautiful women was going to be his
downfall tonight. She’d dressed specifically for his benefit. A going away present for him of
sorts. The amusing thought made her smile genuine as she stepped into the light for him to get a
good look at her.
The leather pants she wore were skin tight, while the short, black leather jacket she wore
over her dark red shirt emphasized her waist and full hips. The snug top she wore dipped low and
would have been far more revealing if not for her brooch nestled in between her breast and the
scarves fluttering around her neck. The man licked his lips as if she were a dessert on his plate.
His expression made her skin crawl. Suddenly the scarves around her neck were well worth the
hassle they’d given her while rappelling off the roof. At least the silk covered up most of the skin
her low cut shirt revealed along with the ornate brooch nestled between her breasts that hid her
weapon of choice.
“Bellissima.” Angotti said as he eyed her with a mixture of lust and suspicion. “How did
you get past the men at the end of the alley?”
“What men?” She feigned puzzlement, although she’d seen Angotti’s men earlier before
she’d gone up to the roof of the building behind her. “I saw two men sitting in a car near the
entrance of the alleyway. Is that who you mean?”
Angotti muttered something fierce beneath his breath. Cleo bit back a smile. The man
would never get a chance to rip his bodyguards a new one. His gaze still wary, he kept the gun
trained on her for another long minute before his expression changed to show he’d made a
decision. With a smile in her direction, he returned his gun to the holster under his coat. A
mistake on his part.
“What are you doing out here alone without a man to protect you,carissima?
Another mistake. Never assume a woman wasn’t capable of protecting herself. She forced
herself to send him a helpless look. “I didn’t think I’d be out so late.”
“A woman a beautiful as you should never be alone,” Angotti said. “Where do you live?”
“Another street over. I was in a hurry to get home, and I thought the alley was a good
shortcut.” She drew abreast of him and offered him another smile.
“Dark alleys are never safe, cara, and you’re fortunate that it was me who found you and
not someone less honorable.”
She almost laughed out loud at his words. The man knew nothing about honor. He’d
murdered five innocents for money. He deserved a far more painful death than she was allowed
to dish out. She forced a smile to her lips, barely keeping the bile in her throat from choking her.
“It was rather foolish of me I suppose.”
“A woman as beautiful as you can be forgiven such a mistake, but come. Let me see you
home, bella. Then and you can invite me in for a drink so we can get better acquainted.” Angotti
reached out to catch her hand in his and carried it to his wet lips. How she kept from throwing
up, she’d never know.
“But we’ve only just met. That might be unwise of me,” Cleo deliberately made her voice a
husky sound as she toyed with one of the loosely hanging silk scarves around her neck.
“Are you telling me you don’t recognize me?”
“Forgive me, signore,” she murmured. “I’m new to Rome.”
“Then you’re in need of someone who’s familiar with the city to help you find where
things are.” Angotti bowed toward her slightly in a pitiful attempt to be gallant. His rotund body
didn’t accommodate his efforts well. “I’m Tito Angotti. Businessman and entrepreneur.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of you. An apartment building of yours burnt to the ground late last
year, didn’t it?”
He started with surprise, his gaze narrowing as if aware that he might have made a mistake
in relaxing in his guard. It didn’t matter. Tito Angotti was out of time. Tired of playing the
helpless female, Cleo moved with blinding speed and viciously slammed the knife-edge of her
hand into man’s neck. Over the years, she’d learned how to hit a certain pressure point on the
side of the neck to incapacitate someone or possibly kill.
With Angotti, his extra weight meant she had to hit hard. She grunted as his stocky body
fell into her before sinking downward. He wasn’t dead, but she needed him alive. At least for a
few minutes. Aware that she didn’t have much time, she guided Angotti down to the ground
where he sat on the wet cobblestone.
If the man had been capable of protest, he would no doubt have bemoaned the fact that his
pristine, cream-colored suit was ruined. She tugged one of her scarves off her neck to bind
Angotti’s hands behind his back. Certain he couldn’t break free of the restraint, she smacked the
back of his neck and rubbed hard to stimulate the man’s nervous system. As the man slowly
recovered from the pressure point blow and started to mumble, she jerked the remaining scarf off
her neck and gagged him.
A raw fury lashed through her as she pulled the stiletto from the scabbard nestled between
her breasts. She wanted to slit the man’s throat right then and there for his responsibility in the
deaths of five innocent children. Her blade pushed into the fleshy meat of Angotti’s neck as she
threaded her fingers through his thinning hair and jerked his head back so she could stare down
into his eyes.
The man uttered a quiet cry of rage behind the scarf. Although his eyes were wide with
fury, there was a glint of fear there as well. Good, the son of bitch ought to be scared. In fact, if
he knew what was going to happen in a few minutes he be sobbing like a baby. An image of
Isabella’s tiny little body made her draw in a sharp hiss of air. Angotti’s greed had killed Isabella
and the other children.
The bastardo had paid Luigi Romano to torch one of his apartment buildings rather than
making the upgrades necessary to meet the fire code. Worse, Angotti had known the building
was a death trap, and he’d not bothered to evict the tenants before he sent Romano in to set the
place on fire.
Her stomach lurched at the thought of how those five kids had died. Romano had gone to
jail for his crime, but Angotti had walked away. Until tonight. A shudder whipped through her,
but it wasn’t one of fear. It was a desire to break every rule she’d ever sworn to obey. And it was
going to take every ounce of resolve she possessed not to eviscerate the man before she slit his
throat. She bent over Angotti so her mouth was close to his ear.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” she whispered. “And you’re going to tell me what I
want to know, capisci?”
The man muttered something behind the gag and jerked his head in a nod. He still hadn’t
lost his arrogance. It angered her, and she forced herself to draw in a deep breath. Control. She
needed to remain in control. Killing this son of a bitch would give her a lot more pleasure than
she should be feeling. She needed to let her anger go. She wasn’t supposed to enjoy the kill. And
despite her fury, she didn’t want to betray the basic tenants of the Order that said every execution
was one of justice. Nothing more. She drew in another sharp breath.
“I’m going to remove your gag. If you try to call for help, I’ll slit your throat before you get
one syllable out.”
She increased the pressure of her stiletto against the man’s throat. The man nodded again.
Keeping the point of her blade against his jugular vein, she quickly undid the scarf. The man
drew in a deep breath as if about to scream, and she pressed her blade into his skin until she drew
blood.
“You fucking bitch, you don’t know who you’re messing with,” Angotti snarled.
“Oh, I know who you are. I know all about you.” Perhaps it was the quiet, detached note in
her voice that made the man lose some of his arrogance.
“Who are you?”
“I’d say your worst nightmare, but then I’m not into clichés.”
“What do want from me? Money? I can pay you well.”
“The only thing I want from you is information.
“Information?”
“You’re familiar with the Convent of the Sacred Mother on the coast at Atrani west of
Salerno?”
“The convent?” The first real sign of fear threaded its way through Angotti’s voice. An
echo of terror that indicated some things terrified the man a lot more than the knife at his neck.
She grimaced.
“I know you work for the Praetorians, you fat pig. Tell me about the convent.”
“Sicari. You’re Sicari.” Something other than fear entered his voice. Perhaps a fascination.
She hissed with frustration.
“The convent. I want to know everything about it.”
“I’ve only been inside it once, and not for very long.” Angotti’s voice was hesitant as if he
was stalling for time. Why? She frowned, but proceeded with her interrogation.
“Where’s the security control room?”
“I don’t—” He stopped as she pressed the sharp point of her blade deeper into his neck.
This time fear replaced his swaggering manner. “Sweet Mother of God, they’ll kill me if I tell
you.”
“They’re not here, and I’m your biggest worry right now. Now, tell me. Where is the
security control room?”
“Down the main hall.” He drew in a hiss of air as she drew the tip of the stiletto across his
skin in a small cut. “The first hallway on the right and a couple doors down.”
“Number of Praetorians on duty.”
“One, maybe—” She pressed the stiletto into the man’s neck harder.
“Don’t try my patience, you sorry fuck.”
“Ten.” Angotti whimpered. “Always ten brothers on duty.”
“Is that inside or out?”
“Outside,” the man choked out. “There are at least five or six more inside.”
“How many others at a given time?” Her mouth tightened as she envisioned what those
other Praetorians were doing when they weren’t guarding the convent.
“I don’t know.” The man gasped as the knife at his throat drew another drop of blood from
his skin. “Ten. Fifteen. I don’t know. I never counted them.”
At Angotti’s answer she suppressed a groan. She was going to need a lot more help if she
moved ahead with her plans. Pasquale would take some convincing, but he’d eventually come
around. She’d like to wait for Lysander, but Phae was still in a coma, and Cleo wasn’t about to
ask him to leave Phae’s side. Ares would come the minute she mentioned Marta’s name, and
Violetta would come because her sister had died in a Praetorian breeding facility.
She could always ask Mario or Ignacio, she grunted with a sense of wry amusement. Both
men were just as likely to deck her for even daring to suggest an assault on the convent. She bit
down on her lower lip. Maybe with a little luck she could convince a couple of other fighters to
come along. The problem was keeping the whole deal quiet so her mother couldn’t nix the idea.
She smiled grimly. Maybe keeping secrets ran in the family after all. She was wasting time and
immediately turned her attention back to the matter at hand.
“Deliveries. Who does their deliveries?”
“Sonny Mesiti.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” Angotti sobbed. “Please, I’ve told you everything. Please let me go.”
Her target squirmed slightly on the cobblestones. Somewhere nearby she heard a soft
sound. She couldn’t place it, but it raised the hair on the back of her neck. She was taking too
long. She tugged Angotti’s head back and exposed his neck.
“Tito Angotti, you’ve been tried and found guilty of the murder of five children.”
“Whaa…No. I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Yes you did, and you know it. You hired Luigi Romano to burn down an apartment
building you owned. Five children died in that fire. Remember?”
A sickening feeling clutched at her gut as images of those happy faces danced through her
head. Her throat tightened as the image of Isabella fluttered in front of her. Deus, she’d been a
tiny little thing. So small and beautiful—no, she wasn’t going to do this. Not now.
“I was acquitted,” the man gasped. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You were acquitted because of missing evidence.”
As the precinct’s chief arson investigator, Rinaldo had been the first officer called to the
scene of the fire. He’d found evidence linking Angotti to the crime, but the Praetorians weren’t
about to let one of their biggest henchmen go down. They’d helped the slimy bastardo wiggle
his way out of a conviction by stealing evidence. As a member of the Vigilavi, Rinaldo had
informed the Order of the man’s acquittal and asked for justice. Her friend was going to get his
wish.
With the tip of her blade ready to puncture Angotti’s neck, she reached into the pocket of
her leather jacket. Her hand gripped the plastic sleeve containing two black and white
photographs and a slip of paper. Cleo dropped the plastic-encased evidence down on the ground
in front of the man.
“See those? That’s you in those pictures. You and Romano,” Cleo said as a deadly calm
settled over her. “The man cut a deal and pointed you out in the trial, but it was his word against
yours without these pictures.”
“The photos are fake. You can do anything with software these days.” Panic echoed in the
man’s voice.
“You’re right. The photos are fake. But the information on that piece of paper is the real
deal.”
“Re…receipts.”
“There are two transactions detailed on that piece of paper. One is the money in Romano’s
bank account that the police couldn’t trace back to its source. The other transaction details are for
a wire transfer from your bank account in the Cayman Islands directly into Romano’s account.
The monies match up exactly and are dated the day after the fire.”
“How did you…you can’t trace that sort of thing.”
“But I did.”
“All right, I paid Romano to burn the building. But I didn’t tell him to do it when there
were people inside, the stupid prick,” Angotti snapped. His cockiness was back. She glanced
toward the first one end of the alley and then the other. Nothing moved in the shadows.
“Five innocent children died in that fire,” Cleo tugged the man’s head back so he could
look up at her. “You have children, don’t you Angotti.”
“Yes.” The man’s eyes widened with horror. “My God, don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt
my bambinos.”
“Don’t insult me, you bastardo.” Cleo released a harsh breath of disgust.Deus, she so
didn’t want to ask the Rogare Donavi of this sorry son of a bitch. “Now, unfortunately, I must
now ask your forgiveness.”
“I don’t understand.” His fear was back.
“You are to be executed for the murders of five innocent children. As your executioner, I
seek your forgiveness.”
“You can’t,” Angotti’s voice grew louder as he screamed in terror.
“I didn’t think you’d forgive me,” Cleo said harshly.
The man’s scream ended on an abrupt high note as she slit his throat. The second Angotti
slumped to the ground she heard a grunt behind her. She whirled around to see first one and then
another man drop from the roof of the three-story building she’d rappelled from earlier.
Praetorians. Didn’t these guys ever go off-duty? Behind her, the sound of running feet said
Angotti’s bodyguards were heading toward her. Damnit, even if she’d been a coward and wanted
to run, there wasn’t anywhere to go.
“Do you really think we’re going to let you run, Unmentionable,” one of the Praetorians
sneered.
The comment infuriated her, but she quickly suppressed her anger as she remembered
Mario’s words of wisdom last week. She could kick these bastardi to Tartarus and back as long
as she kept her cool. She could feel the Praetorians’ thoughts pounding against the mental shield
she’d erected as she watched the two of them slowly advancing toward her. At least they weren’t
as big as some she’d fought in the past.
Behind her, the racing footsteps slowed, and she darted a quick glance over her shoulder in
time to see a burly arm reaching out to grab her shoulder. In a move that was second nature to
her, she turned and caught the man’s arm under hers and drove her stiletto into the back of his
neck. The man went rigid and didn’t make a sound as she pulled her blade out of his neck. The
minute she released him, he dropped to the filthy street like a large sack of flour.
One down, three to go. A laugh from one of the Praetorians behind her made her roll her
eyes. Fine, let them think she couldn’t take them out. She quickly deflected the second
bodyguard’s punch and slammed her hand into his throat, crushing his trachea. The man crashed
to the ground clutching at his throat as his air supply slowly vanished. Cleo ignored him and
slowly turned to face the Praetorians.
“Okay, boys. How do you want to do this?” Cleo glared at the two men facing her.
“You do realize, Unmentionable that we’re not going to kill you.” Just the way the
Praetorian said the words made Cleo stiffen.
“Then you’d be a fool not to, because you can’t breed me.”
“But think of the pleasure you’ll bring the Praetorian who tries.”
“No you stupid asshole, I can’t have children.” Saying the words out loud made her body
hurt as though she’d been sliced open again. Without realizing it, her hand reached for the spot
where a Praetorian blade had skewered her three years ago. The Praetorian closest to her
chuckled.
“Then I’ll finish what one of my brothers failed to do the night he sliced you open.”
The man’s amusement made Cleo clench her teeth with fury. She’d let her mental shield
slip allowing the bastardo to know what she was thinking. She couldn’t afford that kind of
mistake or she’d wind up dead. Rolling her shoulders in an effort to loosen up her suddenly tight
muscles, she sent the gloating Praetorian a cold look.
“For someone who keeps telling me what you’re going to do, I don’t see you doing much
of anything,” she drawled with more than a hint of sarcasm.
With a dark look of anger on his face, the Praetorian drew his sword in a flash of
movement and lunged toward her. His friend followed close behind. Cleo visualized a defensive
move to use on the Praetorian, which made him laugh.
“Your mind is easy to read, bitch.” The Praetorian’s confident laughter died away as Cleo
used her palm to push the man’s sword arm upward while driving her fist into the fighter’s groin.
“It’s always easy to read my mind when I want someone to, you dumb son of a bitch.” As
the Praetorian sank to his knees, she jerked her own knee upward into his face. “They really need
to train you assholes better. That was a rookie move.”
Despite his obvious pain, the Praetorian’s large hand suddenly wrapped around her calf and
jerked her off her feet. She hit the ground hard, the air sailing out of her lungs as her back
slammed into the cobblestone pavement. Christus, that move had come from out of nowhere.
The sooner she dealt with this asshole, the better.
Her gaze met the Praetorian’s who was still on his knees beside her. The fighter’s
expression was one of cold calculation, and she saw him raise his sword upward in preparation to
drive it through her. She didn’t think. She simply reacted. Shooting upright, she slammed her
forearm into the side of the Praetorian’s face. The man’s cheekbone snapped loudly beneath the
blow.
Nerve endings in her forearm triggered pain sensors in her head from the blow she’d landed
on the Praetorian’s cheek and as his grip on her leg eased up, she jerked free of his hold. A
shadow billowed over her, and she saw the second Praetorian with his sword poised to plummet
its way down into her chest.
She immediately rolled away and heard the sword clang against stone where she’d been
just seconds ago. She was on her feet in a second, and as the Praetorian rushed her, she planted a
hard kick into her attacker’s knee. A loud pop echoed in the alley as the man staggered to one
side. The first Praetorian was staggering to his feet, and she in two quick steps she was standing
behind him with the tip of her blade against the back of the man’s neck.
“I ask your forgiveness, Praetorian,” she said.
She wasn’t really sure why she asked. The Order didn’t require the Rogare Donavi when
killing a Praetorian. The fighter growled, but she didn’t hesitate before she jammed the stiletto
into the man’s neck. The death rattle in his throat said he’d be dead in seconds, which left only
one left. She tugged her blade free of the Praetorian and turned to face her last opponent.
The remaining fighter was limping, but definitely still in the game. The Praetorian feinted
to the right, and she easily countered as his sword came at her from the left. As his blade
followed through and swung back again, she didn’t see the fighter’s foot kicking outward. The
blow to her knee threw her off balance, and she stumbled. Although her recovery was quick, her
slight hesitation was enough for the Praetorian to strike. As the blade sliced into the back of her
calf, she fell to the ground with a sharp cry.
“Fuck. Sweet Vesta. Mother of Juno,” she rasped at the pain knifing through her leg.
“That, Unmentionable, was for my brother.”
Fire streaked its way up Cleo’s side as she struggled to her feet. She needed to be standing
to fight this bastardo. Knuckles scraping against the rough stone alleyway, she grunted with pain
as she stood upright with all of her weight on her good leg. The movement only increased the
amount of nausea washing over her.
Deus, she hurt. The Praetorian’s lips curled back in a feral smile of triumph as he moved
toward her. Christus, the son of a bitch was already planning her demise. And if she didn’t do
something quick, the man would succeed. The problem was, all she wanted to do was sit down
and put her head between her legs, if only to make the nausea go away. Not a good idea with a
Praetorian ready to take her out.
Cleo’s hand tightened on the hilt of her stiletto. All she had to do was get in close. She
hopped to one side dragging her injured leg with her in an effort to prepare herself for his attack.
The Praetorian charged her, his sword straight out in front of him with the clear intent to run her
through. At the last second, she twisted her hips sharply and arched her back so her upper body
was parallel with the Praetorian’s sword.
Despite her defensive move, the blade still managed to cut through her shirt and into the
flesh of one breast. Once more fire seared her skin, but it didn’t stop her from trying to slash the
man’s throat. She missed, and her stiletto cut into the Praetorian’s shoulder instead.
The snarl of pain the man made didn’t make her feel any better. He was still alive. Cleo
hopped around to face her attacker only to see the Praetorian’s blade flashing her way. Selfpreservation forced her to launch herself backward to avoid the sword. She stumbled in the
process and found herself on the ground one more time.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, whore.” A cruel smile curving his lips, the Praetorian
moved forward to viciously cut into the flesh of her upper arm.
Cleo cried out in pain. Her vision blurred for a moment as the nausea she’d barely had
under control renewed its harsh assault. She was out of options. Focus. If she wanted to live, she
needed to focus. She forced herself to shut out everything but her determination to kill the man in
front of her. He chuckled as she envisioned hitting his brachia and crushing it.
The image she projected didn’t prepare him for the stiletto that whistled through the air and
slammed into his throat. The Praetorian stood there for several seconds before he toppled
forward in slow motion. Cleo didn’t wait for him to land on top of her. She forced herself to
ignore the nausea and pain as she rolled away from the spot where the Praetorian eventually
landed.
She laid still for a long moment, staring up at the sky. With all the city lights illuminating
the night sky, it was impossible to see anything but the brightest stars. Suddenly she longed to be
in a lounge chair looking out at the sea at Palazzo al Mare, the Order’s stronghold just south of
Genova. She closed her eyes, trying hard to muster up the strength to get to her feet.
Violetta. She needed to get to Violetta. The woman’s abilities weren’t very strong, but
Violetta could at least heal her leg wound. The cuts on her breast and arm could be stitched up.
Cleo threw herself up into a sitting position with an anguished grunt. Jupiter’s Stone, she hadn’t
hurt this bad in a long time. This is what she got for going out without a partner. She dismissed
the thought.
The risk had been worth it. When she added the information Angotti had given her to the
other info she had on the convent, it reinforced her belief that she could rescue Marta. There
were still a few pieces of the puzzle missing, but a year’s worth of investigative work had just
paid off in a big way. Well worth her injuries tonight. An alarm suddenly went off in her head
breaking through her self-congratulatory thoughts.
It wasn’t a noise that threw her senses on alert, it was something else. A powerful frisson
that scraped across her neck with unbelievable speed. Without thought, she launched herself
toward the dead Praetorian in an effort to reach her stiletto. She wasn’t fast enough.
The dark shadow that brushed past her tugged a cry of surprise from her lips, and she
watched as the large figure knelt to pull her blade from the dead man’s throat. Goddamnit. After
all that effort, her life was forfeit. There wasn’t anywhere to run, and she didn’t have the strength
to do so.
Resigned to her fate, Cleo clenched her jaw. She didn’t like to admit it, but she was afraid.
She particularly didn’t like the way this stranger was toying with her. Praetorians were never
silent. They liked to taunt their prey. This silence was making her damned uncomfortable. She
watched as a gloved hand used the Praetorian’s shirt to wipe the blood off the stiletto.
“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Just get it over with.”
“I believe this is yours.”
The deep richness of his voice had an immediate impact on her senses. It made her body
tighten with awareness, which exacerbated the stress on her wounds, and she drew in a sharp
breath as her nerve endings pounded a new message to her brain.
The stiletto clean, the shadowy figure flipped it so the hilt pointed in her direction and
offered it to her. She didn’t hesitate to take the weapon and kept it pointed in the stranger’s
direction. He didn’t move from the side of the Praetorian she’d killed moments ago. Although
she couldn’t see his face behind the darkness of the hooded cloak he wore, she was certain he
was studying her. She eyed him warily.
He was dressed in the same manner as the Sicari Lord and the Praetorian Dominus who’d
fought each other in the Pantheon just a few days ago when Lysander had led them to the Tyet of
Isis. The long flowing hooded cape he wore so reminiscent of assassins from medieval times.
The problem was Sicari Lord and Praetorian Dominus all looked the same to her.
And just because he’d not killed her yet wasn’t necessarily something bet on at this point.
Although his returning her the stiletto was a good sign, but then the bastardo hadn’t said he was
Sicari either. Praetorians enjoyed their work. They’d find it amusing to make their prey think
they had a chance. She waited for that odd sensation of someone probing her mind, but nothing
happened.
“Who are you?” she rasped, almost afraid to hear his answer.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he moved to examine the men lying dead all around her. There
was a lethal, masculine elegance in his movements that sent a tingling vibration across her skin
unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She didn’t want to enjoy the sensation, but she
did. She liked it a lot. Fuck, what in Jupiter’s name was wrong with her?
But when he reached Angotti’s body, the quiet sound of fury he released made her uneasy
enough to forget her nausea. He didn’t move, he just stood there staring down at the dead man
and for the second time that night she experienced fear.
Buy Inferno’s Kiss Now
§ § §
Critical Acclaim
RECOMMEND READ
“Cleo and Dante have a fabulous love story; one that I could not put down. “Inferno’s Kiss”
made me a believer in the virgin hero. The book is full of emotional angst and seductive sexual
discovery.” — Romance Novel News
“WOW! A kick-ass self-confident heroine and an alpha male with a side order of vulnerability
practically guarantee a mind blowing reading experience. The third book in the Novel of the
Order series packs quite a punch. There are two romances and a suspense that’s sure to keep
readers on the edge of their seats earning INFERNO’S KISS keeper status. My favorite of the
series.” — Fresh Fiction
“Burns continues to do an excellent job creating characters that are layered and vivid.
Conflicting loyalties and motivations as well as danger and betrayal all ensure this is one intense
ride from beginning to end.” — RTBOOKreviews – 4 Stars
“I didn’t think Monica Burns could write another book as good as Assassin’s Heart, but I was
wrong, this book the 3rd in the series was just as good as the first two books and a great ending
to the series.” — Dark Thoughts Blog
“I loved that Cleo is the experienced lover while Dante is the virgin. Hallelujah and pass the
cornbread. The sexual tension in here had me on edge, waiting to see if Dante would succumb or
abstain.” — Smexy Books
“…when Dante finally gave into his vow of abstinence and could no longer contain his desire for
Cleo; it was as if a dam had broken to the passion he had denied himself for so long. I adored
how Dante, being a virgin, was not ashamed to ask Cleo how to pleasure her…” — Fiction
Vixen
“Assassin’s Heart, which made me want to cry and hug someone and punch something all at the
same time, it was a hard act to follow. Inferno’s Kiss is a fantastic book and it doesn’t
disappoint.” — Book-Addicts.com
About the Author
A bestselling author of spicy and erotic romance, Monica Burns penned her first short romance
story at the age of nine when she selected the pseudonym she uses today. Her historical book
awards include the 2011 RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice Award and the 2012 Gayle Wilson
Heart of Excellence Award for Pleasure Me. She is also the recipient of the prestigious
paranormal romance award, the 2011 PRISM Best of the Best for Assassin’s Heart. From the
days when she hid her stories from her sisters to her first completed full-length manuscript, she
always believed in her dream despite rejections and setbacks. A workaholic wife and mother,
Monica believes it’s possible for the good guy to win if they work hard enough.
Contact Monica at
monicaburns@monicaburns.com
Come chat with Monica on her Facebook page
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorMonicaBurns
Stay Up To Date With Monica’s Release News
http://eepurl.com/kwpQP