Luke's feet crunched on the graveled walkway as he proceeded to a marble bench set in a patch of greenery. Hyacinths spread their heavy fragrance through the air, mingling with lilies and heliotrope planted in lush beds. He sat on the bench, sprawling his legs out comfortably. Then he was still, his attention caught by an ethereal shape moving among the hedges. He thought he was hallucinating. But there it was again, the elusive gleam of white.
“Who is it?” he asked aloud, his heart thumping. The movement stopped, and he heard a gasp.
A few soft footsteps, and then
she
appeared.
“Miss Billings,” he said, a quizzical note in his voice.
She was dressed in the peasant costume she had worn the night he had kissed her, a simple skirt and a loose white blouse. Her hair was loose, streaming down to her hips. A light-colored shawl was draped over her head. “My lord,” she said breathlessly.
He relaxed, shaking his head. “You looked like a ghost drifting through the garden.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”
“No.”
“Sometimes I think I'm being haunted.”
“People do that to themselves. Usually people who have too much on their consciences.” He gestured to the place on the bench beside him. After a brief hesitation, she accepted the silent invitation. Sitting on the end of the bench, she kept a prudent distance between them. They were both quiet, steeped in the sense of being outside time. The garden was a sanctuary from the rest of the world.
Tasia wondered why she hadn't been surprised to find him there. Her innate mysticism, sprung from a mixture of religion and Slavic blood, led her to accept the coincidence easily. They were both there because they were meant to be. It felt natural to sit with him, staring at the golden moon as if it had been hung for their private viewing.
He reached over to pull at her scarf, unable to resist the temptation, uncovering a river of shining dark hair that fell over her shoulders. “What's haunting you?” he asked.
Tasia bent her head, the smooth locks forming a glowing nimbus around her face.
“Don't you ever get tired of carrying all those secrets around?” He touched a lock of her hair, winding the delicate strands around his finger. “Why are you out here at this hour?”
“It was confining inside. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to be under the sky.” She hesitated, sliding him a wary glance. “Why are
you
here?”
Letting go of her hair, he faced her in an easy move, straddling the bench. Tasia was sharply aware of his spread knees, the closeness of his powerful body. She perched on the edge of the bench like a small bird poised for flight. But he didn't reach for her, only gave her a steady look that made her blood rush. “You're not the only one who remembers something you'd like to forget,” he said. “Some nights it keeps me awake.”
Tasia understood at once. “Your wife.”
Slowly he turned his wrist until moonlight struck off the silver hook. “It's like missing a hand. Sometimes I reach for something before I remember my hand is gone. Even after all the years that have passed.”
“I heard about the way you brought your wife and Emma out of the fire.” Tasia glanced at him shyly. “You were very brave.”
His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “It had nothing to do with bravery. I didn't stop to think. I just went in after them.”
“Some men would have worried about their own safety.”
“I would have traded places with her. It's harder being the one left behind.” He frowned. “Not only did I lose Mary…I lost myself. I lost the way I was with her. And when the only thing left is a memory, and year by year the details are slipping away…you try to hold on all the more tightly. You can never let go long enough to reach for something else.”
“Sometimes Emma asks me to play her waltz,” Tasia said, staring out at the garden. It was filled with the soothing trill of crickets and the rustling of the miniature creatures that inhabited its fragrant corners. “She listens with her eyes closed, thinking about her mother. Mary—er, Lady Stokehurst—will always be a part of her. And you. I don't think there's anything wrong with that.”
Aware of an annoying tickle on her skin, Tasia brushed at it absently and looked down. Her eyes widened as she saw a long-legged spider strolling delicately along her arm.
She jumped up with a frenzied yelp. After knocking the visitor off, she whacked her shirts vigorously, chattering in a stream of Russian. Stokehurst shot off the bench at her cry, his face startled. When he realized what it was, he sank back down, choking with laughter.
“It was only a spider,” he finally said, still snickering. “In England we call that kind a harvestman. They don't bite.”
Tasia switched back to English. “I hate
every
kind of spider!” She continued to brush wildly at her skirts, her sleeves, any place some uninvited guest might have settled.
“It's all right,” Stokehurst's voice was thick with amusement. “He's gone now.”
The statement didn't placate her. “Are there any more?”
He caught one of her wrists. “Stop hopping up and down, and let me look.” His attentive gaze swept over her. “I think it's safe to say you've sent every living creature in the vicinity running for cover.”
“Except for you.”
“I don't scare easily. Come here, Miss Muffet.” He pulled her wrist until she was back on the bench beside him. “You'd better sit close, in case he comes back.”
“Who is Miss Muffet?”
“An important figure of English literature. I'm surprised an educated woman like you doesn't know about her.” He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close against him. The peasant blouse and skirt were lighter than her normal clothes, with no stays or pads to amplify her figure. Tasia felt the hard, smooth muscles of his chest, and the resounding rhythm of his heart. His linen shirt was warm where it lay against his skin.
“Let me go,” she said in a low voice.
“And if I don't?”
“I'll scream.”
The glimmer of his smile appeared briefly. “You've already done that.”
Tasia didn't resist as he leaned over her, his head blocking the moonlight. She tensed, not in fear but in anticipation, her eyes closing. His mouth came to hers. The sweet, heavy pressure drew a quiver of pleasure up through her spine. Suddenly dizzy, she flattened her hands on the muscles of his shoulders. He held her more tightly, kissing her until all thoughts of sin and reason and self-preservation exploded in a burst of fire. And she kissed him back, so hard that her lips parted from the force of it.
Luke welcomed the opening, reaching for the inner depths of her mouth. He hadn't expected her fierceness, the response that rose up and closed over him like tidal waters. Everything changed in that potent flood. His illusion that he had any choice at all where she was concerned had dissolved forever. She was as necessary as the blood that fed his marrow. She filled the emptiness inside him, for some mysterious reason that his heart comprehended when his mind could not. He tried to gentle the kiss, turn it into something less raw, less feverish, but she wouldn't let him. She reached across the back of his shirt, clawing, desperate to feel the heat and hardness beneath the thin fabric.
He moved, dragging her slender body across his lap. She whimpered as their mouths slipped apart. Luke stared at her, struck by her beauty, the gleaming black tumble of hair, the ripe mouth, the slant of her brows. And her body, light, supple, elastic with youth. His hand left the taut line of her waist, sliding to the loose neckline of her peasant blouse. The garment came from her shoulder with a firm tug. She caught her breath sharply as his hand slid into her blouse to find the tender shape of her breast.
Anchoring her in his lap, he took her mouth again, a long kiss that soon broke into a myriad of shorter ones, luscious fragments of kisses, some hard, some soft and seeking. He fondled her breast, his warm fingers cupping the delicate weight. Gently his thumb passed over the tip until the nub of silk became exquisitely tight.
Tasia struggled to embrace him, twisting to push closer. Her hands slid to his hair, the thick locks that lured her fingers to sink deep and play and tangle. Every sensation of her life, the deepest pleasure and sharpest pain, dimmed in comparison to the satisfaction of being with him. He was so powerful, so gentle. He was everything she had ever dreamed of.
But it had all been ruined, before they ever met. She had ruined it.
Tasia jerked back with a gasp. His eyes opened. Before she could look away, he saw the flash of anguish. Tasia wanted to leave him then, run from words and questions and demands for explanations that couldn't be given. His arms turned to steel. He anchored her against his chest, not letting her move.
“This can't lead to anything,” she whispered.
His hand drifted over her long hair, gathering it in silken sheaves and letting it strain through his fingers. There was a brief rush in his lungs that sounded like laughter, but when he spoke, his voice was anything but amused. “If there had been a choice for either of us, we wouldn't have taken it this far. What makes you think anything can stop it now?”
She raised her face and glared at him miserably. “I can stop it by leaving. You want me to tell you everything, but I can't. I don't want you to know about me and the things I've done.”
His wide mouth twitched with impatience. “Why? Do you think I'll be shocked? I'm hardly an idealistic boy, or a hypocrite. Good Lord, do you actually think your sins could be worse than mine?”
“I know they are,” Tasia said bitterly. Whatever his sins were, she doubted that murder was among them.
“You're an arrogant little fool,” he muttered.
“
Arrogant
—”
“No one's feelings count but your own. No one is affected but you. Well, you're wrong. It's not just you anymore. I'm part of this now—and I'll be damned if I'll slink away just because you've decided I don't fit in with your plans.”
“
You're
the most arrogant person I've ever met in my life! An authority on matters you know nothing about!” Her temper, driven by the force of her Slavic blood, came rushing to the surface. She trembled with the urge to shout. Instead she spoke in a lethal undertone. “I don't care about your feelings. I don't want anything from you. Let me go! I will leave tomorrow. I can't stay after this. I'm not safe here anymore.”
Her bones gave slightly, molded by the force of his hold. “So you can go on hiding, running, staying invisible, never letting anyone care…Not much of a life, is it? More like a living death.”
Tasia flinched. “It's all I can have.”
“Is it? Or are you too much of a coward to try for something more?”
She writhed wildly. “I hate you,” she gasped.
Luke controlled her without effort. “I want you. Enough to fight for you. And if you run from me, I'll find you.” His lips parted in a savage smile. “By God, it feels good to want someone again. I wouldn't trade this for a fortune.”
“I won't tell you anything,” she said passionately. “I'll disappear, and in a month you'll forget all about me, and everything will be the same as before.”
“You won't desert Emma. You know what it would do to her. She needs you.” That was unfair of him, and they both knew it. “We both do,” he added gruffly.
Tasia was outraged. “I know why Emma needs me…but
you
…All you want is f-fornication!”
He averted his face then. A muffled sound escaped him. For a triumphant moment Tasia thought that she had shamed him, and then she realized he was laughing. Infuriated, she began to struggle. He positioned her against his body. She felt the flat of his silver hook against the small of her back. Low beneath his hips, a hard ridge jutted with burning intimacy. Her breath came fast, and she felt a peculiar throb of excitement in the place where he pressed. She held very still.
His smiling mouth brushed over her hot cheek. “I won't deny it. Fornication ranks high on the list. But it's not the only thing I want from you.”
“How dare you, when there is a woman waiting upstairs for you! Or have you already forgotten Lady Harcourt?”
“There are some things I have to resolve,” he admitted.
“Indeed.”
“Iris and I have no claim on each other. She's a good woman, with many qualities I respect and like. But there's no love on either side, and she would be the first to admit it.”
“She wants to marry you,” Tasia said accusingly.
He shrugged. “Well, friendship isn't a bad reason to marry. But it's not enough for me. Iris knows my opinion on the matter. I've made it clear on many occasions.”
“Perhaps she thinks you'll change your mind.”
An engaging smile appeared. “Stokehursts don't change their minds. We're very stubborn. In that regard, I'm the worst of the lot.”
Suddenly Tasia found it hard to believe she was having such a conversation with him, here in the darkness, tangled in his arms. She had dared to criticize him, and he had allowed it freely. It was an alarming sign of how things had changed between them. Her thoughts must have been easy to read, for he laughed and loosened his hold. “I'll let you go for now,” he said. “If we stay like this much longer, there's no telling what I may be driven to do.”
Tasia wriggled out of his arms, but stayed on the bench and faced him. “I meant what I said about leaving. It must be soon. I have a…a feeling that trouble is coming.”
Luke gave her a shrewd glance. “Where will you go?”
“To a place that no one will know about, not even the Ashbournes. I will find work. I'll be all right.”
“You won't be able to hide,” he said. “People will always notice you, no matter how you try to fade into the background. You couldn't change your looks and bearing if you tried for a hundred years. Besides, you weren't meant for that kind of life.”
“I don't have any choice.”
He took her hand carefully. “Yes, you do. Would it be so terrible to come out of your fortress?”
Tasia shook her head, the locks of her hair moving in a sinuous curve over her shoulders. “It's not safe.”
“What if I'm there to help you?” Slowly he turned her hand over, his thumb dipping into her palm.