“You are not going anywhere. I want you to keep this house. You have happy memories here, yes?”
“The happiest of my life.”
Maria’s eyes stung, and she swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Once I have Amelia, we plan to go away. Travel. See all the places that were kept from me while I was in service to Welton. I hope the adventure will help rebuild the bond Amelia and I once shared.”
“I think that is a fine idea.”
“I will miss you terribly,” she lamented, her lower lip quivering.
Simon lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back. “I will be here for you always, for whatever you may need. This is not the end. For you and me, there will never be an end.”
“And I will always be here for you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
She blew out her breath. “So you will take the house?”
“No. I will maintain it for you. Fortuitously,” he continued, smiling, “this is the perfect location for my new appointment under Lord Eddington.”
Maria’s mouth fell open. “He lured you into the agency?”
“Not quite. He anticipates some matters of delicacy that would best be handled by someone with less scruples than most.”
“Dear God.” Her hand lifted to brush along his cheek. “Be careful, please. You are a member of my family. I could not bear it if something untoward were to befall you.”
“I request the same level of care from you. Take no risks.”
She held out her hand. “We have an agreement, then.”
He tilted his head in a slight bow, captured her proffered hand, and held it to his heart. “A lifetime pact.”
“So tell me,” her lips curved, “what does Eddington have in mind for you?”
“Well, here are his thoughts . . .”
Maria paced the length of her lower parlor and cursed under her breath. Unable to resist, she stared at the weary and travel-dusty man in the corner and felt almost as if she would faint.
“Excellent work,” Christopher was telling him, once again praising the man for saving Amelia from those who sought to take her.
The next Maria knew, her lover’s hands were on her shoulders. “Maria? Are you ready?”
Her gaze lifted to his.
Christopher smiled down at her, his eyes soft and adoring. “Sam rode ahead once they reached the outskirts of London. The party with Amelia will be arriving shortly.”
She managed a jerky nod.
“You are so pale.”
Her hand went to her throat. “I am afraid.”
“Of what?” He pulled her closer to him.
“Of believing that she is coming, of believing this is the end.” Tears welled, then flowed freely.
“I understand.” Christopher stroked the length of her spine soothingly. Simon approached from his position at the window and offered both a handkerchief and a comforting smile.
“What if she does not like me? What if she resents me?”
“Maria, she will love you,” Christopher soothed. “There is no help for it.”
Simon nodded. “No help for it at all. She will adore you,
mhuirnín
.”
They all heard the rap of the door knocker. Maria tensed. Christopher released her and moved to a position at her side, his hand offering support at the small of her back. Simon moved to the door.
It took forever, it seemed, before another travel-stained lackey entered. Maria held her breath. A moment later a smaller body appeared. Dressed in a gown far too large for her young frame, Amelia paused hesitantly inside the threshold. Her green eyes, so like Welton’s but filled with innocence, took in everything around her with rapt attention. Her gaze locked on Maria and roamed the length of her, so curious and wary. Maria did the same, noting all of the differences time had wrought in the many years they had been apart.
How tall Amelia had grown! Her piquant face was surrounded by a curtain of long, black hair so like their mother’s. But Amelia’s eyes retained the child’s innocence Maria remembered from their past, and the gratitude she felt for that was nearly overwhelming.
A sob broke the silence. Maria realized it was hers and covered her mouth with the kerchief. Her free hand lifted of its own accord, reaching out. It shook violently, as did her entire frame.
“Maria,” Amelia said, taking a tentative step forward, a lone tear slipping free and sliding down her cheek.
Maria, too, took one tiny step, but it was enough of a welcome. Amelia ran the short distance between them. She threw herself into Maria’s arms with enough force that Christopher caught Maria’s back and saved them both from a tumble.
“I love you,” Maria whispered, her face buried in Amelia’s hair, dampening the raven locks with her tears.
Together, they sank to the blue and green Aubusson rug in a puddle of floral skirts and lacy underskirts.
“Maria! It was so awful!”
Her sister wailed loudly, making it difficult to understand everything she said, the words pouring out of her mouth in a jumbled deluge. Horses and fighting and someone named Colin . . . Something about Colin being killed . . . and Lord Ware and a letter . . .
“Hush,” Maria soothed, rocking Amelia. “Hush.”
“I have so much to tell you,” Amelia cried.
“I know, my darling. I know.” Maria glanced up at Christopher and saw his tears. Simon, too, stood with reddened eyes and a hand over his heart.
Maria rested her cheek on the top of Amelia’s head and hugged her tightly. “But you will have the rest of our lives to tell me everything. The rest of our lives . . .”
Epilogue
T
he slight scratching on the open door drew Simon’s attention from the maps spread out across his desk. He looked up at the butler with both brows raised. “Yes?”
“There is a young man at the door asking for Lady Winter, sir. I did tell him that neither she nor you were at home, but he refuses to leave.”
Simon straightened. “Oh? Who is it?”
The servant cleared his throat. “He appears to be a Gypsy.”
Surprise held his tongue for the length of a heartbeat, then Simon said, “Show him in.”
He took a moment to clear the sensitive documents on his desk, then he sat and waited for the dark-haired youth who entered his study a moment later.
“Where is Lady Winter?” the boy asked, the set of his shoulders and jaw betraying his mulish determination to get whatever it was he came for.
Simon leaned back in his chair. “She is traveling the Continent, last I heard.”
The boy frowned. “Is Miss Benbridge with her? How can I find them? Do you have their direction?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Colin Mitchell.”
“Well, Mr. Mitchell, would you care for a drink?” Simon stood and moved to the row of decanters that lined the table in front of the window.
“No.”
Hiding a smile, Simon poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and then turned around, leaning his hip against the console with one heel crossed over the other. Mitchell stood in the same spot, his gaze searching the room, pausing occasionally on various objects with narrowed eyes. Hunting for clues to the answers he sought. He was a finely built young man, and attractive in an exotic way that Simon imagined the ladies found most appealing.
“What will you do if you find the fair Amelia?” Simon asked. “Work in the stables? Care for her horses?”
Mitchell’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I know who you are, though I was told you were dead.” Simon lifted his glass and tossed back the contents. His belly warmed, making him smile. “So do you intend to work as her underling, pining for her from afar? Or perhaps you hope to tumble her in the hay as often as possible until she either marries or grows fat with your child.”
Simon straightened and set down his glass, bracing himself for the expected—yet surprisingly impressive—tackle that knocked him to the floor. He and the boy rolled, locked in combat, knocking over a small table and shattering the porcelain figurines that had graced its top.
It took only a few moments for Simon to claim the upper hand. The time would have been shorter had he not been so concerned about hurting the lad.
“Cease,” he ordered, “and listen to me.” He no longer drawled; his tone was now deadly earnest.
Mitchell stilled, but his features remained stamped with fury. “Don’t ever speak of Amelia in that way!”
Pushing to his feet, Simon extended his hand to assist the young man up. “I am only pointing out the obvious. You have nothing. Nothing to offer, nothing with which to support her, no title to give her prestige.”
The clenching of the young man’s jaw and fists betrayed his hatred for the truth. “I know all of that.”
“Good. Now”—Simon righted his clothing and resumed his seat behind the desk—“What if I offered to help you acquire what you need to make you worthy—coin, a fitting home, perhaps even a title from some distant land that would suit the physical features provided by your heritage?”
Mitchell stilled, his gaze narrowing with avid interest. “How?”
“I am engaged in certain . . .
activities
that could be facilitated by a youth with your potential. I heard of your dashing near rescue of Miss Benbridge. With the right molding, you could be quite an asset to me.” Simon smiled. “I would not make this offer to anyone else. So consider yourself fortunate.”
“Why me?” Mitchell asked suspiciously, and not without a little scorn. He was slightly cynical, which Simon thought was excellent. A purely green boy would be of no use at all. “You don’t know me, or what I’m capable of.”
Simon held his gaze steadily. “I understand well the lengths a man will go for a woman he cares for.”
“I love her.”
“Yes. To the point where you would seek her out at great cost to yourself. I need dedication such as that. In return, I will ensure that you become a man of some means.”
“That would take years.” Mitchell ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know that I can bear it.”
“Give yourselves time to mature. Allow her to see what she has missed all of these years. Then, if she will have you anyway, you will know that she is making the decision with a woman’s heart, and not a child’s.”
For a long moment, the young man remained motionless, the weight of his indecision a tangible thing.
“Try it,” Simon urged. “What harm can come from the effort?”
Finally, Mitchell heaved out his breath and sank into the seat opposite the desk. “I’m listening.”
“Excellent!” Simon leaned back in his chair. “Now here are my thoughts . . .”
Please turn the page for a look at
Shelly Laurenston’s sizzling story,
“My Kind of Town”
in the SUN, SAND, SEX anthology
available now from Brava!
“T
here’s blood everywhere.”
Kyle Treharne leaned into the passenger side of the overturned car, the driver’s side so badly damaged no one could get through the crumpled metal to extract themselves. Not even the female whose fear he could smell. Her fear and panic . . . and something else. Something he couldn’t quite name.
“Do you see anybody?” his boss asked. Kyle readjusted the earplug to hear the man better. The Sheriff’s voice was so low, it was often hard to make out exactly what he’d said.
“Nope. I don’t see anyone. No bodies, but . . .” He sniffed the air and looked down. “Blood trail.”
“Follow it. Let me know what you find. I’ll send out the EMS guys.”
“You got it.” Kyle disconnected and followed the trail of blood heading straight toward the beach. He moved fast, worried the woman might be bleeding to death, but also concerned this human female would see something he’d never be able to explain.
Kyle pushed through the trees until he hit the beach. As he’d hoped, none of the townspeople or resort visitors were hanging around, the beach thankfully deserted in the middle of this hot August day. He followed the blood cutting in a small arc across the sand, the trail leading back into the woods about twenty feet from where he’d entered.
He’d barely gone five feet when a bright flash of light and the missing woman’s scent hit him hard, seconds before
she
hit him hard. He should have been faster. Normally, he would be. The scent of hers, though, threw him completely off balance and he couldn’t snap out of it quick enough to avoid the woman slamming right into him.
Her body hit his so hard that if he were completely human, she might have killed him.
But Kyle wasn’t human. He’d been born different like nearly everyone else in his small town. They may not all be the same breed, but they were all the same
kind.
Still, his less than human nature didn’t mean he didn’t experience pain. At the moment, he felt lots and lots of pain as he landed flat on his back, the woman on top of him.
Yet the pain faded away when the woman moved, her small body brushing against him. She moaned and Kyle reached around to gently grip her shoulders.
“Hey darlin’. You all right?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she slapped her hand over his face, squashing his nose. Putting all her weight on that hand, she pushed herself up.
Between her fingers, he could see the confusion in her eyes as she looked around. Blood from a deep gash on her forehead matted her dark brown hair and covered part of her face. Bloodshot, slightly almond-shaped brown eyes searched the area. For what, Kyle had no idea. A cut slashed across her top lip and although it no longer bled, it had started to turn the area around it black and blue.
Damn, little girl is cute.
“Uh . . .” He tapped her arm. “Could you move your hand, sweetheart?” And the question came out like he had the worst cold in the universe. “I can’t really breathe.”
She didn’t even look at him, instead staring off into the forest. “Dammit. It’s gone.” Putting more pressure on his poor nose, the woman levered herself up and off him. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” She stumbled toward the forest and Kyle quickly got to his feet. “This isn’t my fault. It’s not.” Poor thing, completely delirious from all that blood loss and muttering to herself like a mental patient.
Then she stopped walking. Abruptly. Almost as if she’d walked into a wall. “Damn,” she said again.
Knowing he had to get her to the hospital before she died on him, Kyle put his hand on her shoulder, gently turning her so she could see him. “It’s all right, darlin’. Let’s get you out of here, okay?” He slipped one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, scooping her up in his arms.
Hmmm. She feels nice there.
Kyle smiled down at her and, for a moment, she looked at him in complete confusion.
Then the crazy woman started swinging and kicking, trying to get out of his arms. Although she had no skills—she did little more than flail wildly—he couldn’t believe her strength with all the blood she’d lost, but he quickly realized someone else had caught on to her scent, too, and was heading right for them.
Kyle gripped the fighting woman around the waist, dragging her back against him with one arm. Ignoring how much her tiny fists and feet were starting to hurt, he turned his body so she faced in the opposite direction and with his free hand, swung up and back, slamming the back of his fist into the muzzle of the black striped and orange Yankee bastard hellbent on getting his tiger paws on the woman in Kyle’s arms. Tiger males only had to get a whiff of a female and they were on them like white on rice. The fact that this one was fully human and an outsider didn’t seem to matter to some idiots.
A surprised yelp and the Yankee cat flipped back into the woods. Kyle rolled his eyes. He loved his town but, Lord knew, he didn’t like the Yankees who often came to call. All of them rude, pretentious, and damn annoying.
Kyle walked off with the woman still trapped in his arm until she started slapping at him.
“Hands off! Hands off! Let me go!” After all that blood loss, she seemed completely lucid and quite insane.
Even worse . . . he’d recognize that accent anywhere. A Yankee. A
damn
Yankee.
Kyle dropped her on her cute butt and she slammed hard into the sand.
After a moment of stunned silence, she suddenly glared up at him with those big brown eyes . . . and just like that, Kyle Treharne knew he was in the biggest trouble of his life.
No, no.
That
was not a normal-sized human being. Not by a long shot. Her coven had warned her, “They grow ’em big in the south, sweetie,” but she had no idea they grew
this
big.
Nor this gorgeous. She’d never seen hair that black before. Not brown. Black. But when the sunlight hit it in the right way, she could see other colors
under
the black. Light shades of red and yellow and brown. Then there were his eyes. Light,
light,
gold eyes flickered over her face, taking in every detail. His nose, blunt at the tip; his lips full and quite lickable.
“You gonna calm down now, darlin’? Or should I drop you on that pretty ass again?”
Emma Luchessi—worshipper of the Dark Mothers, power elemental of the Coven of the Darkest Night, ninth-level Master of the dream realm, and Long Island accountant for the law offices of Bruce, MacArthur, and Markowitz—didn’t know what to say to that. What to say to
him
. Mostly because she couldn’t stop staring at the man standing over her.