Authors: Victoria Lynne
“Henry Maddox may not be a suspect, but you’ve said before that you felt Lazarus watching you when you ventured out in public. I should like to be present should that happen again.”
“You can’t follow me everywhere I go.”
He gave a light shrug. “Let us just be cautious, shall we? At least for the next week or so.”
The next week or so, indeed. Her smile faded slightly as she imagined a period of years stretching out ahead of them, years spent constantly looking over their shoulders for suspicious faces and ominous shadows. Years in which she and Morgan remained nothing but aloof, polite strangers. Refusing to consider that dismal scenario a moment longer, she sent him a brisk nod. “Very well. Give me a moment to freshen up, will you? I’ll join you shortly.”
As she left the room, she came to a rather unexpected and altogether unwelcome realization. Of the formidable goals she had set for herself upon entering into her marriage — capturing Lazarus and capturing her husband’s heart — apprehending Lazarus might well be the simpler of the two.
Morgan surveyed the room in which he sat. On his initial visit to Tom’s Rest, they had confined their stay to the tavern’s busy front room. Had he given any thought to what he might find in the private rooms in the back of the establishment, he would have pictured exactly what he now saw. The wooden tables and chairs were old but well maintained and free of dust. The upholstered pieces were covered in neatly stitched cotton slipcovers, over which had been tossed a variety of embroidered pillows. An eclectic collection of paintings and seamen’s treasures cluttered the shelves and mantel. Sheer lace curtains hung at the windows, and fresh flowers filled the vases. All in all, it was a welcoming, warm space; a room that seemed to perfectly suit Henry and Annie Maddox.
Although Morgan had tried not to intrude, he had of course been privy to their conversation. In short, Henry had invited Julia to tea in order to make her an offer for her father’s warehouse. As his opinion had not been solicited, Morgan watched in silence as Julia studied the paper that outlined the terms of the sale.
“’Course, if you don’t think that’s enough…” Henry began.
“No, it’s quite generous,” Julia replied. “I’m merely surprised. It’s all so unexpected.”
“It’s fairly unexpected for Henry and me too,” said Annie with a smile. “But two of my regular customers came into some money and offered to buy Torn’s Rest. At first we turned them down flat, but then Henry and I got to talking.” She paused and reached for her husband’s hand, giving it a brief squeeze. “After all the years we missed together, what with him sailing who knows where and me running this inn, we figured it might be nice to spend our final years anchored down together. Maybe buy one of those little cottages they’re building up on Drake’s Hill and fix ourselves a real home.”
Julia forced a small smile. “That sounds lovely.”
“If you were still living with that uncle of yours,” Henry said, “we wouldn’t think of offering. But now that you’re married to his lordship and all…” He made a vague gesture in Morgan’s direction as his words trailed away. “Well, it didn’t seem like the place mattered to you anymore, that’s all.”
“You haven’t been by the docks in ages,” Annie went on, shifting uncomfortably. “So Henry and I just figured… Well, we thought it just might work out for everybody.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” said Julia with a decisive nod. “In fact, we should have discussed this sooner. Mr. Randolph is holding the deed for me. I’ll sign it over to you at first opportunity.”
Henry cleared his throat. “I reckon your husband ought to sign it as well.”
If Morgan didn’t know Julia so well, he might have missed the subtle tension that crossed her features at the reminder that the warehouse was no longer hers to sign away. By law everything she owned had become Morgan’s at their marriage. “Of course,” she said, turning toward him with an artificial smile. “Morgan?”
“Certainly.”
After another few minutes of rambling conversation, he and Julia made their exit. Rather than take the coach directly back to his estate, she hesitated, suggesting they walk a bit first. As it was clear that something was on her mind, Morgan acquiesced, letting her enjoy her silence as they moved along the wharf. It was not the sort of place he would have ordinarily chosen for a stroll. But at the moment a quiet, steady hum hung over the normally bustling docks. Apparently the blasted heat had rendered even the thieves, stevedores, and prostitutes too lethargic to be out of doors.
Julia seemed oblivious to their surroundings in any case. It was not until they reached the warehouse that had belonged to her father that she stopped. As Morgan eyed the dilapidated structure, he privately considered that its sale ought to be cause for celebration. But the expression on Julia’s face was almost forlorn.
“Why did you sell?” he asked after a moment. “Clearly you didn’t want to.”
She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “Had Henry served in the Royal Navy all those years, rather than for my father, he would be entitled to some kind of pension. Instead, he received nothing. He and Annie deserve better than that.”
“Yet it bothers you nonetheless to let it go,” he observed.
“Silly, isn’t it?” she said. “Of all the memories I have of my parents, my father being reduced to ending his days living here is certainly among the most painful. Yet it’s also one of my last memories of him, and thus one of the hardest to let go.” She shook her head, letting out a small, wistful sigh. “Why is it so hard to let go of the past?”
A good question — and one that Morgan was certainly not qualified to answer. Not after having spent the past two years reliving one single, fateful dawn. Left with a silence he could not fill, his gaze moved over his wife. She wore a gown of pale peach muslin that rustled gently as she walked, giving her a soft, distinctly feminine air. Sunlight gleamed off the burnished copper of her hair, weaving strands of pure gold through the fiery masses. Her shoulders looked unbearably slim, far too fragile to be burdened by the weight of recent events.
He lifted his hand to comfort her, then abruptly froze, lost in his own awkwardness. Despite his former reputation as a rake, that simple gesture of compassion and understanding seemed somehow beyond his capabilities, or at the very least outside his realm of experience. His mother had been a beautiful, capricious figure who had appeared in his life with great irregularity. He had been raised by a series of nannies who had always ended up displeasing one or both of his parents, and thus he had learned never to get close to them. He had no sisters. All in all, the sum of his experiences with women were purely sexual in nature — a fact that left him with a ridiculous ineptitude for comforting his own wife.
As Julia turned, he immediately lowered his hand, feeling like a common thief who had been caught delving into another man’s pocket. As a glint of sunlight bounced off the medallion she habitually wore about her throat, he reached for the thin piece of gold as though that had been his intent all along.
Frowning, he rubbed the medallion between his fingers and said, “Forgive my oversight. I ought to have seen to your jewelry weeks ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“A viscountess should have something of quality to wear, even for an occasion as mundane as a midday stroll along the docks.” He paused, considering the matter. “There is a jeweler on Bond Street who carries an adequate stock of goods on hand. Naturally the better pieces will have to be specifically designed for you, but I believe we may be able to find a few trinkets in the interim.”
“Thank you, but I prefer this.”
Somewhat surprised by her refusal, Morgan glanced at the figure depicted on the medallion. “Mary?” he guessed.
“Saint Rita. Patron saint of the impossible.” She leaned against a battered warehouse wall, regarding him with a small smile. “Consistently appropriate, wouldn’t you say? Always asking for too much, and yet I’m rarely disappointed.”
He released the medallion. “Most women find diamonds consistently appropriate.”
Her smile faltered for a fraction of an instant. “You would have been better off with a more sophisticated woman.”
“Would I?”
Her sherry gaze searched his face. “Why did you marry me?”
“To find Lazarus. And because I found you breathtaking.” Sensing she was looking for a reply a little less shallow, he continued with an honesty that surprised even himself. “And because you possessed an inordinate amount of spirit and courage. That much was clear from the very beginning. You did not simply bemoan your fate or berate your uncle for the predicament he put you in, although you certainly had every reason to do so. Instead you fought back.”
She slowly nodded her head, as though surprised and pleased by the depth of his observation. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I married you?”
“You made it abundantly clear that night,” he said with a shrug. “You had no other choice.”
“One always has choices.”
Morgan hesitated. Feeling like a man who is about to lose his wallet to a consummate swindler in a shell-and-walnut game, he said, “Very well. I’ll ask. Why did you marry me?”
“Because you were my phantom lover in the garden that night.”
He froze, stunned by the admission. The jealousy he had experienced earlier at hearing of the man she had lain in bed dreaming about was replaced by a surge of overpowering sadness. “I’m afraid that man no longer exists, princess.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Morgan regarded her in silence. In that instant he was vividly aware of everything around him. The barefoot children dressed in rags, the odors of gin and rotting fish brought in by the tide, the drunks snoring in alleyways.
Yet despite their desolate surroundings, the air seemed to crackle with possibility. Not beauty, but abundance. Life. There was a richness here that he had never experienced, despite his ample wealth. The recognition brought him a sense of heightened perception. He noted the way the sun brought a glow to Julia’s skin and a sparkle to her eyes. Unable to stop himself, he lifted his hand and drew it gently across her cheek, fighting a sudden and ridiculous urge to pull her into his arms and renew the kiss they had shared a few days ago.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”
A soft smile curved her lips. “Funny, I was about to remark on how you look today.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. You look like a man who is about to kiss somebody.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Merely an observation.”
He gathered her against him, reveling in the taste of her lips against his. In the past Morgan had always considered a kiss a prelude to seduction. He wouldn’t have considered sharing such an intimate moment in so public and unseemly a place. His courtships had all been meticulously prescribed: the right wine, the right flowers, the right glow of moonlight, the right trinket to be bartered to sate his lust. Now he had something entirely different, something that threw that petty little formula completely askew.
Julia.
The right woman.
As Morgan slanted his mouth over hers, he felt something open deep within him, as though a hint of lightness had managed to work its way into the darkness of his soul. A sense of wonder he hadn’t known since he was a child swept over him. In complete disregard for propriety, he crushed her lips beneath his, ravaging and plundering her mouth, desperate to assuage a hunger he had barely known existed. Her touch opened a great, vast gully of need that rose up within him, choking off all other thoughts and emotions.
She locked her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a sweet fervency that nearly made him groan aloud. He pressed her tightly against him, clutching her thighs and rear, kneading her flesh, as though attempting to absorb her strength, her goodness, her generosity of spirit. A slight trembling erupted between them, but he couldn’t tell if its source was him or her. It didn’t matter.
In that instant his lust was transcended by something else, something he vaguely recognized as more powerful and rare than anything he had experienced. His scars were forgotten, his past was forgotten. He was lost in the sweet healing redemption of her embrace.
He supported her in his arms, taking all her weight. She felt so incredibly light and fragile, and yet he had experienced firsthand the iron strength of her will. He brushed his fingers along the tops of her breasts, then, unable to stop himself, lowered his mouth to explore that lush swell of erotic flesh. Her skin felt softer than rose petals against his lips and carried the intoxicatingly feminine scent of powdered talc and lavender soap. Gently moving his hands along, her spine, he felt her shudder and lean into him, as though surrendering entirely to the mastery of his touch.
His desire to take her right there and then rose to almost unmanageable proportions. But the echoing shouts of the children playing nearby brought him to his senses. With a feeling of intense regret — coupled with a determination to continue where they had left off at the earliest opportunity — he broke their embrace, gently setting her away from him.
Julia took a moment to gain her bearings, then gazed up at him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were slightly cloudy, her lips were swollen from their kiss. In a word, she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
“You have the oddest look on your face,” she observed softly. “What are you thinking?”
He took a step backward, establishing a safe distance between them. “I was thinking that if we don’t return soon we’ll be late. Mr. Chivers recommended that we continue to make an appearance at various social events. There is a ball this evening at Viscount Trycore’s that we should attend.”
His wife was not good at schooling her emotions. An expression of bewildered disappointment shadowed her features at his abrupt change of mood, then brave acceptance swiftly followed.
“What should I wear?” she asked.
An easy question. Simple. One he could handle.
“The color of fire, my love.”