Beguiled (29 page)

He ceased to breathe.

He used the power of his hands to draw her up, lift her atop him, down on him. He thrust deeply, watched her arch, savored the sleek beauty of her breasts, her hair flying around her in a cascade of fire-tipped gold. And then he rolled, with her still locked to him, and thrust in an ever-frantic frenzy until he felt the gasp and sudden tension that seized her. Only then did he allow his own climax.

When he fell beside her, he instantly cradled her close and held her there, assuring her, “I love you, Ally. You. The girl I first met in the forest, who defied all convention. I love you.”

“I love you, Mark. I love you, too,” she whispered, her fingers curled on his chest.

All through the night, he felt the need to let her know just how much he loved her.

She didn't seem to mind.

In fact, she seemed to feel the need to let him know, as well.

 

I
T WAS VERY LATE
S
UNDAY
when they awoke. At first, when Ally opened her eyes, she was certain he would be gone again.

But he wasn't. He was at her side, leaning on one elbow, doing nothing but watching her. She smiled slowly. She loved the look of him naked.

“I believe there is a tray with tea and sustenance just beyond the door,” he told her. “Shall I retrieve it?”

“Yes, please,” she replied.

He rose, secured one of the towels from the floor and wrapped it around himself before opening the door. He brought the tray in, setting it at the foot of the bed. Ally hadn't realized how ravenous she was.

“Jeeter, ever the perfect valet,” Mark murmured. “No toast to grow cold, just biscuits and jam, hard boiled eggs.”

Ally sat up as well, carefully, lest she upset the tray. She delicately poured the tea, preparing a cup for each of them. Mark arranged plates with biscuits. “Butter?” he inquired.

“Yes, please.”

“Sugar?”

“Cream only.”

“Jam?”

“Thank you.”

Once they were perched just a bit precariously with plates and teacups and saucers before them on the bed, she grew serious. “Mark…could such a thing be true?” she asked him.

“Ally, as I said, I don't know, and I really don't care.”

“But—”

“Does it matter to you?” he asked. “You were raised by the aunts. No one could love you more. And as for all your guardians…”

“But did they love me only out of loyalty to the Crown?” she asked.

“Ally, I don't believe anyone was ever asked to give you their love. Perhaps, at first, they felt a fierce need to protect you. But look back. You dishonor some very fine people to doubt they cared with all their hearts.”

She lowered her head, then smiled. “Thank you.”

“Pardon?”

“Thank you for giving them back to me,” she said softly. Then she shook the wild mass of her hair, determined to similarly shake off the strange feeling such a revelation had given her. Could it be true? She still didn't know. And she was trying desperately to feel as Mark did: that it didn't matter.

“Tell me about yesterday,” she begged.

He looked at her and smiled, lashes sweeping his eyes for a minute. “I married a very wanton creature,” he told her.

“Perhaps,” she murmured primly. “Mark, please. What happened when you left?”

He stiffened, shaking his head. “It was horrible.”

“I'm not afraid of horrible,” she said.

“Ally, I've not seen anything like this…ever, perhaps. It's not just the brutality of the crimes, the blood…”

“The killer is so cold-blooded and calculating,” she finished.

He looked at her and nodded. “I saw that A. Anonymous has begun to suspect there might be a more personal aspect to the murders. Something that lies beneath the attempt to rock the governmental structure of Britain.”

She nodded. “But…if the women were involved…they're dead now.”

“Eleanor Brandon is barely hanging on to life. Or was. I don't know what has happened this morning. The newspaper is conspicuously absent from this tray, so I'm assuming Jeeter has determined we will at least have breakfast in peace.”

“If she lives, it's probable she will go to trial. And hang for conspiracy in her husband's murder.”

“God knows what a jury will decide. Her physician does not feel she has much of a chance. There are men guarding her bedside, however. If she does regain consciousness, she will certainly give us the name of the killer. I hardly think she will be willing to hang for a man who tried to kill
her,
as well.”

“Do you suppose the killer could have been Sir Angus Cunningham?” she asked him.

He stared at her, stunned, and in that moment, his eyes betrayed him.

“What makes you suggest Sir Angus?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “I read, remember,” she told him. She hesitated, then added, “I've gone through a number of old newspaper articles.”

“Oh? And how did you obtain them?” When she didn't answer, his face hardened. “Thane Grier?”

She didn't reply.

“Ally, he is under suspicion, as well,” he said.

“I believe he is driven, that he is determined to make a name for himself. But he's not a killer.”

“Ally, how can you possibly be so certain?”

“I'm not certain, of course,” she murmured, looking down.

“Stay away from him,” Mark said firmly.

She didn't reply.

“Ally…”

“Mark…”

“Stay away from him!”

She looked at him, arching a brow. “The killer is bold. And growing more so, evidently. If his intent was to portray the monarchy as ruthless, he has betrayed his own goal by killing the women. The world will know there must have been another agenda.”

“Conspirators turn on one another all the time,” he reminded her.

“Historically speaking, yes.”

“What's obvious may not always be what turns out to be the truth,” he said.

“And the truth, you believe, is that for the women, at least, making the monarchy appear to be cold-blooded and ruthless was only a bonus in addition to their real motive, which was to rid themselves of men they loathed in order to obtain their money.”

“The killer was having an affair with Elizabeth Prine. I imagine the plot was hatched while they mused in each other's arms. It was a dangerous plot to begin with—having that many people involved. Afraid Elizabeth might betray him, he decided she had to die. But if she died, one of the other women might have been terrified and ready to tell the truth. Thus…”

“A bloodbath,” she murmured.

“So…in all your reading, what else have you determined?” he asked her.

“I believe you should be watching Sir Andrew Harrington,” she said.

Again Mark started, shaking his head.

“Instead of being angry,” she asked, “why don't you speak to me?”

He shook his head. “Ally…” He sighed. “Perhaps we should be watching Andrew Harrington. There is of course more than one person out there who should be observed. And I remain afraid that you may be in danger.”

“Because of the break-in at the cottage?”

“That and…many reasons. Perhaps someone else—other than Lionel Wittburg—knows who you are. Or what if someone doesn't know you may be a hidden royal but
does
know you're A. Anonymous? I'm not asking you to spend your life obeying my dictates—although, you did promise to love, honor and
obey
—I'm asking you to take care with your life until this killer is caught.”

She reached out, nearly disturbing the tea tray, to touch his face. “I
am
careful, Mark. As you are.”

He caught her hand. “Ally, you lived sheltered in a cottage in the woods. You walked where you would when you would. You can't go back to that again. Not now.”

She didn't want to reply. “Finished with your tea?” she asked softly.

When he nodded, she removed the dishes and the tray, and quite literally jumped on him. Later, much later, she rose and bathed while he returned to his own room to do the same.

She knew, of course, that he would be leaving again, and she didn't know when he would be back.

She hadn't made any promises, however, as to what
she
would do.

Dressed, she sat at the vanity and brushed her hair. When he returned, she told him, “It's strange.”

“What's strange?” he asked.

“You were off with Ian. I was on my way here.” She set the brush down and turned to stare at him. “And all the while, the killer was enjoying our wedding feast.”

As she had expected, he frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I danced with the man,” she told him.

“Ally…”

Rising, she strode to the corner of the room and picked up her wedding dress, then brought it to him. “There can, of course, be other explanations. But this man set out to kill four people. He succeeded in three instances, and Eleanor is barely alive. Perhaps someone fought back at some point and he sustained a small wound.” She laid the dress out on the bed, pointing to the smudges. “Or perhaps someone injured himself cutting an apple. As I said, there could be dozens of explanations. But someone had a wound that was fresh enough to reopen while he was dancing with me at our wedding.”

He stared at her, then back at the dress. She was startled when he suddenly drew her close, his grasp violent, almost hurtful.

His fingers threaded into her hair; his eyes met hers.

“Good God, Ally….”

“Mark…”

He shook his head, and she saw fury in the silver of his eyes. “This man is beyond despicable. He is insane…yet he walks around as if he were completely normal! He dared to come to our wedding, to dance with you, hold you…touch you. Sweet Jesus. If I find him, he will not live to hang. I swear it!”

“Mark!” she cried, distressed. “Mark, you can't take justice into your own hands!” she told him. “Of course,” she added hastily, “you must defend yourself at all costs, but you must not be the aggressor. I am sorry I showed you this.”

He swallowed; she knew he was fighting to control his emotions. “It is frightening to realize that we must look at the list of your dance partners.”

“I believe that we can exclude the local folk,” she murmured, and looked at him. “And the list would also include those closest to us, above reproach, your best friends, my guardians. But that leaves us with a long list, including Sir Andrew, Sir Angus…”

“And Thane Grier.”

“And Thane Grier,” she admitted.

He lowered his head.

“This gets us nowhere. I am sorry I spoke.”

“Never be sorry for any truth you speak to me, Ally, and I swear to you, I will try very hard to tell you what is on my mind and explain my actions. It's just that…so much is so ugly that I don't want to…”

She leaned her head upon his shoulder. “I'm not afraid of that,” she said softly.

“Sometimes
I
am,” he told her.

“I must be a real part of your life, Mark. Not someone who makes you wretched, as I did yesterday, but a true companion.”

He lifted her chin. “I love you, Ally.”

“I know,” she assured him. And then she stepped back. “I'm assuming,” she said, “that the highwayman is about to ride again?”

“Oh? And why?” he asked.

“Well, Lord Wittburg was all but condemned for the bloody cloak that was found in his carriage. Therefore, I'm assuming the killer did not escape the murder scenes without some evidence. If the killer knew enough to plant the cloak in Lord Wittburg's possession, he was aware that someone suspected—or knew—that a carriage was the only way to escape the scene undetected. Therefore, given what happened Friday night, there is surely a new blood-stained cloak to be discovered.”

He watched her and sighed.

“So the highwayman
is
to ride again,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“I understand,” she said.

“But not today,” he told her.

“Oh? Then what is your intent for today?”

“To love my wife,” he said softly, and he drew her close.

S
UNDAY WAS HERS
, and it was a fantasy, a dream come true.

She discovered that Lord Farrow's townhome offered a cellar with billiards and a dart board, and she was quite talented at both. She and Mark played, they laughed, they wound up in each other's arms.

Jeeter discreetly arranged a delicious candlelit dinner, with a specially selected French wine, a delicate shrimp appetizer, and tender steaks that all but melted in the mouth.

Then there was the night. She had never so much as begun to imagine that she could love someone so fiercely, so desperately, so passionately. Every moment with Mark saw her fall more deeply in love. And every moment made her realize that his words were indeed true. Miraculously, wonderfully, he loved her, too. Nothing else seemed to matter.

She knew, however, that he would be gone when she awoke on Monday.

And he was.

She gratefully remembered her thought from the day before, that she hadn't made him any promises regarding her own behavior.

After she bathed and dressed, she went downstairs to find Jeeter, and asked him for the newspaper, which he seemed loath to give her, but he eventually brought it to her in the dining room along with her coffee.

The news of the murders blazed across the front page. The article, though not emphasizing the violence and horror, made no attempt to disguise it.

She was glad to see that the byline belonged to Thane Grier.

When she had finished eating, she explored upstairs. She felt like a snoop, opening so many doors, but she was certain Lord Farrow would have a typewriter in his townhome as well as the lodge.

She was right. She found it in his study.

She spent an hour working as A. Anonymous and then began to think out her exit from the premises.

She slipped downstairs in silence, certain Jeeter had known what she was about and hoping he would assume she was still at work. Bertram, she knew, would be guarding the house, ensuring that no one got in without his tacit permission.

She doubted he was afraid that she might be trying to get
out.

The house was fenced and gated, but a discreet evaluation of the small backyard revealed an oak with a trunk that could be skimmed and a few low branches, giving her an opportunity to slip over the wall into the next yard.

She didn't know the neighbors, but no one seemed to be watching their yard, so it was easy enough to quickly race through the yard and exit via the open carriage gateway. On the street, she looked back to assure herself that Bertram was still guarding Lord Farrow's house and hadn't noticed her. Then she hurried down the street, delighted to see a streetcar conveniently coming her way.

She headed for the newspaper offices, hoping to find Thane.

She realized that she was using him for her own ends again, but he had gained, as well. She refused to believe he could be guilty of murder, and counted on the fact that he was so worried about his own byline that he would never share the suggestions and information that she gave him.

She saw him as she entered the offices she was coming to know well. He saw her, too, and rose quickly. She surreptitiously dropped the envelope she had brought, addressed to the managing editor, onto one of the desks she passed before he reached her.

He took her hands and smiled. “Ally! I had not expected to see you today. Did you read Sunday's paper? I admit it was the social page, but I did a smashing job covering your wedding.”

“Sometimes the news
should
be pleasant,” she said. Then, since she hadn't read it, she quickly went on, “Your article this morning was excellent,” she told him.

His smile faded. “Grim, I'm afraid.”

“Very well done. Facts without flinching, and yet also without sensationalism.”

“Thank you.” He frowned. “What are you doing here? You're a new bride. Surely you have more pleasant pursuits.”

“Mark had business,” she said quickly. “The marriage was rushed forward, you know. We certainly intend to take a honeymoon soon, but for now, can you take some time to talk to me?”

He glanced around and laughed softly. “Today I can do anything. This morning's articles have sold more papers in one day than in…well, forever. We've even outsold the initial coverage of the murders, when everyone was screaming about the monarchy. Let's have coffee. I know a perfect spot.”

He led her to a lovely little café with private booths, where they ordered small demitasses of café au lait, the newest trend imported from France. He folded his hands on the table. “So, Ally, what do you want from me?”

She arched a brow, and he smiled and went on. “You know, I could have fallen madly in love with you. Not only are you absolutely beautiful, you have a keen mind, a wonderful asset for the wife of an up-and-coming journalist.” He lifted a hand when she looked uncomfortable. “Fear not. My feelings have turned to simple admiration and respect. Still, you've just married Mark Farrow. What are you doing here with me?”

“These murders must be solved,” she said.

He sipped his coffee. “Ally, there are dozens of police officers on this case. Not to mention your husband. I report news, I don't create it.”

“Do you have a carriage, Thane?”

He frowned, watching her. His answer came slowly. “No, I'm sorry. Why, do you need one?”

She shook her head. “No, no—not really,” she added hastily. “I was just curious.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I read the articles you gave me.”

He laughed. “You must have been a highly entertaining bride!”

She flushed.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry again. That was highly inappropriate. Forgive me.”

“I had a bit of time alone since Friday,” she told him. “I believe we are down to two men,” she told him gravely. “It's hard for me to credit, but from everything I have read about the anti-monarchists and their meetings—and the relationships of people and places—either Sir Andrew Harrington or Sir Angus Cunningham is a murderer.”

He inhaled sharply, staring at her.

“You gave me the articles,” she reminded him.

“Sir Andrew is adored in drawing rooms across London,” he reminded her. “And Sir Angus…he's a sheriff and a war hero.”

She nodded. “Both men fought for our great Empire in foreign wars. They might well have found some reason for resenting the Queen and the monarchy, although the murders were not exclusively political.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“All right. Sir Angus was at many public meetings, perhaps to keep the peace. That is an excuse, at any rate. As sheriff, he can easily go many places and with good reason.”

“All right.”

“And Sir Andrew is charming, smooth. He's welcome anywhere. He was also Elizabeth Prine's cousin.” She shrugged. “First cousin, I believe, which would make one suspect—”

“Sir Angus,” Thane supplied. “But not necessarily. William III and Queen Mary were first cousins. And take a look at Sir Angus and then at Sir Andrew. With which man would you be having an affair?”

“Neither intrigues me,” she told him, and smiled, thinking of the only man who
did
intrigue her. Then, because she liked him, she said, “Truly, had I not been promised and in love…I would have chosen you over either.”

“Truly? You have absolutely restored my faith in myself,” he told her, grinning. “But…” He shook his head. “It's still possible neither man is our killer. We could be speaking of a man who has served time in the military and become accustomed to killing. After all, in war, one kills the enemy and it is not considered murder.”

“Which raises another point. Whoever he is, he will be feeling as if he is the conqueror of the world. He has eluded all attempts to capture him. He was probably at my wedding, the social event of the season.” She refrained from mentioning the blood she had discovered on her gown. “He will grow very cocky, too sure of himself. And that is when he will make mistakes.”

“If he makes mistakes, he can be caught at last,” Thane said.

She leaned forward. “Perhaps we can find a way to make sure that he makes a mistake.”

I
T WAS A FRUITLESS DAY
.

Though they haunted the appropriate routes, neither Sir Angus Cunningham nor Sir Andrew Harrington traveled by carriage that day.

As the afternoon waned, they retired to the stables at Lord Farrow's lodge. While Thomas, Geoff and Patrick joined Lord Farrow for supper, Mark slipped into the village. He found Sir Angus in his office, where they gravely discussed the murders.

If Sir Angus was guilty, he gave no sign.

During the conversation, Mark did learn that Sir Andrew and several others had been discussing a game of tennis when they were observed lunching at the club in London.

He managed to extricate himself, telling Sir Angus he was eager to return to his bride.

Back at his father's lodge, he dismounted and brought Galloway into the stables, where he remembered he still had Ally's sketchbook in his saddlebag, though he'd yet to look at it.

Sitting on a bale of hay, he wrestled momentarily with his conscience. He should, in good faith, hand it back to her unopened.

In fact, setting it aside, he made that determination.

But he couldn't resist.

He returned to the bale of hay, picked up the book and opened it.

He was surprised to find a sketch of him in it. Masked. Her ability to capture the essence of her subject startled him. He knew why she had so quickly recognized him. She exactly captured his eyes.

He smiled, feeling a surge of warmth.

He turned the page, expecting more sketches.

He found words instead.

Reading, he found he was not prying into further essays. She had been writing a story. It was quite arresting, drawing the reader along a dark path of adventure and danger. The story took place in a temple in Egypt, and the eerie quality of tombs and treasures came through. That was only natural, he thought. She had spent many of her days at Castle Carlyle, surrounded by Egyptian artifacts. And how often must she have listened to tales told by Sir Hunter and Lady Kat?

She'd never been to Egypt, he was certain. And yet he felt as if he were seeing ancient sights firsthand as he read.

He was surprised to find himself sorely disappointed when he turned to find the next page only half written.

Rising, he returned the book to the saddlebag, then went into the lodge to join his father and the others. He would find something to eat, listen to whatever advice or wisdom his father might have for the day, and hurry home. Tomorrow would be another long day, as would the one after and the one after….

Until the killer was caught.

What if he was wrong? What if he was seeking the solution among the gentry when the killer was an ordinary working man?

He wasn't wrong. He had carefully weighed the facts and the evidence. More, he couldn't afford to be wrong.

 

T
HANE STARED AT HER
, shaking his head.

“You're insane,” he said.

At least, Ally thought, he hadn't said she was an idiot. “I'm not.”

“You're a daredevil, at the least. And I'm not,” he told her.

“I tell you, it can work.”

“What about your husband?”

“I admit he might have a little difficulty with the plan at first. And he will have a lot of difficulty with the fact I came to see you first. But…I hope he will see it can work, as well.”

“And if he doesn't? I am not a handsome sight with both my eyes blackened,” Thane assured her.

“Mark is a reasonable man,” she reassured him, hoping she was right.

He gazed at her skeptically, but she knew that she had him hooked. She said, trying not to sound nervous, “I have to get back.”

“My God, I must return, as well. And convince my editor I have been in pursuit of the story of the year.”

“You have been,” she assured him.

They walked back to the newspaper offices together; then Ally hurried on, anxious to catch the streetcar. She chafed as she had to wait. She had gotten one so easily that morning! The day was gone, darkness already upon them. She tried to tell herself it was most likely Mark would not return until very late. And yet, because she might well be caught slipping in—which would surely enrage him and ruin any chance of speaking rationally—she felt as if the minutes she waited were interminable.

At last the conveyance came. She realized it was not nearly as full as she had expected, that it had grown late indeed, and industrious bankers and other workers in busy central London had already reached their homes.

She disembarked down the long block from the Kensington house and started walking briskly. She glanced up at the elegant homes of merchants, gentry and nobility. Drapes were drawn. Soft light emanated from windows, illuminating the lives of those within.

A man passed her on the street, tipping his hat in acknowledgment. She smiled in return. The block seemed amazingly long.

She paused suddenly, certain she was being followed.

She spun quickly, then felt like a fool as a couple politely acknowledged her and swept past.

Her heart was thundering. She watched as the couple entered a home.

She took a breath, feeling a ridiculous sense of relief.

Again she heard footsteps.

She paused and looked back.

Nothing.

She chided herself, reminding herself that she was going to have to do one of two things: either walk blithely past Bertram or slip through the neighbor's yard again, up the tree and back inside.

There was no way Bertram would refrain from telling Mark that she had been out. And she didn't want him to know. Not until she told him. The tree it was.

Once again she thought she heard footfalls coming from behind her. She spun around without missing a beat.

There was nothing there, just shadows falling on the walk between the streetlamps.