Fanning the Flame (32 page)

Garth's fingers unconsciously tightened around the bread, crumbling bits of the crust onto the carpet. "Margaret Hawthorne has intelligence, courage, and beauty. She has more spirit than a dozen of those simpering young misses you consider 'suitable' all put together. If I were lucky enough to win Maggie Hawthorne's hand in marriage, I would consider her strength an asset to our lineage, not a liability."

The baron thumped the end of his silver-headed cane on the floor and rose to his feet. "There was a time I might have seen some merit in what you're saying. Lord knows Adam Hawthorne doesn't deserve half the maligning of his character he has received over the years, but this, his latest adventure—involving himself with a woman suspected of murder—simply goes beyond the pale. I warn you, grandson, should you involve yourself with his sister in any way, the title shall go to your younger brother and no one in this family will have anything more to do with either one of you."

Garth ground his jaw to keep from making a reply he would regret. He watched the old man thump his way out the door and stomp off down the hall, not the least surprised at the baron's reaction to an involvement with Maggie, yet actually hearing the words was like a blade stabbed into his chest.

He loved his grandfather. The old man might be cantankerous, but in most ways he had a good heart and he was dedicated to his family.

Garth sighed as he left the drawing room and climbed the stairs to his bedchamber to bathe and change. Until his encounter with the baron, he hadn't actually acknowledged his interest in marrying Margaret Hawthorne. Now that she was forbidden to him, he realized that he was considering exactly that. He had thought of her and little else since the night he had kissed her on the terrace.

But pursuing thoughts of marriage wouldn't be fair to Maggie, not if his family refused to accept her.

Maggie deserved far better than that.

Wearily, Garth sat down in the chair in front of the writing desk in the corner of his bedchamber and drew out a blank sheet of foolscap. Dipping the pen into the inkwell, he began to scratch out a note, making his excuses for the evening he wouldn't be spending with her tonight. He was almost finished when he noticed the sluggish beating of his heart and the tightness in his chest. The pen stilled in his hand.

Dammit to hell, he had to see her. Perhaps if he did, he could convince himself they didn't suit. His mouth grimly set, Garth wadded up the paper, tossed it into the waste bin, and called for his valet.

Another day passed. Standing in the entry, Adam took the box from the delivery boy and flipped him a coin for his trouble. He knew what was in the package. He had bought the statue from an antiquities dealer in Bond Street over a month ago, before his mind was consumed with thoughts of murder and his body on fire for a slender, blue-eyed beauty with thick, dark copper hair.

Cradling the package in his hands, Adam strode down the hall to the drawing room, set the box down on a small mahogany Hepplewhite table, and carefully opened the box. The statue was carved of marble and about six inches high. It was probably late Ptolemaic, the figure of a goddess named Isis holding the child, Horus.

Unconsciously, Adam's hands moved over the smooth lines and indentations in the stone, appreciating the workmanship, wondering why the piece had moved him so strongly the moment he had seen it in the drawing that had advertised it for sale.

Perhaps it was the way the seated figure of the woman seemed to be slightly bent over, protecting the child.

"It's . . . beautiful."

Adam's head jerked up at the sound of Christopher Derry's voice. The boy had appeared several mornings in the makeshift greenhouse, but their conversation had been limited, a discussion of orchids and the most successful ways to grow them. Aside from those encounters, Adam continued to keep his distance from the child.

"Yes, it is. There seems to be something special about it." He kept telling himself he would make time for the boy, that it wasn't fair to simply ignore him, but every time he looked at Chris, he remembered Robert and Caroline and the ugliness of their betrayal. He couldn't help thinking that if Caroline had been faithful, perhaps they would have a child that same age, an intelligent, curious little boy like Christopher Derry.

And lately it had begun to bother him that Caroline had simply thrown her child away.

"She loves her baby," Chris said, his gaze fixed squarely on the statue. "She wants to keep him safe."

Something squeezed inside his chest. "Yes, I think she does." And it was extremely astute of the boy to notice.

"Me mother was like that," Christopher said, still staring at the statue. "I miss her sometimes."

Adam felt an unwanted tug at his heart. "Sometimes life is painful, Chris, but not always. Good things happen, too."

Chris made no reply. So far the child had little reason to believe him. Adam studied the boy, whose coloring, features, and build so boldly carried the stamp of a Hawthorne male. Was there the slightest chance the boy could be his?

The notion made him uneasy. He was Caroline's son. Caroline and Robert's. If the boy were his and Caroline hadn't told him . . . if his own son had been tossed aside like so much rubbish . . . it simply didn't bear thinking about.

"Was there something you wanted, Chris?"

The boy glanced up, and Adam read the worry in his face. "I heard Maude and Reggie talking. They said people think Miss Whitney killed a man. They said she might have to go to prison. "

Adam set the statue aside and went down on one knee beside the boy. "Sometimes people make mistakes, Chris. Sometimes they accuse the wrong person of doing something bad."

"I don't think Miss Whitney would ever hurt anyone."

Adam reached down and smoothed back the little boy's hair. "I don't think she would ever hurt anyone, either."

Christopher looked at him with big, moist, solemn green eyes. "You won't let them take her away?"

Emotion coiled inside him. God, he couldn't stand to think that might happen and yet he knew it could. "No, Chris. I won't let them take her away."

But unless something happened soon he wouldn't be able to stop them.

He watched Chris Derry leave the drawing room and thought again of the
Madrigal,
leaving on the morning tide. Bloody hell, it was time they both faced reality. Jillian had to get away before it was too late.

With grim determination, Adam strode out of the drawing room. He would make her leave, dammit. As soon as it was dark, he would take her aboard the ship himself—if he had to tie her up and drag her there.

She was upstairs resting. She had grown more wan with each passing day and he worried for her health. He climbed the stairs to her bedchamber and banged on the door, then strode in without permission.

"Adam!" Jillian sat curled up in the window seat, her feet tucked under her, the novel she had borrowed from the library clutched in one hand. In the sunlight slanting into the room, her breasts were outlined beneath the slick pink satin of her dressing gown and his body went instantly hard.

"What is it?" Nervously, she straightened in the window seat. "Has something happened?"

Adam continued walking toward her, wishing he could forget the reason he was there and act on the desire that hummed through him. "No, but it's about to. I want you to call Maude and tell her to pack your things. You're sailing for the Indies on the morning tide."

"The Indies?" She set the book aside and slowly came to her feet. "I told you, I'm not leaving."

Adam caught her arms. "Yes, you are. You're sailing on that ship if I have to tie you up and carry you there myself. I'll be damned if I'll stand by and watch them throw you into prison."
Or hang you.

She thrust out her chin. "That isn't your decision to make—it's mine. And I refuse to run away!"

Worry sent his temper up a notch. He shook her a little, as if the sheer force of his will might pass through his fingers. "Listen to me, dammit! Once you're safely away, we'll have time to find out who the real killer is. I'll send for you as soon as we catch him."

Emotion flickered in her eyes. "Is that what you want? Is it really so easy for you to send me away?"

Was it easy? As much as he knew it was exactly the right thing to do, the idea of losing her ached like a boulder on his chest. Before he had met her, his days had been bleak and empty, his nights filled with painful memories of the war. Since then, even with the murder hanging over her head, Jillian had brought light and joy into his world. He couldn't imagine what it might be like to see that light snuffed out.

His hold on her arms grew gentle. "Sending you away would be the hardest thing I've ever had to do." He cupped her face between his hands and tipped her chin up. "Whatever my feelings might be, you have to go. You have to get away while you still can."

She blinked back a film of moisture, turned her head, and pressed a kiss into his palm. "My father taught me that running from a problem only makes it worse. I can't run from something as important as this. I'm innocent. I have to prove it, no matter how difficult that might be. I'm going to stay, Adam. I don't have any other choice."

He wanted to argue. He wanted her safe and the only way he could be sure of that was for her to leave England. But another, deeper part of him thanked God that she would stay. If she went to the Indies it could be months, perhaps even years, before he saw her again. He knew the emptiness, the starkness of his life, would be unbearable.

Adam looked into her eyes, saw the strength there, the quiet determination, and in that moment knew with crystal clarity that he was in love with her.

The notion hit him so hard, for an instant he simply stood there staring. After Caroline, he had gone out of his way to avoid romantic entanglements. Even Maria couldn't completely reach him. Jillian had done it with ease.

The thought made his stomach clench. Only his fear for Jillian's life overrode his need to turn and run. He inhaled a steadying breath, worked to slow the pounding of his heart and infuse an even tone into his voice.

"We've three days left until the trial. There is still a chance we'll find the guilty party. We won't give up until we do."

Jillian's lips trembled. "Thank you."

He simply nodded. He had to escape. He needed time to deal with his astonishing newfound knowledge and decide what to do. At the back of his mind, he imagined falling under another woman's spell and his stomach squeezed harder.

"Try to get some rest," he said. "I've a couple of matters to attend. I'll meet you downstairs in a couple of hours. We'll go over everything again, see if there is something we might have missed."

Ignoring the seductive picture Jillian made in her pink satin robe, Adam quit the bedchamber.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Resting was out of the question. She had tried to read, but the print seemed to blur and she had finally given up. Jillian paced over to the window of her bedchamber, watched the harsh May wind tear at the newborn leaves on the branches of the trees. She felt restless and caged. She had to do something, had to get out of the house, at least for a while.

After dressing in a warm gray woolen gown and a simple gray bonnet, she pulled her pelisse from the rosewood armoire, draped it around her shoulders, and fastened the clasp. Knowing Adam wouldn't approve, she took the back stairs and left through the rear of the town house, heading off to the park.

As cold as it was, there were few pedestrians on the street. She hadn't got far when she noticed a tall, brown-haired man striding toward her along the street. He was dressed simply in trousers of nankeen twill and a dark brown tailcoat, an attractive man, she saw as he drew near, and there was something  familiar about him.

"Michael!"

He paused in front of her, surprised to find her walking along the street. "Jillian. Believe it or not, I was just on my way to see you."

She remembered the card Lady Margaret had passed along to her after the Winstons' anniversary party. Michael Aimes, second son of the Marquess of Devlin, had been one of her father's students, a handsome young man four years her senior when she had met him at just sixteen.

"Time has been good to you, Michael. How long has it been?"

"More than two years. I didn't learn of your father's death until only just recently. You have my sincerest condolences."

"Thank you. Lady Margaret mentioned seeing you. She relayed your very kind offer of assistance and gave me your calling card."

"Actually, that is the reason I was coming to see you." He glanced back down the block. "There is a little cafe just round the corner. Perhaps you would join me for a cup of tea and we could get in out of the wind?"

Grateful for such an offer from a man who had once been a close family friend, she accepted his arm and he led her down the block to a cozy little neighborhood cafe called the Crown.

The smell of rich brewed coffee and fresh baked buns filled the air as they sat down at one of the small round tables in front of the window. Jillian ordered coffee and Michael ordered tea. It was good to see a friend again when she thought she hadn't any left.