The Black Sheep and the English Rose (34 page)

I
t was just past dawn when they finally arrived back at Dalton Downs. Hard to believe he'd been in England for almost six weeks. But, although there would be continued involvement, possibly years' worth, Felicity no longer had to be available to her governing body on a moment's notice. “Come on,” he said, “I want to show you something before everybody gets up and starts the welcome home festivities.”

He walked her into the main house, through the central rooms, then down the gallery along the back and through the far back door. He never used this one, despite the fact that it wasn't far from his personal library, where he relaxed in the evening. He'd left specific instructions on what he wanted, and he didn't doubt for a second that his partners hadn't let him down.

She opened the door, and gasped. “Oh.” She walked out onto the cobblestone patio he'd requested be laid, complete with the white wrought-iron table and chairs set just to the far side. Across from that was a thickly padded chaise, perfect for reading. Opposite that, he'd strung a wide hammock. And surrounding all of it were richly tilled flower beds, presently empty. She spun around, and into his arms. “My garden.”

“Well, it will be. I thought maybe you'd want to grow your own flowers, but we can have them put in if—”

She'd learned the best way to quiet him, too. She kissed him long and passionately, which, considering how they'd spent most of their private flight over, was surprisingly vigorous.

“It's so lovely,” she said, her voice choked. “No one has ever done anything like that. It's—” She spun around again, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him as she took it all in again.

He'd done for others his whole life, and yet he thought that moment might have been one of the most gratifying yet. Sometimes, doing something for the ones who didn't expect it was more satisfying than helping the ones who did. “Everyone needs to know they're loved,” he said, pressing his lips to her hair.

She covered his hands with hers and squeezed them. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say you'll give up some of that chaise time to lie in the hammock with me. I know that's a bit of a deviation from your place, but—”

“But my place was just for me. This place is for us.”

He turned her around then. “I hope you feel that way about all of Dalton Downs.”

“You've made this place a home. I know Trent Hall is cold and hollow in comparison—”

“Well, when we're over there, we can work on changing that. If you want.”

She threw her arms around him, and he was just spinning her around as people started spilling out of the house, onto the patio.

“Oh, sure, sure, sneak in like thieves in the middle of the night, without a thought to your family,” Mac mock scolded.

“Ignore him,” Kate said, right behind him.

Rafe and Elena followed, bearing platters of food and tea. “I got a message from John and Julia,” he said as he put his platter down on the table. “They're taking a trip to Japan. He has business interests there, and they both said they wanted some time alone.”

“I can't say as I blame them,” Finn said. “But I'm still disappointed they didn't take us up on the offer to stay here.”

“I hope Reese can put work aside at least for a little while,” Felicity said.

“Oh, they didn't turn you down,” Rafe countered. “They just delayed their acceptance. In fact, he said he wanted to discuss some…possibilities with us when they get back.”

Felicity and Finn exchanged looks, as did everyone else. “Well, that could be interesting.”

Elena poured cups of tea for Kate and Felicity and coffee for the rest of them and passed them around.

Finn lifted his before taking a sip. “We started as a team of three best friends. We've grown and we've grown up.” He looked to Felicity, Mac looked to Kate, and Rafe to Elena; then they all looked to each other and raised their cups and mugs. “Rafe and Mac, you saved my life when I was young. I guess we saved each other. And from that bond, Trinity was eventually born. And we became a family in every way that means anything.” He shifted his toast toward Kate, then Elena, and finally Felicity. “Now we have the chance to make that family into something meaningful beyond just us. Maybe even outlasting us. Taking what we've learned the hard way, and doing something even better with it.”

“Hear, hear,” Rafe said, and took a drink.

“Hear, hear,” Kate, Mac, and Elena intoned, and followed suit.

“Hear, hear, indeed,” Felicity said quietly, from her perch on Finn's lap.

“Home,” Finn said, pulling her close. “Finally, we're all truly home.”

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WANTON,
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L
ondon, 1816. The Pack of St. James meets in secret in their elegant lair. An unknown assailant has begun to prey upon the women they love—and a poisoned communication threatens worse things to come. Marko Taruskin begins to investigate and finds the trail leads to a scandalous beauty known as Severin. Well aware of how a clever woman can hide more than she reveals, Marko must employ all of his powers of sensual persuasion…

 

T
he last chord died away and Marko heard the almost noiseless click of a piano lid closing. The woman who had been playing so beautifully sighed as she put the sheets of music in order before she rose, pushing back the padded bench with a faint scrape. He heard the faint miaou of Severin's cat, following her mistress about the adjoining chamber. Silk skirts rustled over polished floors. Then Severin swept through the double doors that led to her bedroom and stopped, her lips parting with surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

Severin glided past the bed upon which he lay to her mirror-topped dresser. “I do not remember inviting you.” She began to take down her hair, looking at his reflection in the silvery glass, her back to him.

“No, you didn't.”

“Then how did you get in?”

Marko shrugged. He was quite at his ease stretched out upon her featherbed, luxuriously so, in fact. He rolled to his side, bracing himself with one arm and letting the other rest upon his hip. “Through the front door.”

“Hmm. Unusual for you.”

“What do you mean?”

Severin gave an unladylike snort. “You're a great one for trellises and balconies. Ever the romantic hero.”

Her gleaming hair ripped over her bare shoulders. He longed to bury his face in its fragrant softness, lift it away from her neck, kiss her madly—but he stayed where he was.

“It is raining.”

“Oh? I did not notice,” Severin said, turning to face him. She put her hands on her hips and looked him over.

Marko could almost feel her gaze. He was nearly as aroused as if she had actually touched him. Since he was fully dressed, from his fitted half-coat to the breeches tucked into his high black boots, the sensation was not entirely comfortable. He drew up one leg and bent his knee to conceal his reaction to her cool study of his body.

“Boots in the bed?” she murmured. “How uncivilized of you.”

“I could not very well strip, Severin. You might have screamed.”

She permitted herself a small smile. “I don't think so. I've seen you naked before.”

He remembered that night with chagrin. “Yes, but—nothing happened.”

Her amber eyes glowed with amusement. “You wanted something to happen. But I was not ready.”

“Are you ready now?”

The question was bold, but she was bolder.

“Yes,” she said. And she came to him…

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T
he hand on her wrist was beautiful, large and strong, and male. A sinewed forearm, the shirt cuffs turned back, led to shoulders that blocked her view of the salon. Broad shoulders, but sculpted beneath the fine linen shirt, no cravat, and a waistcoat with the top two buttons undone. A torso she suddenly ached to draw.

She couldn't see his face against the dim light of the chandelier. He was sitting on the chaise, leaning over her, saying something. The deep voice was rough velvet.

“I've seen your work.”

She pushed away the haze clouding her thoughts, unable or unwilling to concentrate as a ribbon of fear unfurled deep in her chest. “You have.” It was more of a statement than a question. Her artist's eye traced his body, a sculpture that was large-boned, long-limbed, but elegantly made. Like nothing she had ever seen in real life. More like a hallucination or a bronze at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

“It's magnificent.”

He was so close that she could detect his scent, the ocean, sun, and something else. Languorousness seeping into her bones, her words were slow to come. “I must have misunderstood.” She heard herself laugh, the sound throaty and low. “Most of the critics, not to mention the friends of my late and beloved husband, aren't that generous in their praise.”

“You're bitter.”

The blue-gray smoke combined in the air between them. “How discerning of you, sir. Whoever you are.” The metallic taste in her mouth stung as a flare of panic flickered in her chest.

She tried to sit up and couldn't. Although he wasn't touching her, she instantly felt caged by his body limned in the shadows of the alcove. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut him out, following the shapes and patterns her imagination conjured. A stream distorted by sunlight. A face shattered into geometric planes. A rough-hewn mountain range. She was only vaguely conscious now of the low and constant sounds of strangers humming in the background.

Then the hand skated down her arm and a jolt of awareness pulled her back. And all she could do was focus on his touch, as compelling as the opium in her bloodstream, the calloused fingers moving slowly over the sensitive skin of her wrist before he pressed one finger into her bare palm. A shiver traveled from the top of her spine to the tip of her womb.

She opened her eyes.
What if he is one of them?
The thought crawled out the thick morass that was her reality. She wanted to move, to run, but she couldn't, held down by a force of nature invading her senses. The urge, out of nowhere, was contradictory and overwhelming, to reach up and loop her arms around his neck, then trace the hard muscles and warm skin of this man's body. First to feel and then to draw him.

“What's in that head of yours, Helena? In your mind's eye?” The low gravel voice mesmerized and she'd barely registered that he knew her name. His hard fingers traced a sensual pattern on her palm, the fine veins of her wrist.

From under heavy lids, she strained to discern his features. He was so close she could track the cadence of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. “What I see?” Her breath was shallow and the words cost her some effort. “Inspiration? You think this is where it comes from?” She gestured to the small blue pipe with her free hand. “Not from here, not from this.”

“Then from where?” The dark voice led her on, as surely as if he'd leaned closer, his lips hot on the curve of her neck. Beneath the heaviness of her limbs, she felt an unfamiliar need, a tightening in her chest that was equal parts desire and dread.

“Most people believe I'm mad.” It was more of a whisper than a statement.

“Why?”

She shook her head against the enveloping, smothering cushions. “Because of what I do and how I do it.” Explaining anything more would not help, even if she could.

“I saw your entries in the
Salon des Refuses
in Paris.” He cupped her cheek, sketching her ear, the slope of her shoulder. Her insides turned liquid and her skin hot.

Desire coursed through her, foreign and frightening, desire for this stranger whose face she couldn't see. His voice and his body, the here and now that could blot out the terror that hovered in the air around her. From far away she watched herself as, with leaden arms, she reached up to pull him down toward her. His muscles were granite beneath her hands.

Her blood rushed and she breathed in his scent. “You're what I need,” she murmured. “To escape, just for a little while…”

She was on the margins of awareness, her physical senses as keenly attuned as the finest instrument. The heaviness pooling in her abdomen and the swelling of her breasts were exotic terrain, her body suddenly alien to her experience.

She felt the heat of his breath with its tinge of warmed brandy and tobacco. “I can do that for you, Helena. I can do whatever you desire.”