Fortune's Lady (51 page)

Cass's fingers clenched on his forearms. “But he showed me your letter,” she cried, remembering. “You called Claudia ‘my dearest,' and you signed it, ‘all my love.' And then you went to her.” She pulled back. “Didn't you?”

He sighed. “Yes, but—”

Suddenly she put her fingers on his lips. “I don't care. Don't explain. It doesn't matter, as long as you love me.”

His mouth quirked; he wondered how long she would sustain that attitude. “I
will
explain it, because it's important for you to understand, but not right now. Now I only want to hold you.” They rested against each other, touching, softly stroking, listening to the miracle of their breathing. Cass put her lips on his forehead and closed her eyes, her hands pressed lightly against his back. He trailed sweet, open-mouthed kisses on her skin, brushing her hair aside with his lips, murmuring against her neck. “Can we lie down, sweetheart?” he asked presently. “I haven't sat up this long in a week.”

“Oh!” She almost jumped away. “Are you hurt very badly, Philip? I thought
you
were dead, before Quinn told me. I saw you fall, and then—” She couldn't continue.

“No, no,” he assured her, taking her hand, “I just bled a lot. The doctor said Wade's gun must not have been loaded right.” He waved his hand, dismissing the subject. “Aren't you going to lie down with me? You're sick, too, you know.” He grinned, almost cackled, as he thought about how they would recover together, side by side in their big bed. “But take some clothes off first, Cass. You'll be—too hot like that.”

“You're a shameless seducer and you always have been.” With tears still shining on her cheeks, she couldn't stop smiling. She tucked him in on his side, then stood with her hands on her hips. “If I take my clothes off, do you promise to behave?”

“No,” he answered promptly. “But since I can hardly stand up, you won't be in much danger. Worse luck.”

She hesitated a second longer, then began to undress. She flushed a bright crimson under his burning stare, and by the time she got down to her chemise her nerve failed.

“Oh, don't stop,” he said huskily, the humor in his eyes not completely able to hide the pleading.

She watched him, her lips parted, her color coming and going with every breath, and pulled her shift over her head. She scampered around to her side of the bed and jumped under the covers, showing him only a blinding white streak of moving skin.

He put his arms around her and drew her close. “Was that you or a flash of lightning I just saw running across the room?”

She giggled, snuggling closer. “I'm so happy,” she sighed tremulously. Resting a light arm across his stomach, she could feel the strong thud of his pulse, though it might've been hers. It didn't matter. The wind blew, rattling the windows. Winter would come soon. She'd always hated it, but now she welcomed it, looked forward to it. To be with Philip when it was cold, when it was snowing, raining, blowing—or when it was warm, hot, balmy, sultry—She shivered in ecstatic anticipation of everything that lay ahead for them.

“What?” he asked, his lips on her temple.

She shrugged helplessly. “I'm so
happy
,” she said again, though now the word seemed pitifully inadequate. She could feel him smiling. They lay together for a long time without saying a word, in acute and perfect peace, and it was as if their bodies and spirits healed more in those moments than they had in all the long days in their lonely, separate beds.

“Philip,” Cass said at last.

“What, my love.”

Her rusty voice was tentative. “I know Oliver has hurt us terribly—you especially, because he was your friend and you cared for him and trusted him. I don't know why he did what he did. It was unbelievably cruel, and selfish, and arrogant. He caused so much pain, so much unhappiness—I know all that, and yet—all the same, he saved my life. He didn't have to do it, he could so easily have let me die. But he didn't. For that, at least, I can't hate him.”

“No,” he said, stroking her cheek, “nor can I. In a way I feel sorry for him. The impulses that drive him aren't normal. Somewhere in my mind I knew that, but I ignored it. I called him single-minded, but I think I always knew it was more than that, even as a child. In some ways what happened was as much my fault as his, because I refused to see him as he really is.”

“No, Philip, you weren't—”

“It's true, Cass. I needed him to be perfect. My mentor. My father.”

“Perhaps he needed you to be his son, as well. Someone he could control. Your brother said he needs to possess people. Philip, I'm convinced you never hurt Oliver, or anyone else. I can't tell you how he got that scar on his wrist, but I know you didn't give it to him. I
know
it. And he used your guilt to make you help him.”

Riordan lay very still, thinking. Gradually something dark and heavy inside him seemed to lift and shimmer for an instant in bright light, then disintegrate in a shower of sparks, leaving him free. “I love you, Cass,” he whispered.

“I love you.” She caressed his throat with soft, soothing fingers. “And do you know, Philip, in spite of everything, I think Oliver loves you, too.”

“Yes,” he said sadly, “I believe he does. But he'll pay for what he's done, I promise you. It's ironic, but I have more power now than he does—and partly because of him. And I can make him pay.” He felt her shiver and tightened his hold. “Don't think about him. He can't touch us anymore. The only thing that matters now is kissing you. Now, right now.” He did, tenderly. “Do you know what a miracle this is, Cass? I thought you were dead.” He shook her a little, wanting her to understand the enormity of it. “And here you are in my arms, in our bed. It's as if
I've
died and come back to life.”

“I love you, Philip. I'll always, always love you.” She closed her eyes and kissed him back, propped up on her elbow, leaning over him but careful not to touch his bandaged chest. Soon they were both breathing hard. His restless hands on her bare skin under the covers were making her moan. They pulled away at the same moment. “Darling,” she gasped, “I want to make love with you so much. So much. But we can't do this, we have to stop. You know we do.”

“Do we?” He ran his hands through his hair and paused to let his heart slow. She was so good for him; she was better than medicine.

“I knew I shouldn't have taken my clothes off.”

“No, you
should
have taken your clothes off. That was the best part.”

“Yes, but we should read or something. Or ring the bell and have some food sent up. Are you hungry?”

“I'm starving. I'm dying of hunger.” He turned toward her, but she dodged his descending lips.

“I'm serious,” she laughed. “If we don't stop, you'll hurt yourself.”

“I wouldn't if you'd hold still.”

There was merit in that. He saw acquiescence in her eyes and moved in again. She held still for as long as she could stand it. “Oh God,” she groaned, clutching at him much harder than one ought to clutch at a sick man. “We can't! How can we?”

He kissed her again, then pulled his mouth away just far enough to make himself intelligible. “There's something I never told you about the Commons.”

She blinked dazedly. “The Commons?”

“To become a Member, a man has to demonstrate resourcefulness, inventiveness, and a willingness to meet terrible obstacles head-on.” She tried to see his face, but he held her steady. “Cutting right to the point, I have an idea. Would you like to hear it?”

She nodded slowly.

He put his hands in her hair and murmured two explanatory sentences in her ear.

She pulled away and stared at him. “God, I love this country,” she breathed, awed.

Two months later Philip and Cassandra Riordan stood before the Bishop of London in the Lower Chapel of St. Stephen's in Westminster. In front of a hundred of their closest friends, they exchanged vows of love, obedience, honor, and fidelity. A collective sigh of satisfaction rose from the wedding guests when the unconventional ceremony was over, for the bond of devotion between the bride and groom was shiningly obvious even to the dullest among them. Still, some thought the postnuptial kiss was more enthusiastic than need be, and went on a bit long for perfect seemliness.

Sir Wallace Digby-Holmes elbowed his companion in the ribs—Mary, was it? Or Maria?—and sent her a wide leer. He took a proprietary interest in the goings-on. He'd smarted a bit at first over not being chosen best man again, but now he was taking it philosophically. After all, Edmund Burke was a great and famous statesman; you couldn't really fault Riordan, a rising star in the Whig party now, for picking him over his humble self. Then too, Burke was vaguely rumored to be in the groom's debt for something or other, no one knew quite what. Something heroic, people said, and that pretty wife of Riordan's was supposed to be in on it, too. It sounded like wild gossip to Wally. The last time he'd seen the happy couple, they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other, and today things looked pretty much the same. Apart from anything else, he didn't see how they'd have had
time
to be heroic.

Conspicuous by his absence was Oliver Quinn, once the groom's closest friend. Word had it there was a rift between the two men now. At any rate, the king's faithful servant was toiling for his sovereign in the Indian colonies these days. Some place called Chandragupmatawan, where the heat was so intense, at noon you could fry a piece of meat on a rock. In the shade. Or so it was said.

The bride's matron of honor was her dear friend, Jennie Willoughby. Her cousin Freddy and his new wife sat in the front pew, nodding and smiling. Even her aunt, who was no longer Lady Sinclair but plain Mrs. Edward Frane now, and who sat beside her new spouse in the next row back, seemed moved by the ceremony. Either that or, if one believed the wagging of vicious tongues, she was weeping because her niece's husband was so much richer than her own.

Clara, the bride's maid, and Beal, the groom's valet, sat together in a back pew. “Well,” sniffed Clara, wiping her eyes with Beal's handkerchief, “that's done, i'n't it? Don't she look a sight, though? I'm the one told 'er ter wear 'er hair up like that,” she couldn't refrain from confiding.

“Oh, yes, lovely,” said Beal, who was admiring the cut of his master's blue velvet coat, which he'd pressed himself this morning. When Clara gave him back his handkerchief, he captured her hand and held it quite boldly, though continuing to stare straight ahead. “What'll  you gamble, Mistress Clara, that there's a new addition to the Riordan household before the year's out?” he murmured insinuatingly, giving her hand a squeeze and her middle a wee nudge with his elbow.

“Ooh, la, I ain't a wagerin' woman, Mr. Beal,” answered the maid with a becoming blush. She turned her face from him as if to admire the crowd, but really to hide a smile. She could take Mr. Beal's side of
that
wager without so much as a blink, she could, and lay him heavy odds on it to boot. For her mistress had told her this very morning, with that lovely gay laugh of hers that could make a day-old corpse sit up and grin, that she was already two months gone.

Patricia Gaffney is a
New York Times
bestselling and award-winning author of twelve historical romances and five contemporary women's fiction titles. She has won the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart award and has been nominated six times for the RWA's RITA award for excellence in romance writing.

Born on December 17, 1944, in Tampa, Florida, to an Irish Catholic family, Gaffney grew up in Bethesda, Maryland. After graduating from college, she worked as a high school teacher for one year before beginning a fifteen-year career as a freelance court reporter. It was during this time that she met her husband, Jon Pearson.

Gaffney's life changed course in 1984 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her battle with the disease prompted her, in 1986, to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming a novelist. Her first novel,
Sweet Treason
(1989), won a 1988 Golden Heart Award and the
Romantic Times
Reviewers' Choice award for First Historical Romance. Her second novel,
Fortune's Lady
(1989), which is set in England against the backdrop of the French Revolution, was shortlisted for the RITA. She followed her early success with
Another Eden
(1992),
Crooked Hearts
(1994),
Sweet Everlasting
(1994),
Lily
(1996),
Outlaw in Paradise
(1997), and
Wild at Heart
(1997), the latter of which was among ten finalists for RWA's reader-nominated Favorite Book of the Year Award.

Since the late nineties, Gaffney has found added success writing women's fiction. Her novels
The Saving Graces
(1999),
Circle of Three
(2000),
Flight Lessons
(2002), and
The Goodbye Summer
(2004) all appeared on several national bestseller lists.
The Saving Graces
was on the
New York Times
bestseller list for seventeen weeks.

With her friends Nora Roberts (writing as J. D. Robb), Mary Blayney, and others, Gaffney has also contributed novellas to three anthologies, all of which were
New York Times
bestsellers.

Gaffney lives with her husband and two dogs in Blue Ridge Summit, Pennsylvania.