Improbable Eden (33 page)

“
But something can be done,” Eden insisted, adjusting the lavender dressing gown she had first worn upon her arrival the previous winter. Meeting Max's skepticism with a level gaze, she wagged a finger in his direction. “You think I'm fanciful, but I'm not. With Lord Godolphin's help, I can disprove Roark's testimony. Then there is only the word of Fenwick—who also lied. And William will have to free Jack.”

Max did not look convinced as he placed a big hand on Eden's cheek. “How can you and Sidney refute Roark's charges? You hadn't even met Jack then.”

“
That's not the point,” Eden said impatiently. “Somehow I remember what even Milord Godolphin forgot.” She leaned forward eagerly. “On the first day of February, Jack couldn't have been at Cupid's Garden. He was with Godolphin at Newmarket. It was on that day Lord Challenger was born, and even I know a thoroughbred such as that one would have to be registered immediately.” Her eyes danced and her breasts rose and fell just a trifle faster under the lavender silk. “Would you care to wager with me that along with Sidney, Jack also signed those papers?”

Max let out a soft, sharp whistle between his teeth. “I never thought of that, either!” He put his hand under her chin and gave Eden an admiring look. “I wasn't at Newmarket, but was paying court to Harriet at that time.” He grimaced at his former fiancée's name. “But I know Jack was there. The date itself simply didn't impress me.”

“
I suppose it stuck in my mind because every detail about him was so important to me. I was hungry for every shred of knowledge I could glean about my father.” Eden rested her cheek against Max's palm. “Strange, it was easier to fill in the portrait of Jack than of you. Even though we were here together for all that time, you were far more elusive.”

The ebony eyes were wistful, and the lashes dipped artlessly against the pale skin. She could hardly believe that less than a year ago she had not known either Max or Marlborough. Except for Gerard, the Berengers had dimmed into a faceless montage of acrimony and spite. Conversely, Marlborough was fixed vividly in her mind's eye, his inner strength never more apparent than when he had been condemned to die. As for Max, he was where she had always sensed he should be—at her side, sharing an intimacy she had once considered impossible. “Oh, Max,” breathed Eden, “I never thought I'd see you again. I was sure you were dead!”

Moved by her fervor, Max nudged Eden's cheek with his fist. “I could hardly let you down by getting myself killed, could I?” He grinned at her, then grew serious. “Do you want me to speak to Sidney on your behalf?”

Eden shook her head vigorously. “I must do it myself,” she asserted. “Saving Jack has been my responsibility from the start. Until now, I've felt like a failure. I shall go to Lord Godolphin at once.”

“
He went to the country for Christmas,” said Max, putting an arm around her shoulders. “In any event, you must stay abed until tomorrow. This time I'm the doctor.”

Eden tried to put aside her disappointment at the delay in rescuing her father. Dejected, she leaned against Max. “A day or two will make no difference, I suppose. But Jack must be devastated.”

Max gave her a little hug. “He has enormous equanimity. He also believes in luck.”

“
Perhaps he does.” But Eden was dubious. Certainly the Countess and their children must be suffering dreadfully. At least she felt some sense of reassurance in Max's arms, and as the warmth and strength of his body flowed into hers, she felt those stirrings of desire that were never far from the surface. “Seeing as how I'm already in bed,” she said with a pert glance, “what treatment do you prescribe, Dr. Max?”

Max flicked her nose with his finger. “Nothing strenuous. A caress,” he said, running his hands down her back. “A squeeze,” he continued, spanning her waist. “A kiss,” he added, brushing her mouth with his.

Eden nestled closer, planting little kisses under his chin. “Your cure is most efficacious. You, too, must have a gift for healing. I feel better already.” She traced a path from his lower lip to the mat of dark blond hair exposed by his open shirt. It was almost three months since they had made love under a harvest moon in the farmhouse near Lille. Now the snow was falling in big soft flakes over London's rooftops, while sleigh bells jingled on the winter air. Eden shifted in Max's embrace, her hair cascading over his arm, her eyes shining with anticipation.

“
Max, why me?” she asked, a plaintive note in her voice.

Caught in the draft, the candle flame wavered, casting shadows across the planes and angles of Max's face. “I don't know,” he answered honestly. “There are many lovely women in the world, and even a pauper prince can cut a wide swath among them.” He felt Eden bridle, and his eyes twinkled. “So to speak, I mean. But I was never one for indiscriminate lovemaking. Maybe it's because I'm a private sort of person. Any attachments I've formed have had some sort of meaning for me.” He was speaking more slowly, the twinkle gone, the words carefully chosen, as if he'd never thought them through till now. “You brought joy into my life. You made me feel alive again. There's no pretense in you, Eden.” He paused to lightly touch her breast. “Your heart is honest—and open. I couldn't help but walk straight into it.”

Almost shyly, Eden studied the vulnerable side he was exposing to her. “You make me feel humble. And powerful, too.” She sighed and pulled his head down to kiss his mouth. “Oh, Max, I love you!”

“
I …” he said between kisses, “love … you.” Their breath and tongues mingled, making Eden feel dizzy all over again. Max laid her down among the pillows, then stretched out beside her. The fire was dying and the snow was coming down faster. “How do you really feel?” he asked, gingerly touching the place where she'd hit her head.

Eden glowed in the candlelight. “Wonderful.” She clasped him to her, tugging at his shirt. “Superb.” Her fingers plied at the muscled strength of his back and shoulders. “Healthy as Godolphin's horse.” She tipped her head back, letting Max tantalize her throat and breast with slow, languid kisses. Every small aggression was made with deliberate care, each new exploration carried out with delectable restraint. Eden wriggled with delight, yet wanted to urge Max to bring them to completion.

“
Are you coddling me or taunting me?” she gasped as his fingers leisurely stroked the flesh between her thighs.

“
Both.” Max flashed a wicked grin, then poised himself above her. “Taunting is well and good, up to a point. We've both waited too long, Eden.”

She would have agreed with him, but he was already claiming her as his own, no longer patient and premeditated but full of fire and intensity. Eden cried out with joy, welcoming him with a surge of passion that rocked them both. Their union was sweet as a spring meadow yet wild as the winter wind as they transported each other to a place apart. Max and Eden, alone together, soared above the snow, beyond the clouds, and could have sworn they heard the angels sing.

Even as he searched his paneled library, Sidney Godolphin roundly berated himself. He could not believe that he hadn't connected Roark's perjury with the date of his Arabian's birth. Eden soothed him, expressed her gratitude for his meticulous record keeping, then headed out through a light snow flurry for Kensington Palace. To her elation, the Earl of Marlborough's signature was inscribed, along with the date, below that of Lord Godolphin's. No man could have been at Newmarket and Cupid's Garden at the same time.

Her sense of triumph faded when a somber Keppel informed her that His Majesty was in solitude at Kensington. “It's the twenty-eighth day of December,” he said in hushed tones. “The anniversary of Queen Mary's death. He sees no one. Not,” he added with a little shrug, “even me. Did you know he always wears a lock of her hair around his neck?”

Several of Lady Castlemaine's favorite oaths leaped to Eden's mind. But patience was required; she announced that she would wait until the morrow. Could Joost put her up for the night?

Keppel looked uncertain. “Well, mayhap. It's that important?”

Eden assured him that it was. She was tempted to take him into her confidence, but before she could decide if that would be a prudent idea, Keppel inquired after Max. “I feared he was dead. What happened to him during all these weeks?”

Eden hedged. “He went abroad.” She'd learned that much, but the truth was, she still didn't have all the facts. The only thing she was sure of was that Max no longer had any qualms about being recognized in London.

It was this question that Keppel next addressed. “I'm most relieved that he's alive and well,” he said. “But isn't he afraid that the King will have him arrested?'

“
It seems not,” Eden said dubiously. “Yet I must confess, I fear for him. Surely Bentinck will be hot on his heels again.”

But Keppel demurred. “My sympathy is scant, as well you know, but poor old Wilhem has plenty of other problems these days. His scramble to retain any kind of power preoccupies him, thank God.”

Keppel's assessment should have given Eden a sense of relief, yet she remained uneasy. Following Keppel down the elegantly decorated corridor of Kensington Palace, Eden could not shake off the feeling that she was still walking under a sinister shadow.

William of Orange stared for a long time at the piece of paper bearing the signatures of Sidney Godolphin, the Earl of Marlborough and three unimpeachable Newmarket racing officials. The King's color was somewhat improved since Eden had last seen him at St. James's, but he was haggard after his day of mourning, and his mood was irascible.

“
Are you accusing Major Roark of perjury?” he demanded in a gruff voice that always seemed to tax his weak lungs.

Eden didn't flinch. “I am. It's quite plain, Roark was bribed. He used to work for Count Rudolf of Hohenstaufen.”

William's dark eyes turned sad. “We once regarded Rudolf highly. Perhaps God punished him for his betrayal. Yet Prince Maximilian had no right to take justice into his own hands.”

“
He didn't. Rudolf was shot by a French mercenary.” Noting the King's rising skepticism, Eden waved an impatient hand. “I was there, Your Majesty, at Zijswijk. Rudolf kidnapped me.”

Passing a hand over his forehead, William set the registry form on his inlaid desk. He had received Eden in the King's Gallery, his favorite refuge for private conversations. “What you say sounds quite incredible. We feel your imagination has gotten out of bounds.”

Eden tried to check her exasperation. “What happened to me—and to Rudolf—has no bearing on this document,” she asserted, tapping at the paper with her index finger. “I have come on behalf of my father. He is going to die because two men have not told the truth. You, Sire, are known as a fair-minded man. You told me so yourself.”

William's scowl was fearsome. He shifted just enough in his chair to indicate that Eden had put him on the defensive. “Why would Sir John Fenwick, who is about to die, persist in his lies?”

Eden threw up her hands. “I have no idea. Unless whoever he shields is as sure to kill him for telling the truth. You must recall, Your Majesty, that Fenwick, unlike my father,
did
take part in the assassination attempt.”

The King's fist came crashing down on the desk as he jumped to his feet. “Your father! Your father! You hardly knew the man! What is the cause of this unwarranted devotion?”

Startled by her sovereign's outburst, Eden faltered. “Do I need any other cause than our blood ties? Would you not have done the same for your father, had you known him?”

Faintly abject, William sat down with a heavy sigh. “But I didn't know him,” he murmured, abandoning the royal plural. “I've known neither father nor child.” He fingered his lower lip and gazed without appreciation at the finely wrought Grinling Gibbons carvings on the paneled walls. “Now, having found a young man who is like a son to me, I am the target of the most depraved charges. Is it a criminal thing to have esteem and affection for a fine fellow like Joost?”

For the first time, it occurred to Eden that the role she should have been groomed for was of daughter to William, not mistress. But it was too late. She was forced to play her only remaining card. In her mind, she saw a kaleidoscope of exquisite gowns, lavish furs, dancing masters, riding teachers, music lessons, Dutch grammars and notes on etiquette. It had all led up to this, a single moment with the King and the one chance to spare her father's life.

Eden tried not to think of what would happen to her own. The memory of Max's embrace remained on her skin, the taste of his mouth lingered on her tongue, the power of his possession made her dizzy. She was about to surrender everything she held most precious. In saving her father, Eden would lose Max. She had always known it, but somehow had hoped to avoid making a choice. Yet Eden had given her word to Marlborough, and now she must keep that promise.

“
Silly theatricals and calumnious letters can be easily quashed.” Eden's gaze was direct; any attempt to play the coquette was put aside in the face of William's frank manner. “If there was a woman in your life, the gossip would stop at once.”

“
A woman!” The King snorted at the suggestion. “We've said it before, we must say it again—it's still too soon for us to remarry.”