"But he was my uncle," Patrick insisted. "I should be the one to get to the heart of the matter."
"We could hardly ask an unprotected woman to place herself in possible danger," the Queen said to Anne. "It has been suggested to me by a trustworthy source that Lord Glengramach is the best choice to accompany you on this mission."
"Suggested by whom, ma'am?" Anne said, tempted to empty the teapot on the scoundrel's head because she knew it had to be him.
"It is a most excellent suggestion," Patrick said before the Queen could open her mouth. "Your adviser is a man of remarkable insight and sensitivity."
"But I cannot travel unchaperoned with a strange man all the way to Balgeldie House," Anne protested.
The Queen pursed her lips. "It is my intention that Lord Glengramach serve as your protector, and naturally you will be properly chaperoned. As to being a stranger, is he not a member of your family?"
Anne could feel the devil gloating beside her; she could feel the flames of another bonfire ignited in Hades on his behalf. She smiled wanly. "I understand your wish to keep this inside my family, ma'am, but perhaps I could select another protector to assist me in my inquiry?"
"Who?" Patrick asked indolently, crossing his legs. "All the men on your side of the family have gone on to their heavenly rewards."
Anne imagined the ornamented room closing in around her like a trap.
This was planned. A conspiracy. But why?
A man like Patrick did not need to conspire to find a woman. "I meant the men on David's side of the family," she said firmly. "Lord Ethelwere, perhaps."
"A trifle difficult to be of any help from Madagascar," Patrick said.
"Then there is Uncle Bran in Yorkshire," she said in a tight voice.
"An excellent choice," he said. "Except for the train accident that left Bran with two broken legs."
The jaws of the trap were snapping shut. Like a cornered fox, she made a final effort to extricate herself. "Lord Anthony," she said triumphantly. "I received a letter, a
healthy
letter, from him only last month."
"Gambling problem," Patrick murmured, making an embarrassed face at the Queen. "Did he ask you for money in his letter, Anne?"
Anne stared mutely at the cradle, wondering why on earth the image of a bad fairy casting a malicious spell kept sneaking into her mind. "Why, yes, but—"
"Creamcake, Lady Whitehaven?" he said, propping another plate on her lap.
The Queen rose from her chair, indicating the interview had ended. "I will leave the details of the investigation to my adviser. I doubt I need to remind either of you how much I value discretion."
Anne pushed aside the plate and surged to her feet. "Please, ma'am, do not leave us hanging in suspense. Who is this mysterious adviser we are asked to obey?"
The Queen gave a little laugh that made her blue velvet lappets bounce around her plump cheeks. "It was to be a surprise, but was I referring, of course, to one of the Crown's staunchest supporters, to none other than your beloved aunt."
4
T
he interview was over. The footmen had escorted Anne and Patrick back into the antechamber where they sank onto the sofa in a state of shock, as stiff and gray as a pair of gravestones in a cemetery.
Anne noted that Patrick looked only a little less shaken than she, but she ignored that fact. She still wanted to blame him; she still suspected he had a hand in this.
"Beloved aunt, is it? My only aunt is infirm and has never set foot at court in her life."
He lowered his hand from his eyes. "I've just had a horrible thought."
"You realized you were going to hell?" she said sweetly.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I know who the beloved aunt is."
She sat forward. "Please tell me you mean your darling, ancient Aunt Meredith with all the lap dogs."
He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
They stared at each other in terror. "You don't mean—"
"Aye," he said grimly "I do. I'd heard Auntie Nellwyn had moved back to London, but it didn't strike me as suspicious until now."
Anne could not speak for several moments. "Then I'm in far worse trouble than I realized. No wonder the image of a bad fairy kept flashing before my eyes. And you—you are a dark prince if ever there was one."
"Dark prince?" he said in confusion.
"I think I'm beginning to understand. For reasons I could never fathom, you were Nellwyn's favorite nephew," she said. "At least that's what David always thought, and I believe he was a little jealous of that old woman's favors."
He looked annoyed. As irrational as it was, he hated it whenever she mentioned her husband. There had always been a lingering regret in his life that she had not belonged to him. "What is your point?"
"That you and Nellwyn concocted this scheme together."
Amusement relaxed the lines of his chiseled face. "I see. The wicked prince and a bad fairy lure the innocent wee princess to the castle to—? Would you care to enlighten me as to our evil purpose? I appear to be a bit in the dark."
"That part should be obvious," she said.
"Prick your finger?" he guessed, grinning.
Her voice was droll. "My finger was pricked a
long time ago, and I fell under a very dangerous spell. But hear me, Patrick, I've been wide awake for years now. I stay away from spindles and dark princes."
He studied her for several moments. It was too hard not to tease her; in fact, he could not resist, loving the way she flared like a candle. For so many years she had ignored him; at least now he had found the means to elicit a response. He narrowed his eyes in concentration.
"A possibility has occurred to me. When did
you
last have contact with Nellwyn?"
Her shoulders tensed; she knew something menacing lurked behind that half-smile. "I don't know. Three months ago, or four, I suppose. What does that matter?"
"Aha." He scooted across the sofa toward her,
forcing her into her little corn
er again. He took up half the space anyway, and he wasn't above using his physical presence to intimidate her. "Then that explains it."
"Explains what?"
"Perhaps this whole thing was your idea. Perhaps you and Nellwyn hatched a plot to make me pay for my youthful mistake."
"A mistake that ruined my self-respect."
"You do not look ruined, Anne. You look ripe and lovely, my wee witch. Do you know what I regret most?"
"Don't tell me."
"I regret not what we did, but that I did not find a way to make you wait for me."
"It obviously wasn't meant to happen."
"Perhaps not then."
"But
…
you were David's cousin."
"Aye," he said softly, "and you were mine first."
She
cl
osed her eyes to compose herself, which turned out to be a mistake. He took advantage of her inattention to slide even closer, and the
familiarity of his body, the cl
ean scent of his skin, penetrated her shield, reminding her of how easily she could weaken.
Three times isn't enough with you, Anne.
Let me go, Patrick. I have to wash before I go home.
Why? I'
ll
lick you all over, and you know you're not going to make it to that door before
I
have you on your back again.
Have you no shame?
None. Now lift your legs over my shoulders. Aye, that's right. I'm going to bolt you to the floor
…
"Anne," he said softly, his arm curling around her shoulder. "What are you thinking, lass? Is it possible that you put Nellwyn up to this because your pride would not allow you to come to me in person?"
Her eyes opened. "Tell me that isn't your arm around my shoulder."
His thigh pressed against hers, his tone seductively tender. "If you'd read my letters, you'd know there was no need to involve my old battle-ax of an aunt in order to renew our affair. I'm yours for the asking, woman. Go on. Ask."
"Tell me that I do not feel your thigh against mine."
He leaned over her. His warm breath brushed her cheek, stirring dangerous sensations. "One word from you is all I need
."
"Bastard." She gave him an evil smile. "Good enough?"
He grinned, the sensual warmth in his blue eyes more devastating than she remembered. "One
encouraging
word."
"Need I remind you that we are in the royal antechamber awaiting your beloved aunt?"
His face registered no reaction; he was focused entirely on her. "There was always that unholy attraction between us, wasn't there? Time and place didn't matter."
She looked around in alarm. "They matter now."
"Attraction like that can grow into the deepest kind of love," he said quietly.
"Or, in our case, into hatred."
He laughed at that, undeterred. His face grew even more intense. His voice deepened to the velvety Scottish burr that turned her insides into burnished honey. "Hold verra still."
A quiver went through her. He framed her face into his large hands. "What are you doing?" she said in horror.
"Just hold still." He sculpted her fine jaw and cheekbones with his long fingers as if relearning the symmetry of her face, as if touching the most precious treasure in the world.
"Patrick."
He slid his left hand down the base of her skull to anchor her slender nape. "Don't move."
His blue eyes impaled her like a butterfly beneath a sword. There had always been a sense of power about Patrick that overwhelmed her. Obviously seven years had only enhanced his skills as a seducer, and she was beginning to suspect it hadn't exactly strengthened her immunity to his charm.
"There is something on your lip, Anne," he said in that gentle voice she should have known better than to trust.
"What is it?" she said in embarrassment. She felt stupid for imagining
a seduction. "A spot of cream
cake?"
"No." He grinned wickedly before closing in for the kill. "My mouth."
A rush of poignant memories engulfed her as his lips brushed hers in the briefest of kisses. "No, Patrick," she whispered, turning her head. "No."
"No?"
"No."
He drew away, his voice uneven. "I've waited too long to tell you I'm sorry. Forgive me if I've come at you with all the grace of a warlord. Delicate words have never been my style."
"Neither has discretion. Good Lord, Patrick."
He smiled knowingly. "It's going to be different this time, Anne."
She closed her eyes. "It certainly is."
"We're going to be together again."
"Not if I can help it."
"By royal decree. Do you never think about that day?"
"No," she said, with such vehemence that he
blinked in surprise. "And neither do you—it didn't happen. Please, Patrick, if there is any decency in you at all, let the past be dead
."
"To our future, then." He lowered his voice. "Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you."
"I felt nothing."
"Liar."
"Look who's talking. You were the most wicked boy in the world."
He regarded her intently. "People change."
"Sometimes for the worse."
"Are you going to resist me the whole time we're together?"
"Count on it," she said coldly.
He snorted. "Well, that ought make my job as your protector verra challenging."
"I do not need a protector."
"Aye," he said, infuriating her with his smugness. "You do."
"There are plenty of men the Queen could have asked in your place," she said indignantly.
He sat back, took a deep breath, not as composed as he would like. "There are no reliable men in your life—don't tell me otherwise. I've made a few inquiries here and there. The Widow of Whitehaven fends off all attempts at courtship, and for those who have half a chance, well, let's just say I'll be giving them some friendly advice to seek a partner elsewhere."
She shook her head, stunned. "You wouldn't."
"Aye, I would. You see, you gave something more to me than your innocence that day at the castle.
Aside from my disreputable friends, no one except you and Nellwyn wanted anything to do with me. Everyone thought I was bad, and I guess I set out to prove them right. But you were different. You didn't treat me like I was poison. You were sweet to me, and after we parted I began to think perhaps I wasn't all that hopeless."
"Oh, Patrick. We were so young."
The bruised look in her eyes disturbed him, and he wondered guiltily if had he ruined her for anyone else, even her own husband, and if so he would make it his goal to heal her.
He imprisoned her hands in his, surprised at how fragile the bones felt. "Can you not accept that fortune has brought us back together?"
"Fortune, my foot. Nellwyn is the devil's handmaiden."
"Aye." He nodded agreeably. "That she is. And I'm finding it hard myself to believe that someone would have snuffed out harmless old Uncle Edgar. Especially in a re
mote Highland lodge where well-
bred people meet to enjoy life, not to kill one another."
"It isn't possible," she said in a low voice.
"But if there is a killer running free," he continued, lacing their fingers together, "if there is the least chance that you are in any danger, then it is my duty to take the Queen's request to heart."
"Compassionate to the core, aren't we?"
He chuckled. "I don't need a royal decree to obey the protective instincts that come naturally."
"And the predatory instincts?"
He smiled slowly. "A little more under control than in the past."
"I won't go to Scotland with you, Patrick. I refuse to place myself again in such an embarrassing position. I believe I might even hate you."
"Then why did you visit me when you thought I was dying?"
"Perhaps I wanted to gloat at your grave."
He shook his head, amused and sad. "Not you, Anne. There isn't a mean bone in your body, and I remember your body verra well."
She snatched her hands back into her lap. "There's someone outside the door, and it's probably Nellwyn, listening to every incriminating word. She doesn't know about us, but the woman isn't stupid. Shell soon catch on if you don't behave."
He scratched his cheek and leaned back against the cushions, examining her in detail. When he'd returned with his regiment from Bermuda to Scotland, he had been seriously ill, suffering from a systemic infection and fever. At one point everyone, including him, had thought he would die.
He may have called out for Anne, he couldn't remember what he'd said in his delirium, but one night his father had ushered a woman dressed in black into his room. He hadn't realized it then, but at the time Anne had been in mourning for her father.
Patrick had wondered if she was the Angel of Death. She was so pale and beautiful and her eyes held sadness and a sense of finality that penetrated his feverish haze. She'd touched his face with her
delicate pale fingers. She'd laid her head on his chest and wept, saying she had resented him for so long, but she hadn't wanted him to die.
He sighed. "Do you remember what you told me when you thought I was dying?"
"Hurry to hell?" she said.
"You said you had never forgotten me, that your
husband didn't understand you, and you were cry
in
g.
"
"I don't remember," she said, her face hot.
"I do."
In fact, however, Patrick himself had been left wondering how much of the conversation he'd imagined, if he had put more meaning to her visit than she had intended. Still, not one of his past lovers or friends had shown up to stand watch at his death bed. They had been too afraid of catching his mysterious malady.