Lady Midnight (46 page)

Michael gave a snort. "I don't care about him. He can go to the devil, and so can all the gossip-mongers. He'll soon find a new lady to torment, and they'll find a new scandalbroth to stew in. We will just go back to Thorn Hill, and forget about all of it. We have our own lives to lead. I've been away from the farm too long. Amelia has to practice her French, and Christina has to check on her precious plants. And we have a wedding to plan."'

Kate's fingers curled tightly around his, a stream of pure, bright joy flooding through her heart. "You still want to marry me?"

Michael laughed, a joyful, open sound, like bubbles in champagne, summer sunshine. "Of course, widgeon. Have I not asked you at least twice? I have been waiting patiently all this time for your answer. Come, Kate. By the time Christina makes her debut, you and I will be an old married couple, and no one will recall what happened last night."

It was so perfect. It was exactly what she wanted, a husband she loved who loved her, a family, a home.

She had to close her eyes against the force of the happiness. Surely such joy could not be real, could not last! She wanted only to hold tightly to it forever, to never let it get away. "Your mother won't be happy," she whispered, opening her eyes.

Michael gave another snort. "My mother will come 'round when we give her another grandchild. In the meantime, she has decided to stay in Town with Mary and Charles for a few months. But we can go back to Thorn Hill this very day, if you will only agree, Kate."

Kate felt as if she was about to step off a steep precipice into she knew not what. She hesitated, studying his beloved face. "Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, I agree. Let's go home."

fylichael gave an exultant, primitive cry, and his mouth swooped down to cover hers in the most exuberant, joyful kiss Kate could ever have imagined. His lips played over hers lightly, like a soft minuet, stirring her senses to a tingling, exquisite life. She moaned, drunk on the taste and scent and feel of him—he surrounded her, enveloped her, until she could think of nothing else. Julian Kirkwood, marriage, London, gossip, it all vanished, and there was only this, this magic she always felt when she was with Michael.

She looped her arms around his neck, dragging him closer, closer. Michael groaned deep in his throat, a sound of primal longing, and his mouth slanted over harder over hers, his tongue seeking hers in a new, frantic dance.

Every nerve, every cell in Kate's body hummed with life, with longing. She needed to feel Michael's skin against hers, feel his body inside her and know that they were together always. That nothing could ever come between them.

Frenetic with need, she slid her hands down to catch at his coat and push it from his shoulders. Michael let go of her to shake the heavy fabric loose, but his caress returned to her immediately, skimming along her back to cup her bottom and drag her into his hardness. Everything was a damp blur, a whirl of hazy, dizzy emotions. She leaned into him, into their desperate kiss, yet it was not enough. She tugged off his cravat and reached for the opening of his soft linen shirt, ripping at it, the sharp tearing sound echoing around them.

Michael's lips slid from her mouth, along her cheekbone to the delicate, sensitive spot just below her ear. The tip of his tongue touched her lightly just there, his breath hot in her ear. She gasped, her knees weak. He caught her against him, and whispered, "Bonny Kate—no one has ever been so desperate for me they actually tore my clothes off. I'm flattered."

"And so you should be," Kate whispered back. "I wouldn't tear the clothes off of just any man, you know. But why are you talking, when we're sitting right here on a bed?"

Michael laughed, and lifted her higher in his arms. "Your wish is always my command,
signorina."

* * *

Christina pressed her ear tightly to the glass she held against the chamber door, straining to hear what was being said. She could make out only snatches of words—plants, Christina, mother, wedding, last night, Thorn Hill. And then, at last, that magical "I agree."

Then there were the obvious silences of kisses and caresses, the whisper of radiantly happy sighs. Christina stepped quickly away, for that was far more than she wanted to know at this point in her young life. And far more than she wanted to know
ever
about her brother! It was enough that Mrs. Brown agreed to stay with them, that they were going home to Thorn Hill.

How much she missed it! The gray-green expanse of the moor, the meandering rivers and the glassy Semerwater, the tracery of the ancient black walls along the hills. The myriad of plants and flowers, just waiting for her to observe and collect them. London was nice—the museums were a delight. But she missed home. She even missed her friend Andrew Price. He would surely be very impressed by all the new botanical tracts and seeds she had collected.

But today not even Nuttall—or daydreams of home—could hold her interest for long. Her thoughts wandered, drifting back to last night. Had it been only hours ago? It felt like a lifetime. It had been like a scene in a book, though certainly not the scientific works Christina preferred. More like a horrid novel, or a poem by Byron. Fainting ladies, mysterious anti-heroes, valiant knights, the miasma of scandal. It was unlike anything Christina had ever encountered before, or would certainly ever encounter again! There were ghosts and strange legends aplenty in Yorkshire, but rarely such displays of pure human foible.

She thought again of that man—Sir Julian Kirkwood. Even his name was like a character in a book. He had appeared like a wraith out of nowhere, a mage to transform Christina's mundane world and snatch her out of her comfortable complacency. She did not like him at all. He had hurt her Mrs. Brown, and he had such an aura of pain, longing, and passion that anyone coming near could not help but be burned. But he was strangely and deeply fascinating.

What could have happened between him and Mrs. Brown in Italy, that could cause such a burning fount of unrequited love? Christina could not begin to fathom. She didn't
want
to fathom such impractical and unnecessary emotion.

Plants she understood. Plants could be studied, rationalized, known. People never could. Especially people like Julian Kirkwood, who seemed to come from another world entirely than ordinary creatures like herself.

With a sigh, she turned back to her book, to the botanical matters she was comfortable with. As she turned a page, a slight blur of darkness outside the window caught her attention. She squinted past the slightly wavy glass to the street beyond.

There was a man in a black greatcoat standing on the pavement outside the house, staring fixedly up at the building.

Sir Julian Kirkwood.
Of course. She might not know a great deal about human nature, but she did know that a flame with the intensity of his could not burn out on only one night. She knew that from the poems in Mrs. Brown's books. Julian was like one verse Christina remembered—"If I should meet thee, After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears."

She unlocked the window and threw it open, rising up on her knees on the window seat to lean out into the morning air. She started to call out to him, to demand that he leave, go away. Yet something written on his thin, handsome face stopped her, stayed her voice in her throat.

She had never seen such profound sadness, such ineffable longing. Such implacable anger. It made her shiver with an emotion she could not even begin to identify.

When she tried to slip silently back into the room, away from his intensity, her book slid from her hand and fell with a clatter onto the wooden windowsill. Julian swung toward her, and she could feel his stare through those blasted tinted spectacles. It was biting and intense, holding her immobile.

Finally, he turned and strode away down the street, enveloped in his black coat like a creature of stars and moons. Christina collapsed back onto the window seat, burying her face in her hands. Thank God they were going home soon, and everything would be peaceful and normal and happy again.

She rubbed hard at her itching eyes, as if she could erase the sight of him, and glanced back out the window. Julian Kirkwood was gone—but she knew she would not soon forget him.

Chapter 25

Oh, it
was
good to be home again.

Kate stood on the corner of the busiest street in Suddley village, holding Amelia by the hand, and watching the movement and music of a busy morning. After the crowded strangeness, the stifling sophistication, of Town, it was a dreamland. The people going in and out of the shops—bearing baskets of fresh produce and spools of ribbon, herbs and books—the carts clattering past on the cobblestones, even the sight of the Rosses' carriage parked outside the apothecary, awakened new feelings of profound gratitude in Kate's heart.

She almost laughed aloud. Who could have ever thought when she first arrived here that she would think of Suddley and its environs as
home
? A spot more removed from her birthplace could not be imagined. Yet she welcomed it now, adored its very rusticity, its profound
Englishness.
Next to Thorn Hill, she believed she loved this village best of anywhere in the world.

It was made all the sweeter by the memory of how very close she had come to losing it forever.

Now it was hers. This life, this—everything. She and Michael had gone to St. Anne's yesterday and announced their betrothal to the vicar, asking him to read the first banns on Sunday. They would plan a small dinner party for all the neighbors after, to celebrate the upcoming marriage. And to squelch any rumors or speculation spreading northward from London.

All
the neighbors. Even Lady Ross and her daughters. Kate watched those ladies now as they emerged from the shop, and she almost laughed again at their imagined reactions to the news. Her laughter began to fade, though, when the Ross litter gave her a collective suspicious glare and climbed hastily into their carriage.

Amelia tugged at her hand. "Why are you smiling, Mrs. Brown?"

Kate glanced down at the child, her grin widening at the sight of Amelia's puzzled frown. Kate reached out to straighten Amelia's little soft velvet hat on her golden curls, and said, "Because it is such a beautiful day,
angelina!"

Amelia glanced around doubtfully. "It's actually a bit gray."

"Yes, but it's not raining, and it's not too cold, and we're not in foggy old London."

"That is true," Amelia said, nodding. "I do like being home again, even though Grandmama stayed behind with Aunt Mary."

"And I know something you will like even more."

"What?"

"Lemon drops, of course! Come,
cara,
we will just stop and get Christina's book, and then pop into the sweet-shop."

Amelia giggled. "Oh, yes, indeed, Mrs. Brown! Lemon drops are the
best."

They linked fingers and dashed across the cobblestone street. As they stepped up onto the pavement in front of the bookshop, the door of the Tudor Arms Inn across and down the street opened, and Kate watched as a man stepped out. His back was to them, yet there was something familiar about his tall, slender figure.

As he put on his hat, he turned in Kate's direction, and she almost screamed aloud. She pressed her gloved hand to her mouth to hold the panicked sound inside. Her skin turned cold and clammy, as if an icy wind suddenly rushed down the street, and she yanked Amelia closer to her side, wrapping her arms around the child.

It was Julian Kirkwood, and he was surely no illusion, despite the very bizarreness of seeing him on Suddley's prosaic streets. He was enveloped in a black greatcoat, his eyes covered by those glasses with smoked lenses, and his raven's-wing hair under his hat. Yet it was undoubtedly him. He, too, froze for an instant when he saw her there, staring at her from behind those concealing glasses. Then he touched his fingers to the brim of his hat in a seemingly mocking salute, and turned to make his way along the street, away from them. Every person he passed stopped to watch him, for strangers were rare in Suddley.

Kate stared after him warily until he was gone from her sight.
He had followed her here.
Into her very home, her sanctuary! If Michael saw him, there would surely be trouble. The thought made her shiver. The knowledge that Julian was
here,
in this place she loved, made her feel ill. She feared she might retch right there on the lane.

She had been so foolish to imagine that her rebuff of Julian in the park would be the end of it. She had so hoped, had even managed to convince herself, that she would be out of his way in Yorkshire. But he had been a most persistent and pervasive suitor in Venice. Time and illness had made him even more so.