Chapter 34
Mackenzie’s words were stark, unbelievable, yet impossible to disbelieve. Kiri turned to face him. His cravat was off, so she gently unbuttoned his shirt and tugged the fabric away from his throat. There, just above his collarbone, was the thin, ragged line of a long-healed scar. “I’m so very glad she didn’t know how to do it right,” she said in a choked whisper as she traced the scar with gossamer tenderness.
“I was squirming and trying to get away, so she didn’t cut deeply enough,” he said, his voice remote. “But there was plenty of blood, so she thought her knifework would suffice. Then she used her best suicidal Juliet voice to cry out, ‘This will show his filthy lordship!’ and drove the dagger into her heart.”
“And you were right there watching?” She wanted to weep for the child he’d been, but she could not allow tears. Her pain on hearing this was only a pale shadow of the pain he’d lived with most of his life.
He nodded. “After she stabbed herself, she had the strangest expression, as if she hadn’t expected the pain or the blood to be real. She’d been in the theater so long that she couldn’t always tell the difference between the stage and reality. She gasped, then quietly folded onto the floor and . . . bled.”
Leaving her son with the indelible image of his mother dying in a lake of blood. God
damn
woman for her selfishness! Kiri swallowed hard and managed to say with credible calm, “She must have been mad.”
“A little, I think.” He sighed. “I was lucky to have inherited enough of the Masterson steadiness to stay out of Bedlam. Not enough to be really respectable, but enough to be sane.” After another long silence, he said, “You can see why Will became the most important person in the world to me.”
“Stability, affection, acceptance,” she said, wishing that she knew Lord Masterson better. She’d met him because he was one of Adam’s closest friends, but only in passing. Masterson was a large, calm man who looked much like Mackenzie, but with a more relaxed disposition.
The next time they met, she might fall to her knees and kiss Will’s feet for what he’d done for his terrorized little bastard brother. He could so easily have turned his back. “You were very lucky to have him.”
“If not for Will, I would have ended up apprenticed to a tradesman or slaving in a workhouse. I hated when he joined the army. I’m the expendable one, not Will.”
“You are not expendable!” She leaned forward and kissed the scar left by his mother’s dagger, touching the hard line of tissue with her tongue. “When I think that I might never have met you . . .”
He caught his breath and she felt his pulse accelerate under her lips. “You would have been better off not knowing me, my warrior queen,” he whispered, but his hands settled on her waist.
She raised her head to glare at him. “It may be difficult to value yourself when your mother dismissed your worth, but I will have none of that! You have the strength and honor of your father’s people, the charm and wit of your mother, and those qualities together make you a remarkable man, Damian Mackenzie. ”
His expression softened. “You give me too much credit, my lady.”
“And you give yourself too little.” She cupped his face in her hands, holding his gaze with hers. “I do not wish to damage your honor. But I very much wish to offer comfort.” She tilted her head back and kissed him with love, suppressing passion.
Passion would not stay suppressed. Desire blazed between them, melting her good intentions, and his as well. His arms crushed around her. “Dear God, Kiri,” he breathed. “You are so whole and alive.”
And her lifeblood beat hotly in her veins, not poured out in death. She leaned into him hard and they fell backward on the bed. As she kissed him again, his hands roved over her. “You smell so good,” he murmured. “Lemon and something else. Fresh. Piquant. Delicious.”
“Verbena. You have a good nose.” She pushed herself up, bracing her arms on each side of him. The room was too dark to show the difference in his eyes, but the strong, handsome bones of his face were sculpted in firelight. “You do not wish to take advantage of my youth and relative innocence. But surely it’s a different matter if I take advantage of your maturity and most wonderful experience?”
For a moment he looked startled. That dissolved into laughter and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “How can I resist you?” His voice became husky. “You offer joy and sanity, and . . . I need both so much.”
“They are yours for the taking, my darling Damian.”
His mouth twisted. “Disreputable Damian comes closer.”
“And that is so much a part of your charm!” She dived forward to kiss his throat while she buried her fingers in his thick hair.
Their legs had been over the edge of the bed, but in one expert motion, he rolled them so they were both on the mattress and he was above her. That put her in a position to tug his shirt loose so she could caress the warm skin of his back.
He jumped when she touched bare skin. “You have cold fingers!”
“You are warming them nicely,” she said with a throaty chuckle just before she yanked at his shirt, trying to pull it over his head.
He had to cooperate to get the shirt off. By the time he’d fought his way clear of the billowing linen, she’d undone the buttons. He turned rigid when she slipped her hand inside his breeches. Any lingering coolness in her fingers was burned away when she took hold of him.
“
Not. So. Fast!
” he panted, moving to one side so that her hand slipped away.
In this position, he was able to lift the hems of her robe and nightgown all the way to her shoulders. She hardly noticed the cool air, not when his mouth descended on her breast. “Since I didn’t have supper, I find myself very hungry,” he said, his breath warming her nipple.
She whimpered as he kissed his way down her body. Dimly she wondered when the initiative had slipped from her to him, but she didn’t really care. Not when he was doing such marvelous, provocative things.
“I smell a hint of vinegar,” he said with interest. “Did you come here with seduction in mind?”
“I swear I did not,” she gasped, writhing as his fingers stroked between her thighs. “But I was raised by a general, you recall. He said one must . . . always be prepared.”
“I would rather not think of the general just now, since he would surely pull out his horsewhip. With justice. But the damned man also raised an irresistible daughter.”
“The credit for that goes to my mother, who incarnates the goddess of desire.” Then language deserted Kiri entirely as his skilled mouth descended to a shockingly sensitive part of her body. Waves of sensation emanated through her, separating body and soul and whirling her into mindless bliss.
As she began to float to earth again, he sheathed himself in her heated flesh. To her amazement, sensation began building again, engaging her so profoundly that she could not tell where she ended and he began. She felt powerful and empowered, protected and worshipped.
As she convulsed around him, she knew it had been worth traveling halfway around the world to find this man and this time of utter rightness.
Mac gasped for breath, Kiri secure in his arms. He’d recovered from the horror of thinking her dead, but at what price?
“I hope you don’t feel dishonored,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“For accepting the gift of your honorable and generous spirit?” He pressed a kiss between her lovely breasts. “Not to mention your magnificent body. But I’m having trouble defining honor now. Even if my intentions are honorable, in the eyes of society I’ve failed utterly.”
She sighed. “‘Honorable intentions’ is a code for marriage, isn’t it? That is what the world sees. I do not see marriage as the only honorable estate.” After a silence she added, “It’s respectable, but that’s not the same thing.”
“At the moment, neither of us is anywhere near respectable.” His lips twisted. “And the hell of it is that even if I proposed marriage, that wouldn’t really change matters.”
“Pardon?” She raised her startled face to him. “I thought you were not the marrying kind.”
“You make me think impossible thoughts, Kiri.” He toyed with her hair, twining a glossy strand around his forefinger. “There is a romantic tradition that declares the world well lost for love, but that’s fantasy. If you were foolish enough to marry me, how would you feel if your family cut you off?”
She looked appalled. “My mother would never do that!”
“But your stepfather might,” he pointed out. “General Stillwell is one of Britain’s great military heroes, but generals tend to see truth as black and white. I’m a middlin’ shade of gray at best. He’d see me as black and you as white.”
She laid her hand on his arm to show the contrasting tones of their skin. “I’m a pleasant shade of tan, while you look a trifle undercooked.”
“You’re right, I was taken out of the oven too soon,” he said with a laugh. His brief humor faded. “Marriage joins not only two people, but two families. You are an heiress and the daughter of a duke. I’m the bastard son of an actress. The disparity between us is enormous, and horrifying to anyone who believes that there is a natural order to society. And most people do believe that.”
Reluctantly she said, “In India, the caste system is a social order much more rigid than here. One thing I like about England is that it’s freer.”
“But far from completely free.” He searched for an example. “If you and my brother fell in love and wished to marry, there would be general approval. You might be seen as marrying a bit beneath your rank since you’re the daughter of a duke. Will is merely a baron, but that’s close enough because he’s a peer, so a marriage would be quite acceptable. Your family would welcome him gladly. I’m quite a different matter.”
“You and Adam are friends, are you not? Surely that would help.”
“We’re friendly and we went to the same school, but we’re not close friends like he and Will.” He hesitated before admitting, “I’ve always felt that Will was most of the reason I was accepted among Westerfield students. Everyone liked and respected him, so I was accepted on sufferance.”
“Nonsense,” she said flatly. “The Westerfield Academy is famously accepting. Just about every boy who’s ever gone there has had good reason to believe that he was an outcast. You might have had to overcome more than most, but you succeeded and were accepted for yourself. You are very well liked.”
He shrugged. “More liked than respected. It’s one thing to banter with the owner of a gambling club. Quite another to let him marry your daughter.”
“Again you mention marriage.” Her eyes were narrowed like a cat’s. “Is this only philosophy or are you thinking more personally? Marriage would solve your worries about your tarnished honor.”
Wondering what was going on behind that lovely face, he retorted, “I’m no philosopher. I like the idea of marrying you, but think, Kiri! No matter how much we care for each other”—he stroked a slow hand from her shoulder to her knee—“and desire each other, would you choose me over your whole family? If you say yes, I won’t believe you. Passion is powerful, but it cools over time. That’s why marriage needs a broader foundation.”
“Which is where family and friends come in.”
He nodded. “I would be . . . very upset if Will cut me off. Which he might do if he felt I’d ruined Ashton’s sister.” Mac would be more than upset if he lost Will. He’d be devastated. “You have a larger family, so you have more to lose. You can’t throw them away for passing passion, no matter how intense it is now.”
She sighed, her eyes closing. “I have known this all along. Hindus are very fatalistic and accepting, and that part of me knows that marriage between us is unthinkable. That is why I have wanted what few nights we can have.” Her eyes opened again, blazing with intensity. “But the Englishwoman in me wants to break rules and
make
it possible for us to be together openly in the eyes of the world.”
“A warrior queen in truth.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close against his heart. Though wise beyond her years, she was young and privileged, and that made her optimistic that they would find a way to overcome the disapproval of family and society and be accepted.
Mac wasn’t optimistic at all. He’d experienced too much of the world’s dark side.
And he didn’t believe in miracles.
Chapter 35
No rest for the wicked. Though the plot against Britain’s royals was at the top of Kirkland’s priority list, he had other investigations almost as urgent, other agents who needed to be answered and cared for. And large numbers of papers that must be read, pondered, and answered.
It was near midnight when he finished. He swayed a little when he got to his feet. Fatigue? He analyzed how he felt, and came up with the description “wretched.” He was developing a cold or some such ailment. Minor, but enough to multiply his fatigue.
He left the building that housed his small, secret organization and headed for Damian’s. He tried to stop by most evenings since he was now the nominal owner. Plus, the club had been the site of the attempted kidnapping, and perhaps he’d see someone or learn something.
His breath showed in white puffs in the frosty night air. It was unusually cold for mid-November, but he guessed it would warm up again by the time Parliament opened.
He dozed off as his carriage carried him to Damian’s. He really must try a full night’s sleep to remind him what it was like. But not tonight. He had far too much to do.
He dismissed his carriage when he reached the club since he wasn’t sure how long he’d stay. He would have Damian’s porter summon a hire carriage when he was ready to leave.
The club was fairly busy, though perhaps quieter than it would have been before Mackenzie’s reported death. Baptiste wasn’t visible, and a footman directed Kirkland to his office in the back of the building.
The club manager got to his feet when Kirkland entered. Baptiste seemed to have lost ten pounds and gained ten years since the night of the shootings. “My lord.” He gave a half bow. “I trust all is well.”
“As well as can be expected.” Since Mackenzie’s death must seem authentic, Kirkland had cleared his desk and office of all personal items. The room seemed very empty with the only signs of the late owner being a neat stack of unopened letters on Mac’s desk. Baptiste left them there for Kirkland, since he was Mac’s executor.
Kirkland ruffled through the stack. A perfumed note from a lady who must not have heard of the death, a few business letters, probably invoices. “I’ll take care of these. How are the supplies of wine and spirits holding up?”
“Luckily we received a shipment just before . . . before . . .” Baptiste swallowed, unable to finish the sentence. “I will go down to Kent soon to talk to our suppliers.”
Naturally the word “smugglers” wasn’t mentioned. “You know the way to the suppliers’ headquarters?”
Baptiste nodded. “He took me there once and introduced me to their . . . man of business so that I would be prepared in case anything . . .” His voice trailed off.
“That was foresighted. See if you can get more of that new claret.”
“I shall try.” Baptiste frowned. “You look less than well, my lord. You should get some rest.”
“That’s next on my agenda. Good night.” Kirkland tucked the letters inside his coat and left, going out through the main gaming hall.
As he headed toward the door, a man rose from the roulette wheel and came to greet him. It was Lord Fendall, one of their “persons of interest” in the assassination plot. Kirkland’s wandering attention snapped into focus. “Good evening, Fendall. Glad to see you here.”
“Town is filling up as gentlemen arrive for the opening of Parliament,” Fendall explained. “Will there be some kind of memorial service for Mr. Mackenzie? If so, I should like to attend.”
“I’m awaiting instructions from his brother, who is in Spain,” Kirkland replied. It was bad enough to declare Mac dead, but he really did not want to go through a false memorial service. “My guess is that Lord Masterson will choose to have Mackenzie buried at the family estate.”
“Put him amongst all those Mastersons despite the bar sinister?” Fendall’s brows arched. “His brother is generous.”
“They were close,” Kirkland said briefly. Which was why he’d written Will the morning after the kidnapping and sent the letter to Spain by fast government courier.
Fendall sighed as his gaze moved across the room. “Damian’s is not the same without Mr. Mackenzie. Baptiste is my friend, but he is not so good at creating a welcoming atmosphere. Do you know if the club will be sold or closed?”
“That hasn’t been decided yet.” Kirkland inclined his head. “I wish you a good evening of play. But not so good as to break the bank.”
Fendall laughed. “The evening has been amusing so far. The play is the thing. Winning is a pleasant bonus when it occurs.”
A good thing his lordship had that attitude, because he’d dropped a small fortune at Damian’s. Kirkland bid him good night and headed to the exit at a quick pace, not wanting to catch anyone else’s eye and have to talk.
The fresh air cleared his head a little. He turned right and walked next door to Mac’s house. Personal letters were delivered there and must also be checked. Then he could finally go home.
He used his key to enter. The house was silent. Not really empty, but the two servants had gone to bed. They were used to Kirkland’s comings and goings and wouldn’t panic if they heard him.
He headed to Mac’s study and lit a lamp, discovering more letters on the desk. Two were from Will Masterson. Kirkland hoped that his own letter of veiled explanation had arrived before the news of Mackenzie’s death. Though Kirkland had done his best, communications to the Peninsula could be unreliable.
Another letter stood out because of the coarse paper and unschooled handwriting. It had been forwarded from a mail drop Mac used rather than coming directly to the house. Curious, Kirkland slit the seal.
Got a strange shipment from France you should know about. Best you come down here. Nightfall at the new moon. Hawk.
Kirkland’s brows arched. Mac’s smuggler chief thought it necessary to write? Very interesting. This must go to Mac first thing in the morning.
Feeling dizzy, he stacked the letters on the desk. He needed to skim through them, but he was so weary he could barely read handwriting. He also felt wobbly from whatever he was coming down with.
He
hated
being sick.
But there were limits to willpower. He’d go up to the guest room and lie down for a few minutes. Or maybe longer than that since he barely had the strength to make it up the stairs.
In the guest room he was hit by chills, and abruptly realized that he wasn’t coming down with a cold, but a flare-up of malaria. He hadn’t thought of that because he hadn’t suffered an attack in years.
Or maybe he’d preferred to deny the possibility. So much for being a tough-minded spymaster. On the verge of collapse, he crawled under the covers, boots and all.
Kirkland gave up the struggle to think and sank into merciful darkness.
Kiri came down to breakfast with demurely downcast eyes, though she suspected that with a house full of spies, it would be almost impossible to hide an affair. At least spies were used to keeping secrets.
Mackenzie hadn’t come down yet, though Cassie was reading a newspaper while she ate. She glanced up. “The rose bath oil was
wonderful.
I slept so well after.”
“Rose oil is good for many things, including calming emotions when one is stressed.” Kiri caught a waft of rose scent as she passed the other woman.
“Then everyone in the house can use some,” Cassie said. “Do you think we could convince Mackenzie and Carmichael to bathe with rose oil?”
Kiri grinned. “They would probably rather die.” Though men used cologne, rose would be considered much too feminine.
A letter from the general had been waiting for her in the foyer. She hadn’t noticed the night before, having been distracted by concern for Mackenzie. After serving breakfast, she broke the seal and started reading. His first sentence produced an involuntary, “Oh, lovely!”
Cassie glanced up. “Good news? We can use some.”
“Very good news, though nothing to do with saving England from the ungodly. My family has been staying with my brother at the Ashton estate, and my stepfather has decided to buy a manor that shares a boundary with it. So we’ll all be close and able to see each other often. I only met Adam this past spring, and we have years to catch up on. He and my mother can’t get enough of each other.”
Cassie smiled wistfully. “It sounds wonderful. You are fortunate in your family.”
“I am indeed.” She continued reading the news as she ate, and was halfway through her breakfast when Mackenzie joined them. She glanced up, and for one searing moment, she felt as connected with him as she had the night before when their bodies had been joined. She saw a matching blaze in his eyes before he forced his gaze away.
“I smell roses,” he said cheerfully. “Since they can’t be in season, it must be one of you ladies.”
“Kiri gave me some rose bath oil, which she says is very calming,” Cassie explained. “Would you like to try some tonight?”
He looked horrified. “I’d rather die.”
Kiri and Cassie broke into laughter.
“What am I missing?” he asked warily.
Kiri shook her head, refusing to explain their amusement, but she was grateful for the change in subject. By the time Mackenzie had served himself breakfast and taken a chair at the far end of the table, Kiri had her emotions under control again.
Or at least, she could keep them from showing. She’d thought herself resigned to the fact that her affair with Mackenzie must be short. Yet since he’d mentioned marriage the night before, she found she was no longer so fatalistic. The situation hadn’t changed, all the barriers still existed—but might there be a way?
Hope was cruel.