Samantha James (2 page)

Ah, yes, he’d returned a changed man.

A guilty man.

Once again he was aware of Alec’s scrutiny. Aidan drank deeply, once, and then again.

“You abandoned a brilliant career,” came Alec’s inevitable observation. “Still no regrets?”

“Regrets?” Aidan gave a brittle laugh. “What, man, are you mad? Besides, if you’ll recall, I’d been considering leaving the Regiment for a number of years already—shortly after Annie married Simon.”

“We both know why you left, Aidan.”

There was no accusation in Alec’s tone, no judgment. Nonetheless, Aidan didn’t appreciate the comment, and it showed in the fulminating glance he cast toward Alec.

Alec ignored it. Instead, he leaned back. “Which brings to mind the question…How are you, Aidan? How are you really?”

“I’d be perfectly fine if you’d cease your talk of India and the Punjab!”

Alec merely looked at him. Aidan released a puff of air. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to bite.”

“No need to apologize. Point taken,” Alec said lightly. “I have just one thing to say, however.”

Once again, Aidan steeled himself. Damn! Why couldn’t Alec leave well enough alone? Oh, he knew it was concern that motivated him, but still…

“It wasn’t your fault those men died, Aidan.”

There. He’d known what Alec was going to say. It didn’t, however, make it any easier. The pain that sliced through Aidan’s chest was as sharp as ever.

“I beg to differ, Alec.” His lips barely moved. His tone was no less than terse. “It
was
my fault. I was their commander. I was careless. I was greedy, and I led them into a goddamned massacre. I will always—
always
—have their blood on my hands. And those men numbered forty-seven, Alec. Forty-seven souls who died needlessly. Because of me. So yes, it
was
my fault.”

The silence ticked out. Alec held his gaze steadily.

“You’re still beating yourself into the ground, I see,” Alec said softly. “Someday, Aidan, I hope you’ll forgive yourself. I can see it won’t be today, however. Therefore, I salute your past adventures”—Alec smiled and raised his glass—“and wish you luck in your new endeavors.”

Aidan felt the tightness in his throat ease. “To new endeavors then.” The two brothers clinked glasses.

Their conversation turned to other things. Aidan’s first successful quarter at his new business, his newly completed purchase of a home. Their sister Anne, her husband Simon, and their children.

“That’s the answer to what ails you, man,” Alec said suddenly. “A woman for the night.”

Aidan blinked. “A woman?”

“Exactly! I think what you need, dear brother, is the gentle touch of a woman to soften those hardened edges of yours. Lose yourself in her eyes. Lose yourself in her arms.”

Aidan couldn’t help but laugh. They fell back into their usual banter. “The touch of a woman cures all, eh?”

“That’s been my experience,” Alec stated suavely. “I do believe I’ve heard you haven’t lost your touch. I recall hearing rumors several years ago that you’d taken a fancy to the daughter of
the Governor-General. So much so that I thought perhaps marriage was in the wings.”

Aidan snorted. “Marriage? You’re the Duke of Gleneden, brother, and you’ve yet to find your duchess.”

“All in good time,” Alec retorted glibly. “Now tell me of this woman.”

“Well, she was most definitely not the daughter of the Governor-General,” Aidan informed Alec smoothly.

Alec wasn’t to be dissuaded. “Who then?”

“I rather suspect you refer to a relative of a member of the diplomatic corps. A widow, in fact. The lady pursued me, and that is all you need know, dear brother.”

In truth, Englishwomen were relatively rare in India, a beautiful one still more rare. Aidan might have eyed the daughters and wives of high-ranking officials, but he wouldn’t allow desire to hold sway over him. He had too much discipline for that. But while he still possessed the same physical urges of a man for a woman, he was discerning enough to spend his needs with one who didn’t smell of musk and grime and dust.

Alec appeared to take great delight in the admission. “You were always the ladies’ man when you were young, Aidan.”

“Only because I observed my brother. And from the talk I hear, it’s still true. I was at a din
ner party the other night with an old friend, and I overheard a woman talking most avidly about a man called the Black Scotsman. She’d had one glass of champagne too many, I suspect, but I listened most keenly when she mentioned the Black Scotsman. Isn’t that what the lovelies used to call you when you were young?”

Alec gave a burst of laughter. “Good heavens! Don’t tell me that particular moniker has resurfaced?”

“It would seem so.”

“Why, I haven’t heard it in years!” Alec hiked a black brow, a half smile on his lips. “Dare I inquire what else this lady ventured?”

“I believe something about the Black Scotsman’s charm being exceeded only by his…how shall I say this?” Aidan feigned a great pondering. “Now I recall! His charm was exceeded only by his masterly achievements in the boudoir.”

“Masterly, eh?” Alec laughed with gusto. “And you divined they referred to me? Well, then, I thank you for the compliment. Though I do hope
you
didn’t learn how to become a ladies’ man by—oh, how shall
I
say this?—er…by direct observation when you were a boy trailing in my footsteps.”

It was Aidan’s turn to arch a heavy brow. “Set your mind at ease,” he said bluntly. “I should like to think I’ve acquired my own brand of technique rather than imitate my brother’s.”

“Then use it, man! I’m in no position to judge,
but I should imagine the right woman would go a long way toward what ails you. Aye, perhaps a strong, healthy dose of lust is all you need, Aidan. And not just for tonight.”

“An affair?”

“All the better.” Alec slanted him a rather wicked grin.

“Ah. Sage words of advice from the legendary Black Scotsman, then?”

“Aye,” Alec declared. “But remember, discretion is everything.”

Aidan chuckled. A few moments later, he glanced at the clock on the marble mantel. “Gads, look at the time! I’d best be off if I’m to find a woman for the night.”

Alec laughed and clapped a hand on Aidan’s shoulder.

In the grand entrance hall, Carlton appeared with Aidan’s greatcoat. The butler frowned. “It’s quite dreadfully cold, Lord Aidan. Shall I summon the master’s carriage?”

Aidan shook his head. “No need, Carlton.”

“A hack then,” Alec started to say.

Aidan dismissed them both with a hand. “Thank you, no. I shall return home the same way I came.”

“What! You walked?” Alec shot him a look that proclaimed he was surely convinced Aidan had gone daft. “Mother commented today she wouldn’t be surprised if the Thames froze over, the way it did the year she and Father married.”

Carlton assisted Aidan into his greatcoat. He was still frowning severely as he took up a post near the front door.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Alec told him.

“No, I shall let you return to your tales of demons and darkness by the famed—”

He stopped short and glanced at Alec inquiringly. “F.J. Sparrow,” Alec supplied.

Aidan feigned a shudder of fear. “There, you see? I vow, with your talk of devils and demons—why, the very name F.J. Sparrow—you’ve frightened me half to death. I dare not stay the night. I’d neither close my eyes nor sleep a wink, for fear of some vile creature walking straight from the pages of your cursed novels!”

Alec merely hiked a black brow.

“Besides, what if
you
should find a female companion for the night?” Aidan added. “We’d have to share her.”

“We’ve shared many things, brother, but never a woman. And I daresay, we shall not. Now, let Carlton have the carriage brought around.”

“Nay, my lord duke. I fancy a brisk walk instead.”

“Mad, man, that’s what you are,” came Alec’s muttered observation.

The memory came unbidden…All at once Aidan recalled the intense heat shimmering over the deserts in India, the gritty sand finding its way into his mouth and flesh, stinging his skin
and burrowing into his pores even beneath his uniform.

“Strange as it may sound to you,” he said with a faint smile, “during all those years in India, the one thing I longed for most of all was the chill of a British winter. Mist, frost, snow, I’d have welcomed any and all.”

And with that, Aidan ventured outside…and into the blackest depths of the night.

Someone is watching me,
Fionna thought, trying desperately to determine if she was right.

She was. She felt it in every fiber of her being, every pore of her soul.

She was being followed.

Something was afoot. Some
one
was afoot, for
she knew she was not alone. And this had nothing to do with the fearful creatures created by Miss Fionna Josephine Hawkes.

Ah, yes, Fionna was a teller of tales, tales of the dark side of the soul, of supernatural beings that transcended belief. Without question, she possessed an imagination most vivid. Yet every sense inside screamed a warning. And Fionna had the terrifying sensation that someone lurked near.

Following with stealthy step. Moving when she did.
Stopping
at almost the precise instant that she did.

This was not within the pages of a novel. This was here.

This was real.

This was now.

Thoroughly unsettled, Fionna whirled, ready to confront whoever it was.

There was about the night a sense of eerie stillness. Even now, the darkness seemed to creep in, closing all around her. Indeed, as she had oft written, the depths of the night could be terrifying—though Fionna did not find it so. What she did find terrifying—no, disturbing, for “terrifying” was far too strong a word—was that absolute stillness. That sense of waiting—for something to happen, knowing not
what
would happen…

The world seemed to have stopped in time, like a heart that had ceased to beat. There was nothing, no breeze to stir the air, ruffle the tree
tops, for the limbs were barren of life and would remain so until spring. There was no moon to cast out even the most feeble slice of iridescence. What light there was came from a trace of snowfall that had fallen earlier; it was as if all the earth were laden with silvery crystals, frozen in time. Beautiful, almost unearthly so. Yet cold—so very, very cold…

She shivered, yet this was a shiver that came from the innermost depths of her being—and had not a whit to do with the bone-chilling temperature. She even thought the stark, withering limbs of the trees seemed to stretch out toward her, seeking to close around her, to squeeze the life and breath from her—though she well knew that was given to sheer imagination.

Yet all the while her eyes strained, as if to see through every tree, through the heavy darkness, around every corner.

All that she heard was that chilling, absolute silence.

Then, the hollow chimes of a clock tolled through the night…the very stroke of midnight. So unexpected was the sound that Fionna actually started.

Turning on her heel, she began to walk once more.

It came again, the sound of footsteps, almost attuned with hers—no, it was more of an echo. As if when
she
stopped,
he
stopped.

Had she been running, she’d have felt…pursued. As it was, she felt…violated.

And furious. Yes, most of all, she was furious.

For Fionna relished the night, cherished its solitude. When darkness veiled the world, she felt…free. Oh, but there was no other way to describe it! As if the dark let free her imagination.

Yet she was certain she heard footsteps for—oh, perhaps at least three times. Sensed a presence that made her skin prickle—and that not an easy task, to be sure, given her occupation.

It had crossed her mind to speak to a constable. But she hadn’t actually
seen
anyone, so how silly would that sound? No doubt he would merely gaze at her as if she were an hysterical female. Besides, if she contacted the police, she could not—
would
not—convey her alternate identity. Oh, but someone would have a rousing good chuckle with his comrades. He’d surely have laughed in her face. For all that Fionna was firmly grounded in reality, they might consider her…
mad.
No doubt a constable would boorishly advise that she remain indoors, which would only make her fume.

No, Fionna Josephine Hawkes wouldn’t hide behind closed doors. She wouldn’t cower.

She had a living to make. Her nightly jaunts allowed her to think, to shuffle and ponder and plot.

Steeling herself, she stopped again. Her gaze swiveled in all directions. She held her breath, not even daring to exhale. All she could hear was the drumming of her own heart pounding hard in her ears.

Chiding herself for her folly, she gathered herself in hand, turned, and resumed her journey toward home.

But she couldn’t lie to herself. She was nervous. Skittish. Was it folly after all? Was it nonsense?

Rubbish!
she chided herself.
What would Raven do if she were being followed?
she asked herself. What
would
Raven do?
Raven,
she reminded herself,
was unafraid of anything, adventurous to the point of being reckless
…

And Rowan would have been directly behind her, ready to step in should she need him.

There! She heard them again, firm, rhythmic footballs, quickening now with their approach.

Rounding the corner, Fionna ducked behind the next doorway—it shielded her from view. She lived in one of the very best neighborhoods of London. There was little crime, either day or night. She was still frightened, but suddenly angry as well.

The footsteps halted. The intruder was close. She could just make out the outline of his form—shoulders wide and brawny beneath the layers of his greatcoat. Between his top hat and the shadows, she could detect virtually nothing of his features, his age, or naught else. Only that
his face was a mass of shadows and his form a powerful one.

She braced herself, both inwardly and outwardly.
Drat!
He was almost upon her now.

She gripped her parasol hard, with both hands, bringing it up to rest near her shoulder. It had been snowing lightly when she’d left home. Thank heaven she’d brought it! Her heart was beating like a fury. By heaven, if necessary, she would use this as a weapon. She would—

“Hello?” came the sound of a man’s low baritone. “Madam, are you—”

Fionna didn’t wait to hear any more. Here was her tormentor, in the flesh. Gritting her teeth, she sighted his midsection…

And swung her parasol with all her might.

Aidan’s conversation with Alec was still fresh in his thoughts when he departed Alec’s town house that night.

No matter how he tried, the memory of that night in the Punjab never quite left him. Neither his mind…

Or his heart.

Bitterly he wondered if it ever would.

Rajul.

Even dead, the man had the power to fire the blood in his veins to boiling. The rebel leader’s image filled his brain—the arrogant tilt of his turbaned head, that ever-taunting gleam in coal black eyes.

He’d wanted Rajul too badly. Glory or gain had nothing to do with it. When word came that Rajul was near, he’d reacted too rashly.
Unthinkingly.
He should have waited for the troops he knew were less than half a day’s ride away.

His steps continued, echoing through the frigid London air.

Turmoil raged in Aidan’s breast. Self-loathing poured through him, boiling through his veins. He’d never had any shortcomings when it came to his abilities. After all, he was Colonel Aidan McBride, the pride of the British Empire. The man whose military career had been built by the fact that every decision he made was thorough and calculated and deliberate, the fact that he anticipated with an almost uncanny perception the actions and reactions of the enemy.

But not that night.
Not then.

Rajul had escaped.

His mouth twisted. God, how he’d fooled them all. His men. His superiors. Even himself.

And to think he’d been offered a medal. Offered a promotion, for the Command considered the toll on the rebel forces a major blow.

To Aidan, it was a travesty. A joke.

It changed nothing. It didn’t erase the deaths of forty-seven men whose blood had been spilled needlessly. Whose blood would forever stain his hands.

And that was why he’d forsaken his so-called brilliant career.

Deliberately he forced the tension from his jaw. Alec was right. He needed to forget. This was London, and by God, that part of his life was no more.

The merest trace of a smile broke the taut line of his lips. A strong healthy dose of lust had been Alec’s precise words. Well, perhaps he was right. Perhaps he needed a woman whose skilled lips and warm hands would shatter the past. Purge the ache inside and replace it with another, one that might be filled, at least for a while.

Rounding the corner, a muffled sound brought his head up sharply. He spied a lone figure gliding along the walkway before him. Almost in spite of himself, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Alec’s admiration of F.J. Sparrow’s ghoulish tales.

Bedamned!
he thought. He squinted a little. Granted, his distance vision wasn’t what it used to be, but…speak of the devil…By heaven, it was a woman!

But this wasn’t a neighborhood that was frequented by ladies of the evening, selling their bodies. And if he weren’t mistaken,
this
woman appeared to be respectably dressed. He was suddenly impatient, almost angry. So why the devil was she out walking alone, with no escort…at the hour of midnight?

He began to walk faster. Then she disappeared from view around the corner.

Aidan hastened his pace.

“Hello? Madam, are you—”

Aidan had one single view of her clutching her parasol—as if it were a cricket bat.

That was his last thought before he heard a
whoosh
of air.

He sensed it, more than he saw it. His hand shot out, propelled by sheer instinct, at precisely the right instant. He caught the parasol squarely in the middle, holding it away from his body—squarely between them. His attacker gave a little scream of frustration at being thwarted and sought to yank it from his grasp.

Had his reflexes not been so quick, he realized, he might have suffered a good wallop in the belly. The woman twisted the parasol fiercely. Aidan refused to release it.

“My good woman, it’ll take more than a parasol to bring me down.” Aidan hadn’t yet decided if he was more amused or angry.

It was as if they had faced off against each other in order to do battle. Indeed, she appeared ready to do exactly that. Her expression was fierce, her determination evident as he caught a glimpse of her face beneath the wide brim of her bonnet. She was still grappling with him, trying with all her might to wrest the parasol free. “Let go!” she cried.

“Not until I’m assured you won’t try to use it against me again,” he stated grimly. “For all I know, you’ve a pistol in your reticule.”

“I’m not carrying a reticule! And you were following me!” she accused. “Why?”

“I wasn’t following you. I was merely on my way home when I saw you. I thought to lend assistance if you were in need of it.”

Something flashed in her eyes. She made a small, choked sound—a sob? Was she trembling? He couldn’t quite tell, but he suspected she was on the verge of it.

Something within him softened. “I was concerned,” he said again. “I thought perhaps you were hurt.” He paused, then added quietly, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I wasn’t frightened!” she denied, yet with such vehemence that he knew very well she was.

He released his grip from the parasol. She immediately snatched it back.

Aidan indicated the parasol with a swirl of a gloved fingertip. “May I suggest the very tip might be quite useful as a weapon if need be.” He lifted two fingers upward. “Lunge at the face. The eyes, if you are able. The chest or belly or…parts thereunder.” Another swirl below his waist.

He ignored her gasp of shock.

“A knee there is particularly effective if you are not carrying your parasol. It will bring a man down to his knees in a heartbeat, if not to the ground itself. And if you are carrying it and if you were behind your assailant, then swing as you did. At the back. The head. Or squarely behind the knees. Vulnerable areas, all of them. And if you are in front, then swing as you did with
me. At the belly, hard as you can. It likely won’t bend a man completely double, but it just might give you the chance to bring your knee up and into his face. Hopefully that, at least, will give you the chance to run and scream your bloody head off.”

“Really. And what if I’d intended to do all of those things?”

What a defiant little creature she was! “Then I should call you a resourceful woman—a woman well prepared indeed.”

His observation seemed to reassure her. But she was still a trifle frightened, though he sensed she was doing her best not to show it.

His eyes flicked over her. “Do you have any idea of the hour?”

She blinked. “What?”

“A woman like you should not be strolling alone at this time of night.” His tone was sharp. He didn’t care.

Her eyes lit like sparks again. He couldn’t quite make out their color—and suddenly wished that he could.

Aidan arched a brow and continued, “My dear lady, when a woman is alone at night, wandering the streets…” He paused, that she might take his meaning.

He recognized the very instant she did. “I am not wandering,” he was haughtily informed. “I know precisely where I am going. Nor, sir, am I a light skirt. So if you’re in an amorous mood—”

“I am not,” he interrupted coolly. “And I was not implying that you are. Were that the case, I imagine you would be trying your best to lure me close—not bring me down instead.”

She said nothing, merely matched his stare with a boldness that bordered on fury.

“As for you, young woman, it’s after midnight.”

Her chin came up. “I’m well aware of the time. Not that it’s any of your affair, but I…had a late engagement.”

Aidan assessed her with an unflinching regard, taking in the way her eyes flitted away. He studied the slim line of her jaw, slightly square—and also noted the way she fiddled nervously with her parasol.

She was lying. Furthermore, she wasn’t accustomed to lying.

“Then you should have hired a hack,” he said bluntly. “At the very least, your gentleman friend should have sent you home in his coach.”