Releasing her breasts, he gripped her hips and anchored her, watched her and gloried, drank in her abandon, took pleasure in her passion, then he surged up and rolled, taking her with him, pressing her beneath him. Settling her there, in his bed—gloriously naked, her skin hot, already burning, her supple legs spread wide, his hips already between.
His erection sunk deep in her body.
He withdrew and surged in again, in one long, slow thrust filling her sheath, stretching her, pinning her, only to draw back and repeat the exercise.
Slowly.
It was he who gasped, who, eyes closed, lowered his head, who found her lips with his. Took her mouth, urged her to take his, to anchor him as he started to move within her.
She gave him her mouth, her tongue, her body, rose once again to the primitive call.
Lips melded, tongues dueling, tangling, mouths urgently greedy as their bodies merged, they gave themselves over to, submerged their senses wholly in, the familiar slick dance of retreat and penetration. She reached up and tugged; he surrendered and let himself down upon her, so she could wrap her arms about him and cling. She kicked back the covers and wrapped her legs about his hips, flagrantly, erotically begged.
For more, for all of him.
He gave her what she wanted, took what he needed, lost himself in her welcoming body. His heart and soul were already hers, yet he gave her those anew, pledged them to her as she crested the peak—and effortlessly caught him and hauled him with her, into a deep sea of pleasured bliss.
Em could barely breathe; she certainly couldn’t think, yet as he collapsed on top of her, her lips curved irrepressibly. Having his dead weight slumped upon her, crushing her into the bed, felt like a sensual badge of honor—eclipsed only by the joy that slid through her veins when his harsh breathing slowed, and with her hands gently stroking his back, he fell deeply asleep.
J
onas woke the next morning energized, but alone. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop smiling. Crossing his arms beneath his head—no longer even aching—he beamed up at the ceiling.
It had almost been worth getting knocked on the head.
He no longer had the slightest doubt that Em would marry him; the previous night wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t already made up her mind.
It was a heady realization; lying still, he savored it for several long minutes before impatience to see what the day would bring impelled him to sit up.
He waited, checking to see if the giddiness that had assailed him the day before would return, but no hint of dizziness remained. Swinging his legs out of the bed, he stood, waited, then smiled.
Reaching up, he felt the bump on the back of his head—winced as he probed, but that, too, felt a great deal better.
Just as well. He had plans for the day, and they didn’t include being coddled and kept abed.
He and Lucifer would work through the Colyton treasure, appraising it formally, this morning. They would have done it yesterday if he hadn’t been attacked.
After that, after having lunch at the inn and spending an hour or two with Em, he intended trawling quietly through the village. He had questions to ask of two of the present inhabitants—Coombe and Potheridge. He intended being persuasive; one way or another he intended to get answers.
He rang for his washing water, then sorted through his clothes. The day was fine and he had things to do.
E
m felt oddly nervous as she hovered in the doorway of the cell beneath the inn, watching as Lucifer, assisted by Jonas, inventoried her family’s treasure. Lucifer would examine each item, then describe it and name a price, all of which Jonas noted down on carefully ruled sheets.
She’d invested such a lot in finding the treasure, not just financially but even more emotionally; now they’d found it…strangely the relief was difficult to assimilate. She still couldn’t quite believe it was real, couldn’t quite believe she no longer had to worry—about anything.
Just listening to the amounts Lucifer murmured to Jonas, it was abundantly clear the family no longer had the slightest financial concern; selling only a small portion of the treasure would set them all up for life.
She’d looked in on the pair from time to time over the past two hours. They were nearly finished—there were only a few more coins yet to be examined—so she lingered, waiting for the verdict and to discuss what should be done with the hoard.
Lucifer examined the last coins, gave his opinion, then stacked them with the others. He looked up and smiled at Em, then took the sheets Jonas offered, briefly perused them, then checked Jonas’s addition. The final sum had him raising his brows. “Well, my dear.” He looked up at Em. “By my best guess, there’s a sizable fortune here.” He named a sum that was well beyond her wildest expectations. “And that’s a conservative estimate—if realized, it will almost certainly amount to more. Have you decided what you want to do?”
Em met Jonas’s dark eyes; chin firming, she nodded. “As coins and jewels, the treasure is too easy to steal—it will always be a temptation to some scoundrel, and as I understand it, coins and jewels like these are impossible to trace. We want to sell the whole, and convert it into funds and investments, things that can’t easily be stolen.”
So neither Jonas, nor her family, would be in any sort of danger. She looked at Lucifer. “We need monies set aside for the girls—portions for Issy, and the twins—and—”
“Another portion for you.” Issy appeared at Em’s shoulder. “Henry and I have discussed this, and while we agree with everything else you have in mind, we feel it’s only right you have the same benefits from the treasure as me and the twins,
plus
you should be repaid for the funds you expended to get us here so we could find it. That’s only fair. You used almost all the money you had from Papa, and you should get that back.” Issy’s gentle features set in a stubborn expression Em knew meant she wouldn’t be gainsaid. “You can’t expect us to agree to anything less.”
“Indeed.” Lucifer nodded to Issy. “Your point is more than valid.”
Em looked at Jonas. He nodded in agreement. She grimaced. “Very well. But—”
“No buts.” Issy looked at Lucifer. “Em’s portion from Papa was five hundred pounds, so that should be added to her amount.”
“Four hundred and eighty,” Em corrected. “I still have twenty pounds left, but—”
“No
buts.” This time they all chorused it.
She shut her lips.
Lucifer was making notes. “So we have portions for four girls, plus an extra four hundred and eighty pounds to refund Em’s expenditures. Then there’s funds for Henry.”
“We want him to go to Pembroke,” Em stated, “and then after he completes his studies, have enough to live comfortably. He’ll need to buy a suitable house, and be able to support a wife and run a decent household.”
She watched Lucifer make notes on another sheet of paper, adding and calculating swiftly. Jonas leaned over and pointed to a sum, and murmured something about “income streams from investments.”
Lucifer nodded and murmured something back. After a few more jottings, he looked over what he had, then looked up at Em and Issy. “The most effective way of using the funds to achieve what you wish is—”
He suggested setting up a series of accounts, one for each sister and a larger one for Henry, and explained how, if the money were invested, they could comfortably live off the income. Em understood enough to see the value in his proposal.
“And the rest—the remainder of the funds realized from selling the treasure—can be set aside in an investment trust for future generations.” Lucifer looked at Em and raised his brows. “Is that the sort of arrangement that would suit?”
“Yes.” She nodded decisively. “That’s exactly what we want. Can you help us arrange it?”
“With pleasure.” Lucifer gathered his notes. “I’ll have this copied, so you can keep the original. I’ll send letters out this afternoon to some of the London dealers I’d trust with such a hoard—they’ll come down and do their own appraisal and we can proceed from there. Meanwhile, I’ll also contact Montague.” He glanced at Jonas, who nodded.
“Montague,” Jonas explained, “is an excellent man-of-business. You’ll need someone like him—someone you can trust implicitly to do the best for your family—to set up the accounts and manage them.”
“And this Montague person is trustworthy?” Em asked.
“Beyond question.” Jonas smiled. “We—Lucifer, all the Cynsters, and I, and various other connected family members—use him and his firm for all our investments. He’s the best there is.”
“In that case.” Em looked at Lucifer. “Please do contact him on our behalf.”
Lucifer nodded and rose. “I’ll write to him this afternoon. Who knows? We might even tempt him to visit Colyton.”
A
fter lunching with Em and her small tribe, Jonas headed back to the Grange, strolling, senses alert, along the path through the wood. Filing had come down from the rectory with Henry to check on how matters were progressing; he, too, had stayed and joined the family about the long table in the attic parlor the younger members had made their own.
It had been a comfortable family meal. Thinking of how at home he’d felt, Jonas couldn’t imagine how he—and Filing, too—had filled their days, indeed, their lives, before the return of the Colytons to Colyton.
Apropos of which, he’d heard Filing arrange with Em to take Issy for a drive to Seaton that afternoon. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if they returned with news of the matrimonial kind. Now the treasure had been found, and confirmed to be significant, and as Filing and Issy, and indeed everyone, knew Jonas intended to marry Em, the good curate was no doubt planning on persuading Issy to say yes and name a date.
Which, Jonas hoped, would in turn focus Em’s mind on setting her own date. He felt certain Issy would insist that in the circumstances Em and he were married first, a point with which he was in complete agreement. It would be difficult for Em to procrastinate under the combined persuasions of her family and him.
And she could no longer claim the inn and the village needed her attentions on a daily basis. She’d organized matters so successfully that the inn and its staff were increasingly operating smoothly on their own. When he’d walked in that morning, he’d been struck by how much, under her guidance, the inn had altered from its previous state. Under Juggs, at ten in the morning the common room would have been deserted. Instead, it had been more than half-full, with locals gathering for a late breakfast or morning tea, and guests finishing their breakfasts before leaving.
He couldn’t recall, under Juggs’s reign, how long it had been since he’d seen one guest at the inn, let alone the five who’d stayed on the previous night.
Everything was in place for Em to name the date; he was, he discovered, impatient, champing at the bit to take the next step. To declare she was his to the world, to establish that fact beyond question.
And to start a family. He and Em would take the twins and Henry under their wing, but he was surprised at how often in recent times his mind had drifted, imagining Em with a child—his child—in her arms. The vision had remained in his brain, and returned every now and then to tempt him. Prod him.
Not that he needed further prodding in that regard.
Everything was settling perfectly into place. There remained only one fly in his ointment, and he intended to remove that forthwith.
Reaching the back of the Grange, he strode through the kitchen garden and went in through the back door. He would return the cell key to its hiding place, then head out in pursuit of his goal.
He’d let Em think he would be at the Grange through the afternoon; he hadn’t wanted her to worry about what might transpire when he interrogated the two suspects most likely to be behind his attack.
Harold Potheridge was at the top of his list; according to Dodswell, Potheridge hadn’t returned to Miss Hellebore’s cottage until late last night. But he rather thought he’d try Silas Coombe first.
With the key safely stored, he left his room, descended the stairs, and set off for Silas’s cottage.
A
t three o’clock, Em climbed the stairs to the attics, looking for the twins. In Issy’s absence, she’d told them they could play for half an hour after lunch before reporting to her office to practice their arithmetic under her watchful eye.
When they hadn’t appeared at precisely two-thirty, she hadn’t been either surprised or worried, but when they still hadn’t come in by a quarter to three, she’d closed her ledger and embarked on a search.
After their experience with Harold, she felt sure they would be somewhere near. She’d expected to discover them with the laundry maids, or harassing John Ostler, but neither the stables nor the laundry had yielded any clues; no one had seen them since lunch.
Puzzled, she headed for their room; as it was fine outside, it would be unusual for them to stay indoors, but perhaps one of them wasn’t feeling well.
Reaching the room at the end of the corridor, she opened the door—and saw two empty beds, and a note prominently displayed on the nightstand between. Frowning, wondering what their latest start would be, she crossed the room, picked up the note—and felt a jolt of apprehension on seeing it was addressed to her in bold block capitals, not either twin’s childish scrawl.
A chill touched her spine. For an instant, she simply stared at the note, then she unfolded it. Read:
IF YOU WISH TO SEE YOUR SISTERS AGAIN, GET THE TREASURE, PUT IT IN THE CANVAS BAG BELOW, AND TAKE IT BACK TO WHERE YOU FOUND IT. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WILL AWAIT YOU THERE. ACT NOW—YOU HAVE ONLY AN HOUR FROM THE TIME YOU READ THIS TO RETURN TO THE TOMB. TELL NO ONE ELSE OF THIS. I’LL BE WATCHING. IF I SEE YOU COMING WITH ANYONE ELSE, YOU’LL NEVER SEE YOUR SISTERS ALIVE AGAIN.
Reaching the end of the note, Em looked down—and saw a canvas bag at the bottom of the nightstand, by her feet.
B
y the time her wits returned enough for her to think, she was on the path through the wood, hurrying to the Grange.
Harold. It had to be he, surely?
Halting, she pulled the note from her pocket and looked again at the script, but the block capitals defeated her; she couldn’t tell if he’d written it or not. Stuffing the note back in her pocket, she picked up her skirts and ran on.
The rear of the Grange came into view. She halted just inside the trees, scanned the kitchen garden, and gave thanks there was no one there. She peered at the laundry alongside, strained her ears; from the swishing, there were maids working at the troughs. If so, their backs would be to the door. Hauling in a tight breath, she quietly walked up the path to the door.
No one hailed her. Exhaling, she opened the door; Gladys had mentioned it was always left unlocked during the day. She crept into the little hall beyond, closed the door silently, listened for a moment, but all seemed quiet in the kitchen. With any luck, at that hour both Gladys and Cook would be napping in their rooms; neither was young, and they would have been up since dawn.
Drawing in another breath, she closed her eyes, uttered a short prayer, then walked silently past the doorway to the kitchen, and on around to the main stairs. Without even glancing toward the library door, she quietly climbed the stairs and made her way to Jonas’s room—praying nonstop that he wouldn’t be there, but in the library.
She opened the door, scanned the room, heaved a sigh of relief that it was empty; whisking inside, she shut the door, then crossed to the bedside table.
The key was where it had been before. She lifted it out, slipped it into her pocket, and shut the drawer.
Telling Jonas of the note had occurred to her, only to be instantly dismissed. The instructions were specific; she had to act now, and act alone. If the villain saw her with anyone else, he would kill the twins.
That was something she couldn’t risk—not by word, deed, not by anything at all—and she knew Jonas well enough to be absolutely sure he would never agree to her going into the mausoleum to face the villain alone.
Yet she had to.
And she had no time to argue. She’d wondered how anyone could know at what time she’d read the note, but then she’d realized the twins’ nightstand stood directly before a dormer window. Anyone on the common opposite the inn could have seen her as she stood there reading the note.
Whoever the villain was, he’d planned well.
So her time was finite; an hour was truly all she had to gather the treasure and get it back to the Colyton mausoleum.
Turning from the bedside table, her gaze fell on the bed. The closeness, the precious joy of the hours she’d spent in Jonas’s arms, flared brightly in her mind.
That was what she was risking by going alone to rescue her sisters. She wasn’t fool enough to think the kidnapper would readily let them go; the twins must know who he was, and presumably she would, too, once she saw him. All she hoped to gain in return for the treasure was to see her sisters—and have at least one chance to rescue them, and herself, if she could.
One chance, and she would grab it, and see what she could make of it. For once she embraced her reckless and courageous Colyton side with open arms. Somehow she would win through—or die trying.
It was the thought of the latter, and of how Jonas would feel, that had her glancing at the clock on his dresser. Estimating she had ten minutes she could spare, she quickly crossed, not to the door, but to his writing desk.
Dropping into the chair before it, she drew a crisp, clean sheet onto the blotter, picked up his pen, and rapidly wrote.
Everything. What had happened, what she was doing, where she was going—that took only a few lines—then, scribbling madly, she wrote down all she felt.
She didn’t have time to censor her words—not even to make them totally coherent. She just let them pour out of her, out of her heart, through the pen and onto the page.
Unfortunately, writing the words—condensing all she’d dreamed of into stark black on white—only made all she was risking more real, only made the coldness that was settling about her heart weigh more heavily.
She wanted, more than anything, to cling to the promise of life, of a future and a family, that Jonas represented. She didn’t want to go into danger—didn’t want to risk all she would have, all she now knew and believed with all her heart and soul she would have with him, as his wife, as the mother of his children.
But she had no choice. Her half sisters had only her to rely on—she couldn’t fail them now.
She ended her message with a simple statement: I love you—I always will.
Barely able to draw breath past the lump in her throat, she signed the missive, set the pen down, left the note where it was, rose, and rushed to the door.
She didn’t breathe freely again until she was in the wood, racing back to the inn.