Jamie reflected that he could hardly solve the problems of the Monarchy; he was having difficulty dealing with his own small fraction of life.
But, at last, turning a corner toward the station, he saw Newton. Both Maggie and Mireau were standing awkwardly by the horse, looking to be quite anxious that he had taken so long.
“Ah, there you are, Newton, my boy!”
As he walked up, patting the nose of his huge black stallion, the two stared at him. He realized with a twinge of humor that, through it all, neither had recognized him. And now, of course, he had shed his own disguise.
Mireau was losing his mustache and muttonchops. Maggie was still hidden behind the darkness of the black veil.
“Sir James . . . ?” Mireau said carefully.
Maggie elbowed him fiercely in the ribs. “We must be goingâBen.”
“Oh, please, Maggie. Must you insult my intelligence so?” Jamie demanded.
She swept the veil back, defiant. “Are you going to send Mireau on home and give me another lecture?” she asked impatiently.
“Actually, yes. In fact, there's a carriage.”
“Mireau, don't you move!” Maggie said.
“Mireau, the cab is just there . . . it won't hover forever.”
Mireau groaned softly.
“Oh, good heavens, go, then!” Maggie said.
“He saved our lives tonight!” Mireau reminded her softly.
She had the very good grace to flush furiously. She looked down. “Yes, yes, you did,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
There was even a touch of humility to her voice.
“I think I'll employ that cab,” Mireau said, walking away.
Maggie's eyes rose, and locked on Jamie's. They both seemed to wait. Though neither really watched Mireau leave, they didn't speak until he was in the cab.
Now and then, a conveyance passed them by. A straggling walker skirted them once or twice.
At last she said ruefully, “Yours was a rather good disguise.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you use it frequently?”
“No.”
“You just happened to be there tonight?” she queried.
He shook his head.
She looked away. “So, you are spying on me all the time, and you did know that I was going.”
“Yes, I knew you were going.”
She looked away. “Well, naturally, on this occasion, I have to be grateful.”
“What you have to be is . . .”
“Proper?” she inquired, looking at him again. “I'm afraid it's a little late.”
“Whatever makes you do such things?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. Their blue was as deep as the night. “Such things as tonight? They have to be stopped! There are far too many people thinking to make their fortunes off the tragedy in the lives of others. What they do is cruel, terrible!”
“Maggie, many people purport themselves to be spiritualists. They sit in dark houses and imagine that they commune with ghosts. Most of them are harmless. And at worstâusuallyâthey do a little fleecing. The problem is, of course, that you can come across those who are intending to acquire real riches from the wealthy, such as tonight. People who wouldn't wink at murder in the pursuit of their own gain. Tonight could have turned into an absolute tragedy, with poor Lady Marian being a victim as well.”
Maggie gasped. “You do think she's all right?”
“She'll be more than all right. She'll delight in all the attention that she'll get. She'll tell wonderful tales about the mysterious men and woman who saved her, and she'll be in all the papers, even in America. She'll love it. But you, my lady. You apparently weren't at all aware that you were risking your life.”
“I admit, I've not come across frauds with guns before,” she said stiffly.
“Would you consider swearing that you wouldn't entertain such a venture again?” he asked.
He was startled when a touch of tears created a glitter in her eyes, making them crystalline. “You don't understand. What they do to people is . . . horrible.”
He sighed deeply. “Maggie, I can only assume from what you're not saying that one of these people managed to draw you in after your husband died. That you were in such a state of grief that you were desperate, and willing to believe anything, and that you then discovered you were being taken.”
“Does that make me truly pathetic?” she asked him.
He shook his head, barely aware that he had reached out to move some of the veil from her face, moving it back over the length of her hair. “It just makes you human,” he told her. “And still, you can't go around risking bullets or knives or other danger all the time. And . . . you shouldn't risk your life in the East End. The danger there is not just a desperate cutthroat, but the disease that can run so rampant in those horribly crowded and squalid conditions. And what is happening now goes beyond all that we have heard before. Maggie, did you listenâreally listenâto Father Vickers? A woman was not just murdered, but disemboweled.”
“I heard Father Vickers. My husband was killed there, Sir James. I am very aware of the dangers to be found. You'll note, however, that it is a particularly sad kind of woman who is being killed. I hardly fit the description. Though my brother might have accrued some debts, my type of female is not the one being slain.”
“Your âtype of female,' as you label yourself, is not usually to be found walking the streets of the East End. The point is, your carelessness can make you a victim.”
“I can't turn into a hothouse flower,” she said.
“Perhaps for just a while. Besides the obvious, as I said, typhoid and other fevers plague the area as well. Think of it this way. You could return to the house with a wretched flu that might not do too much to you, but would kill Charles.”
Her lashes fell. He realized that she had not considered such a possibility.
“I must hail a cab,” she said. Her chin rose and she met his gaze again. “I am grateful that you were there. You did save our lives.”
“That was certainly my pleasure. We don't need a cab. We've Newton.”
She glanced at the horse, flushing. “Riding astride in a dress is hardly very proper.”
“A little late to think of that now, eh? Look, I can't leave the horse, and I don't wish to leave you until I see you safely home. I've already had quite a fantastic view of petticoats and ruffles.”
She swallowed silently, not looking away.
“Turn about.”
She did so. He spanned his hands around her waist once again, wincing as he felt the temptation to hold tight, and just remain as he was. He lifted her, and her skirts swung once again. He leapt up behind her. His chest to her back. The warmth . . . the vibrance. . .
The veil in his nose.
“This has to go!” he said, and pulling the hat and wig from her head, he tossed both to the breeze.
“Wait!” she cried. “I needâ”
“In light of this evening, I think you owe me at least the pretense that you'll not be about such business again!” he said.
The veil was gone. Now all that teased his face was a whisper of her own glimmering hair, the scent of it, sweet and clean. And once again, his arms around her, he felt it the most natural thing in the world, and it would be more natural still to pull her back into his embrace, run his hands down the length of her arms . . .
“Time to move on, Newton!” he said, nudging the horse.
The ride took perhaps ten minutes. He kept to the back roads as they headed for Mayfair. He was anxious that they should get there quickly, yet everything in him wanted the ride to go on forever. She angered him, infuriated him, and played at being a fool. Dangerously so. But he was aware now as to just why he so often felt such wrath rising in her direction. He had wanted her, yes. Few living, breathing men could not look at such a stunning woman and not feel a rise of desire. But there was moreâthat fire he had known from the beginning, and now, the fierce pride in her heart, the passion for what she believed in, the conviction of purpose that would make her so determined on a marriage with a man three times her age.
At her house, he dismounted quickly. “You should go in. Your brother will be home soon.” He reached up for her, glad to span her waist with his hands once again, and certainly not so pure of heart and mind that he didn't relish the moment when she slid against his body to reach the ground.
She gripped his upper arms for a moment, gathering her balance to stand on her own.
Their eyes met. “Have you . . . been spying on Justin, too?” she asked.
He thought she sounded a bit breathless.
He shook his head. “I happened to run into him.”
She nodded, stepping back. “Thank you, again. You are quite resourceful, actually.”
He swept her a deep bow. “I do my best. And yet, I fear, with you, I may not always be resourceful enough.” His tone became serious. “Quite seriously, you might well give my uncle heart failure, you know.”
She seemed to stiffen. “The wedding is but days away, now.”
“You really must consider your position as the wife of such a man.”
She sighed deeply. “I swear to you, I have found him to be an exceptional man, noble in his words, thoughts, actions, as well as title and appearance. I mean to be absolutely loyal, and do everything in my power at all times to insure his happiness and good health.”
He nodded. “Good night, my lady.”
“Good night, Sir James.”
And yet neither moved, and the distance between them might not have been, for he felt her heat and the burning energy and passion that were so much a part of her. Wild imaginings flooded through him; he pictured a world in which his uncle did not exist, in which they were just two people who had met, who had felt that burst of electricity in just a moment when their eyes had first met. He saw a mist of silver in which he was free to draw her into his arms, ravage and explore with the passion of his kiss, send clothing scattering to the winds of time, and sink into clouds of floating wonder where naked flesh burst into a glory of sensuality, touch and taste....
“Good night,” she said again, and there was a strange and desperate sound to it.
Silver clouds evaporated.
She turned and started up the walk.
* * *
They would pay!
Crouched in an alley, his shoulder bleeding, the man who called himself Adrian Alexander kept himself from passing out again by concentrating with a fervor on the extent of his wrath.
The three of themâthe fake Irishman, the so-called lady with her brother. He had considered himself such an astute judge of human character! And they had taken him down in one night, despite all his precautions, his simple resolution that he would prevail, even if it meant murder.
All dead, his own people, deadâor in the custody of the police. Jane! His beloved Jane. They'd have her in Newgate, awaiting trial, and he'd have no way to reach her.
But he would. Oh, yes, he would. He'd find a way. But first
. . .
“Gar-dez the loo!” someone cried from a window high above him in the darkened alley.
And then, a pile of foul-smelling slop fell atop his head.
Urine and fecal matter crept down his forehead to his face, and he nearly screamed aloud with a terrible rage.
They were dead! They were all dead! The two men, and the woman.
The woman
. . .
He'd have a few surprises for that wretched beauty, indeed. She'd wish she were dead, long before he delivered the coup de grace!
* * *
“Maggie!”
Maggie had nearly reached the steps, nearly reached what was becoming in her mind a simple place of salvation. Her house. Just her house. And still, then when the door had closed between them, with walls around her, she would be all right.
Go, go! she urged herself. She had never know a fear like the one suddenly seizing her, not even tonight, when a bullet might have burned through her flesh at any instant.
Go, go . . . run. Run into the house, as fast as you can!
“Maggie!”
A curious tone in his voice brought her to a halt. She turned. He hadn't moved. He remained where he was, a slight breeze lifting the shoulder capes of his coat, his stance still and strong, the great horse at his side.
“Yes?”
She hated herself. The word sounded like a whisper, almost a plea.
A plea for what?
She was walking back to him. She hadn't in the least suggested to her feet that they carry her back, and yet . . .
She walked. She almost
felt
him as she did so. Almost felt . . .
Lord help her. She couldn't begin to understand all the emotions seething through her as she stood there. Anger, regret, longing, admiration, perhaps grudgingly given, a strange kinship, more,
longing
.
More.
Desire. As strong as any she had known in her life, as strong as she had felt for . . . a man long buried. Dearly loved, but long buried. While this one . . .
Was alive. Very much alive. Vibrant. Vital. A wealth of heat and seduction, even as he stood, not moving, just his eyes touching her, and that look . . .
Dear God, the visions that look brought to her mind's eye.
She came to a halt before him and fought the images of what might be with such a man.
Still, he hadn't moved, and he didn't speak.
Despite the fantasies sweeping through her mind at the wicked pace of a blustering wind, she was startled when he touched her. His forefinger first, touching slightly against her chin, lifting it, then his hand, stretching out, cradling her jaw. His thumb ran down the length of her cheek, then brushed over her lower lip. Then suddenly she was closer still, not at all certain if his touch manipulated the angle of her head, or if she had stepped forward herself. His mouth formed over hers, and it was no subtle, hesitant, brushing kiss, but a consuming invasion. Rockets exploded within her mind as she felt the reckless, passionate sear of his tongue, the thrust and sweep, a molten, liquid fire, heating her blood to pure lava. Her heart thundered, she heard and felt the cacophony. His arms seemed a shelter of iron, the pressure of his body a torment that teased down into the very essence of her, stirring within her breast, a shattering reawakening of sensuality that stroked and teased from her breasts to her thighs, and her very center. His hand, so large and capable, fell at the base of her spine, pressing her closer, and she didn't realize till long after that she hadn't taken a single breath in all the long seconds that he held her so.