Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

At eight that evening, Elsa sat on the floor in Daniel’s chamber, her mother’s novels spread across the red Persian rug, next to the tiny magnifying glass. She had spent thirty minutes flipping through the pages, trying to recall each plot, convinced the books held hidden clues.

Why else would her father go to so much trouble?

Why would Mrs Melville have important messages to impart—ones she could only reveal if Elsa asked about the old books? Indeed, it was hard to focus on anything but the housekeeper’s unsettling words.

If you married Lord Denby, I was to keep the magnifying glass—because by then, it would be too late.

Too late for what?

Too late to save you.

The housekeeper’s warning echoed the message hidden in Lord Grafton’s shoe. It shouldn’t matter now—she had married Daniel, not Lord Denby. Yet she was still in danger. The mysterious shooter at Edenberry had intended to kill her, not maim her. But why? There was more to this than a few damning notes in a journal.

She pressed a gentle hand to her bandaged arm. The pain had dulled and no longer made her wince. Perhaps she should tell Daniel; it could ease his conscience. Then, she might finally get to share his bed.

Her thoughts drifted to their erotic encounter outside last night.

Sweet mercy!

He’d made her feel like the most desirable woman alive, as if he had barely survived without her these last six months. Every kiss carried the same raw desperation. Every touch held the same silent plea.

If they found the truth and brought Carver’s killer to justice, they could finally address the burning question—would they build a life together or forever live apart?

Pushing thoughts of Daniel from her mind, she returned to the Gothic novels and the horror stories that paled in comparison to her own. Had her mother followed in Mrs Radcliffe’s footsteps and hidden clues to a lost manuscript or buried treasure?

She picked up the small magnifying glass. It was no larger than a pocket watch, its thick convex lens offering an unusually sharp view.

Daniel had mentioned pencil marks and underlined words in the books, but after a thorough review, every highlighted passage carried the same warning: not to trust those closest to her.

Oh, Magnus!

What have you done?

Something so terrible their father didn’t trust him. Something horrid enough to make him hide in Geneva. Assuming he had left England and it wasn’t a ruse to fool their enemies.

She found The Monk and read the note about Mr Charmers written beneath the ex-libris. He had to be the blackmailer. Why else cause trouble at the docks? He was trying to divert their attention away from his fraudulent activities.

What is my father trying to tell me? she mused.

It was like he was arming her for battle, though she didn’t know her enemy.

Why name three men when he had many business associates, many Daniel had investigated during their six-month separation, though he hadn’t known these three amounted to fraud?

She sat looking at the array of books.

How strange her father chose popular novels to record the chicanery. Why not use obscure books? Farming manuals? Or those detailing the architecture of ancient Rome?

Perhaps she was looking at the problem from entirely the wrong angle. The question she should ask herself is: What was her mother trying to tell her?

Mother had made a point of purchasing two copies of her favourite novels. That wasn’t peculiar when one loved literature. But what prompted her to change the design of her ex-libris?

Sitting up on her knees, Elsa sorted the books into two piles. Thankfully, Lord Rutland had only removed the bookplates from the boards with writing underneath. Six were still half-pasted inside the volumes.

She observed the new design: a tome open on a stone lectern, a white-feathered quill resting beside it. In many old texts, a white feather symbolised freedom. A bitter irony considering Elsa had spent many years feeling trapped.

Her gaze shifted to the image of a magnifying glass hanging on a chain from the lectern, identical to the intricate object she held in her hand.

It was not a coincidence.

Her mother had been deliberate with her design.

Elsa used the instrument to study the plate, moving closer to examine every minor detail. Along with what looked like illegible writing on the tome was the tiniest clue.

Miss Cynthia Wright

Upper Street, Islington

How odd. The name and address were unfamiliar, but then she remembered the inscription in the old Bible, To Cynthia, with love .

She snatched another book and found a different message.

9th February 1778

9th August 1778

The latter was her mother’s birthday.

In the third novel, she discovered a location.

St Mary’s Church, Islington

She could barely contain her excitement and was reaching for another book when Daniel entered the bedchamber. He looked tired, his hair slightly dishevelled, and the urge to comfort him quickly overtook her curiosity.

“From your glum expression, I take it the meeting with the shareholders didn’t go well,” she said, turning her attention to him, though the itch to return to the books remained.

He dropped into the chair, stretched out his legs, and crossed them at the ankles. “As expected, Lloyd’s won’t entertain a claim for the stolen cargo. They say the broken hoist, the late hour, and the lack of able men amount to negligence.”

“Did you suffer a great loss?”

“Losing money isn’t the problem. The damage to our reputation unsettles the shareholders.” He let out an exasperated groan. “I’ll wring Charmers’ neck when I find him. The devil wasn’t at home or at his club. His friends say he left for Epsom this morning for the Derby.”

She stood and moved behind the chair to rub his shoulders. “We have plenty to do in the meantime. Tomorrow, we’ll visit the solicitor and ask about the documents my father mentioned.”

“That feels so good.” A deep hum rumbled in his throat as she worked his tense muscles. “And I’m meeting Daventry tomorrow night at that dockside tavern to question the patrons. His men have taken statements, but landlords often remember facts when you make yourself a nuisance.”

“It might be dangerous.”

He covered her hand with his own. “I hope so. I need a way to release this damn frustration before it consumes me.”

“There are other ways to forget about our problems.”

Perhaps he heard the husky edge in her voice. One moment she was behind the chair, the next he had hauled her into his lap.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten our unfinished business. I told Signora Conti I’ll take supper upstairs tonight.” He captured her chin and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. “After you’ve undressed me and helped me bathe. I need your hands on my aching body, Elsa.”

Lust coiled low in her belly. The sudden pulsing between her legs almost made her forget the clues she’d found.

“Then before the footmen arrive with the hot water, there’s something I must show you. I’ve been busy myself.”

He skimmed his hand down her skirts, slipping beneath her petticoats. “Plan on being busy the entire evening. I’ll shoot anyone who disturbs us tonight.”

She slid off his lap and tugged his hand, coaxing him to sit on the floor. After explaining her thought process, she added, “There’s a different message printed on the bookplates in each of my mother’s novels. Let me show you.”

Daniel took up the magnifying glass and obliged her, jerking in shock when he read the first three clues. “Who in blazes is Cynthia Wright?”

“I have no idea, but the date in August is my mother’s birthday.”

He met her gaze, his smile reflecting the relief that she had made progress. “Are there clues in the other books?”

“I’ve only checked three so far.” She located those she’d been about to inspect. “Use the glass and check the writing on the tome. The words are too small to see with the naked eye.”

He gripped the slim handle in his long fingers, fingers that had brought her untold pleasure last night, strong fingers that held an immense amount of skill.

“There’s another message here. A vicar’s name and address.” He handed her the book and the magnifying glass, their hands touching briefly.

The Reverend Preston-Jones

St Mary’s, Harrow on the Hil l

She read the message aloud. “I assume the church is close to Harrow School. Lord Denby attended Harrow, whereas Magnus went to Eton.”

“Yes, the schoolboys attend Sunday service there.”

They were both eager to discover what was hidden in the next book. It was an address in Port Noir, Geneva.

A cold chill swept over her. “Where is the house Magnus rented?”

Daniel’s grave expression confirmed her suspicion. “Port Noir.”

She drew a sharp breath. Had Magnus already found these clues? Was he searching for the blackmailer, or was he the person she should fear?

A study of the last bookplate brought a final message. One that made every hair on her nape stand on end. One that forced her to question everything.

Gather the evidence.

Elsa, tell no one. Trust no one.

Your life depends on it.

Long, drawn-out seconds passed.

Trust no one!

She sat on the floor in silence, the walls of doubt closing in around her. Daniel had posted a man at Edenberry. Was he there to find evidence? Was Daniel working with Magnus? Had they killed Mr Carver together? It would explain why he married her, then deserted her, and why he’d kept Magnus’ trip to Geneva a secret.

While in London, had he staged the scene at the perfumer’s and The Raven Hotel to prove her life was in danger, to ensure he was the only man she trusted? Had Daniel’s man shot her in the mews and that’s why he didn’t chase the blackguard?

Was she a complete and utter fool?

No! The passion between them was undeniable—too fierce to be anything but real. But she lacked experience with men. She lacked faith in herself.

“It’s obvious everything is connected.” He was watching her closely, perhaps trying to sense the reason for her quietude. “The fraud committed against your father is linked to the murders of Carver and Lord Grafton. We just need to follow these leads.”

She began gathering the books, torn between confronting the man she had loved for years or fleeing the house in the dead of night.

Trust no one!

“Elsa.” He caught her trembling hand. “I know this is overwhelming, but we’ll find the man who is out to destroy your family.”

Tears filled her eyes.

Don’t let it be you!

“I know the message says to trust no one, but I think we should take the evidence to Daventry,” he continued. “There’s no man more skilled in these types of cases. Someone is willing to kill for this information. Why else would your parents make it so hard to find?”

Despite opening her mouth, she couldn’t muster a reply. Surely the villain would insist on keeping these clues secret. Daniel’s willingness to involve Mr Daventry spoke of his innocence.

“Elsa?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just I find myself questioning everyone.”

He hesitated. “Questioning me? ”

Don’t be silly , she wanted to say. She had every reason to trust him, every reason to doubt him, too. And she suspected he was not being honest about Clara’s injury.

“Tell me something,” she said, mentally preparing a test. “Did Clara fall off her horse? Is that really how she gained that awful scar?”

She felt the distance opening between them—a fissure stretching as wide as a chasm—before he stood. “They are questions for Clara to answer, not me.”

“You don’t trust me with the truth?”

“It’s not my truth to tell.”

“I understand.” She rose to her feet, feeling more alone than she had in her entire life. More confused than the hours spent wondering why he had not come to her bed.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he said, the words edged with worry. “I promised Clara I’d never mention it again.”

“And you mustn’t break that oath.” She collected two books from the rug and placed them in the satchel, the satchel she would steal if she left this house tonight.

“It’s not in my nature to betray a trust, Elsa.”

“Yet you did. On our wedding day.”

He breathed deeply, the sound of despair. “I deserve that. But I’ve given you no other reason to doubt my loyalty.”

She continued filling the leather bag with books, thrusting them in, though she wished she could throw them in the fire and forget they existed. “You saw the warning written in the book. I’m afraid to trust anyone. You betrayed me once before.”

Tears slid slowly down her cheeks.

There was no hope for them.

That’s what hurt the most .

That’s why all her fears came tumbling out of her mouth, a wild torrent of mixed emotions. “Two shillings! Who marries a woman based on a flimsy promise? I shall spend my whole life wondering if you’re here because you want me or because you’re fulfilling an oath.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t raise his voice. She saw a shadow of pain in his eyes before he closed the gap between them. “You know the truth. It’s there in every touch and passionate kiss.”

“Then why does doubt linger between us like a spectre in the darkness? Why am I plagued by uncertainty? Why am I afraid nothing is as it seems?”

He cupped her elbow. “Elsa, I did this. I did this when I failed to confide in you. I created the problem when I left you at The Grange.”

Now she felt guilty because it wasn’t his fault either.

A sudden knock on the door brought the footmen.

She expected Daniel to send them away, but he welcomed them in with their steaming buckets. “Bring the bath from the dressing room in here.”

The servants carried in a copper bath large enough for two, filling it with water scented with her husband’s musky cologne. Steam curled into the air, thick with his arousing aroma. They laid clean linen towels on the bed, bowed and left the room.

Daniel locked the door, then crossed to the window and drew the heavy curtains.

“I understand your fears,” he said, slowly peeling off his coat and hanging it over the chair. “You trusted me once, and I broke your heart. But I couldn’t let that murdering devil hurt you.”

“I know I said we should live in the present, but I wish I could go back to the time when all I had in my heart was hope.”

Sadness darkened his eyes. “We can’t go back. I don’t know how I can convince you to trust me, but you must let me try.” With deft fingers, he unfastened the buttons on his waistcoat and dropped it onto the chair.

She watched him untie his cravat. Years ago, she would have sold her soul to spend five minutes alone with him in his bedchamber.

“I’m to blame for Clara’s scar,” he admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping off his blucher boots. “My father and I rarely agreed on anything. Our arguments often became scuffles. Clara charged into the fray to prevent a fight on more than one occasion.”

A sick feeling roiled in her stomach. “You hurt Clara?”

“I would never hurt Clara. But I can say no more without breaking an oath.” He stood, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the bronzed skin and muscular physique that turned her blood molten. “I would like to make love to my wife, but therein lies another problem.”

Her heart sank to her stomach. “You’re afraid, in doing so, you will know what happened in Mr Carver’s cottage?” That dratted event would always be a blight on their relationship.

“I don’t care about Carver. I care about our first time together. But I know the past haunts you. And if we’re to have any future at all, I fear it hinges on what happens next.” He nodded toward the bath. “So, you have three choices. Perhaps four, though I strongly advise against the last.”

Her mind ran amok. “I can only think of two.”

“Then permit me to enlighten you.”

She nodded. “I presume one of them is for you to leave. ”

“I would never force you to do anything against your will. But yes. I can say goodnight, and we can discuss this at a later date. Or we can agree some mountains are too difficult to climb and decide to live separately.”

The last prospect chilled her to the bone. Nothing would be more painful than saying goodbye.

“And the other two options?”

A weak smile touched his lips. “We make love in the bath. There’ll be no evidence left on the bed sheets. I’ll arouse you to the point it won’t be painful. Neither of us need think about the past again.”

“You mean we’ll live in ignorance?”

“If that’s what you want.”

She fell silent. The last option was to make love in bed. Sometimes a virgin barely bled, and then he might believe a lie. And this shouldn’t be about a spot of blood on a white sheet. It should be about two people battling the odds in the hope of finding happiness.

“Either way, I need to bathe,” he said, pushing his trousers past his lean hips to reveal his flaccid manhood.

Her mouth went dry.

His member was long and thick and hung between solid thighs.

Her core muscles clenched when he climbed into the huge bath and sank down until the water lapped his chest. His low, throaty sigh tightened her nipples. Yet she wanted to hear him pant and groan as he buried himself inside her.

But she faced a dilemma.

“Are you sure knowing the truth doesn’t matter to you?”

He pushed his wet hand through his ebony locks. “Will we ever truly know what happened that day? The one person who can shed light on it is dead. All that matters is that you do what makes you happy.”

She remained rooted to the spot on the rug, fully dressed and feeling foolish. “I want to place my faith in the future, not dwell on the past.”

His eyes were dark and intense as they journeyed over her. “Then take off your clothes and join me in the bath.”

Strange how mere words could set her body aflame.

She kicked off her satin slippers—a simple act of surrender.

“Leave your stockings until last.” He sat up, draping his arms over the sides of the bath, his posture relaxed and languid, the water running over the hard muscles in his chest. “Don’t be shy. I had my fingers inside you last night, my tongue stroking your womanhood.”

And it had been glorious!

Despite trembling hands, she unfastened her dress with practised ease, striving to appear sensual, not as skittish as a lone doe in the woods.

“Slowly, love,” he said, his voice hushed yet rough as she pushed her dress over her hips and stepped out of the garment. His gaze swept over every curve, desire hot in his eyes. “Promise me we’ll make this a nightly ritual.”

“As your wife, I must grant you your heart’s desire.”

“I have many desires where you’re concerned.”

He swallowed hard when she removed her petticoat. A moan escaped him as she loosened the laces on her corset and peeled the garment away, baring the thin chemise beneath. When that slipped from her shoulders and floated to the floor, he stared as if entranced.

“You’re more desirable than I ever imagined. ”

Her breasts rose with her breath, full and bare, the rapid rise and fall holding his primal gaze.

“You’ve seen me naked before,” she said, then hated herself for referring to that unspeakable moment.

“I was the concerned friend that night, afraid for your safety. But now… now I’m your husband, and every part of me aches for you. I’m so hard, one stroke will be my undoing.”

The raw need in his voice quietened her doubts. She slowly pulled the pins from her hair, letting the locks tumble free. “This is the first time you’ve seen your wife naked.” Not entirely naked. She still wore a thin bandage.

“It won’t be the last.” He beckoned her closer. “Prop your foot on the side of the bath when you slip off your stockings.”

His commands were as arousing as the desperation in his tone. She just prayed these feelings didn’t fade with time but developed into something more profound.

“Sweet heaven,” he growled as she balanced her foot on the edge of the tub and rolled down her stocking. “You’re so wet, you’re glistening.”

“I pray the water is still warm and doesn’t cool my heated blood.” She considered the size of him and how he filled the space. “You’ll need to guide me … tell me how this will work.”

“Climb in and sit astride me. There’s room.”

He held her hand as she stepped into the bath, guiding her gently until she settled astride him, water covering her thighs and his hot gaze burning into her soul.

“Let me wash you.” He took the bar soap from the porcelain dish on the nearby stool and worked it between his large hands .

She sat mesmerised by the dimple in his chin and the lock of damp hair hanging over his brow … until the heat of his touch stole her attention. His fingers, slick with soap, slid over her shoulders, each stroke drawing him closer to her breasts.

Touch me.

He answered her silent plea, his dark eyes holding her captive as his hands roamed over her breasts with slow, reverent caresses.

“Can you feel what you do to me, Elsa?” He rocked his hips, though she was already aware of the solid length pulsing between her thighs.

“How can I not?”

He scooped water into his hand, washing away the soap like she was a princess of Persia and he was a lowly attendant. Except an attendant would not grip her bottom and draw her slowly back and forth over his erection. An attendant would not suck her nipples and moan like he was tasting forbidden fruit.

The pressure between her thighs became an insistent throb demanding attention. She arched her back, shamelessly rubbing herself against him, chasing relief.

He kissed her hungrily, his mouth claiming hers with a need that matched her own.

Everything that had kept them apart, every reason to doubt their loyalty to each other, vanished with each steady stroke of his lips. She felt it in the way he held her close, the pressure of his hand at her nape—how he drew her into this moment, into him.

“You’re mine, Elsa,” he whispered against her mouth, his hand moving to where her tight bud longed for his touch. “You were mine the day I let you ride my Arabian. Mine the first night you dared to meet me in the moonlight. ”

Her head fell back, the pleasure so exquisite it stole her breath. She could stay like this forever, his whispered praise hot against her skin, his fingers stoking the ache that pulsed low and deep until it became unbearable.

“I need to be inside you, love,” he pleaded, sliding his fingers into her sex and driving her to the brink of insanity. “Tell me you want that, too.”

Oh, she did want that!

With a desperation that defied logic.

“I want that. I want you.”

“You want me filling you?”

“Yes.” Words were a powerful aphrodisiac. She came suddenly, bolts of pleasure shooting through her, every shudder making ripples in the musk-scented water.

“You’re certain you want to make love here?” He alluded to the possibility she might not be chaste.

She didn’t want to move to the bed. She didn’t want to think about anything but him and how it felt to be together at last.

“Yes, take me here. Take me now. Please hurry.”

“Raise yourself up on your knees, love.”

She obliged his request, gasping as the broad crown of his manhood pressed against her entrance, hard and eager.

She would never forget the moment he entered her—slow, deliberate—warm water lapping around them. Not because of the slight pressure as he stretched her. It was the tender look on his face, the heat of passion in his eyes, the feeling that her life had spun out of control yet now it was right again. It was his quiet words of reassurance, his groan of pleasure as she began to sheath him.

This wasn’t the end.

How could it be ?

This was a beautiful beginning.

“One more thrust, and you’re mine completely. Tell me you want this because I swear, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

“Do it, Daniel. I’ve waited months.” For what seemed like forever. “Don’t make me wait another second.”

She braced herself, ready to take all of him but wholly unprepared for the wild tide of emotion when he buried himself to the hilt. That one breathless thrust cemented their union.

He was her husband.

They were truly bound.

The thought brought tears to her eyes, but he gripped her hips and showed her how to ride him, every stroke of his hard length so utterly divine.

She stared with fascination as he moved deeply inside her, his eyes alight with triumph, his husky growls confirming he enjoyed making love as much as she did.

“God, you’re magnificent.”

“So are you,” she breathed, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him tighter to her body, sighing as skin met skin.

“Shall I withdraw?” he asked with some urgency. “Elsa, do you know what I’m asking? Hurry. You must decide.”

Her mind raced. The thought of carrying his child was a fantasy she’d never dared to dream, a wild hope she’d pushed aside as something far beyond her reach.

She met his gaze. “No. Don’t withdraw. As for the outcome, fate will decide.”

Water splashed onto the floor as he drove harder, and with a final, deep thrust, his body tensed as he reached his peak. A hoarse groan escaped him, raw and unrestrained. His eyes flickered with something primal, something much like possession.

He drew her close, his hands roaming over her back in soothing strokes. “That was incredible. You’re incredible.” He kissed her tenderly. “Beautiful beyond words.”

She touched his face, relishing the look of contentment. Yet, in that perfect moment, only one thought filled her mind.

And you’re the love of my life.