Chapter Nine

GOVERNOR THOMSON LOOKED UP FROM HIS PLATE of kippered herring in astonishment as Haydon marched into his dining room.

“Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast, madam,” Haydon apologized, graciously bowing toward Governor Thomson’s flaccid-faced wife, “but your husband and I have a serious matter to attend to that simply will not wait. I do hope you will accept my sincerest apologies for stealing him away from your lovely presence at such an unearthly hour.”

Janet Thomson was a stout little melon-shaped woman whose face was screwed into a perpetual expression of pained disapproval. As prison matron, she continuously found ample reason to feel vastly superior to most of the world around her, and it was only by virtue of her deep religious convictions that she felt there was any hope for humanity at all. She was a pragmatic woman who had accepted at an early age the severe limitations of her lack of physical beauty, and saw her union with her husband and her life at the prison as little more than a trial by God, for which she expected to be duly rewarded by receiving a particularly exalted place in the hereafter.

Her moral resolve did not mean, however, that she was above being titillated by a morsel of feminine flattery, particularly when it was offered by such an uncommonly handsome man.

“Mr. Blake,” she cooed, as Haydon pressed his lips to the solid bulk of her hand, “it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, madam,” Haydon assured her.

“I am so sorry to hear about your wife’s ward,” she continued, looking appropriately aggrieved. “I have spent some time talking to Charlotte since her return to our prison, and I have found her to be a generally sensible girl, despite the obvious low moral character of her father. After nearly a lifetime spent working with those who have fallen from the path of righteousness, I have learned that the wicked turbulence of the blood cannot be bridled by mere charity. ‘The righteous shall be preserved forever, but the children of the wicked shall be cut off.’ Your wife is, of course, certainly to be commended for her efforts.”

“Thank you.” Haydon barely restrained the urge to tell her to keep her damn theories on wickedness to herself. “My wife and I are firm believers in the essential goodness of children, and so far, we have not been disappointed. It is to your husband’s credit that he has shown both wisdom and compassion in the past by bringing these lost children to my wife’s attention—especially when he seeks no reward other than the salvation of the child. It must be spiritually uplifting to share one’s life and work with such a selfless and dedicated man.” His voice was edged with contempt, which completely eluded Mrs. Thomson’s notice.

“Oh, it is indeed,” Mrs. Thomson agreed, thoroughly pleased that a well-bred man of such obvious moral character was praising her husband. “My husband and I may be far from rich, Mr. Blake, but God has charged us with the difficult task of trying to help these poor sinners find the road to piety. ‘Trust in the Lord and do good; so you will dwell in the land, and enjoy security. Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.’ Our wealth is in the work we do and the respect we have earned over so many years within our community.”

“A most admirable philosophy,” commended Haydon. “One can only hope that nothing ever happens to erode that community respect. It would be nothing short of tragic if you were to find a lifetime of work destroyed.”

Mrs. Thomson permitted herself a confused half smile. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“I am certain Mr. Blake is merely making conjecture for the sake of discussion,” interjected Governor Thomson hastily. “Aren’t you, Mr. Blake?”

“I must say, you have some very handsome pieces in here, Governor Thomson,” Haydon remarked, ignoring his question. He paused to examine a magnificent gold clock positioned on the mantel. “What a glorious antique—it’s Swiss, isn’t it? Looks to me like it’s from the early eighteenth century. A truly exceptional work. Is it a family heirloom?”

“Oh gracious, no,” answered Mrs. Thomson. “I’m proud to say that both my husband and I come from very modest beginnings, sir. That clock was purchased by my husband just last year, during a trip we made to Edinburgh.”

Haydon arched his brow. “How very interesting.”

Governor Thomson pushed his plate of cold kippers away. “Would you excuse us for a moment, my dear? It seems Mr. Blake and I have some business to discuss.”

“I promise not to detain your husband overly long.” Haydon gallantly assisted Mrs. Thomson as she rose from her chair. “As a newly married man, I understand how time weighs heavily when one is separated from one’s lovely wife.”

Color flooded Mrs. Thomson’s cheeks. “Of course, Mr. Blake,” she said, her hand flitting at her throat as she regarded him with girlish infatuation. “I do hope we shall have the pleasure of a visit from you again. Good day to you, sir.”

“Get your hat and coat,” Haydon ordered curtly the instant she was gone. “You are coming with me to see Sheriff Trotter.”

Governor Thomson scratched his gray beard in nervous confusion. “Why?”

“You are going to support the appeal that I am about to make to him to reverse his decision yesterday to send my eleven-year-old daughter to prison and reformatory school. You are going to tell him that in all your years of work as a prison governor, you have never known a more exemplary prisoner. You are going to tell him that you take particular interest in Charlotte’s case because she is such a sweet and virtuous child, and that having known her personally from when she was first imprisoned over a year ago, you are astounded by the positive changes in her since she has been in my wife’s tender care. You are going to tell him that Charlotte is the very model of morality and obedience, and that given these attributes, combined with the unfortunate state of her health, you cannot in good conscience condone her spending any more time in your prison. You will confess that your prison is torturously cold and damp and foul, and that Charlotte is at risk of falling victim to any one of a series of deadly conditions should she remain under its roof even one more night. You shall make it sound as if she could expire at any moment, Governor Thomson, and you will tell Sheriff Trotter that if she dies, it is he and not yourself whom the public will hold accountable.”

Governor Thomson stared at him with bulging eyes, completely flabbergasted. “I can’t do that!” he sputtered.

“You can and you will,” Haydon assured him in a tight, savage voice. “And if by the end of our discussion with the sheriff you have not managed to convince him to alter his sentence and return Charlotte to the custody of my wife and myself, I will go straight to the newspaper and alert them that there needs to be a thorough investigation of the prison at once. I will tell them of the abuses that go on in this place—from the beatings and torments doled out by Warder Sims to the foul water, insufficient food that a dog wouldn’t eat, vermin-ridden uniforms and bedclothes, freezing dark cells with chamber pots overflowing with filth—”

“That isn’t true!”

“Actually, I have a firsthand account. Jack spent time in your festering sewer just a couple of weeks ago, and he has enlightened my wife and myself on many of its less ingratiating points.”

“My prison is a model of modernity,” Governor Thomson retaliated defensively. “I’ll have you know it is run in accordance with the recommendations of the Inspector of Prisons for Scotland!”

“Then you won’t mind an inspection being conducted by the newspaper this very afternoon, including a thorough analysis of your financial register.” Haydon picked up a handsomely wrought sterling silver carving knife and turned it over in his hands. “I suspect the people of Inveraray would be very interested to know just exactly how much you earn, Governor. It might give them cause to wonder how you are able to afford such lavish furnishings. I know my wife has some fascinating insight on that subject, which, if Charlotte is not safely restored to us by the end of the day, I shall feel obliged to share with Sheriff Trotter and the Prison Board.”

Governor Thomson’s face blanched. “If you will just permit me to fetch my coat, I shall be pleased to express my opinion to Sheriff Trotter on the matter of your daughter, Mr. Blake. The prison system can barely afford to support the inmates already within its confines, and is certainly not a fitting place for a gentle young lady of delicate health.” He deposited his linen napkin beside his plate of cold kippers and stood.

Haydon nodded with satisfaction.

 

GENEVIEVE PUT DOWN HER PEN AND PRESSED THE heels of her hands hard against the hot, aching sockets of her eyes.

There was nothing to be gained by crying, she reminded herself fiercely, and everything to be lost if she allowed herself the luxury of wasting time by sitting around weeping. And so she dabbed her eyes for the hundredth time with her sodden handkerchief and dipped her quill in the inkwell, determined to finish this last letter to Queen Victoria, in which she pleaded, as both a woman and a mother, for clemency on behalf of Charlotte. She had already made an impassioned plea in letters to Sheriff Trotter and to Viscount Palmerston, the prime minister. She realized the chances were remote that Her Majesty might actually read her letter, but she intended to write her every day nonetheless. At some point one of her ministers or secretaries would be compelled to bring the matter to her attention. Surely any woman with children would be horrified to learn of the cruelty of sending a mere child to prison for the relatively paltry crime of theft? Or would the queen think that lower-class children who ran afoul of the law were the basis of all that was wrong with the world, and that they were best locked up in dark prisons and forgotten, so the rest of society could go on safely about its business?

The treacherous tears began to leak from her eyes, unstoppable as rain, until the desperately scrawled letter began to dissolve beneath wet blotches of salty ink.

Someone knocked upon her door.

“Please go away,” Genevieve managed, fighting not to sound as if she were on the brink of hysteria. Her children depended on her to be strong and sure and in control of herself. She could not let anyone see her in her current condition.

“I need to speak with you, Genevieve.” Haydon’s voice was low and insistent. “It is a matter of great importance.”

Genevieve swallowed and blotted at her eyes with her crumpled handkerchief. She did not want to see Haydon. She did not want to see anyone. Why couldn’t they understand that? All day long Eunice, Doreen, and Oliver had been pounding relentlessly at her door, bringing her trays and begging her to go downstairs and eat something. She did not want to eat. How could she ingest even a sip of clean water knowing that Charlotte was sitting in a cell being offered putrid milk and sour porridge? And despite all their kind intentions, she did not want to talk to anyone. Her heart was shattered, and nothing anyone could say or do was going to ease the terrible pain ripping through her.

“Please go away,” she repeated.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Genevieve. Open the door.”

“I am not feeling well,” she insisted. “Just leave me alone.”

There was a moment of silence.

The door began to open.

Genevieve turned from her desk, poised to lash at him in anger and despair, to scream at him for being so callous and cruel when all she asked for was to be left to suffer her agony in solitude.

And then she saw Charlotte standing in the doorway, her precious face lit with a hesitant smile, as if she was not entirely sure that Genevieve would be happy to see her.

A cry pierced the air, the sound of utter joy mingled with pain. Genevieve tore across the room, grabbed Charlotte, and wrapped her arms around her before kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, touching her all over to make sure she was well and whole. Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, and Simon giggled and yelled out as they burst from their hiding place in the hallway.

“Surprise, Genevieve!”

“Aren’t you glad Haydon opened the door?”

“See, you told us Charlotte would be coming home again, and now she has!”

“Don’t you want to let her take her hat and coat off?”

“Why are you still crying, Genevieve?”

Genevieve buried her face in Charlotte’s hair and began to sob, the long, heaving sound of emotions that have suddenly burst free from their fetters and then cannot be restrained. The children watched her in stricken silence, unable to comprehend her apparent misery when there was so much to celebrate. Only Charlotte seemed to understand, for she began to weep as well, and the sound of both of them crying vanquished the merriment that had filled the other children with such tittering anticipation as the entire household traipsed secretly up the stairs.

“Come, duckies,” said Eunice, wiping her nose with the hem of her apron as she fought back her own tears. “Let’s leave Miss Genevieve and Charlotte to have some time on their own.”

Doreen sniffled loudly. “There’s some nice warm bannocks in the kitchen.”

“I’m thinkin’ a wee walk might be just the thing,” suggested Oliver, his voice choked.

“No.” Genevieve shook her head as she held fast to Charlotte. “I want my children with me.” She opened her arms, beckoning them to come and be enfolded in her protective embrace.

The children surged toward her in a crushing wave, engulfing both her and Charlotte in a ring of love. Genevieve hugged and kissed all of them, feeling desperately protective, promising herself that she would never let any of them so much as leave her sight ever again.

It was only as Oliver closed the door that she suddenly realized that Jack was not amongst them and that Haydon had silently slipped away, leaving her noisy, clamoring family strangely incomplete.

 

NIGHT HAD SPREAD ITS VELVET WINGS OVER THE house, leaving Genevieve to make her way up the narrow wooden stairs by the pale waver of her candle flame. The children were all sleeping safely in their beds, and judging by the steady rumble of phlegmy snoring that greeted her on the third floor, so were Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen. She stood outside the door of Haydon’s room and listened, her flesh chilled by the cold night air. She did not hear anything. She did not know whether she was glad of that or not. If he had been snoring loudly, she would have swiftly descended the stairs and retreated to her room, telling herself that she would speak with him another time. But the silence beyond his door was deafening. Somehow she knew that he did not sleep, but was awake, listening to her standing lost and alone in the corridor. She hesitated a long moment. Finally, she poised her knuckles to tap upon the wood.

Before her skin brushed against the panel, the door opened and Haydon stood before her, naked except for the plaid from his bed, which he had carelessly draped around his waist. His muscular arms, chest, and torso were sculpted in the wintry shadows of the night and the flickering glow of her candle. He regarded her intently, his expression guarded but composed, as if he had been expecting her.

Her courage began to fail as she stared at him. She wanted to leave, she was certain of it. Instead she adjusted the soft woolen shawl she had wrapped around herself and slipped past him into the room, filling the inky space with a wash of golden light. She set the candle upon the small table that stood by the narrow, rumpled bed.

There was a plain wardrobe in one corner of the room, with a door that wouldn’t close properly. Doreen had asked Oliver numerous times, if he could fix it and while he always assured her that he could, he never seemed to find the occasion to do so. Within the wardrobe hung several neatly arranged jackets, shirts, and folded pairs of trousers. Obviously Eunice and Doreen had been trying their best to outfit Haydon in the midst of keeping up with all their other household responsibilities.

There was a low washstand in another corner, which needed a fresh coat of paint. On it sat a chipped jug and basin that was decorated in a clumsy pink rose pattern. It had all seemed clean and cheerful enough when the room was prepared for Doreen, but for a man of Haydon’s enormous physical stature and wealth, it was hopelessly cramped and shabby and spartan. The Marquess of Redmond was undoubtedly accustomed to spacious, luxurious surroundings, and here he was sleeping in a servant’s room without so much as the benefit of a chair. A shiver rippled through her and she realized the room was also gruelingly cold, as it lacked even a tiny hearth to generate some heat.

“Here,” said Haydon, jerking the remaining plaid off the bed. “You’re shaking.”

She held her breath as his hands grazed her shoulders, steeling herself against the potent eroticism of his touch. The wool was suffused with the masculine scent and warmth of his body, and she realized he had been lying naked beneath it before she came. It seemed shockingly intimate to have his warmth wrapped all around her, but the sensation was so comforting she made no move to take it off. Instead she retreated to the far corner of the small room, no great distance in terms of space, but enough that she felt marginally safer.

From herself or Haydon, she wasn’t certain.

Haydon could not imagine what had prompted Genevieve to seek him out in the middle of the night, dressed in nothing but a thin nightdress and shawl, but it was clear that something was troubling her. He realized that she had suffered horrendously over the last few days, and even though Charlotte had been safely restored to her that afternoon, her emotions were still ragged. For this reason he vowed he would keep his distance from her. Even as he made this oath, every fiber of his body was awakening to the memory of her lying lush and hot beneath him, writhing and pulsing against his touch. All he wanted to do was strip that flimsy nightrail off her and crush her to him, to lay her on the floor and bury himself inside her and lose himself to her silken heat and strength and staggering beauty. He was disgusted with himself for having such base desires, and yet he could not stop them, could not keep his body from growing hard and beginning to ache with need.

“No one has ever fought for me before,” Genevieve murmured, her voice soft and yet raw, as if it pained her to speak.

Haydon said nothing.

She swallowed thickly, trying to find the words. “For over eight years, I have had to fight alone for my family. I have fought to feed them, clothe them, educate them, and give them a sense that they are loved and worthy.” Her voice cracked slightly as she added, “And there have been some dreadful pitfalls along the way.”

Haydon could well imagine that there had been. Aside from the constant threat of deadly childhood illnesses, there had been the unending battle to find funds to maintain the household, and the painful contempt and censure of the entire community around her.

“I think most of the people around here have always wanted to see me fail,” she continued, her words tinged with bitterness. “Of course, they would never admit to having such uncharitable thoughts, but secretly, they believe my failure is inevitable. They delight in their conviction that my children are lowborn, and that their sinful natures cannot be overcome. And that is why everyone was so ready to send Charlotte back to prison. Everyone felt it was no more than what she deserved. Most of the citizens of Inveraray undoubtedly believed it would ultimately do her good, to lock her up with others who are just as irrevocably flawed and base as she is. But you didn’t believe that.”

She regarded him as if she were looking at him for the first time and didn’t understand what she saw. “You could have been killed, Haydon. All it would have taken was for Governor Thomson, or Warder Sims, or some lowly clerk at the courthouse to recognize you, and you would have been dragged into jail and hanged by nightfall.”

Her gaze bore into him, trying to delve beneath the layers to find out who he really was. Haydon regarded her with steady calm. She sensed his powerful attraction to her, felt it as keenly as if his hands were upon her and his mouth was raking hard over hers. She drew the blanket around her tighter, only to feel his heat and scent engulf her senses further. Her voice was barely a whisper as she finished, “Why?”

It seemed a simple enough question, and yet there was no easy answer. Haydon wasn’t sure he understood his actions himself. All he knew was that he couldn’t bear the thought of Charlotte being imprisoned so much as one more day. If the governor and the sheriff had not released her, then Haydon would have gone into the jail and stolen her out of there himself, and damn the bloody consequences. He felt a special affinity toward Charlotte and had wanted to protect her, but he knew that wasn’t the sole reason why he had acted as he did. The memory of Emmaline, and how utterly he had failed his fragile daughter, had played a significant role. But he could never admit that to Genevieve. She seemed so pure and good and selfless to him, he could scarcely imagine the contempt she would have for him were she to learn of his selfish, cowardly history.

She stood there, studying him, waiting. He felt as if she were stripping away the layers of him, trying to pull him apart and look inside and understand who he really was. It was understandable that she would be curious, or might even feel that she had a right to know. After all, she had risked both herself and her beloved family to protect him and keep him safe. But he had no desire to have his deepest secrets and failures ferreted out and exposed to the light. She had found him lying in the filth on a prison floor, convicted of murder, and had been told nothing but ghastly stories about his brutality and lack of worth. He wanted her to think him nobler than that—not perfect or free of sin, but at least capable of acting out of a clean, unadorned desire to help others. Beyond that, there was only one reason to explain why he had acted as he did, and it seemed so incredibly simple yet complex that he scarcely dared admit it to himself. And yet in that shadowed, silent moment he could suddenly no longer contain it, could not bury it beneath the crushing depths of his past and his present and whatever little remained of his future.

“I did it for you, Genevieve.”

Her eyes widened. And then she waited for him to qualify it, to say that he had done so because he felt a sense of debt toward her, that he owed her something for all the risks she had taken and the trouble she had gone to on his behalf, and now their account was settled and they could part on equal terms.

He said nothing.

It was this that cracked the wall of resistance she had so carefully constructed against him. A man like Charles would have blathered on incessantly about the whys and wherefores, and what all of this must now mean between them. He would have expected payment of some kind, although not with anything so crass and simple as money. No, Charles would have expected a debt of gratitude, in which he would forever own some part of her, and whatever she gave of herself would never be sufficient to render the debt paid. But Haydon merely stood there, strong yet strangely vulnerable. It was as if he had opened some long-hidden part of his soul to her, and was now waiting to see whether she would trample upon it or treat it with care.

A desperate longing surged through her, the need to be held by him, to be kissed and stroked and crushed by the glorious power and heat of him. She was suddenly aware of the thinness of her nightdress and the cool air upon her bare legs, the worn, frigid floor beneath her slippered feet, and the promise of warmth from his flesh. She had lived for over eight years amidst a constant blur of people who needed her, children and adults who relied upon her to provide for them, to show them how to be strong and fight back against a world that seemed determined to reduce them to rubble. But until that moment, as she stood staring into Haydon’s heart, she had not understood how terribly alone and afraid she had been. And suddenly she could not bear it a moment longer.

With a little sob she ran to him, wrapped her arms fiercely about his neck and crushed her lips to his, losing herself to his powerful longing as she drew him closer to her heart.

Haydon moaned and hauled her slender body against him. The plaid he had wrapped around his waist slid down his legs and puddled upon the floor, leaving him naked. He pressed himself against her, maddeningly aroused by the soft caress of the woolen blanket that was slipping down Genevieve’s body. Her thin shawl followed, until finally she was garbed in nothing but the transparent linen sheath of her nightgown, which was worn and plain and thoroughly arousing. He began to fumble with the closures at her neck, kissing her deeply as he did so, but his ardor made his fingers clumsy and the tiny buttons refused to yield. With a growl of frustration he tore the fabric apart, exposing her silky cool skin. The night rail trickled down her body with a whisper, leaving both of them naked in the flickering peach light.

“Genevieve,” he murmured, his voice rough with awe.

He lifted her up into his arms, enjoying the softness of her cradled against his own muscled body, then kissed her ravenously as he laid her upon the narrow bed. Her hair spilled in glorious red-gold waves across the pillow, and her flesh was luminous against the sun-bleached sheets. He stretched out over her and covered her with himself, plunging his hands into her hair as he stroked and tasted the deepest recesses of her mouth. She was all softness and curves and coolness and heat, and he could not seem to get enough of her.

His hands roamed across her milky flesh, touching and swirling and caressing, learning every inch of her as his tongue swept along the ivory column of her throat, down the fine structure of her collarbone, over the lush hill of her breast. He drew a claret-colored peak into his mouth and suckled long and hard, causing her to moan with pleasure, then went to the other breast and suckled it as well, until both nipples had tightened into swollen buds.

From there he journeyed down, brushing his lips across the flat of her belly, caressing the velvet cream of her thighs, then pressing his face into the dark triangle between. Genevieve gasped and tried to push him away, but he gripped the slender bones of her wrists and held her firmly. Imprisoning her against the mattress, he dipped his head low and flicked his tongue deep inside her hot, slick opening. She gasped again, but this time it was with pure, undiluted pleasure.

He began to lap at her, tasting her with slow, languid strokes, swirling his tongue in and out, and over the sweet pink petals of her. He found the pearly nub in which her pleasure was centered and he sucked gently upon it, causing her to arch suddenly against him, raising herself up so that he might taste her better.

Genevieve jerked her wrists free of Haydon’s grasp and threaded her fingers deep into the ebony mane of his hair, pulling him closer as she opened her legs and wantonly offered herself to him. She felt as if she were melting, and yet she had never felt so incredibly tense. She wanted him to touch her and kiss her and lick her everywhere, to devour her whole, until there was nothing left of her that did not belong to him. The pleasure roiling within her was unbearable, but it wasn’t enough, for the more Haydon’s tongue and lips swirled and stroked the intimate depths of her, the more she wanted him to taste her faster, harder, more deeply. A terrible ache was blooming far inside her, a tight hollowness that could not be filled by the magnificent caresses he was raining upon her hot, wet womanhood. And then he slowly pressed a finger deep inside her and began to move it in and out in leisurely, deliberate thrusts, dancing in rhythm with the agonizing caresses of his mouth. It was more than she could bear, she was certain of it, and yet it wasn’t enough, and so she closed her thighs around the roughness of his jaw and held him fast, taking pleasure in the sandy feel of his cheeks against her silky skin, the scalding slickness of his mouth on her hot, coral cleft, the gloriously deep penetration of his finger as it slipped in and out, exploring and worshiping her until there was nothing but Haydon and the magnificent wet fire that was raging within her.

Suddenly she was gasping for air, tiny, desperate sips of breath that could not fill her bursting lungs, for everything was strained and tight and reaching for more, and Haydon’s tongue licked in rapid little strokes at her liquefying flesh while his finger drove deep inside her. And then she was bursting into a shower of stars, which rippled over her in hard, breathless waves. She cried out, a desperate cry of joy and wonder, and as the ripples eased, she clawed at Haydon’s shoulders, pulling him up until his powerful body was covering her with naked, hard heat.

Haydon fought for control as he felt his manhood pressing against Genevieve’s exquisite wetness. He wanted to plunge deep inside her and take her fast, to slake the unbearable lust that was surely going to kill him if he did not sate it immediately. She was a virgin, he reminded himself fiercely, and she required gentle care. And so he claimed her mouth with rough hunger, as his hands roamed the silky hills and valleys of her body, rousing her again until her nails were biting into his rigid shoulders and her legs had twined with his. Unable to bear the torment a moment longer, he entered her, just a little, feeling as if he had died as the scalding slickness of her closed over him.

Genevieve’s eyes fluttered open and she regarded him with smoky desire. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and opened her legs wider, raising her hips, drawing him farther within. Despite his determination to go slowly, Haydon felt the last thread of his control snap. With a groan he drove himself deep inside, sheathing himself in her hot tightness.

Genevieve gasped.

“I’m sorry, Genevieve,” Haydon managed, cursing himself. What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered furiously. He had no more control than a schoolboy. He held himself perfectly still, resolving not to move until she had grown accustomed to the feel of him within her. “I think, if we wait a bit, the pain will pass.”

Genevieve blinked and nodded.

“I also think you should breathe,” Haydon added after a moment.

Slowly, she exhaled the breath she had been holding.

“Better?”

Actually, it was much better, Genevieve realized, especially when she allowed her body to relax. Longing to be back to where there were no words, she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him down so she could kiss him.

Haydon moaned as his tongue tangled with hers. He began to flex slowly within her, swearing to himself that he would be gentle, that he would give her time to be roused once more. But she seemed to be roused already, for she was kissing him deeply as her hands swept across the rigid curves of his shoulders and back and buttocks, pulling him into her as she thrust her body against his, opening herself to him and closing herself around him until there was nothing but wetness and heat and the silver sheen that was shimmering on their skin. Again and again he drove into her, overwhelmed by the silky river of her red-blonde hair, the summery hot scent of her skin mingling with the fragrance of her passion, the soft, lean beauty of her elegantly sculpted breasts and hips and legs.

She was everything he had ever wanted, he realized with piercing clarity. And the realization was agony, because he knew she was not his and never would be. He had killed a man and lost his identity, and he could not stay without endangering her and the children to whom she had devoted herself.

Yet if he ever succeeded in reclaiming his life as the Marquess of Redmond he was certain she would not want him, for that selfish, careless bastard was not worthy of a woman like her. The realization wounded and enraged him, for if he had but known that she existed he might have lived his life differently, might have refrained from drinking and gambling and heedlessly spreading his seed, creating children to whom he had no right and who he could not protect.

He wanted to join Genevieve to him, wanted to drive himself inside her and kiss her and hold her and cover her until neither knew where one ended and the other began, wanted to meld their flesh and their breath and their blood so that nothing could ever come between them. But there was just this moment that would quickly be over, and the realization filled him with despair.

He tried to slow himself, tried to make this brief, stolen interlude between them last longer, but she was writhing and stretching beneath him, opening herself to every aching thrust with hot little pants of breath and her nails clawing desperately at his back, meeting his penetrations with gasps of pleasure as she gripped him in her tightness, until finally he couldn’t bear it a moment longer. He shoved himself deep inside her, burying himself within the magnificently taut clench of her beautiful body. And then he groaned and poured his essence into her, feeling as if he were dying, and not giving a damn, as long as he could stay joined to her, with her heart pounding rapidly against his chest and the whisper of her breath gusting soft and sweet against his skin.

They lay joined together a long moment, each afraid to move for fear of severing the fragile bonds between them. But as his flesh cooled, his reason returned. What had he been thinking? Haydon wondered, his mind suddenly reeling with self-loathing. It was not enough that he had selfishly created one unwanted child—because of his lack of control, he may well have started another. He had not lived the life of a monk since his torrid affair with Cassandra, but after Emmaline’s death he had vowed never to create a life so casually again. Yet instead of withdrawing before his own climax, as had been his rule these past two years, he had buried himself within her.

How could he have been so careless?

He rolled off her and rose from the bed. He picked up his fallen plaid and wrapped it around his waist, then went to the window and stared grimly out at the infinite blackness of the night, cursing his own stupidity.

“Jesus, Genevieve,” he said, his voice low and harsh, “I’m sorry.”

Shame washed over her. Genevieve grasped the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around herself, shielding her body from Haydon’s perusal as she gathered up her nightgown and shawl. She turned away and dressed beneath the tent of her blanket. Tonight she had shown herself for what she really was, she realized, trembling with humiliation—a wanton slut who would writhe on a bed beneath a man’s touch. She had kissed Haydon and held him and opened herself to him, drawing him into her body with no thought to the consequences. He was not her husband, she reminded herself miserably, and he never would be. He was a fugitive from the law, a convicted murderer, and he could not stay there a moment longer than was necessary. Even if he did eventually reclaim his life as the Marquess of Redmond, he would never return to marry a woman like her. No man of decent station or normal sanity would marry an impoverished spinster with five young thieves and one maid’s bastard for children.

She wanted to say something, but no words could articulate her emotions. He had apologized, but it seemed grossly hypocritical to accept that apology when it was she, in fact, who had sought him out, venturing to his room in the middle of the night in nothing but a nightrail and shawl. She had wanted to talk to him, to understand what had compelled him to take such enormous risks on Charlotte’s behalf. She had also hoped to strip away some of the veils that shrouded the man whom the rest of the world believed to be her husband. But these were not the only reasons she had gone to his room, she realized, nearly sick with shame. The passion that had flared between them several nights earlier in the drawing room had awakened powerful feelings in her that she hadn’t known she possessed. Despite her efforts to lock them into a dark corner of her mind, she had longed to experience those feelings again. On some level that was incomprehensible to her, she had wanted Haydon to touch her, had been desperate to know what it was to have him kiss and caress and worship her body, and to fill her to the core with his heat and strength and passion.

She flew across the room and jerked open the door, desperate to be away from him. The corridor was cold and black as she stepped into it, leaving all the heat and light that had flamed with such joyful brilliance but a moment earlier fading in the chamber behind her.

 

…AFTER THAT HE LEFT THE JAIL WITH THE GIRL AND returned to Mrs. Blake’s house at approximately four o’clock.”

Mr. Timmons scratched a rather alarming pimple on his nose as he closed his notebook, indicating his report was finished. “I remained on the street until eleven o’clock this evening—just before I came here. Mr. Blake did not leave, nor did any of the other inhabitants of the household.”

Vincent Ramsay, the earl of Bothwell, drummed his manicured fingers thoughtfully upon the scratched surface of the small table in his room. Then he rose, withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket in his coat, and slid it across the table. “Thank you, Mr. Timmons. I shall be in touch if I find I have further need of your services.”

Mr. Timmons’s mouth gaped open as he glanced at the thick pad of notes bulging within the envelope. “Thank you, Mr. Wright, sir,” he gushed, overwhelmed by the generosity of his mysterious employer. “I’m happy to be of service to you. If there is anything else I can do—perhaps I should watch Mr. Blake again tomorrow….”

Vincent opened the door to his hotel room, anxious to have the wheedling little man gone from his sight. He despised men who made their living by prying into the lives of others, and disliked Mr. Timmons in particular because his very presence was an intrusion into Vincent’s own life. He had paid him well to ensure his discretion, but the earl was not foolish enough to believe that his confidentiality was absolutely assured.

“That will be all for the moment.” Best to let the little toad think there might be more work coming his way. That way he would be more inclined to keep his tongue still. “Good night.” He shut the door abruptly, leaving Mr. Timmons standing in the hallway with the envelope clutched in his hand.

Vincent poured himself a glass of insipid sherry, took a sip and cringed. He was not accustomed to drinking such cheap vintages, but he had made every effort since his arrival in Inveraray to do nothing to draw undue attention to himself, and that included not indulging in his fondness for discriminating wine. Hence he had registered in this decrepit little hotel as Mr. Albert Wright, a businessman from Glasgow who was on his way north to investigate the production of charcoal in the hills north of Taynuilt. He dressed modestly and kept to himself, giving no one any reason to notice him except when they served him his stringy, grease-laden meals, either in his room or in the dreary restaurant below—with its copiously stained rug and hopelessly tarnished flatware—that he felt obliged to patronize on occasion. He presented himself as a quiet, polite, wholly uninteresting man, who he hoped was forgotten the moment he was out of sight. He had no wish to make an impression of any type on anyone during his stay here.

Except, of course, for the missing Marquess of Redmond.

When he first received word that Haydon had actually managed to fend off the attackers he had hired to kill him, Vincent had been infuriated. Ultimately he consoled himself with the view that hanging was just as fitting an end for the rutting bastard. The fact that Haydon was paraded before a court like a common criminal and found guilty of murder seemed ironically appropriate. There had been the added pleasure of imagining him languishing for weeks in a fetid, vermin-infested cell, surrounded by the scum of humanity, undoubtedly beaten and abused, all the while desperately protesting his innocence to no avail. Vincent had dallied with the idea of traveling to Inveraray to attend the hanging, but ultimately decided that the whole miserable business was best left to play out in his absence. He had wanted Haydon dead, but he had not felt any compelling need to witness it himself. All he had desired was some small measure of retribution for the unspeakable humiliation and suffering the marquess had so casually inflicted upon his own life. It had cost a substantial sum and had taken some discreet arranging, but ultimately Vincent had been certain that both the funds involved and his time were well spent.

What he had not anticipated was that Haydon would escape his death a second time.

The idea that his deceased wife’s lover had managed to elude the sharp talons of justice and was roaming about, hunted but free, grated mercilessly upon him. After waiting impatiently to see if he would be recaptured, Vincent ultimately realized he had no choice but to take the matter into his own hands. He had traveled to Inveraray and hired Mr. Timmons, an experienced investigator whose discretion, like almost everything else, could be reasonably assured for a price—at least for a time. Mr. Timmons was easily able to secure information on Haydon’s trial and his sojourn in the jail. What struck Vincent as most interesting was the fact that a pretty, well-meaning spinster had been the last person to visit the marquess in his cell before he escaped. According to the warder, who had been eager to talk to Mr. Timmons when he realized the investigator was willing to buy him unlimited pints of ale, his lordship had looked little better than a filthy, broken beggar on the night of his escape. Vincent had suspected that may not have mattered to the eminently altruistic Miss MacPhail. The Marquess of Redmond had always had a talent for enchanting and seducing women, regardless of the circumstances. That was what had enabled him to crawl between the legs of his lovely Cassandra.

He took another bitter swallow of sherry.

The humiliation of his wife’s affairs still had the power to enrage him. He reminded himself that she had been a selfish, spoiled bitch, and Vincent had been glad to be rid of her when she died some two years earlier, after some ignominious doctor had tried to scrape the progeny of her latest lover from her womb. The shambles of their marriage had ceased to matter after Emmaline was born eight years prior. With her wonderful, miraculous arrival, everything else in his life had suddenly diminished in importance.

When Vincent had learned that Cassandra was finally pregnant after more than six years of marriage, he had unashamedly hoped for a son. A son would inherit his title and his holdings and leave an important mark upon the world. When little Emmaline was handed to him in his study an hour after her birth, her face all pink and shriveled and squalling, he had known a moment of wretched disappointment. He tried to give her right back to the nurse, but the frazzled woman said she had to fetch something immediately for his wife and bolted from the room. And so he was forced to carry Emmaline up the long staircase himself to deliver her back to his wife’s bedroom. Somewhere along the way Emmaline stopped crying and settled contentedly in his arms. She opened her blue eyes and regarded him with quiet satisfaction, as if to say that she had only been crying for him, and now that she had found him, all was well. It was in that moment that Vincent discovered what he had believed was the purest form of love.

The knowledge that he had been wrong burned a deep, agonizing hole through him.

He set down his glass and went to the window, pulling back the cold, musty drape so he could look out at the frozen street below. He did not know for certain that the man known as Maxwell Blake was, in fact, the Marquess of Redmond. Tomorrow he would keep vigil near the house, and every day after that, until he caught a glimpse of him and determined his identity.

If he did turn out to be the man who had destroyed his life, then Vincent would make very sure that this time he succeeded in killing him.