ASHES

 

Once upon a time . . .

 

Lady Elizabeth watched the clock strike midnight. As the timepiece chimed, she shut her eyes and whispered, “Goodbye Ash.”

After a year of mourning, today was her first day as a woman of society again. She beckoned her maid to unfasten the laces of her black dress. She would never wear black again. She would never marry again. She would never mourn again.

As the last chime echoed throughout the dressing room, Elizabeth opened her eyes. Her heart fluttered as she gazed upon the bejewelled gown made from gold satin, hanging in the wardrobe.

A soft smile touched her lips.

~ * ~

London, 1816

 

Elizabeth knocked the young man’s arm with her elbow. Like her other courtiers, he always wanted intimacy after sex, but she shunned such affection. She lived for earthly pleasure: a life of the senses, not the heart. She would never again offer her soul … just her body.

She traced the bauble in her hand: a gold necklace with emeralds, so striking it shimmered even in the dim light of the bedroom.

“Very pretty,” she murmured, then tossed the choker aside and wrapped her naked body in the white linen bedsheet. She left the bed and sauntered toward the vanity, picked up a horse hair brush, the handle studded with pearls, and weaved the bristles through her shiny blonde hair.

“Thank you for the trinket,” she said in a curt, dismissive voice. “It’s late.” And she yawned with ennui for good measure.

The young buck frowned, crestfallen. He arranged his clothes, then headed for the door. There he paused, a note of hope in his voice: “When will we meet again?”

“A long while, I’m sure. I’m terribly busy, you know?”

And with that swift blow, she ended their affair. He was a terrible bore. Though young, handsome and rich, he lacked charm. Magnetism. He didn’t know how to tease or flirt, how to play the game, and she was simply tired of his juvenile ways.

As he opened the door, two footmen stood guard to escort him from the house. Did she hear a sniffle? Mercy.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes as her maid scurried into the room. The girl went about her routine: drawing her mistress a bath, changing the bed linens, and placing the emerald necklace in a chest with the other jewels.

“Your wrapper, my lady.”

After she’d tied her long hair into a loose chignon, Elizabeth let the bedsheet fall to the floor and slipped her arms through the silky garment. She followed her maid into the bathing room where a large tin tub was filled with steaming water. Her maid sprinkled lavender oil into the bath, her mistress’s favorite perfume, before she curtsied. “Will that be all, my lady?”

Elizabeth dismissed her servant with a flick of the wrist.

Alone, she closed her eyes and savoured the heady mixture of warmth and sweet flowers, sighing with anticipated delight. Untangling the stays of her wrapper, she dropped the nightwear and dipped her toe in the balmy water, shuddering with gratification.

She adored the piping water, the humidity in the air. At one time, she’d lived without the simple comfort of heat. At one time, she had never touched thermal water or thick fur or the warmest of wool—until Ash had saved her.

A coldness pierced her heart and gooseflesh spread across her limbs. Quickly she nestled into the tub, relishing the sultry heat, bidding away the phantom memories.

Soon the torrid warmth soothed her chilly thoughts and smoothed her prickled skin, and she relaxed in a hazy dream.

A gentle hand gripped her shoulder.

Elizabeth lurched forward, dazed. Water sluiced over her breasts and spilled across the tiled floor. How long had she dreamed? A half hour, at least. The water was lukewarm.

She recognized the hand on her shoulder and swivelled around, prepared to reprimand her maid for disturbing her—when she found a man crouching beside the tin tub, his face half covered in a blue silk mask.

She gasped.

He lifted his finger to his lips, shushing her. “I mean you no harm.”

The low timbre of his voice, his familiar touch … had she met him before? A jilted lover? An old friend?

Her heart pounded with the clout of a blacksmith’s hammer. She snatched the wrapper off the ground and covered her body, soaking much of the garment. “Get out!”

“I will, Lizzie.”

Her heart, her very breath seized. She had not heard her pet name in years, had forbidden anyone from using it again since the death of …

Her nerves thrummed, yet she couldn’t scream for help, her voice strangled in her throat. She scooted to the opposite side of the tub, creating a barrier, and just stared at the elusive stranger … who seemed less elusive with each passing second.

She eyed him with intent: the fashionable cut of his dark blue vest and coat, the fluffy white cravat and tight black britches, his polished boots. Her gaze lifted toward his concealed features. She noted his hard jaw line and full lips, the contours familiar yet different. Short, ruffled black hair. And his eyes, a spellbinding steely grey. She had once delved into such mesmerizing eyes, but they had been the lightest blue then, like turquoise gems.

“Who are you?” she demanded again, her innards twisting in knots, her voice quivering.

He was tall and muscular and could dunk her head below the surface of the water with ease, and yet she wasn’t afraid for her life. Rather, another sort of fear gripped her. The kind when a raw truth was about to be revealed, a devastating truth—like the moment she’d learned her husband, Ashley, had died.

He tsked. “I didn’t think you’d forget me so soon, Lizzie.”

Her blood swelled with impatience. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Take off the mask.”

“Not yet. I don’t want to frighten you.”

“Frighten me?!” she screeched. “You have already frightened me.”

“I apologize, my lady.”

He wasn’t going to remove the mask, the interloper, and she fisted her palms. “Why are you here, then? What do you want?”

He leaned forward. “A kiss.”

She shot her foot out of the tub and slammed it against his chest. “Stay back,” she gritted in an icy vein.

He chuckled, a husky sound, strangely sensual. “I understand. I’m not welcomed in your bed anymore.” He fished inside his coat pocket. “I believe I have the required sum.”

He removed a gold ring with a round cut ruby: her birthstone.

Elizabeth glared the precious stone for several moments before she ripped the bauble from his fingers and threw it across the room.

She shot out of the tub, drenching the floor, folding the wet wrapper around her body. “How dare you!” she seethed with indignation.

Slowly he lifted to his feet, his own glare darkening. “Have I affronted you, my lady?”

“Yes.”

She sidestepped the stranger and hurried toward the bedroom door in search of assistance. She would shoot the bounder herself if she had a pistol. What an absurd charade! Did he really think he could procure her services with a mere trinket? She wasn’t a prostitute for hire. She was a courtesan. She picked her lovers. She inspired their devotion. She toyed with their affections. And she ended their affairs.

She refused to give any man control over her life again. And to think a dotty, senseless dandy had broken into her house, hoping to sweep her off her feet with a mysterious mask and a trivial gold ring?

Never!

She grabbed the door latch, but the stranger was at her backside, cradling her hand, preventing her from opening the door.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he breathed softly into her ear.

A lump formed in her throat at the sincerity in his voice. A blasted lump! She had not cried in years. Not since the funeral. How was he doing this to her?

She elbowed him in the gut. Hard. He grunted, taking a step back. And in that disorienting moment, she pinched his mask and yanked the silky threads away.

Her heart stopped.

“Ash.”

~ * ~

A woozy Elizabeth opened her eyes. What had happened? Had she fainted? Her head throbbed with agonizing memories of her husband: her screams of sorrow as his remains had been lowered into the cold, dark earth.

She squeezed her eyes tight, clenched her teeth at the misery swirling in her soul.

She had dreamed of Ash. He had come to her in spirit, chastised her. He was angry with her. And a sob welled in her breast. She was about to release the pain in a groan when a figure shifted beside her.

Elizabeth stiffened. How had she reached the bed? She was naked under the sheets. Warm. Ever so warm. Slowly she turned her head to the side—and saw Ash.

Her breath hitched. She studied the man sleeping beside her. He rested on his stomach, his muscular arms wrapped around a white pillow. The room was heavy with candles, and she watched the flickering firelight play across his spine. Her eyes fell to the small of his back and the slight curvature of his buttocks, but she saw no more of his nakedness, his lower body covered by linen sheets sprinkled with lavender oil.

The soothing oil made her drowsy and her lashes fluttered, but she wasn’t about to close her eyes and lose the vision of her husband. Instead, she lifted her gaze to the man’s rugged features. A curl of sable black hair dangled over his brow. His lips whirred as he breathed deep and steady, so tranquil.

She was afraid to touch him. He might flitter away. And yet, she knew he was real. He generated heat, sweltering heat. He had climbed into bed with her to take away the chill, the shock of seeing him alive. Still, she would not wake him. She wanted the moment to stretch on forever.

Ash.

Where have you been? Why did you leave me?

And then her confusion turned sour. She saw the truth. He had abandoned her.

Elizabeth shot from the bed. She grabbed another dressing gown with feathered cuffs and hemline, sheltering her naked body, though a biting, wintry draft blasted her the moment she left her husband’s side.

Quickly she stoked the dwindling fire, building a blaze, yet the bitter cold still penetrated her skin right to the bone.

“Come back to bed, Lizzie.”

The husky sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine. She peeked over her shoulder and found him propped on an elbow, his lambent eyes a smoldering inferno no wood burning fire could match.

She yearned to be in his arms, to wallow in his fiery embrace—but he had betrayed her.

The iron poker still in her grip, Elizabeth’s hand trembled.

He eyed her shifty movements, then arched a brow. “Planning murder, luv?”

That did it! She smashed the poker against the stone hearth. “How dare you call me that endearment. You have no right.”

“I’m your husband,” was his possessive response, the words digging into her heart.

“I’m your widow,” she shot back.

“A merry widow, I see.”

She gasped at the insult. The man in her bed was not her husband. Ash would never hurt her.

“Get out,” she ordered, pointing toward the door.

Slowly he eased off the mattress and sauntered toward his clothes, revealing every sinewy detail of his strapping figure, and devil take it, her blood quickened with long forgotten arousal: a profound desire only he had ever inspired.

She crunched her bottom lip with her teeth, tamping the treacherous urges billowing in her belly.

He slipped into his trousers and fastened the buttons.

When he stopped there, she demanded, “What are you doing?”

“I’m making myself more comfortable.” And he settled in an armchair next to the fire, stretching his long legs, swaying his bare feet in front of the flames.

“I said leave, Ash!”

He curled his arms behind his head. “It’s my house.”

She snorted. His house. The gall! He had left her in utter ruins after his supposed death, not even a penny of support. If she hadn’t resorted to drastic measures, there would be no house.

Elizabeth considered shouting for help, but if the servants found their former master in his rightful abode, not a hand would toss him outdoors and risk the gaols.

A welter of impotent fury stormed her breast. She snatched the comforter off the bed, still feeling nippy despite her reeling temper.

Dragging the blanket toward the armchair opposite her husband, she plopped down and curled her legs under the downy softness.

“Cold?” he murmured, offering her a steamy stare. “Care to climb into my lap?”

“I’d rather freeze,” she bit out.

“Don’t be such a shrew, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to spoil your fun.”

She bunched the comforter between her fists, her knuckles turning white. “Why are you here?”

After five bloody years! she screamed inside her head.

A minute ago, she’d wanted to know everything about his disappearance, but now she just wanted him to disappear—again. There was no excuse for his abandonment. There was no excuse for leaving her destitute. There was no excuse for faking his death and shredding her heart to pieces.

Elizabeth shuddered as she remembered the unholy darkness that had consumed her after his burial, after she’d returned to the house alone, a pauper, and …

She glanced away and swallowed the acrid tears. After a measured breath, she persisted, “Why have you come, Ash?”

“I told you, Lizzie. A kiss.”

At his heartsome words, her sharp gaze settled on him, and she loathed his lazy manner while she struggled with unbound emotion. He should be at her feet, begging forgiveness. Not that he deserved it. Not that she would grant it. Still, how dare he sit there, so easy at rest.

“If you touch me,” she gritted, “I’ll kill you.”

A sparked flared in his eyes. She had provoked him. Good.

Had he really entered the house believing he could take it—and her—without a fight? A single protest? If she had to fend him off, she’d use her nails, her teeth, even the poker on the ground, but she would not permit him liberties … not even a kiss.

“I’ve paid for your services, Lizzie. A ruby ring, remember?”

She reached for the iron poker. He grabbed the other end and yanked her toward him until she stumbled into his lap with a shriek.

He dropped the metal shaft and pulled her into his arms. “I won’t hurt you, Lizzie.”

Hurt her? He had already hurt her beyond imagination. And immeasurable grief finally burst from her lungs, “You son of a bitch!”

She pounded his naked chest over and over, his muscles flinching with every brutal blow, but he still maintained a tight hold of her.

At last, exhausted, she slumped against him, trembling. “Bastard.”

He cradled her, rocked her even. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

She shut her eyes, swelling with briny moisture. “No.”

But the memories came crashing over her like pummeling waves, beating her, bruising her, thrashing her like a hapless rag doll.

“I do,” he whispered, stroking her temple. “I remember kneeling over you, panicked, rubbing your icy cheeks, begging you to open your eyes.” A finger rolled slowly down her cheek and swept across her wet lashes, making her shiver. “And then you peeked at me through your frozen lashes, and I delved into the most haunting pair of light green eyes.”

“Stop,” she begged, wheezing and weak.

“You were clutching a pack of burnt matches.” He clasped her hand, massaging her fingers. “I had to pry your fingers apart from the sticks, you were clenching them so tight.”

“Stop,” she pleaded with him again. “I can’t … I can’t remember.”

“I remember.” He nudged her temple with his nose. “I remember your bare feet, covered in frostbite.” His hand spread across her thigh, drifted over her calve and circled her bare toes. “You had a tattered dress and threadbare shall. Even your golden locks were frigid with ice. I was amazed to find you alive—and ever so grateful.”

Elizabeth sobbed. Oh, that dreadful Christmas Eve! She had not sold a single match that night. She hadn’t a farthing to bring home to her father. And she’d dreaded another beating.

At seventeen, she had grown tired of the endless slog. Haggard, her soul crushed, she had curled in an alleyway and struck every match, searching for warmth, for light. Colorful spots had danced before her eyes. Visions of beautiful things. And she had rested in the snow, a smile across her lips … until Asley had stumbled upon her in the early morning hours, coaxed her from the hands of death.

He had wrapped her in his great coat, carried her to his house, nursed her to health—and offered her marriage. The urchin and the lord. At first, she’d resisted him. Doubted him. In time, though, he’d melted her heart. And for three wonderful years their matrimony had been an intimate, unshakable kinship.

Elizabeth pushed away from him. She would not be duped again. She would not allow her senses to be lulled by false words of devotion.

As she straightened in his lap, she peered into the pools of his grey eyes, and for the first time she noticed the foggy shadows. His eyes had not changed in color, but a milky cloud had covered his once brilliant blue irises.

She cupped his cheeks. “Are you blind?”

“No,” he returned in a hushed voice. “I can see in low light, but I need sunshades whenever it’s bright.”

Her brow creased. “What happened?”

“I’ve been in the dark for a long time, Lizzie.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not important.”

Not important? He’d shunned her for five years, and it wasn’t important? He’d tortured her for five years and it wasn’t important?

She scrambled off his lap, shoving his arm aside. “Go to hell, Ash!”

“I’ve just returned from hell. Would you really send me back?”

“With bells on,” she snapped, gathering the rest of his clothes from the floor. She then marched toward the door, unlatched it, and tossed his belongings into the passageway.

If that scorned gesture didn’t demand he get out, she would scream for help, whatever the consequences.

“Mama?”

Elizabeth bristled. At the end of the passageway was a four-year-old girl, rubbing her pretty blue eyes and holding a stuffed rabbit, her raven-black locks tied in curling paper.

“Hannah! What are you doing out of bed?”

Elizabeth rushed toward her daughter, shielding her with her body, but the astute child glanced around her mother—and observed the half-naked man standing in the doorframe.

“Is he here for a tea party, Mama?”

Oh, God. She had told her daughter adults had late-night tea parties and midnight balls, and it was inappropriate for little girls to attend such events. In that way, Hannah never saw a courtier. Or suspected anything was amiss if she heard a sound, like a male voice.

“Yes, sweet. He’s … a friend.”

Elizabeth had hoped to chuck Ashley from the house before morning. But now …? What was she going to do now?

“Why are his clothes on the floor, Mama?”

She burned with shame and fumbled for an appropriate answer, but words deserted her.

“I’m afraid the mess is my fault,” said Ash, voice taut as he collected his discarded apparel. “I spilled tea all over my shirt and coat and your mama offered to wash my garments.”

“Oh,” said Hannah, then yawned. “I’m tired, Mama. Will you tuck me in bed? Nice and tight?”

She tweaked the child’s button nose. “So the bed bugs don’t bite, I promise.”

As soon as Hannah was safe in the nursery, Elizabeth returned to her bedroom, heart in her throat. She girded her muscles in anticipation of a row and entered the chamber where Ash paced in swift strides.

He stopped for a second, glared at her, then treaded some more, his hands entwined at his back.

“How dare you?” he seethed, his muscles flexing. “How dare you entertain jakes in my house with my daughter down the fucking hall?”

She wasn’t surprised he’d inferred Hannah was his daughter; that he’d not even suspected one of her courtiers might be the sire. Hannah was the right age, after all. And she was the spitting image of her father. But to condemn her after he’d deserted her? Pregnant, at that?

Elizabeth stalked toward him and slapped him across the cheek with all her might. “You hypocrite.”

He stared at her, truly astounded. “When have I ever whored? When have I ever had a mistress? Hypocrite!” he shouted back at her.

The tears in her eyes burned. “I had no choice, Ash.”

“Liar!”

“Go back to hell where you belong!”

“And leave my daughter in this brothel?” He growled, “Never.”

Elizabeth was strapped for air, her head spinning. He would take Hannah? He would take Hannah away from her? “No.”

No. No. No.

And yet, the law recognized him as the parent, not her. If he wanted Hannah, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it—except kill him. He was already legally dead so what was the harm?

Elizabeth swiped the poker off the ground, wielding it like a sword. “I won’t let you take my daughter. Or my house. Or me.” She slashed through the air, but he evaded the blow. “You destroyed me once, Ash. Never again.”

She sliced the air again, missing him.

“You’re mad, Lizzie.”

“I’m protecting my daughter, you cur.”

After a third strike, Ash maneuvered his body sidelong and wrested the poker from her hands. He threw the metal into the fire, making it impossible for her to recover the weapon without suffering severe burns.

 

“No!” she screamed, thrashing as he wrapped his arms around her midriff.

“Hold still, woman.”

“Curse you! Curse you!”

He rattled her. “Stop it, Lizzie. Or we’ll both go into the fire.”

She gasped for breath, winded. He squeezed her until she settled in his embrace. “No,” she moaned. “You can’t have Hannah.”

“I can’t leave her here, either,” he said in a rough vein. “It’s not right, Lizzie.”

“I had to do it, Ash,” she lamented, sinking toward the floor. “I had to save her.”

Ashley scooped her in his arms and carried her to the bed, setting her on the mattress. He pushed aside the wild tethers of her hair with unexpected tenderness.

She was delirious with grief, groaning with torment. Ash left her for a moment, then returned with a crystal tumbler. He propped her head with his hand and siphoned the fiery brandy down her sore throat.

Setting the glass on the nightstand, he kneeled at the bedside. “What happened, Lizzie?”

“How can you ask me that?”

His brow furrowed before he shook his head. “Sleep.”

“I will not sleep.” As the brandy unraveled her tangled thoughts, Elizabeth dragged herself toward the pile of cushions and sat upright. “I will not give you a chance to take Hannah away from me. I am her mother. She believes you dead, Ash.” Her voice cracked, “I believed you dead.”

“I know.”

“Why?” she croaked. “Why did you leave me?”

When she’d thought his death a tragic happenstance, she’d endured the agony. But he had left her of his own accord—and that truth burned worse than any fires of hell.

“I didn’t leave you, Lizzie. I was taken prisoner.”

She meshed her lips together and clambered off the bed. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, then don’t insult me with tall tales.”

“It is the truth.”

She whirled around, arms akimbo. “You’re the assistant to the Foreign Secretary. You negotiate with and entertain diplomats and ambassadors. Who snatched you off the front steps of the Foreign Office? Napoleon?”

“Yes.”

She balked. “Balderdash.”

Ashley sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, he didn’t abduct me right off King Street, but I was apprehended in France.”

“I buried you. You had been trampled by horses in a riding accident.”

“You buried a double. A beggar off the streets, I suspect. The Foreign Office would never reveal where I was or what I was doing in France. The war was still raging then, Lizzie.”

Her heart thundered as she listened with growing panic. “No.”

He lifted his rueful eyes. “I have a confession to make, Lizzie. I didn’t always host diplomats and ambassadors. As you know, I speak perfect French. And on occasion, I was asked to complete an assignment, to do fieldwork.”

“You mean spy?”

“Aye.”

She took a step back, her mind reeling. She remembered their last night together; how he had promised her he’d be away on routine, diplomatic business.

“Not to worry, luv. I’ll be home soon.”

And he nipped her lower lip in assurance—or perhaps distraction—but she wasn’t distracted.

“Two months, Ash? I can’t bear the thought of being apart from you for so long.” She shuddered in his arms, a coldness already seeping into her veins. “How will I endure the time without you?”

“Oh, Lizzie.” He dropped his head and kissed her with ravenous want. “I will suffer without you, as well, but I must carry out my duty.”

Elizabeth covered her quivering mouth with her palm. They had conceived Hannah that night. And Ash had left the next day, galivanting across the continent, knowing he might be captured or killed, and yet he’d made no provisions for her or any babe she might have, the bastard.

“I was locked in a cell for five years,” he went on. “There was no window, no light. I had food and nothing else. I thought I would go mad at times.” His fingers trembled. “But I thought of you, Lizzie. I exercised and I ate and I dreamed of you. You saved my life.”

“And you destroyed mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” she rasped, shaking her hand. “I will not forgive you.”

He dropped his head. “You won’t forgive me because I hurt you? Or because you don’t want to give up your wanton ways?”

Her nostrils flared. “You son of a—”

“I see the chest of jewels, Lizzie. I can never give you such riches. I’m the second son of a viscount. I have no inheritance. I have my diplomatic work, that’s all. It’s a handsome salary … but not enough for you, I see.”

“You see nothing, Ash!” She grabbed the chest and dumped the wretched gold and precious stones across the rug. “I had to become a courtesan to survive, to save Hannah.”

His expression hardened. “Why didn’t you tell me about the babe?”

“I didn’t know I was pregnant, you ass.”

He stormed off the bed. “Why whore, then? I left you everything, Lizzie. Enough money to live a comfortable life—with or without a babe.” He scooped a fistful of jewels, crunching them in his hand with such vigor, spots of blood seeped through the trinkets. “You didn’t have to sacrifice your body!”

She gnashed her teeth. Had he gone daft in that jail cell? “You left me nothing, Ash!” She stalked toward the writing desk and removed several sheets of crumpled paper from the drawer. “Here.”

He dropped the jewelry; it clattered to the floor. “What is this?”

She shoved the document flat against his hypocritical chest. “Your bequest.”

Squinting, he leafed through the endowment. “Is this a jest?”

“Hah! I thought that too, sitting in the solicitor’s office, hearing the man recount your will. I didn’t believe him, but he presented me with your signature.” She smacked his inky endorsement with her finger. “Is that your signature?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you left me with nothing.” The heartache and rage she’d experienced then, ravaged her again and she gasped for air before blasting, “If you weren’t already dead, I would have killed you myself. How could you leave me destitute, Ash? You know I suffered in the streets. You promised me everlasting love. Liar! Filthy liar!”

Ashley dropped the papers, the foul sheets flittering to the ground like autumn leaves. He dragged her into his arms, buried his mouth in her tousled hair. “Good God, Lizzie. How could you think I would ever leave you in the streets again?”

“How could I not?” she sobbed. “What else was I to think after hearing your testament?”

“I don’t understand how …” He hardened. “It’s a forgery.”

Ashley separated from her, leaving her cold and alone in the middle of the room, but he wasn’t livid with her, she sensed. The fury swirling in his eyes, the stiffness in his jaw was concentrated toward someone else, and he backed away, fisting and unfisting his palms until he bumped into the silk papered wall.

“Ash?”

“The solicitor,” he gritted. “He forged the document.”

“But why?”

“It’s all my fault,” said Ash, a groan rising from his breast. “I used the family solicitor when I composed my will. At the behest of my parents and a few extra coins in his pocket, he altered the document.”

Elizabeth wiped her eyes with the feathery cuff of her wrapper. “Your parents never approved of our marriage. ‘An urchin and a lord?!’ your father had shouted when you’d announced our nuptials. But do you really think they would’ve bribed the solicitor?”

“I do. I should have hired my own solicitor.” His broken eyes, filled with tiny red veins, locked with hers. “I will make him pay, Lizzie.”

“It doesn’t matter, Ash. You can’t repair the past. It’s too late.”

Her world had turned asunder after his death. And though the truth had finally come to light, it was impossible to restore the trust and intimacy they had once shared. He had lied about his work, endangered his life—and hers. She was a courtesan. Or had been. Ashley was her husband again. And she would not touch another man. They had to reconcile for Hannah’s sake. But there was no future for them.

“I have a proposal, Ash. I will retire as a courtesan—tonight—and you will not take Hannah from me. In exchange, we’ll reside together in the house, keep separate bedrooms and raise our daughter together.”

After a long, tense pause, he gathered his clothes and headed for the door. To search for another room, she supposed. He had not rejected her terms so she sighed with unbound relief.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

As she slowly approached him, her nerves tingled. And when she reached him and sensed the heat stemming from his flesh, she almost collapsed in his embrace. But she maintained her firm composure, arched on her toes and pressed her lips against his flushed cheek.

“Welcome home, Ash.”

He remained silent, avoided her gaze and left the room.

~ * ~

It wasn’t much of a homecoming, thought Elizabeth, strutting with restless energy, inundated with a thousand nagging thoughts. As she paced the room and trampled over the mess, she released a fagged breath—and more fresh tears.

She crouched and gathered the papers, then stuffed the infernal jewels back inside the chest. She hated the sight of them. More than ever. A part of her wished Ash had never returned home.

She had learned to survive without him, to experience life through the senses, not the heart. She thought she had come to terms with such an existence, that it’d suited her, even. But one second with Ash and she’d realized it was all an illusion.

Her breast cramped with hopeless want. Mercy, she had missed him. How was she going to share a house with him and not touch him? How was she going to feign indifference toward him?

What would they do as a family? Have tedious talks over breakfast? Take an occasional stroll through the park? Make just enough formal exchanges and public outings to deflate any gossip?

Oh, God, how ugly!

Elizabeth rocked her body in comfort. There on the floor, her world in tatters again, she wept like a babe until the ache in her chest lifted.

There had to be a better way, she thought. Another way to co-exist without making a show of it: a disgraceful show. Even now, knowing Ash had settled somewhere down the hall, ignited a profound desire within her. A desire to return to the past, when they’d shared a fathomless bond and an unmatched longing for one another. But how? How to reconcile after so much time and hurt?

They had both changed in immeasurable ways. They were strangers again. And she yearned for … a ghost.

Her shoulders slumped. She yearned for an affinity that had perished five years ago.

But might something new rise from the ashes?

Her heart thundered at the smallest sliver of hope. Where had the idea come from? The impossible dream? She had learned long ago never to hope. It had saved her from disappointment and misadventure. It had protected her from the constant threat of pain.

Was she mad? Reaching for Ash? He loathed her, surely. Even though he knew the real reason she had become a courtesan, he would never want her as his proper wife. She was also furious with him for being a spy and not telling her the dangers of such an occupation.

And yet, her blood pounded with the ferocity of a steam engine. Before she committed herself to a lonesome pairing with her once beloved husband, she would learn if hope existed. Otherwise, the thought of “what if” would be an unbearable burden. It would break her in time.

Elizabeth scrambled off the floor. She headed for the vanity and winced at her bedraggled reflection in the mirror. She dried her tears with a kerchief and combed her hair before pinching her cheeks, inducing a soft glow.

After she’d straightened her wrapper, she left her chamber and slowly crossed the passageway, searching for Ash. When she spotted a light coming from under the door of a guest bedroom, she halted. A draft swirled around her, biting her toes, making her shudder. She felt like a frozen child in the streets of London again, praying for salvation. And then wise words came to her:

 

He gives snow like wool,

He scatters the frost like ashes.

 

Her favorite psalm. She had not recited the verse in years. Might she and Ash, both alone and cold, find warmth together?

Her hand trembling, she unlatched the door and entered the chamber. She glanced toward the bed. Empty. Next, her gaze traveled to the roaring blaze in the fireplace, flanked by massive andirons.

Ash had settled in an armchair, a glass in his hand, his back toward her. He swirled the amber liquid in the tumbler, his attention transfixed on the snapping flames.

Should she disturb him? she wondered. Or wait for the next day to …? In truth, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Talk with him? About what?

Her thoughts deserted her when she spied the crests and valleys of his strapping profile. In silhouette, he seemed a dream. And she wondered if he might vanish into the smoke.

“Why have you come, Lizzie?” he asked in a throaty drawl.

She started at his unexpected request. His backside still positioned toward her, he had not seen her enter the room so he must have heard her, however light her steps. And her heart thumped a little harder knowing his senses were still concerted with hers, even after so many years apart.

He would not vanish into the smoke, she assured herself. He was real. And still very much a part of her.

“I’ve changed my mind, Ash.”

At her whispered words, he stopped swirling the brandy. “About what?”

“Our agreement. I … I cannot keep it.”

In one fluid movement, he looked over his shoulder, a shadow crossing his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry, Ash, but it won’t work—we won’t work, living as strangers.”

“I see.” His muscles tensed. “And you realize what it means if I go?”

“I’m not asking you to go, Ash.”

His brow creased and his lips meshed in obvious consternation. “I don’t understand. What do you want, Lizzie?”

She funneled a mouthful of air into her lungs, then released in a raspy voice, “You.”

Mercy, he verily leveled her with his torrid stare.

At last, he said in a low timbre, “And what do you want from me?”

“A kiss,” she echoed his earlier words.

Those grey eyes wracked her soul with their uncompromising intensity. But she girded her muscles and remained in the middle of the room, tamping her primal instinct to retreat. Whatever his answer, she would hear it. She was not a coward.

“Come here, Lizzie,” was his oh-so-tender command.

And her blood surged at the invitation. Taking a step forward, she floundered, but soon regained her footing and rounded the armchair.

She was positioned across from him. The fire at her backside toasted her flesh, while his balmy expression charred the front of her.

He set aside the crystal glass.

“Come,” he beckoned again.

There wasn’t room for her to maneuver. She was already nestled at his knees. But when he spread his thighs apart, her heart missed a beat.

She stepped closer to him, pressed herself between his splayed legs. Moisture trickled down her spine. Her breathing hastened, swift and shallow.

Heat. So much heat. An earthly fire danced at her posterior. A divine inferno flared in her soul. An inferno he had set alight. How she’d missed the fire!

“Come,” he said again, mouthed the word, his voice so raw.

And with a ragged sigh, she curled into his lap.

He gripped the armrests at first, but as the tension in his muscles eased, he circled the small of her back and lifted a hand to her hair. He stroked the tresses with his fingers, combing the locks, his eyes wrapping her in a passionate embrace.

That his eyes caressed her even more than his touch was ever a mystery, and she relished every shivering moment.

Yes, she had missed him.

And the fire.

He thumbed her swelling lips. “Where would you like me to kiss you?”

She breathed, “Everywhere.”

At that entreaty, he hardened, and something sparked in his eyes. A need. She felt it, too. A need so alluring, there was no turning away from it.

His fingers grasped the back of her head and pulled her toward him for a smoldering kiss.

She gasped. Her hand went to his cheek, his temple before she smothered him in her arms with a long-forgotten yearning, an unmatched want. She savored his brandy-soaked lips, his balmy breath. And her soul cried in her breast at the sweet taste of his masculine scent.

In a swift twirl, he carried her toward the bed and settled beside her on the mattress, their bodies sinking into the feathered tick. She was surrounded by downy softness, the warmth of his chest. He brushed her lips again in ravishment before skimming across her throat, nipping at her neck, her pounding pulse.

Her wrapper widened and his tongue delved between her full breasts, making her shudder with utter delight. Mercy, she had suffered such aloneness without Ash. She hadn’t realized how much until his dark curls grazed her belly, and his tongue dipped into her navel, swirling with unbound desire, renting a salacious moan from her lips and sending decadent shivers down her spine.

She shut her eyes. Tight. She heard the stays of her wrapper being ripped apart. The fabric crumpled. And a brisk breeze tickled her exposed abdomen.

“Lizzie,” he groaned, his able mouth roving even lower.

When his steamy breath drifted over her quivering clit, her muscles clenched in unbearable titillation. She raised her knees, grabbed the bedding between her fists and cried out. Ash slipped his thumb between the curls of her apex and bussed the dewy flesh there, making her writhe.

Well, she had asked him to kiss her everywhere, and he obliged her in the most tantalizing ways, sucking at her clit, then laving the sensitive nub. Over and over, he tortured her with honeyed pleasure until she orgasmed in his mouth.

Elizabeth collapsed, lightheaded. Her bones felt hollow. A tear of bliss escaped the corner of her eye, and Ash quickly brushed away the briny drop with the pad of this thumb.

He had removed his trousers. Soon his naked body covered hers. Finally, she opened her lashes. And she witnessed the most intense, the most hungry pair of eyes. She had not seen the likes of such need, not even from Ash.

His voice shattered, “I’ve missed you, Lizzie.”

“Oh, Ash.” She bussed his mouth. “I’ve missed you, too.”

He rammed inside her, taking her breath away, and she gripped his backside, digging her nails into his moist flesh. He rocked her. Hard. She undulated her hips alongside his every piercing stroke, matching his urgent rhythm, his swift and eager thrusts.

Harmony. Unparalleled harmony. Bodies joined. Limbs interlocked and covered in salty sweat.

Elizabeth cooed under the weight of his movements. A blinding lust unleased in her loins. And she orgasmed again. Ash, too, released a guttural groan before, weakened, he dropped beside her, wrapping her in his arms, holding her in a protective embrace.

And in that flawless moment, Elizabeth knew she would never be cold again.

“I still love you, Ash,” she said, breathless. “I never stopped loving you. You are the fire that warms my soul.”

“And you are the light that shines in mine,” he returned in an achingly soft whisper. “I love you, too, Lizzie. Always.”

“Kiss me, Ash.”

He lifted an amused brow. “Again?”

“Yes, again.” She smiled. “And make it a kiss worthy of a fairy story ending.”

He obliged her.

And what a kiss it was!

It scorched her right to her toes.

 

THE END