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BOOK: Sylvia Day - [Georgian 01]
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His mouth took hers in a hard, quick kiss. “I do adore you, my fearless bride. But indulge me, if you will. Allow me to finish this. My masculine pride begs it of you.”
“Don’t be arrogant now! You are in no condition to chase criminals, and I can aim a pistol better than most men.”
“I will not disagree.” His voice firmed. “However, in this instance I’m afraid I must exert my husbandly right of command, despite the row I know that will cause. Go, my love. Do as I say. I will return to you shortly, and then you may both harangue and fuss over me to your heart’s content.”
“I do not harangue.”
Steel clashed in the nearby hallway, and the look in his eyes hardened enough to make her shiver. Following the urging of the gentle shove he gave her, Elizabeth moved with shaky legs down the hall.
“Be careful,” she admonished. But when she looked behind her, he was already gone.
 
Marcus watched Elizabeth retreat, and thanked God for her. Everything he’d believed in, everyone he’d thought solid and immutable had shattered in one fell blow. Except for her. Wanting desperately to take shelter in her, but needing to end this first, he turned about, running toward the sounds of conflict.
He rounded the corner, his jaw locked with grim resignation and discovered St. John, his body moving with loose-limbed grace, his sword arm thrusting so quickly it was difficult to track it. Eldridge opposed him, his wig lost, his hair wild, his face reddened from exertion. It was a losing battle he fought, but the agency leader was not Marcus’s concern. Certainly Marcus had his grievances, but his wife was alive, and St. John’s brother was not.
His attention was instead on Avery, who stood to the side with dagger in hand. Marcus waited, unobserved, wanting to give Avery the opportunity to do what was right. They had worked together for years, and Marcus had, up until an hour ago, thought of the agent as a friend. He couldn’t prevent the tiny hope that his trust had not been completely misplaced.
St. John feinted, and then lunged forward on his right foot. A winded Eldridge could not move swiftly enough to deflect the hit, and Marcus watched as the blade sank home in his thigh and he fell to his knees.
The pirate loomed over the vanquished Eldridge with teeth clenched, his hand fisted around the other man’s throat.
“You cannot kill me,” Eldridge croaked. “You need me.”
It was then that Avery made his move, approaching the distracted St. John from behind with his arm raised and knife ready to fall.
“Avery,” Marcus growled.
Avery spun about and threw himself forward, forcing Marcus to return. Parrying the flashing dagger with his small sword, Marcus leapt back a step. “Don’t do this,” he grunted. But Avery would not desist.
“I have no choice.”
Marcus attempted to draw out the confrontation, praying Avery would break through his panic and cease. He aimed his blade at less vulnerable areas, striking to wound and not to kill. Finally, however, exhausted by his own injury and depleted of options, he made a fatal thrust.
Panting, Avery sank to the floor, his back to the wall, blood drizzling from the corner of his lips. His hands were stained crimson, pressing against the spot on his chest where Marcus had impaled him. Eldridge lay at his feet, St. John’s sword sunk so deep into his heart it gouged into the wood floor beneath.
Sighing, Marcus dropped into a crouch. “Ah, Avery. Why?”
“My lord,” Avery gasped, sweat dripping from his brow. “You know the answer to that. Prison is not for the likes of me.”
“You spared my wife, I might have helped you.”
A translucent red bubble formed between Avery’s lips and burst as he spoke. “I grew . . . I grew quite fond of her.”
“And she of you.” Marcus withdrew a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from Avery’s brow. The agent’s eyes closed at the touch of the cloth.
Marcus glanced at Eldridge. The scene was surreal, and heartrending.
“There were more . . . men,” Avery wheezed. “Is she safe?”
“Yes, she’s safe.”
Avery nodded, his breath rattling in his lungs, and then he stilled, his body slumping into death’s embrace.
Marcus stumbled to his feet, weary and disheartened. He glanced at St. John who said softly, “You saved my life.”
“Consider my debt paid for your like service to me. What do you intend to do with Eldridge?”
“The poor man was a victim of highway robbery.” St. John yanked his sword free. “My men will make certain he is found at the appropriate time and in the appropriate manner. If we are done here, I shall see to it.”
Marcus could not prevent the twinge of guilt and sorrow he felt. He’d admired Eldridge, and would mourn the man he’d once thought him to be.
“Take the journal with you,” he said gruffly. “If I never see the blasted thing again it will be too soon.”
“My men will manage these two,” the pirate said, gesturing over the bodies with the bloody tip of his sword. “We are liberated, Westfield. I trust the king will believe the tale when told to him by both you and Barclay. Then the bad seeds will be routed from the agency and Eldridge’s threat to haunt me after death will be negated.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true.” But Marcus found little comfort in the ending. He knew he’d be haunted by this day forever.
“Marcus?”
He turned at the tentative sound of his wife’s voice. Elizabeth stood a few feet away, a pistol weighting her arm and dangling at her side. The sight of her, so small but determined, eased the tightness in his chest, and he left the ugliness behind to find solace in her arms.
EPILOGUE
London, April 1771
 
T
he weather was perfect for a ride in the Park, and Marcus relished the day. His mount was spirited and pranced impatiently, but nevertheless, he managed the reins with one hand, while touching the brim of his hat in greeting with the other. It was the start of a new Season, his first complete Season with Elizabeth as his wife, and he could only call his mood elated.
“Good afternoon, Lord Westfield.”
Marcus turned his head toward the landaulet that drew up beside him. “Lady Barclay.” He smiled.
“May I inquire after Lady Westfield?”
“You may. She’s presently napping, I am sorry to say. I pine for her company.”
“She’s not ill, is she?” Margaret asked, her brows drawn into a frown beneath her wide-brimmed hat.
“No, she’s well. Weary and a bit achy at the moment, but then we just returned to Town, as you know. The journey can be tiring.” Of course, he hadn’t allowed her much sleep at the inn.
Elizabeth grew more beautiful by the day, and more irresistible. He often thought of the portrait of her mother, the one that hung above the fireplace in the formal parlor of Chesterfield Hall. He’d once wished to see such happiness reflected in Elizabeth’s countenance. Now he would say her contentment far surpassed it.
To think that a year ago he’d thought to sate his lust and end his torment. The former would never happen, not while he breathed, but the later was a distant memory. He thanked the Lord daily that he’d managed to slay her demons as well. Together, they’d found peace, and it was a state of being he cherished.
“I am relieved to hear it’s nothing serious. My son is quite eager to see his aunt again, and she promised to call this week.”
“Then I’m certain she shall.”
They spoke for a few moments longer, but when his horse grew agitated, Marcus bade his farewell. He took a less traveled path than the Row, and freed his mount to run, then he turned toward Grosvenor Square, hoping he’d given Elizabeth enough time to sleep, but too impatient to dally any more, regardless.
As he rode up to the steps of his house, he caught sight of the man who departed and a heavy uneasiness settled over him.
He tossed the reins to the waiting groomsman and hurried inside.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” the servant greeted as Marcus handed over his hat and gloves.
“Apparently not, since the doctor was here.”
“Lady Westfield is ill, my lord.”
“The dowager?” But he knew that was not the case. His mother had looked the picture of health at breakfast while Elizabeth had been out of sorts for over a sennight. Worried beyond measure, he took the stairs two at a time. Her mother had fallen ill and never recovered, a fact he could not forget since the scars from that loss had kept them apart for years.
He entered their rooms cautiously, hesitantly. Pausing on the threshold of Elizabeth’s boudoir, he caught the scent of illness, which lingered, defying the windows which were flung wide open to entice the air to circulate. His wife lay still as death on the couch with unhealthy pallor, her skin lightly misted with sweat despite the fact she wore only her negligee and the temperature was more cold than warm.
The doctor was an idiot. Despite his lack of medical knowledge, it was obvious to Marcus that Elizabeth was gravely ill.
A maid bustled around the room, arranging flowers in an effort to scent the room with something pleasant. One look from Marcus, however, and she curtsied and hurried away.
“My love.” He fell to his knees beside the couch and brushed the damp tendrils of Elizabeth’s hair off her forehead. Her skin was clammy, and he fought the urge to snatch her to him and hold her close.
Elizabeth moaned softly at the touch of her husband’s hand. Opening her eyes, she stared at Marcus, acknowledging, as she often did, that she would never tire of looking at him.
“What ails you?” he asked softly, his low velvety voice a soothing caress.
“I was just thinking of you. Where did you go?”
“For a ride in the Park.”
“You wicked man. Tormenting all the women in London with the sight of you.” The harsh cynicism that had once etched his features was gone, revealing a face of breathtaking masculine beauty. “I’m certain you set every female heart aflutter.”
He made a valiant effort to smile through his worried frown. “You never become jealous anymore. I’m not certain how I should feel about that.”
“You arrogant man. I trust you to behave yourself. Especially in the near future when I cannot be with you.”
“Cannot be with . . . Dear God.” He tugged her from the sofa into his arms. “Please spare me,” he begged. “Tell me what’s wrong. I am wretched over your illness. I will find the best specialists, research every medical volume, call upon—”
She pressed cool fingertips to his lips. “A midwife will suffice.”
“A midwife?” His eyes widened and then shot to her belly. “
A midwife?
”
“You certainly put enough effort into it,” she teased, adoring the wonder that slowly filled his eyes. “You should not be quite so startled.”
“Elizabeth.” He squeezed her gently. “Speech fails me.”
“Tell me you are happy. That is all I ask.”
“Happy? Bloody hell, I was beyond happy when it was just you and I. And content. Now . . . now there are no words for how I feel.”
Elizabeth buried her face in her husband’s throat and breathed him in, finding instant comfort just from the feel of him next to her. She had suspected pregnancy for weeks, as her breasts had grown more tender and her body had been plagued by weariness. Hiding her morning illness had not been easy, but she’d managed until today. She finally called for the doctor when she’d been inwardly certain she would hear the news she desired above anything.
“I know precisely what you mean to convey,” she murmured against his skin. “I will never be able to tell you how it touches me that you loved me, even when it seemed we would not have children.”
Settling more comfortably into his lap, Elizabeth thought of how different her life was now from how it had been only a year ago. She’d said she wanted equanimity, but what she had truly wanted was numbness, a respite from the knowledge that she was missing something vital. To have been so afraid, so sure that loving Marcus would weaken her, rather than strengthen her . . . She couldn’t fathom it now.
“I love you,” she murmured, perfectly happy for the first time since she was a child. Secure in his arms, she drifted to sleep and dreamed of the future.
Don’t miss “Love Potion #9” by JoAnn Ross in
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Available now from Brava!
T
he Swansea Inn had begun its life as an antebellum mansion belonging to a cotton broker. Three stories tall, created of the local gray Savannah brick that turned a dusky pink when bathed in the red glow of sunset, it overlooked the Polaski Monument in Monterey Square, which Roxi considered the prettiest of the city’s twenty-four lush green squares.
She’d heard rumors that the inn had, for several decades prior to the War Between the States, been a house of prostitution, where wealthy planters and merchants had kept a bevy of women for their shared pleasure. There was even one bit of local lore that had General Sherman, after deciding not to torch the city but to give it to President Lincoln as a Christmas present instead, paying a visit to the house to celebrate having concluded his devastating march across Georgia to the sea.
Like so many stories about the city, the tales were couched in mystery and wrapped in sensuality, and had been told and retold so many times that it was impossible to know how much was true and how much was the product of Savannahians’ vivid imaginations.
She’d never been inside before, partly because she knew she’d never be able to afford the prices, but mostly because it was a private club. A place, more rumors persisted, of assignations. Even, she’d heard whispered, the occasional orgy.
She might have a liberal view of sex, but if Sloan Hawthorne had plans along those lines for tonight, he was going to be disappointed.
The moment the black car glided to a stop at the curb, the Inn’s glass door opened and a man came down the stone steps.
A sudden, white-hot sexual craving zigzagged through her like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue summer sky, sending every hormone in her body into red alert.
Roxi recognized him immediately. She’d Googled him yesterday after talking with Emma on the Internet, and while on all those Web sites she’d visited he’d definitely appeared to be a hunk, up close and personal he was downright lethal.
His hair was warm chestnut streaked with gold she suspected was a result of time spent beneath the California sun, rather than some trendy Beverly Hills salon. He was conservatively dressed in a crisp white shirt, muted gray striped tie, and a dark suit, which looked Italian and probably cost more than her first car.
He opened the back passenger door. His eyes, which were as green as newly minted money, lit up with masculine appreciation as they swept over her.
“Wow. And here I thought the woman was fictional,” he murmured.
“Excuse me?” Her body wasn’t the only thing that had gone into meltdown. Sexual images of Sloan Hawthorne and herself writhed in her smoke-filled mind.
She told herself the only reason she was taking the hand he’d extended was that the car was low, her skirt tight, and her heels high.
Liar. Not only wasn’t she sure she could stand on her own, she was actually desperate for his touch. Not just on her hand, but all the other tingling places on her body.
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. Sheepishly rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I tend to talk to myself when I’m bewitched.”
“I see.” He wasn’t just drop-dead gorgeous. He was cute. It also helped to know that she wasn’t the only one who’d been momentarily mesmerized.
The butterflies settled, allowing Roxi to pick up a bit of her own scattered senses. “Does that happen often?” she asked.
“This is the first time.” His gaze swept over her—from the top of her head down to her Revved up and Red-y toenails, then back up to her face again. “That is one helluva dress.”
“Thank you.” It was a basic black dinner dress. That was, if anything that was strapless and fit like a second skin could be called basic.
“Did you wear it to bring me to my knees?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, then.” He flashed a grin that would’ve dropped a lesser woman to
her
knees. As it was, it had moisture pooling hotly between Roxi’s thighs. “You’ll be glad to know that it’s working like a charm.”
Like so many of the fine old homes in Savannah’s historic district, the Inn had several steps originally designed to keep the dust and mud from the unpaved dirt streets outside the house.
Sloan put a hand on her back as they started walking up the five stone steps, hip to hip. Although the gesture seemed as natural to him as breathing, Roxi’s knees were feeling a bit wobbly as a doorman in a burgundy uniform with snazzy gold epaulets swept the door open for them.
BOOK: Sylvia Day - [Georgian 01]
8.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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