Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (25 page)

No, Rannoch did not want her back. She had well and truly burned that bridge. Nor was it Rannoch’s style to summon her there for something so simple and, to Rannoch, so meaningless. The marquis chose women the way most men bought horses. He would simply have set that bloodhound Kemble on her trail, then ordered his man of affairs to pay her an unambiguous visit. Antoinette shivered with sudden unease, then forced her attention back to her path. Beyond, she saw Gun Wharf, and, after striding past, she turned right onto yet another footpath. Carefully, Antoinette picked her way down, skirting broken bottles and filthy rags as she approached the river’s edge.

The appointed meeting place looked just as the message had described it. Again, she shuddered, staring at the bleak plank walls, now warped and weathered, spotted with black from the incessant damp.
Why here?
The decrepit shack looked as if it would smell and look even worse from the inside, and Antoinette was hardly the most fastidious of women. Along the water, the wind kicked up, blowing in the odor of mud flats and fish guts. Disturbed by her intrusion, the gulls overhead began to shriek and wheel, their white wings held at stiff, odd angles, like frosted door hinges, until at last she reached the squalid shack.

Gingerly, Antoinette pulled open the makeshift door and stepped inside, slowly allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It smelled miserable, dark and dank with the stench of things Antoinette preferred not to think about. Repressing the urge to gag, Antoinette spun about and thrust the door back open, just enough to let in a little light and air. She stared across the Thames, watching as a barge passed, riding high in the water, her cargo apparently disgorged somewhere upriver. With a somewhat clairvoyant desperation, Antoinette found herself wishing that she, too, were on the barge, sailing far and forever away from the squalor of London and her life. At that unsettling thought, she drew in a deep, unsteady breath.

It was to be her last.

A cold, determined hand whipped around her neck. Powerful fingers seized the heavy strand of rubies, yanking it taut, choking off her breath. Antoinette’s arm dropped. The rickety door clattered shut. Her bloodcurdling scream weakened to a hacking, garbled cough. She swam in darkness. Instinctively, she arched backward. She clawed wildly at her throat, then grappled for her knife. It was useless. With a burst of desperation, Antoinette flailed, then kicked, almost catching her attacker in the groin, only to find that another arm lashed about her waist and jerked her off her feet.

Snared in her attacker’s ruthless grasp, the necklace bit into her neck, digging into the soft, tender flesh of her throat. Dimly, she heard the silk of her gown rip as she fought to free her arms. It was hopeless. Weakly, she kicked once more, but the black, stinking depths of the river were rising up around her.

The remaining struggle was brief. Antoinette weighed but eight stone, her assailant significantly more. Yanking the chain tighter still, he strengthened his grip about her frail ribs until she felt two of them crack in rapid succession. The sound was a deep, disembodied sensation, as if her body no longer belonged to her. Soon, there was no pain. Antoinette fell limp and gave herself up to the dark, swirling waters, allowing them to take her deep beneath the surface.

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind!

—J
OHN
D
RYDEN

E
lliot turned his sleek black geldings deftly into the sweep of the circular drive, arriving at Chatham in time to observe a pleasantly familiar, if somewhat laughable sight just inside the front gardens. Michael and Theo, shovels in hand, stood ankle-deep in a freshly turned flowerbed. Their shoes and stockings had been discarded in a heap, and streaks of mud stained their clothing. On the ground alongside them sat a battered tin pail filled with soft dirt. A plump brown worm was already snaking its escape down one side.

After stopping to exchange pleasantries, Elliot was immediately and enthusiastically assailed by alternating pleas to drive his “bang-up” curricle, supervise an afternoon fishing expedition, and then escort them to a clandestine prize fight in Tottenham on Saturday. Elliot’s good humor now fully restored, he agreed to consider the first request, consented readily to the second, and refused the third out of hand. Then, waving good-bye, he snapped the horses forward.

Evangeline’s lugubrious, stoop-shouldered butler greeted Elliot at the portals of Chatham Lodge and informed him, in his perpetually gloomy voice, that the young mistress was sequestered in the studio. After exchanging mindless remarks about the weather and depositing his bag at Bolton’s feet, Elliot convinced the old retainer that he need not bestir himself for a formal announcement, then he eagerly made his way toward the studio. Unaccountably happy to be back at Chatham, Elliot strode quickly down the long hall in hope of surprising Evangeline with his early arrival. It was he, however, who was to be surprised.

Evangeline unthinkingly ignored the soft knock at her door. Only when the creaking protests of an ancient hinge betrayed her visitor did she lift her chin to see Elliot standing in the doorway. For a moment, his presence did not fully register, and she must have stared dumbly at him.

“Evangeline?” His inquiry was solicitous and soft. “I apologize for interrupting. I knocked . . . but perhaps you did not hear?”

With the back of her hand, Evangeline discreetly wiped away the traces of her tears and refolded Peter Weyden’s short missive. “No, indeed, Elliot. You are not interrupting. Do come in. How pleasant that you are early. I was just—just—”

“—reading some bad news, I should say,” he finished softly, quickly closing the short distance between them. He stood looking down at her with frank concern. “At least, the look of your eyes would indicate as much.”

Evangeline inhaled deeply, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the ragged hitch in her breath. “No, not the best of news, I suppose. But I am well. Or soon shall be, in any event.” She forced a more cheerful expression and rose to her feet. “Have you just arrived? I own, I’m exceedingly glad to see you.”

“You have not the look of a happy woman, Evie.” Elliot smiled warily, shifting his feet somewhat anxiously. “And yes, I have just arrived. Moreover, I have been entreated to tell you that Michael and Theo propose that we all make an afternoon of fishing. They are poking about for worms in your newly turned flowerbed even now.”

“By all means, Elliot,” she agreed, hiding her disappointment. “You must join them.”

“We both know that I came to see you, Evie,” he responded quietly. “Will you not come, too? It might be just the thing.” He extended his large, well-manicured hand across the desk in invitation.

Evangeline tried to smile up at him. “I thank you, Elliot, but I cannot. I have something I must do, and I fancy that I would not make for the best of company just now.”

With a silent nod, Elliot turned and slipped from the room. Reluctantly, Evangeline turned her attentions back to Peter’s letter, trying to suppress the unexpected surge of isolation left behind in Elliot’s wake.

She was skimming the letter for a third time when Elliot returned. Lifting her eyes to his, she watched him stride across the room to take, without invitation, the seat across from her desk. As usual, he looked exceedingly large and elegantly masculine as he leaned forward in the delicately carved chair. Elliot propped his elbows up on the edge of her desk and touched his fingertips together, one by one, with purposeful deliberation. Then he touched his lips tentatively to the steeple of his index fingers and stared intently into her eyes.

“I have sent the others on with Gus,” he said softly. “Now, what is it, Evangeline? What pains you so greatly that you refuse to speak of it—even to me?”

Evangeline pulled open the top drawer of her desk and dropped Peter’s missive summarily inside. “It is nothing,” she replied. Then, as she placed one hand on the desktop as if to rise, Elliot reached swiftly out to cover it with his own.

“Evie.” His voice held a gentle caution. “You’ll not put me off. It is time we were honest with each other.”

Suddenly, Evangeline wanted to confide in him. Moreover, she wanted to take comfort from him. The shadowy presence of her father’s family had turned to a darkly ominous cloud, and in the face of it Evangeline desired nothing more than to be pulled into Elliot’s arms and comforted. In compromise, she gave in to only half her desires. “It is my grandfather,” she answered softly. “He is dead. Last night.”

Elliot’s confusion was plain, but he tightened his grip on her hand. “I’m so sorry, Evie. I thought—that is to say, I suppose that I had assumed you and your siblings were now alone in the world, save Mr. Weyden?”

“True enough. As you already know, Papa was estranged from his family. Yet one cannot help but be sad for—for what might have been. For what will never be.”
And for what might come to pass
, she added silently.

“Then it was his great loss, Evie,” replied Elliot softly. He rose from his chair, still holding her hand, and pulled her from behind the desk. “Come with me into the gardens? No one will disturb us.”

Evangeline nodded, then looked up at him in gratitude. Suddenly, Elliot pulled her lightly into his arms and pressed his lips hard against her forehead. Almost immediately, he released her, then, taking her by the hand, urged her toward the studio window and pushed it open. Together they walked out into the quiet of the sun-dappled gardens.

Arm in arm, they silently strolled past the arbors and shrubbery until at last Elliot urged her down beside him onto a secluded bench. “Come here,” he said, almost roughly, then dragged her back into his arms, burying his face in her hair. “Ah, Evie, I cannot resist. I have missed you. No, far worse! I’ve counted the minutes until I could return. And to see you now, with tears in your eyes, and to be unable to make things right . . .”

She said nothing and felt his warm lips brush her temple as she tucked safely into the crook of his arm. He felt so good, solid and comforting. How long had it been, Evangeline wondered, since she had enjoyed such a luxury? Too long, she decided. For far too many years, she had struggled alone, aided only by Winnie and Peter. It was not enough. Elliot, however, with his warm, innate strength, felt like more than enough. That fact should have concerned her, but for the moment she resolved only to savor his closeness.

“Now that I am here,” he continued, “I cannot bear to see you unhappy.”

“I am not, precisely, unhappy,” she countered, letting herself relax against him.

“But you are distraught,” he added gently. Letting his hand slip down her shoulder, Elliot began to rub her upper arm in gentle, soothing motions. “Did you miss your grandfather a great deal?”

“I—no, I did not,” she heard herself admit. “I did not know him.”

“And yet you cry for him?” His tone was soft and non-judgmental.

“Yes,” she answered uncertainly, tilting her chin to look up into the unfathomable depths of his silvery gaze. “But I cannot explain . . . ”She let her voice trail off uncertainly. “He was weak, I suppose, standing aside whilst my step-grandmother forced his children to choose between duty and dreams.”

“Like your father and his work?”

“Yes, and his love for my mother. And other things, too, but oh, Elliot! Please let us talk of something else.”

Evangeline saw a flash of guilt play across Elliot’s face. “Very well, Evie,” he answered quietly, pulling her closer. “We shall say no more.” Instead, he lifted his hand to cup her jaw and tenderly brush the swell of her lower lip with his thumb. Slowly, he dipped his head to meet her mouth with his.

It was a sweet gesture of consolation, but the moment Elliot’s breath brushed her cheek, Evangeline’s need flared hot inside her, and she willed the kiss to be something more. She wanted to taste him, to draw comfort from him, to take him inside her again. When he pulled away, his luxuriant lashes feathered darkly against his cheeks, and, with a sound of protest, Evangeline slipped her arm up and around the taut muscles of his shoulder to draw him nearer.

His eyes flickered open, a flash of quicksilver beneath sensuous, hooded lids, then Elliot answered her by kissing her again, deeply this time, parting her lips expertly, then surging inside in a smooth, intimate act of possession. Evangeline stroked her hand across the breadth of his shoulder, then slid it up to caress the silken hair at the nape of his neck. Sinuously sliding his tongue back and forth against hers, Elliot moaned low into her mouth and let his hand slide from the curve of her jaw, along her arm, and down to cup her breast.

When her nipple hardened against his urgent touch, Evangeline felt no shame, just perfect, pure desire. She understood that she wanted this man in the most intimate way a woman could want a man, and when he gradually pulled his mouth away again, his palm still resting against her swollen breast, Evangeline wanted to cry out at the loss.

“Evie,” he rasped, his breath shallow. “Darling, we have to talk.”

“Talk?” Suddenly alert, Evangeline slid upright from her position in his arm and blinked, barely noticing that his hand dropped from her breast to rest lightly at her waist. “About what?” she managed to say. She felt panic begin to ease its cold grip about her heart.

Elliot pulled his hand from her waist and speared his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I’m not sure,” he muttered vaguely, staring at the ground now. “Things—us—damn it, I just don’t know.”

Behind them, a honeybee droned industriously, hovering through the humid air from one blossom to the next. The brilliant sun had shifted and now cast a shaft of pure afternoon light across the garden path along the bench. Elliot still stared into it as Evangeline inhaled deeply and repeatedly, drawing in the thick, familiar smell of moist earth and coming rain, until she felt both her panic and her passion subside. Then, slowly, Evangeline pulled away from him, mumbling some vague excuse about being needed inside the house. She walked toward the rear entrance, all the while feeling Elliot’s heated glare upon her, until she pulled open the door and entered the hall.

It was a difficult job, yet it had to be done. As did most things, therefore, it fell to him, thought MacLeod with a resigned shrug. Such had been his opinion last week, at any rate. Now, however, his hostess poured the tea with an artless grace, dribbling it across the saucer and onto the knee of his breeches. With a patient sigh, the old man tugged a square of linen from his pocket. Fortunately for MacLeod, the tea had long since cooled.

“Verra gude, Miss Zoë,” the butler encouraged. “Howiver, when ye guest asks tae have more tea, ye should take the cup frae his hand intae your ain. ’Twill work a wee bit better than thrusting the pot o’er the table tae pour at a moving target.”

From across the table, Zoë giggled and put down the child-sized porcelain pot with an inattentive thump. “Sorry, MacLeod,” she answered, wriggling in the tiny chair he kept on hand for her frequent visits to his sitting room. She beamed sweetly at him from beneath a riot of curls, then sighed. “Do you think my papa will ever let me pour for him?”

MacLeod nodded solemnly. “Aye, miss. I’m verra sure he’ll do. Ye want only a bit o’ practice.”

And Rannoch might do just that, the old man decided, taking a delicate sip from a china cup scarcely bigger than the end of his thumb. The butler was secretly pleased that his lordship’s attitude toward Miss Zoë had undergone a remarkable change of late. The child was showing a newfound confidence, and that was a good thing indeed.

Zoë smiled and leaned forward to lift a plate carefully. “Now I must pass you these tea cakes, MacLeod. But take only one or two,” she instructed. “More than two is considered bad
ton!
” She giggled again, took three, and passed the plate.

MacLeod made his best effort at a frown. “Och, now! Guests first, Miss Zoë,” he admonished. He took one cake, then bit into it. “Umm, ’tis a fine, fair cake, ma’am. Ye maun ask your cook tae give me the recipe.”

“By all means, Mr. MacLeod,” she answered primly, tossing her thick hair back across her shoulder. “It would be an honor.”

A discreet cough at the door to MacLeod’s sitting room forestalled any response. A powdered footman, looking very ill at ease, held an outstretched salver bearing a calling card. “Beg pardon, sir. There be a caller abovestairs asking for his lordship.”

MacLeod looked at him sharply. “Didna ye tell him that Lord Rannoch is no at home and is no expected?”

The footman nodded effusively. “Aye, sir. I did. He wants to see someone in authority. Someone besides meself, sir, is what he meant—but he did ask particular-like if the marquis had a secretary. I put him in the yellow salon.”