Must Have Been The Moonlight (27 page)

Brianna stayed the rest of the night and for two nights afterward.

She remained in a chair beside his bed, feeding him soup, milk, and tea, anything that he could ingest for strength. She held vigil until exhaustion consumed her.

She’d been assured that Michael was strong. But he had proven vulnerable. She had no knowledge of head injuries, no true nursing skills. Only the will to see him live.

She took his hand and pressed her cheek to the warmth.

Blue veins protruded against the pale flesh. His knuckles were callused and scarred, his fingers long and tapered.

His were capable, dependable hands. They’d touched her with passion and gentleness. They’d touched her with so much more.

She didn’t know how long she lay with her face pressed against his hand, the hot tears running onto the sheets, and she didn’t see Michael turn his head, only felt his hand open
over her cheek. She lifted her face and saw that his eyes were open. Dawn was peering through the draperies. There was a slight frown between his brows, his handsome countenance dark with stubble.

“Why are you crying,
amîri
?” His voice was barely a whisper, and she wouldn’t have heard him at all if she’d not pushed back her hair and stared in shock. It was the first lucid sentence he’d spoken in days.

Blood had stained the bandage above his ear.

“Is that water?” His voice was raw-edged as he looked behind her.

Brianna twisted to reach the nightstand. She brought the glass to Michael’s lips and helped him drink. She could feel the steady pounding of his heart, the hardness and strength of him beneath his skin. When he finished, he lay back on the pillows, his eyes on hers. Unmoving.

“You’re lying in bed at your London residence.” Brianna laid a hand on his cheek to check for fever. “Your driver brought you here.”

“How long?”

“I…three days,” she whispered, a break in her voice.

“Come here.” The bandage heightened his dark, unshaven features, thrown into the shadows by the glow of the fire.

“I can’t. I’ll hurt you.”

“You’ll hurt me more if you struggle,” he rasped in weakness, but there was strength in his sinewy forearm as he pulled her wrist. “I want all three of you in bed with me. Christ…I’m seeing in triplicate.”

She laughed through her tears, and her tattered emotions were no barrier against Michael’s will or her need to touch him. She eased her cheek into the crook of his uninjured shoulder.

“I love you,” he breathed before she could raise her head and wonder at what he’d said. For a moment the world quit spinning.

Then his eyes closed and the sights that would haunt her for as long as she lived briefly faded in the wake of his
warmth and the soft rasp of his breath on her hair. She wanted to believe, if only she could.

He was dead.

As sure as God made angels, He’d created hell for men like him. Hell was lying paralyzed, dazed and stupid, unsure of his own name. Michael awoke to a splitting headache, a bandaged shoulder, and a sense of urgency driving him into wakefulness.

The canopy on the bed was opened. A fire crackled. Someone moved, and his gaze focused with determination on the figure of a man, his black coat opened to a vest and white collar.

The pungent scents of carbolic acid and peppermint tainted the air, and no longer came from the wall of his dreams. In his dazed and drowsy state, he stared at the man working his hands on a syringe and tried to comprehend why he seemed so familiar. Gradually his vision cleared. The man straightened and was preparing to give him a shot of morphine. It took Michael some moments to realize that he was lying in bed, the previous gaps in his memory closing like a door.

He reached out and, with incredible strength, grabbed the hand that held the syringe. “I swear on my life if you stick me with that again, I’ll snap your bloody wrist.” His mouth was sore from a cut that his teeth had made when he’d fallen, and he thought he might have slurred the words. “Drop it.”

“I believe my grandson has made his point clear, Blanchard.” The familiar voice drew Michael’s gaze to the chair on the opposite side of the bed. The dowager sat in a large wing-backed chair situated like a throne next to his bed, a lonely formal figure, dressed in black. “Leave us,” his grandmother directed the physician.

“But your Grace—”

“I think I am safe enough from my own grandson.”

Michael raised himself on his elbow. He wore no shirt and the sheet fell to his hips. He struggled to recall why his
grandmother was here, briefly questioning whether he was hallucinating.

“I see that you’re still as temperamental and unpredictable as you ever were, James,” she sniffed. “You’ve tried to kill Blanchard twice. No wonder everyone is scared half out of their wits of you.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. Clearly, she was no hallucination—or he was indeed suffering in hell and had only imagined that he’d ever left England. The sense of urgency increased. Recognizing the room now, he sought to understand the circumstances that put him here.

“You’ve had a severe injury to your head. Blanchard said you may not remember everything that happened.”

Michael refocused on his grandmother as if seeing her for the first time. She held a white cane in one hand, her palm absently clutching its ivory head as she endured his cynical assessment. Her hair had silvered completely since the years that he’d seen her last. He wasn’t annoyed by the diamond hardness in her eyes, only by the headache that grew and throbbed in his temples as he realized he wasn’t as unaffected by her presence as he thought he’d be.

Or wanted to be.

He murmured an oath, and pulled his legs over the side of the bed. “Where is my wife?”

“Surely, you’re not going to get out of that bed. James,” his grandmother gasped, “you’re
not
wearing any breeches.”

Michael hesitated long enough to see that she spoke the truth. The room spun. He’d moved too quickly, and his bandaged arm and shoulder made it difficult to move with any modesty. He wouldn’t have cared who’d seen him bareassed naked, but as it was, he was incapable of walking.

“Where is Brianna?”

His grandmother pushed to her feet, and he followed the awkward whisper of her gown as she halted in front of him. “She is a stubborn and determined chit, with not one obedient bone in her body.” A hand rose and yanked the bell cord beside the bed. “She’s been by your side since you were
brought here. She is asleep in the next room only because Dr. Blanchard gave her a sleeping potion.”

Michael lay back on the pillows and peered up at his grandmother. There was an inkling of softness beneath her starchy exterior. She thrummed her fingers on the head of her cane. “The constable has been here twice, as well as a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Your wife would not allow anyone near you. Protective chit that she is.” His grandmother sniffed dismissively. “I should have known that you would bring back a bride.” Her eyes twinkled. “Your mother was quite positive that you would never deign to return at all.”

“But you had every confidence that I would.” Michael gingerly rubbed his temple. “If I’d thought that you played a hand in nearly seeing me court-martialed—”

“Pah, you needed no help for that, James. Even after all of these years, it’s clear to me that you’re as obstinate as ever.”

He saw that his grandmother had difficulty standing without her cane. He brought his gaze up to look into eyes the same color as his. The heavy velvet curtains were open to the dreary winter light. A lifetime of memories surrounded this home and Aldbury Park, not all of them bad—and seemed to domino through barriers that fell like hollow oaks in his weakened state. His grandmother’s presence made him think of warm cider, the yule season, and a family that he would never know again.

“You changed your name,” she said, as if reading the momentary stillness and pouncing on the weakness she erroneously thought she saw there. “You may not like who you are, but you’ll take your rightful place at the head of this family with a duchess who will do the same.” The old dowager step-tapped to the door. “And since you brought one home for us already, I’ll assume that she understands her responsibilities. Your brother gave me my first great-grandchild within nine months.”

“Grandmother?”

Leaning on the cane, she turned to face her grandson.

His hair was black in the firelight, his sun-bronzed shoulders broader than when he’d left England. Long ago, she’d thought him soft. There was nothing left of that young man now.

“I dislike having my life meddled with.”

“I know.” She remained unmoved; then a sly smile touched her mouth as if she were privy to something he wasn’t. “But I never did think that Caroline was suited to you, James.”

B
rianna stood in the doorway of Michael’s room, unobserved by the occupants inside as she listened to her husband speak to the inspector from Scotland Yard. Sleet had dampened her cloak. She scraped the hair from her face, every muscle sore. The movement drew Michael’s gaze and she froze, poised in the trap of his misty-gray eyes. The lamplight had colored his hair black against the bandage on his head. After a few moments the inspector rose.

“I’ll be in touch, your Grace.”

Michael sat with his back braced against a stack of pillows. He wore a pair of black baggy pajama bottoms that clung low on his hips. A lamp burned on the table beside him. She folded her fingers into her skirt. More than once she’d looked down at her hands and caught them trembling for no reason at all. She had never considered herself a coward, so was having difficulty coming to terms with her fears, with the nightmares that had already awakened her twice this week.

Setting aside the papers, Michael carefully peered at her. Outside, the snow that had been falling for most of that day
had turned to sleet and tapped against the windows. “Where have you been this morning?” he quietly asked.

“I went to see Lady Alexandra.” She bent her attention to her gloves. “Are you hungry?”

“Sit beside me.”

Unfastening her cloak, Brianna moved into the room and laid it over a chair. All week, Michael’s mood had been like the weather, unpredictable and stormy.

Today she’d taken the amulet to Mr. Smith, if only to get it out of the house. Smith had once worked for Christopher and she trusted him. She didn’t care how much it cost her to trace its origins, if that was even possible. She intended to know what the talisman meant. She intended to see the people who did this to Michael hang.

“You saw Lady Alexandra a few days ago,” Michael said.

“I was worried about her,” she said evasively. “Ryan and Johnny aren’t in London. I really don’t wish to discuss this, Michael. I’m very tired, and you need your rest despite what you keep telling Blanchard.”

“The authorities found your reticule,” he said.

With a start, Brianna turned and saw that the contents had been laid out on the table near the hearth. She approached and stared down at the objects. But could not bring herself to touch the watch or the swan.

“Everything but the ring was inside,” he said.

Her handkerchief was missing as well. Maybe more. She didn’t know.

“It seems strange since the ring is the only item that can be traced back to you.”

And the only item that had meant anything to her.

Brianna had told Michael about the ring a few days ago. Straightening her spine, she reminded herself again that she was made of sterner stuff.

“Yesterday, you went to the gaols with the constable.” His voice drew her attention. “Tell me about the tattoo.”

Heart racing, she dropped her gaze to the papers he was
reading. “You’re not exactly in any condition to conduct this investigation, Michael. Besides, such mutilations are not unique enough to raise too many eyebrows. No one seemed impressed. Tattoos are common here.”

“Stay out of the gaols.”

Someone had brought a pitcher of water and shaving soap into the room, setting both on the nightstand. Brianna snatched up the towel and sat on the edge of the bed, her hair unbound to her waist, in no temperament to defend her actions to him.

She lifted a razor from the nightstand. Close to two weeks’ growth of stubble blurred the outline of his jaw. “You need a shave.”

He took the razor from her hand and set it down. “I can shave myself, Brianna.”

“Now you’re being difficult.” She would not lose her temper.

“Brianna…” He took her chin in his hands and made her look at him. Hard. “Whatever happened to me, I’ll deal with the people responsible when I’m capable of putting one and one together.”

“Deal with? As Omar was dealt with?”

“Omar got off easy,
amîri
.”

She moved to pick up the hot water pitcher and found her wrist captured. Her gaze snapped to Michael’s. His intensity and purpose of revenge frightened her. Then he was taking her down to his massive bed, turning so that she lay on her back and he was above her. Her palms splayed the hard muscles of his chest. He would injure himself.

“What are you doing, Michael?”

“I’ve missed you,
amîri
.”

His mouth opened over hers, and in a moment everything changed. He caught her breath on a hitch. His tongue swept into her mouth, possessive and all-consuming with the race of her emotions. She didn’t want to be afraid. The tip of his tongue touched the pulse at her throat, then moved to her ear. “I know what it’s like to see things that you’ll never for
get, Brianna. Right now, you’re suffering from shock.” He caught her chin so she could not pull away. “So for once in your life, understand that your days roaming the countryside are over. You’ll not leave this house anymore.”

“You can’t stop me from getting involved. I’m already involved.”

“You can’t even sleep at night. Your hands shake.”

That he would know appalled her. “Get off me!”

The more she struggled, the more she realized that Michael’s strength overwhelmed her with little effort. It should have been impossible to be so injured and so strong at once. There shouldn’t have been enough space in his body for two such opposing forces.

“You’ll heed me on this, Brianna—”

“Sir.” The butler knocked on the open door. “There is a Lord Bedford here to see you at your request.”

“Bedford?” Brianna stiffened. She recognized the name. “Isn’t he the renowned Lady Caroline’s father?”

“Brother,” a voice said from the doorway. “The current Duke of Bedford. Have I interrupted a marital tiff?” Bedford casually inquired.

Michael moved his body slightly and she shot out of bed, but his reflexes were still quicker than hers. He caught her wrist, bringing her up short as he came to his feet. “Do you understand, Brianna?”

Her jaw clamped shut.

She despised his bullishness. Resented that he thought himself impervious to death. He hadn’t been the one to suffer fear or weep tears. He hadn’t been the one to watch himself shot down. Brianna only knew that she never wanted to feel that kind of helplessness again.

For she would surely die.

“I understand that if this is how you behaved with your family, it’s no wonder they threw you out of England, your Grace.” Lifting the edge of her skirt, Brianna swept around Michael to leave the room.

Bedford stepped in front of her, and for the second time in
as many minutes, a man brought her up short. “Caroline told me that you’d written to her from Southampton, Ravenspur,” Bedford said to Michael, though his eyes were on hers. “But you didn’t tell her how lovely your wife was.”

Michael had written to Caroline from Southampton? Bedford lifted Brianna’s hand to his lips, yanking her gaze from Michael’s. But not before she saw the deadly look go over her husband’s face. She snatched her fingers away. Blond-haired and brown-eyed, the man clearly possessed an exceptional opinion of himself.

“Excuse me, both of you.”

Brianna swept past Bedford, and as Michael was left holding the other man’s gaze, he fought that familiar wave of antipathy—and a hint of something far more primal.

“You look like bloody hell, Ravenspur.” Bedford folded his arms and leaned against the desk. “The physician said there wasn’t much but your skull between that bullet and your brain.”

“My wife is off limits, Bedford.” Michael eased his arms into a black robe. “She’s having difficulty enough without putting her in the middle of our sordid little family history.”

“My sister wanted to be here, especially when the newspapers splashed this story across the front pages,” Bedford said. “A memorable homecoming, Ravenspur. It’s not every day that a peer of the realm is shot down on the street. You always did know how to impress the ton.”

Michael looped the belt at his waist. He and Bedford had once been the best of friends, hell-raising, hard-drinking aristocrats, reckless in their actions, arrogant to think that the world was theirs to command. Twelve years had passed since they’d last seen each other across a dueling field. Bedford had been Edward’s second that day Michael had nearly killed his brother. But antagonism aside, his old friend also served in the Foreign Services department, and it was in that capacity that Michael had specifically requested his help.

“Did you obtain the passenger manifest from the
Northern Star
?” Michael walked to his desk and dropped into the chair. “I need to know who was on that ship.”

Bedford crossed one ankle over the other. “I have a man on it. You are sure that someone followed you from Cairo?”

“As sure as I am of anything else.” The incident on the ship, the man he’d seen against the rail, the wedged door—all of it was detailed in a deposition Michael had given yesterday. “With Donally still in Cairo, I suggest that someone be sent to Lady Alexandra’s residence.”

“Already been done. Though I don’t see the danger to her. She and your wife both survived the caravan massacre—yet when the shooter could have killed your wife at the plaza, he did not, which leads to the conclusion that this was a robbery, as the constable believes, or you are the only one targeted. Since we don’t believe the attack on you was robbery motivated, that leaves the latter. Perhaps the official wigging our government gave you over that Omar affair wasn’t enough for someone. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve survived as long as you have.”

“Thank you. I’ll take that as your formal welcome home.”

Bedford brushed at his jacket sleeve. “Edward forgave you long ago. You should have at least kept in touch with the family.”

Michael eyed the brandy flask on the desk, his jaw tight. “I did what I did.” He sat back in the chair. “What do you want me to say?”

“Did you ever think about Caro at all?”

“Aye, I thought of her.” And there must have been something in his voice because Bedford raised his head.

He had thought of Caroline every night for three bloody years. He’d thought of her in Edward’s bed, bearing Edward’s children. He’d thought of her laughter. But there was nothing left of the young lord who had pledged his heart and his life to her forever. His callused hands were washed with the blood of a decade of campaigns. He’d survived
because he learned to fight his battles, and had known little tenderness these past years. Except that given by a young courageous Irish woman who had managed in some elemental way to scrape away the layers from his soul and invite him to live again.

He wanted only to protect her from the digressions of his past.

“I remember that she pledged herself to my brother,” Michael said. “I remember that she sent a message to meet me at the hunter’s cottage. Then stood silent when my brother accused me of cuckolding him.”

“She thought if Edward believed that you two were lovers, he’d call off the wedding.”

“Because she couldn’t stand up to your father? Her lack of logic was astonishing. I almost killed Edward over her. Where would her great plan have taken us both then?”

“She knows that now.”

“And has made you her sage emissary, I see.”

“She wants closure, Ravenspur. Before Edward died they’d both agreed to name you his daughter’s guardian,” Bedford said after a moment. “That should say enough about the accord Caro and your brother reached in their marriage. I believe my sister even grew to love Edward very much.”

Michael folded his hands on the desk. “I feel no animosity or need to extract revenge on her, if that’s what worries you both,” he said. “Nor did I come home to rehash old rivalries.”

The crackling fire in the hearth seemed louder in the silence. “Nor do I wish to rehash old rivalries,” Bedford rejoined after a long moment.

Finally, withdrawing an envelope from inside his jacket, Bedford set it on the desk. “The office has confirmed that there is a connection to the attacks that have been occurring in Egypt to the trafficking of Egyptian antiquities in London, and to the recent murder of a customs inspector. If that’s true, then the suspect who shot you may be our only
link. Can you tell me anything more than what we already have?”

Michael withdrew a pen and paper from a drawer. “I don’t know if the tattoo my wife saw on the man’s forearm is the same as those found on the arms of three men involved in the caravan massacres.” He dipped the nib in ink and scratched out the image in his head. Even with his arm immobilized, he could draw better than he could do anything else at present. “But if it is, you have your connection.”

Bedford held the paper to the light. “What is it?”

“A scarab,” Michael said. “A beetle of sorts. Unpleasant creatures. A thousand years ago the pharaohs used to bury dissenters alive with these. It would take four weeks to strip a man’s bones clean.”

“No bloody ballocks, Ravenspur?” Bedford said, ever the skeptic. “I’ve read about vengeance killings, also.” He folded the paper, careful not to smear the ink. “I suggest that you and your new bride get out of London until you recover. Let this office handle the inquiry.”