On a Wild Night (41 page)

Walking to the desk, he drew out the chair and sat. Scanned the account books and ledgers lining the room, noted new volumes, none unexpected, none out of place. His
lips twisted—naturally not. Looking down at the desk, he ignored the dust and reached for the first drawer on the left.

Pens, pencils, various odds and ends—and a piece of scrimshaw he'd given his father as a gift years ago. Martin considered it—knowing his father's propensity for rigidity it seemed odd he'd kept it there, where he would have seen it every day . . . frowning, he slid the drawer closed and opened the next.

Letters, old ones, yellowing with age—quite a pile. Curious, he lifted them out, shuffled through them . . .

They were all addressed to him. In his father's hand.

He stared. Couldn't imagine what . . . wondered when they'd been written.

There was only one way to find out. Reopening the top drawer, he found a letter opener and slit the first packet. He glanced only at the date, then opened the others, placing them in chronological order. The missives spanned nine years; the first had been written four days after he'd left—been banished.

Drawing a breath, he steeled himself, and picked up the first sheet.

 

Martin, my son—I was wrong. So wrong. In my arrogance and . . .

 

He had to stop, look up, force himself to breathe. His hand was shaking; he put the letter down—rose, paced to the window, wrestled with the latch and threw the sash up. Leaned out, welcomed the rush of cool valley air. Breathed deeply. Steadied his whirling wits.

Then, returning to the desk, he sat, picked up the letter and read every word.

Reaching the end, he stared at the door as the past as he'd known it disintegrated, then re-formed. He closed his eyes, for long moments sat absolutely still, imagining . . .

What the break must have meant to his mother.

What that, and the guilt and anguish poured out in the letter, must have done to his father. His righteous, always so
concerned over doing the correct thing—being seen to have done the correct thing—father.

Eventually, he opened his eyes and read the rest of the letters. The last included an enclosure from his mother, written just before her death. In it, she pleaded with him to forgive them both and return so his father could right the wrong he'd done. Her words, more than any, left him shattered.

 

He was still sitting in the chair behind the desk, those letters and others before him, the shadows lengthening on the floor, when the door opened.

Amanda looked in, hesitated. Emotion hung heavy in the room, not threatening, yet . . . closing the door quietly, she crossed to Martin's side.

He heard her, glanced up, blinked—he hesitated, then put out one arm and drew her near. Leaned his head against her side. The arm around her tightened.

“They knew.”

She couldn't see his face. “That you weren't the murderer?”

He nodded. “They realized within a few days, and sent off posthaste after me. But . . .”

“But what? If they knew, why were you banished all these years?”

He dragged in a shaky breath. “They'd arranged for me to go to the Continent, where all wealthy, titled scoundrels go when England gets too dangerous. But I decided if my father was effectively disowning me, then I didn't need to follow his instructions. Instead of going to Dover and then to Ostend, I went to Southhampton. The first boat to sail went to Bombay. I didn't care where I went as long as it was far from England. From here.”

“They couldn't find you?”

He flicked the pile of letters. “They sent couriers and others to search, but they never caught up with me because they were looking on the wrong continent. If they'd tried India, they'd have found me—I wasn't incognito.”

With one hand, she smoothed his hair. “But surely someone in London who'd visited or had dealings with India—”

He shook his head violently. “No—that's the worst part.” His voice sounded raw. She felt him draw breath. “They waited here—for me. It was like a form of penance—instead of living their lives as usual, going down for the Season, visiting friends, the shooting and hunting, they stayed here, in this house. From the day I left to the day they died, as far as I can tell they were here, waiting for me to come back and forgive them.”

And I never did
.

He didn't need to say the words; Amanda could hear them in his mind. His arm tightened about her; he turned his face to her side, for one moment blindly clung.

She stroked his head, tried but couldn't cope with the feelings—the empathy, the sympathy, the sheer frustration that all this—so much sadness—had come to pass. All because of one cowardly man. Whoever he was.

That last occurred to Martin. He disengaged, drawing Amanda down to sit on the padded chair arm. Lifting the stacked letters, he returned them to the drawer, then slid it shut.

What's done is done—the past is dead and buried
.

He couldn't go back and make his peace with his parents, but he could avenge them—and Sarah, even Buxton—see that whoever had destroyed their lives was brought to justice, then go on as his parents would have wanted and hoped he would.

He refocused. “I came here to find my father's entertaining ledger. He was a regimented man, exact, precise. He kept a book with all those invited for each family gathering, and marked down who turned up and when. He used to keep it in this desk . . .”

It was in the bottom drawer. He lifted it out, blew off the dust, then flicked through the pages.

“One thing I don't understand—if they knew, why didn't your parents clear your name?”

He glanced up, saw her concern for him in her eyes, managed a fleeting halfsmile. “It's in the letters. My father imagined making a formal declaration—a grand gesture before all the ton. It was the sort of thing he would do, in expiation.
But he wanted me there, by his side, when he did it.” He looked back at the ledger. “He died unexpectedly.”

The matter had been too painful a subject, a guilt so deep his father had not been able to face it, not without the promise of absolution his presence would have given.

“How did you hear that he'd died, that you could return?”

“After a few years away, I engaged a London solicitor to watch over my interests here. It was from him I learned of my mother's death, and more recently of . . . my father's.”

His tone alerted her; she glanced at the ledger. “What?”

It took a moment before he could say, “I told you my father loved family gatherings. After that Easter, there are no further entries.”

No further gatherings. They'd lived here, all alone, completely cut off from family and friends, as he had been. He sighed, felt the blame and the bitterness, his companions for years, dissipate, flow away; his parents had suffered far more than he.

Jaw setting, he placed the ledger open on the table. “This is the list of all those who attended that Easter.”

They pored over it, then turned back to the list for the previous New Year. Notations against the names indicated when various guests had arrived. Amanda hunted out a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil.

“Give me the name of every male of your mother's line who was here that New Year, on the second, then again at Easter, on the right date. Don't judge, don't exclude—we'll do that later.”

He picked up the ledger, sat back and obliged. Then they culled the list of those who, due to age or some other reason, could not have been the murderer.

“Twelve.” Amanda considered the list. “So he's one of these men. Now, what else do we know of him?”

Martin took the list, ran his eye down it. “You can cross off Luc and Edward.”

She took the list back, obliterated Luc's name, then hesitated. “How old was Edward at the time?”

“He's almost two years younger than Luc . . . he would have been sixteen, almost seventeen.”

“Hmm.”

“You can't seriously imagine he did it.” Martin reached for the list.

Amanda whisked it out of reach. “We have to be logical about this. I agree about Luc, but only because in full daylight no one could possibly confuse you. But Edward?” She raised a brow. “Think back—what was Edward like at sixteen?”

Martin looked at her, eyes narrowing, then waved. “Have it your way—leave Edward on the list for the moment.”

Amanda humphed. Edward had the same coloring as Martin, and while she wouldn't have said they were that similar now, then . . . ? If he'd been anything like the males in her family, by sixteen, Edward would have been nearly full grown. Easy enough to mistake at a distance.

Not that she seriously believed he'd done anything so horrible, but keeping stuffily righteous Edward's name on their list, having eliminated Luc's, seemed—however childishly—satisfying. “Very well. Now we need to check with the others who were here that Easter, and eliminate those gentlemen others can remember being with at the time of the murder.”

Martin looked at her. “How's Reggie?”

She grinned. “Much better, and quite ready to travel back to London.”

Martin rose. He rounded the desk to join her. “That's one other thing we know about our man. He was on the Great North Road two nights ago.”

She let him turn her to the door. “Actually, that's several things.”

He raised a brow at her.

“Our man was someone who knew
you
were headed up the Great North Road two nights ago—but not why, and not in what carriage.”

After making arrangements to leave the next morning, they retired early to their beds. Arms crossed, coatless, cravatless, shoulder propped against the frame, Martin stood at the bay window of the earl of Dexter's bedchamber and watched moonlight and shadows drift over the valley. Let the sight sink into him, along with an acceptance that the title, the room, the house, the fields he could see spread out before him, were now his.

His responsibility, his to care for.

Acceptance brought the first hint of peace—a peace he hadn't believed would ever again be his, that hadn't touched his soul for the past ten years.

It was within his grasp once more, all because he'd chased a golden-haired houri up the Great North Road. She'd been his beacon, the light that had drawn him first from the shadows, and now further, back into the life he'd been reared to consider his destiny.

Without her, he wouldn't be here. She'd given his future back to him. Intended to be an integral part of it.

His lips quirked. He thought back over the past weeks, over the vacillations, the qualifications. None seemed important anymore; they both knew where they were headed.

Thinking of her had the inevitable effect, knowing he
could go to her, now, tonight, and she would open her arms to him, welcome him . . .

But she hadn't yet given him her answer. The fact she'd felt it necessary to put miles between them just to think clearly . . . he couldn't, in all conscience—in all wisdom—act as if he took her decision for granted, even if he knew very well what it would be. Regardless of how hard she thought.

It wasn't logic that bound them, and logic couldn't tear them apart.

The latch clicked; he glanced back at the door, expecting Colly on some errand. Instead, his houri, dressed in a soft robe, slipped in. She looked around and saw him, closed the door, then headed toward him.

He turned, beyond surprise. He'd blown out the candles so he could see outside; the room was awash in moonbeams and shadows, elusive, mysterious, enticing.

She came to him with a soft smile on her lips, a gentle, questioning light in her eyes. She said nothing as she walked into his arms, reached up to lay a hand against his cheek. As she had so often before.

Their eyes met in the dimness—no demand, no command, nothing beyond the moment and them—the here and now of their reality.

She tilted her face, lifted her lips, drew his lips to hers. He bent his head—their lips melded, then, with the familiarity of practice, their mouths fused. Tongues tangled as the world fell away. Reality shrank—to this room, then further, until their senses knew no more than each other, nothing beyond the inch of air that caressed their heating skins.

Wrapped in the wonder she so effortlessly conjured, the promise of sensual delight, he sank his fingers into her curls, spread them wide—stood still as she unbuttoned his shirt, dragged it from his breeches, pushed it back over his shoulders. He shrugged, stripped the shirt off, flung it aside—reached for her. Captured her mouth again, drew her to him, molded her against him, then sent his hands skating, searching for the tie of her robe, easing the garment over her shoulders while she dealt with the buttons at his waist.

It was cool in the room but when they broke apart, she reached for the hem of her ivory nightgown, bunching the long skirt, then lifting it up, wriggling it over her head. He sat on the window seat, stripped off boots and stockings, watching her, then stood and dispensed with his breeches.

Naked, he reached for her as she emerged, tossing her curls free of the voluminous gown. She let it fall, drifting from her fingers to pool in the moonlight behind her as his hands closed about her waist and he drew her up on her toes against him. Skin to burning skin—need to aching need.

Amanda wound her arms about his neck and gave him her mouth, took his, urged him on. Tonight was theirs—whatever else happened, nothing could change this. Their oneness was absolute, unshakable—on that she harbored no doubts. Being in his arms, feeling the abrasion of raspy male hair against her sensitized skin, sensing the strength in the muscles that flexed and locked about her, most of all sensing the blessing of the place—of the room, of the house, the estate, the cliffs and the valley and the moon beyond his window—it all came together, coalesced and sent her heart soaring on a wave of emotion too deep, too powerful to be mere delight.

She was where she was meant to be—here, now, in his arms. She'd searched for so long to find her place—now she'd found it, found her future, found her life.

She was his—her decision was behind her, commitment was upon her. That was why she'd come to him tonight, to make it plain her acceptance was unconditional—no if, no but, no maybe.

He understood. She could feel it in the tide of possessiveness that rose through him and surrounded her. In the strength in his splayed hands as they held her to him, molded her provocatively to his aroused body—a promise, both of what he would give, and what he would take.

That was echoed in his kiss, bold and commanding, an intent so blatant, so primal, it made her knees weak.

Hands spread on his back, she clung, glorying in the powerful muscles flexing beneath her fingers, in the masculine
power that, regardless of all appearances, existed, first and last, to please her. To take pleasure in her delight, to let her pleasure him in return.

She set her mind to that, eased back so she could run her hands over his bare chest. It had been too long since she'd had him like this, naked in her arms, hot skin beneath her palms. He let her have her way, slid his hands down to her bottom and cupped, kneaded, held her up, her hips against his thighs while his tongue and lips teased, tantalized, made all manner of explicit promises. She let her hands roam, filling her senses with the curves of muscle and bone, with the weight of him, with the heat, the solidity—with his maleness.

He let her explore as she would, let her reach down and close her hand about his erection, rigid and burning, pressed against her soft belly. As before, the contrast of steel encased in peach silk fascinated; she stroked, circled with her fingers, slid them down, marveling, then closed her hand again.

Kissed him more urgently—and was swept away by his reaction, by the surging, rolling tide of possessive need. It crashed over them, pushed aside all restraint, drove them before it.

Not, to her surprise, to the bed, but to the bay window.

He lifted her to the window seat. “Kneel facing the window.”

She did, recalling another time, another place, when she'd faced a window and he'd appeared behind her. He urged her feet and calves apart, then stepped between; his hands closed about her hips as she shifted her knees to accommodate him. Then he pressed close.

His hands rose, closed about her breasts, possessively kneading, then his fingers found her nipples, artfully teased, caressed . . . then delivered on the promise, fingers squeezing tight, tight—until she arched, her head falling back against his shoulder as she shifted restlessly before him.

At her back, he was hard, ready, an eloquent assurance of all that was to come, but he didn't immediately join with her. Instead, his hands roved her body, flagrantly possessive, stamping his brand on every inch of her skin until she
writhed, on fire, hips pressed against him as she rocked, evocatively pleading.

One hard hand splayed over her stomach, anchoring her as the other slid between her thighs. He stroked, caressed, opened her—exposed the entrance to her body—then probed. He filled her with his long fingers, worked them until she sobbed and sank her nails into his thighs.

He drew his hand from her. She lifted her head, gasped, struggled to fill her lungs. Stared, dazed, at the moonlit beauty beyond the window as she felt him slide slowly, possessively, into her body. Felt every inch as he filled her, let her lids fall, felt her body ease and joyously accept him.

And then he was there, sunk in her softness, his stomach flush against her bottom. She exhaled, one long sigh of contented expectation. His arms wrapped around her, one crossing her chest, hand closing about one swollen breast, fingers stroking the aching nipple; his other arm wrapped about her hips, hand splayed across her lower stomach. Holding her trapped, captive.

Then he flexed his spine and sent pure delight rolling through her. Withdrew and thrust again. Sent a slow, repetitive undulation of hot pleasure coursing under her skin, spreading to every corner of her being, focusing every last fragment of her awareness on him, on them, on their joining.

In the last lucid corner of his mind, Martin gave thanks to the carpenter who had created the window seat—it was at precisely the right height. So he could hold her like this, her bottom flush to his groin, only slightly bent forward, his chest to her silken back, his hands full of her bounty, and effortlessly love her.

Effortlessly take her, all of her, slide so deeply into her and possess her so thoroughly that there would never again be any sense of separateness. Her body, hot, wet, yielding, closed lovingly about him; she rode his thrusts, each deep penetration, welcoming him in, encouraging him to linger, reluctantly letting him go—so he could return again, press deeper still, make her breath seize. Fill her deeply, give himself to her and claim all she was, take and give again.

It was elementally primitive, joining naked and free in the
night. Feeling the burning heat of their bodies contrast with the cool night air. Feeling the mystery of the night enclose them, the caress of the moonlight on their merging bodies a gentle benediction.

Feeling the hunger grow and swell and stretch, feeling it roar and race through their veins. Feeling desire explode and drive them, turning their bodies slick and hard and tight.

They were both gasping, valiantly clinging to the last shreds of sanity, wanting, desperately, to prolong the moment, so intense, so intimate, so compelling, when he lowered his head, ran his teeth along the taut curve of her neck, exposed as she arched her head back. And thrust deeper still.

“I'll never let you go.” The words were gravelly and harsh. “You know that, don't you?”

Her “Yes” was a whisper, a silver surrender wafting on the moonlight.

She lifted one hand from his thigh, reached up, back, touched his cheek. Lovingly traced as she had so often before, the simplest communion.

He turned his head, pressed his lips to her palm, then bent, pressed his lips to the base of her throat, tightened his hold on her.

Slipped the reins and let them free.

Let the power flow through him into her, felt it reflect back, thrust it back, felt the inexorable rise, the overwhelming rush, the irresistible escalation that caught them up, fused their souls, sent them soaring into bright ecstasy. Until they shattered.

The power gently ebbed, leaving them floating on a golden sea.

 

Martin woke before dawn as he had once before with Amanda's soft weight snuggled against him. This time, he closed his eyes and let contentment wash over him.

After wallowing for some moments, he sighed, turned on his side, and ran his hands slowly down her body. She murmured sleepily, arched, turned to him and wound her arms about his neck. He kissed her lingeringly, then murmured, “We'll have to separate when we get back to town.”

“Hmm . . . but not for long . . . and . . . not yet.”

Eyes still closed, she drew him to her.

He closed his arms about her, rolled her beneath him, and left tomorrow to take care of itself.

 

It took them most of the day to drive back to London. Onslow's arm wasn't healed sufficiently for him to drive; they left him recuperating under Allie's eagle eye, and drove down in Martin's curricle. Martin handled the reins with Amanda beside him; Reggie sat behind in the tiger's seat.

As the curricle sped south, Martin and Amanda outlined all they'd learned, all they'd concluded—all they suspected. Reggie listened, then soberly said, “He won't stop, y'know. If he was prepared to kill to see the matter left alone, when you appear again, he won't just let be.”

Expression grim, Martin nodded. “The question now is, should we let him know who he shot—or should we let him worry about that, too?”

Reggie voted to increase the pressure. “In that case”—Martin flicked his whip and urged the horses on—“we'll have to hide you.”

They accomplished that by taking a roundabout route once they reached London's outskirts; they approached the fashionable district along the south side of the park as the last of the daylight faded, slipped into the drive of Fulbridge House, and quickly rattled around into the coachyard behind it.

“No one saw us.” Amanda scrambled down.

“Not a soul who would recognize us, anyway.” Reggie climbed down from his perch more slowly.

Martin handed the reins to a groom, then turned to Reggie. “How's your head?”

Straightening from stretching his back, Reggie thought, then replied, “Not as bad as it was—the fresh air seems to have helped.”