When We Touch (35 page)

She shrugged. “You were right. I need to deal with Arianna on my own.”

He sighed. “Listen, I haven't been fair to you. I have an appointment in about an hour, but I can take a few minutes to talk to her. It's just I know that, if you two give it a chance, you'll get along fine.”

“It doesn't really matter, does it? In a few months she'll reach her majority . . . and you two will be together.”

He frowned. “She'll reach her majority . . . and we'll remain relations, and I rather hope we'll always be close.”

“How much closer could you be than man and wife?”

“Man and wife? You want me to marry my cousin?”

“I don't care what you do. Isn't it what your uncle wanted?”

Jamie stared at her, honestly puzzled. He shook his head. “No.”

“But I thought—”

“He did have someone in mind for her.”

“But I thought . . . it was someone rather . . . in the family.”

“Maggie, Charles was very fond of Justin. Oh, your brother made some mistakes, but most of us make a number of mistakes. I was nearly thrown out of the service. Justin got into gambling. Seems he's taking politics very seriously though, now. He is going to prove to be an asset to the Empire one day, I'm certain.”

Her knees suddenly felt very weak. He was not going to marry Arianna.

Of course, that didn't mean he had any really serious feelings for her....

She suddenly had to moisten her lips to speak, nonetheless. “Arianna isn't here,” she told him.

“Oh? I'm sorry I missed her. But I will speak with her.”

Maggie nodded.

He frowned. “Are you all right?”

She nodded again, hesitated, and said, “So . . . you have an hour.”

“Yes, just about.”

She smiled wistfully. “Would you talk to me for that time, then?”

For a very long time, he was just as still as she was. Then he walked to her, where she stood next to the old oak library desk. He brought his knuckles to her chin, and drew them slowly against her flesh. “Maggie, honestly, I'm very sorry. I was there, last night, you see.”

She leaned against him, cradling his hand against her face. “In Whitechapel?”

She didn't dare look at him.

“Yes. I saw them, both of the victims.”

She drew back from him. “Why? What were you doing there?”

“Trying to catch the man,” he said ruefully.

“Hundreds of policemen are trying to do just that,” she said.

“I know, but . . . the Queen is truly a good woman, and of course, worried about the monarchy as well, but . . . honestly, there's no one who can remain untouched by these terrible events.”

She nodded gravely. “But, Jamie . . . the policemen there know that area. They know the people. They could arrest the prostitutes many times, and don't. They could charge them for drunkeness, but they don't, they know the poor women can't pay the fines.”

“Do you know, that was one of the saddest things about last night was that they had Catherine Eddowes in a cell at a station for being drunk. She sobered up, and they let her out. And she met the Ripper.”

Maggie nodded. “She was one of mine,” she said softly. “She came, for bread, really, not because she was fascinated to hear me talk. I saw the sketch in the paper this morning. Poor woman, truly. She was a sad creature, so sad!”

“And quite out of her misery now,” Jamie said, closing his eyes for a minute. “Well. I should go.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“No?”

“You said you had an hour.”

“Yes. But I
should
leave.”

“I wish you wouldn't,” she told him.

“Oh?”

“I wish that you would just hold me,” she told him, and though he was close, so close she could almost feel the texture of his coat, she didn't move. She gazed into gray eyes as deep as the mist at night.

He reached out and pulled her against him, his hand cradling the base of her skull, fingers moving through the length of her hair. She laid her hand against his chest, and felt the beat of her heart rise to an erratic pulse. For a moment, she felt his tenderness. And it was very sweet, something to be cherished. She felt, as well, the deep depression and futility that had assailed him, and experienced a tremulous moment of fear herself. Life was fragile, no matter whom one might be, from the most noble lord to the poorest, most pathetic of humanity.

Fragile, and precious, and she was learning that there were moments that must be taken, and savored.

“An hour . . .” she murmured.

“An hour, and I am glad to hold you.”

She leaned back her head, smiling very slowly as she looked into his eyes. “Well, to be quite frank, I rather wish you would do more.”

A grin crept to his lips. “In the library? I don't believe you're referring to the enjoyment of a good book.”

She shook her head. “It's a large house, and offers other rooms. Such as mine.”

“What will the servants say?” he asked her.

“I haven't the least idea. Nor could I care less.”

“Ah, but people could talk.”

“Talk about
me?
In any scandalous way? Imagine!”

“Well, then . . . I can admit, a few moments of a very tight hold upon you would be a delightful moment of bliss in an otherwise agonizing day.”

“I'll go first. Then, perhaps the servants won't notice.”

“The ever present Mrs. Whitley won't notice?” he queried.

“Ah, well, so she will. But we won't let her in. Then, all her gossip must be pure conjecture,” Maggie told him, and she swept by him, exiting the room.

She ran up the stairs then, wondering at the frantic beat of her heart. She was behaving quite insanely. Like a young girl with a first crush. Emotions tumbled through her with a drastic edge.
He was not intended for Arianna, or she for him, or any such thing.

She flew into the bedroom, swore that she would think no more. What she had then was meant to be seized with all abandon, and reflection could come later.

She had scarcely entered the room before he came behind her, carefully locking the door, and turning back to her. She felt her heartbeat, still racing at her pulse, and then, again, watching him, it was as if she froze. As he walked toward her, she met his eyes, with everything that was open and honest in her own, and in the seconds it took for him to walk to her, she thought of all that had combined to make her fall so heedlessly and hopelessly in love. Definitely, those eyes, gray, misting, light with laughter upon occasion, so very grave at others. His voice, the same, gentle in tenderness, deep in passion. Hands . . . the way they could move upon her, and the strength they offered when needed. All that was within his heart and soul, vibrant, never easy, volatile . . .

He reached her, and their eyes continued to meet for the longest time, infinite heartbeats, and then, his lips touched down upon her throat where that heartbeat raced. She leaned into him, craving ever more, and he obliged. Fingers upon the ribbons of her bodice, catching the tiny buttons of her skirt. And when those had fallen, he came to his knees, intent upon the removal of shoes and hose. The brush of his fingers created minute sensations that electrified and multiplied, streaking in hot little lines up her thighs. The pressure of his lips against her kneecaps seemed the most intimate and erotic stroke that ever existed. And yet, he proved that such a touch could be greater still, for his touch and kiss moved on, and she began to shake until her knees gave, and she came down before him, falling into his arms, finding his mouth with her own, and igniting a fire where they knelt there on the floor, so aware that she was alive, that she was in love, and that this touch was the ultimate luxury she had ever known.

Somewhere soon, they were up together, and his clothing became strewn, and their passion and hunger were as volatile as ever. And yet it was all the sweeter, for there were those moments when urgency was staved, and their eyes would meet again, wonder would fill them, and if not the desperate love she felt for him, at least he returned something of the simple awe of the fire that raged between them. Then time became of the essence. Simple need raced raw between them, and still, the need between them to touch everywhere, elicit the greatest hunger, know the total diving into the flesh and soul of another, the drowning there. Until, at last, they came together, he gloved within her, she filled with him, and the last fever rose in a frenzy, climax like lightning, and the slow sweet reality of drifting downward, flesh cooling, the tangle of sheets and limbs, and the awareness again of the world, and the fact that he must go.

They remained entwined together for some time before he stirred at last, his arms closer around her, pulling her tight, and then he released her and rose.

Maggie remained where she was, watching him, his every movement.

He walked to her at last, gently brushing her lips with a kiss, and saying, “It is another woman dragging me away. The Queen,” he told her.

“You owe me no explanations of your time,” she said softly.

He smiled. “I wish that there need not be such explanations for my time.” Regretfully, he rose, dressed, and headed for the door. He paused there.

“Maggie, please, at this time, stay out of Whitechapel.”

She held silent.

“Maggie?”

“I know what's happening there, Jamie.”

He seemed satisfied that her grave words meant that she was in total agreement.

* * *

The Queen was naturally and visibly distressed.

“Two, Lord Langdon. Two women horribly butchered in one night!”

“Your Majesty,” Jamie told her, “I was there, throughout the night. I watched the police work the streets. There are plainclothesmen in abundance; despite their differences, the head of the City and Metropolitan forces have every available man working the district.”

“So. The greatest city in the world is just to be held hostage by one maniac?” she said, and didn't await an answer. “And what do you make of this writing on the wall! Sir Charles Warren was afraid there would be horrible riots, that common folk, and maybe others, would blame it all on our Jewish population. But others are saying that it gives reference to the Masonic lodge, to the rites they practice, and therefore, there must be some government conspiracy, that the highest in the land are protecting a heinous killer!”

She was outraged, so indignant, that she was shaking.

“They are going so far,” she said softly, “as to suggest that Eddy is responsible! That he had some silly affair, and government officials are killing women who might know about it! Next, they'll be saying that I'm out there as a Jill the Ripper, doing these deeds myself!”

“Your Majesty, no one would ever suggest such a thing.”

“But they will blame Eddy, or his tutors, or his friends—they are looking for a scapegoat.”

“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, people will talk, and we are the greatest country in the world, and therefore, they have their right to talk. But you, madam, with your upright life and fever for the plight of the poor prove that you are a great and good Queen.”

She flashed him a wise and angry look. “Don't try to soothe me! Do you know that Eddy is not even in London? He is in Scotland, hunting!”

“Then let that be known.”

“Some have said that the police officials are Masons—and therefore protecting the killer!”

“It's to my great indignation that the words on the wall were erased, no matter what they said,” Jamie told her. “They were evidence.”

“Perhaps they weren't even written by the killer.”

“Perhaps not. We may never know. They were erased.”

“And yet, what does it matter! Every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the streets knows exactly what was written! Just as they know the truly wretched and ghastly details of what was done to the one poor woman. Jamie, this lunatic must be stopped.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Get back out there, and don't fail me. You uncle would not fail me.”

He lowered his head for a moment. No, Charles had never failed her. But here she was, expecting him to go out and accomplish what hundreds of trained police had not managed to do. The only real encouragement in his mind was the fact that she was probably planning on having this exact same conversation with many of the lords and sirs and gentlemen of the realm that day.

By the time he left the grandeur of the palace, the afternoon was already waning toward the evening.

Newspaper boys were on the streets, everywhere, hawking, and selling their papers.