I Thee Wed

  There was a short silence. Emma looked at Victoria’s gloved fingers. They were tightly folded on her lap.

  “It was very kind of you to lend your assistance to him in this venture, madam,” Emma said quietly. “It is very important to him because he feels a great debt of gratitude to his friend, Mr. Lorring, and to the monks of Vanzagara.”

  “How very odd.”

  “Perhaps. Nevertheless, he is committed to finding the villain who stole the book and the elixir recipe. After the events that transpired today, he had nowhere else to turn except to you.”

  “Astonishing.” Victoria gazed fixedly out into the darkness. “Edison has certainly never needed any help from me before.”

  “Oh, but he has. The thing is, he did not know how to ask for it. And you, I am sorry to say, were not very good at offering it.”

  Victoria’s head snapped around. Her fierce, strangely desperate eyes pinned Emma. “What do you mean?”

  “As I told you, the two of you have much in common when it comes to stubbornness and pride.” Emma smiled wryly. “They are no doubt a few of those delightful traits that you mentioned. The sort that are passed down through family bloodlines.”

  Victoria’s mouth tightened. Emma braced herself for a blistering scold.

  “Are you in love with my grandson?” Victoria asked instead.

  It was Emma’s turn to go rigid and focus on the scene outside the window. “An acquaintance of mine recently reminded me that it is most unwise for anyone in service to fall in love with his or her employer.”

  “That is not an answer to my question.”

  Emma looked at her. “No, I suppose it is not.”

  Victoria searched her face. “You are in love with him.”

  “Do not concern yourself, madam. I assure you, I will not make the mistake of assuming that he loves me.” Emma sighed. “That is how the disasters always seem to come about, you see. False assumptions.”

  It was not yet dawn when Emma heard the light, rapid ping, ping, ping on the window of her bedchamber. She was still wide awake. Her thoughts had been churning ever since she had climbed into bed. A part of her was waiting but she did not know why.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  Rain, she thought. But that made no sense. The moon was out. For the past two hours she had been idly tracking the band of silver that was moving so slowly across the carpet.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  Not rain. Pebbles.

  “Edison.”

  She scrambled out of bed, grabbed her wrapper, and hurried to the window. She opened it quickly, leaned out, and looked down.

  Edison stood in the garden directly below. He had his greatcoat hooked over one shoulder. His cravat hung loose around his neck and his head was bare. The moonlight cast cold shadows around him as he watched her window.

  She was so relieved to see him safe and sound that she felt slightly dazed.

  “Are you all right?” she called softly.

  “Yes, of course. Come downstairs to the conservatory. I want to talk to you.”

  Something was wrong. She could hear it in his voice.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  She closed the window, tightened the sash of her wrapper, and went to the table to pick up the candle.

  She let herself out into the hall, tiptoed past Victoria’s door, and descended the back stairs into the kitchen hall. She walked quickly to the conservatory door and opened it. She saw at once that she would no longer need her candle.

  Moonlight flooded the glass-walled room with a radiance that etched the plants in silver. Palm fronds loomed against the backdrop of the night outside the windows. Broad leaves cast strange shadows. Massed’ flowers, stripped of their exotic hues, lined the benches. An earthy mix of exotic scents floated in the air.

  “Edison?”

  “Here.” He moved out of the dark place between two leafy trees and came toward her down a moonlit aisle. “Keep your voice down. I do not want to wake the household.”

  “No, of course not.” She blew out the candle and set it aside. “What happened? Did you find the Vanza fighter?”

  Edison came to a halt in front of her. He tossed his greatcoat over the nearest workbench. “I found him.”

  The neutral quality of his voice alarmed her as nothing else could have done at that moment.

  “What is it?” She swallowed uneasily. “Did you … were you … forced to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Thank heavens for that much. What did you do with him?”

  Edison leaned back against one of the pillars that supported the glass roof. He folded his arms and looked past her into the darkness outside the windows. “I put him on a ship bound for Vanzagara.”

  “I see.” She hesitated. “Was he as young as you suspected?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that is the problem. He reminded you of yourself at that age.”

  “Sometimes you are entirely too perceptive, Emma. It is an irritating habit in an employee.”

  “It was a logical conclusion,” she said apologetically.

  “You are right.” Edison exhaled deeply. “He reminded me of the fact that I was not the only young man who ever found himself adrift in the world. He also reminded me of how desperately young men search for ways to prove to themselves that they are men. How those of us who were born as bastards seek some semblance of personal honor. Yes, he reminded me of myself at that age.”

  She touched his arm. “What troubles you now? Do you doubt that you did the right thing?”

  “By sending young John Stoner off to Vanzagara? No. If there is any hope for him, it lies there. As much as I may scorn the metaphysical nonsense spouted by the members of the Vanzagarian Society, I must admit that it was my experience on the island that gave me what I needed to find my place in the world.”

  “Did you discover the identity of the rogue master from this John Stoner?”

  “No. But I will know the rogue when I find him. It’s only a matter of time now.”

  He sounded remarkably unconcerned about that aspect of the situation. She knew that his thoughts tonight were centered on the past. The encounter with John Stoner had awakened too many memories. She ached to comfort him but she had no notion of how to get past the wall he had built long ago to protect himself.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He said nothing. He simply looked at her.

  “I am so sorry that tonight you looked into a mirror and saw yourself as a young man.”

  For a moment he did not react.

  “I do not think of myself as so very old yet,” he finally said very dryly.

  “Oh, Edison.” She did not know whether to laugh or cry.

  Impulsively she put her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. With an uncharacteristically brusque, almost jerky movement, he wrapped his arms fiercely around her.

  “Emma.” His mouth came down on hers as though the world might end in the next five minutes.

  It was not comfort he sought, she realized. It was something else, something more primitive and far less civilized. It was her turn to hesitate. This was the second time she had stood on this particular precipice. On the first occasion she had learned just how dangerous it was.

  But the hunger in Edison ignited a blaze within her. The gentle urge to comfort him was transformed into a desperate need to respond to the desire in him.

  His mouth never left hers as he lifted her off her feet. He used one hand to force her lower body against his own. He was fiercely aroused.

  “I had to see you tonight,” Edison whispered roughly against her mouth.

  “Yes.” She pulled her head back an inch or so and lifted her hands to rake her fingers through his hair. “Yes, it’s all right, Edison. I am glad you came to me.”

  “Oh, God, Emma.”

  He lowered her slowly to her feet as though the feel of her was both a pleasure and a keen agony. Then he picked up his greatcoat and tossed it on
the floor. He turned back to her, shrugged out of his black evening coat, and cast it aside. He met her eyes.

  “Emma?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, Edison.”

  She took a step toward him. With a husky groan he pulled her close again and then he drew her down. The heavy woolen greatcoat could not disguise the hardness of the stone floor, but the garment was warm and it carried a faint hint of Edison’s scent. Emma inhaled deeply. Excitement and need poured through her.

  Edison gathered her to him.

  This was right, she thought as the heat of his body enveloped her. It had to be right.

  She shivered when she felt his hand slide between her thighs.

  “This time,” she whispered, “you will kindly remove your shirt.”

  “This time,” he promised as he yanked at the fastenings, “I will do anything you ask of me.”

  He got the pleated white shirt undone, but before he could wrestle himself free of it, Emma spread her fingers across his bare skin. She could not see his chest because he was leaning over her, his broad shoulders blotting out the moonlight. But she could feel him. The texture of the crisp hair and the shift of his muscles enthralled her.

  “You are magnificent,” she said softly. “Strong and beautiful.”

  “Oh, Emma. You do not know what you are doing to me. I promised myself that I would remain in control tonight.”

  She smiled. “Surely your training in the art of Vanza taught you some useful exercise that can be applied at moments such as this.”

  “One of the great drawbacks to the art of Vanza,” he muttered against her throat, “is that it teaches that all strong passions are to be avoided.”

  “Then it is obvious why you are not well suited to the philosophy. You are a man of great passions.”

  “The odd thing is, I did not realize just how strong my passions were until I met you.”

  He kissed her again, his mouth hot and rough against hers. But his hands were incredibly tender. The contrast left her breathless.

  She felt his fingers cup the exquisitely sensitive place between her legs. A great heat rose within her.

  “Edison?”

  “This time we will not rush the matter,” he vowed. “This time I want you to feel something of what I felt last time. Surely even a portion of that pleasure would make you understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  But he did not answer. Instead, he held her more tightly and stroked her slowly, going deeper into her with each movement. She trembled under the flood of passion that assailed her. She clutched at him as the aching, yearning, wanting sensation built within her. She was vaguely aware of her own breathing. It sounded ragged and uneven.

  When she began to twist against his hand, silently pleading with him for a culmination to the intense feeling, Edison gave a soft, hoarse groan. But he did not open his trousers, slide between her legs, and fit himself to her body as she expected.

  Instead, he slid down the length of her, eased her legs farther apart, and pushed aside the skirt of her lawn nightshift. Then, astonishingly, he put his mouth on her.

  “Edison.” Emma knew that her small scream of shock and surprise would have awakened the entire household, indeed, the entire neighborhood, had it not got caught and partially strangled in her throat.

  She was shocked by the strange caress. Shocked, amazed, and unbearably thrilled. Everything in her lower body went very tight. She flung out her arms, seeking something, anything, to anchor herself. Her fingers brushed against the iron supports of the workbenches on either side of the narrow aisle. She gripped them and held on as though they could keep her safely bound to earth.

  But a few seconds later when the release sang through her, she knew that nothing could restrain her to the cold ground. She was flying.

  Edison was suddenly on top of her, crushing her into the warm greatcoat. He drove himself into her and groaned as she contracted fiercely around him. He was too big, but she did not care. All that mattered was binding him to her, making him hers for whatever time the fates allowed.

  “Hold me.” He moved within her, sinking deeper with each thrust.

  He arched his back and went rigid.

  Energy rippled through his taut muscles as he poured himself into her.

  Emma held on to him with all of her strength.

  It seemed an infinitely long time later when Edison opened his eyes and gazed up into the full glare of the moon. The fact that he and Emma were still lying in the glow told him that in truth very little time had passed. It had just seemed as if he had floated there for an eternity.

  He tightened his arm around Emma. She stirred against his chest. He felt her hand flatten on his bare stomach and smiled slightly. He had got his shirt unfastened but he had not managed to get it off entirely.

  Next time, he promised silently.

  Next time.

  There had to be a next time. A lot of them. His future was with Emma. Surely she would comprehend that now.

  “Emma?”

  “Good heavens.” She sat up swiftly and looked around with a dazed expression. “We are in your grandmother’s conservatory, of all places. We must get out of here before someone discovers us.”

  “Calm yourself, my sweet.” He put one arm behind his head to pillow himself and looked up at her. “You are no longer a respectable lady’s companion who must be constantly concerned with the virtue problem.”

  She made a delicious picture, he thought. The little white nightcap was askew. Her hair was a cloudy tangle around her face. The wrapper was unfastened and the bodice of her shift was open.

  “Nevertheless, it would be horribly embarrassing if we are found here, sir.”

  He winced at the sir. Old habits died hard, he reminded himself. “No one has burst in on us thus far. I think we will get through this undiscovered.”

  “We should not take any more risks.”

  She scrambled to her feet. He was amused when she lurched and flung out a hand to steady herself. He watched her for a moment while she struggled to set herself to rights.

  “Hurry, sir.” She glared down at him. “It is nearly dawn. The servants will soon be up and about.”

  “Very well.” Reluctantly he got to his feet. When he started to refasten his shirt, he realized that she was gazing at him with an odd expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

  He frowned. “Are you all right?”

  now realized that I still have never actually seen you without your shirt.”

  He grinned slowly. “Allow me to show you my tattoo, my dear.”

  He relit the candle she had brought with her, gave her a mocking bow, and peeled back the wings of his unfastened shirt.

  “Edison.” His name was a choked gasp on her lips. She stared at him as though he had turned into a monster in front of her eyes.

  He raised his brows. “Obviously you are not as impressed as I’d hoped you’d be. Next time I shall leave the shirt on.”

  “Oh my God, Edison.”

  He was ruefully aware that he was hurt by her lack of appreciation of his bare chest. He stopped smiling.

  “I would remind you that a few minutes ago you were not complaining.” He started to refasten his shirt.

  “Wait. Your tattoo.” She seized the candle and stepped closer.

  “I trust you do not intend to set fire to the hair on my chest,” he murmured.

  She ignored him. For a long moment she stared fixedly at the place near his shoulder where years ago the mark of Vanza had been etched.

  He glanced down. “It is called the Flower of Vanza. Were you expecting a more interesting design, perhaps?”

  She raised her stark eyes to his. “I was expecting a design that was completely unfamiliar.”

  He stilled. “What are you saying?”

  “I have seen that mark elsewhere, Edison.”

  “Where?”

  “Sally Kent’s embroidered handkerchief.”
r />   Edison was at a loss. “Who?”

  “She was the paid companion who attended Lady Ware during the last months of her life. It was Miss Kent’s bedchamber I occupied during the country house party at Ware Castle, remember?”

  “Forgive me, Emma, but I am not following the thread of this conversation very well.”

  She licked her lips and drew a deep breath. “Sally Kent embroidered a picture of that mark into a handkerchief that she left hidden together with two hundred pounds. I found the money and the handkerchief and a letter to Sally’s friend Judith Hope concealed in Sally’s old bedchamber.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was obvious that Sally had intended that the money and the needlework go to Miss Hope. I took them to her shortly after we returned to London. You recall the day, do you not? You were quite out of sorts with me because I was a bit late returning to Lady Mayfield’s.”

  He looked at Emma. “About this Sally Kent—”

  “Edison, she vanished after she had an affair with Basil Ware.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Silence fell while Edison swiftly resorted and refit the pieces of the puzzle.

  Emma eyed him uneasily. “I suppose you are thinking that I should have thought to mention Sally Kent and her needlework to you long before now.”

  “What I was thinking,” Edison said, “was that we are victims of the virtue problem.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “You would have noticed the resemblance between my tattoo and Miss Kent’s embroidery design much earlier on in this affair if we had made love much sooner and with greater frequency.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  He was too late. The house was empty. Only the housekeeper remained. Edison stood alone in the study of the man who had called himself Basil Ware.

  He walked to the desk and examined the bits of melted wax that lay in the bottom of the candle holder. They were crimson in color, the same shade of red as the remains of the taper he had discovered in John Stoner’s room.

  He snapped off a small chunk and held it to his nose. It had been scented with the same herbs. To know the master, look at the student’s candles.