She stood and leaned over the top of him, shaking a finger in his face. “Adam, I’m warning you, don’t try to get up.”
A half smile crooked his mouth as he stood. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll knock you down again.” She put her hands on his arms, gazed earnestly into his eyes. “You’re not going in that stable.”
Cupping her face in his hands, he looked at her. Screaming assailed her ears, soot clogged her nose, fear tasted leaden on her tongue, yet when Adam smiled and whispered, “God, how I adore you,” the love within her ran, warm and sweet, under her skin. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face for his kiss.
It didn’t come. His touch left her, and when she opened her eyes he was gone, striding toward the fire. Like a mountain goat, she bounded across the grass, adding her call to the cacophony.
She met the whole mass of creatures—workers, horses, guests, Adam—galloping back toward her.
“Collapse! Fire! Run!” the stable hands screamed.
Skidding to a stop, she sighed with relief.
Adam grabbed her arm and hustled her back, yelling, “You silly woman, all the horses are out. Get back!”
With a roar the stable disintegrated. The walls fell, each board a scarlet banner. Flames swooped high, the heat reached out. Spontaneously every haystack around the stable erupted in flames.
One haystack drew her attention. A glowing torch separated, crawled away, and she remembered.
Horror etched Kenneth’s wrinkled face. “What is it?”
Grabbing Adam’s face, she shouted, “Judson?”
“Damn him,” Adam swore. “Couldn’t he just die like anyone else? Does he have to—”
He started down the slope to the stable, and Bronwyn turned to Kenneth in desperation. “It’s the man who set fire to the stables.”
In a mighty swell, the stable hands overtook Adam, dragged him back. Pulling their forelocks, dipping in little bows, showing their respect in every way, still they subdued him.
One said, “Ye can’t go down there, m’lord.”
Kenneth added, “’Tis so hot you’ll ignite from th’ heat. Best leave well enough alone. If that fellow’s not dead yet, he soon will be.”
Bronwyn heard a voice intone, “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall—”
Northrup stood beside her, and she gaped at him as he finished, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.” Northrup rubbed the place where Judson’s bullet had struck him. “Judson’s egg is fried at last. May he burn in hell as well as on earth.”
Gianni leaned on the rail and gazed with tear-filled eyes at the retreating shore of England. Where was his master? Why had he failed to catch the packet to Calais as he promised? Never had his master failed to extricate himself from his escapades, but never had his master allowed vengeance to govern him before. Gianni had a bad feeling, here, in his heart. Pressing the affected member, Gianni drooped.
The old woman his master had stabbed with his knife still lived. The one who considered herself a doctor had saved the woman while he and his master struggled with the others. It depressed him to remember how his master had cursed. Another few moments, and the woman would have been dead. Maybe—he brightened—the woman would die of infection.
In the tiny room below the waterline, Gianni had placed the bags that contained all his worldly goods and his master’s, too. But in his belt he kept the purse of coins his master had earned with his hard work and stealthy ways. This bag the master guarded, never before allowing Gianni to view the contents, never before allowing Gianni even to carry the contents. Always the master had given him money for the household expenses, and for the quick departures their lives had sometimes required.
Now—Gianni smiled and patted the heavy purse—now his master had proved his trust in his faithful servant. Gianni would look, only once, not for long, on this treasure. There wouldn’t be much, Gianni knew, for reverses of fortune had plagued them. But with these poor bits of silver, he would prepare for his master’s arrival in Calais. In Calais, he, Gianni, would order a hot dinner, some old wine, perhaps a woman such as his master preferred. Yes. Gianni nodded. He would use it only for his master’s comfort.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, he ascertained that no one stood near. His cloak opened, he lifted his shirt, seeking the belt that retained the bag against his skin. Carefully he pulled the leather strings apart, lifted the purse, looked inside.
Gold coins glittered in the sun. Many gold coins, thick gold coins, gold coins such as Gianni had only dreamed of. Gianni stared, twirled his finger among the golden metal, looked once more at the shore of England.
“Good-bye, my master,” he called, lifting his hand to wave. “Good-bye.”
“Robert.” Adam laid his hand on Walpole’s arm. “I need you to do something for me.”
Walpole grinned. “Today’s your wedding day, m’boy. I have helped you dress.” He adjusted the ruffles on Adam’s white silk shirt and held his waistcoat as he shrugged into it. “I buoyed your spirits with good jokes and good ale. Too late to get you out of it.”
“But that’s exactly what I want you to do.”
Walpole’s grin faded, and he stepped out of Adam’s grasp. “Damn it, you’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. I can’t marry Olivia. She’s a beautiful girl, but—”
“You can’t marry her sister, either.”
Adam jumped, glanced around. “My God, does everyone know?”
“Everyone with eyes. I saw you enter the barn last night. Everyone saw the two of you returning to the house this morning.” Walpole gestured across the lawn to the still smoldering stable. “A fire has a way of bringing out the curious, and Adam—I heard she was sitting on you.”
Adam grunted. “She didn’t wanted me to risk my life.”
“Very touching, but it didn’t take a prodigy to observe the hay in that girl’s hair.”
“That girl’s name is Bronwyn,” Adam told him austerely.
“Bronwyn, Olivia, what difference does it make? All cats are gray in the dark. Scratch one in the right spot, and she purrs.”
Adam refused to respond to Walpole’s cajoling smile. “You may understand finance, but you know nothing about women.”
Walpole was struck dumb but sputtered to life as Adam buttoned his white satin waistcoat. “I fancy myself a bit of an expert.”
“Now you know better. Should I wear my ivory rings or my amber rings?”
“The ivory,” Walpole decided absently. “They accent the white satin breeches. The fire, the daring fight in which you killed the man who had destroyed your reputation! Everyone’s gossiping about how dashing you are.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“But they’re all gossiping quietly among—what did you say?”
“I didn’t kill him.” Adam slid the rings on his fingers and smiled at his dumbfounded friend. “Bronwyn killed him. How did you think I stabbed him in the back when we were wrestling?”
“Are you trying to tell me that dewy-faced little woman threw the knife?”
“Exactly.”
“Remind me to be polite to Lady Bronwyn.” Walpole bristled as Adam laughed. “Damn it, man, that changes nothing. If you should dump one sister for the other—again!—imagine the scandal!” Touching his brow, Walpole complained, “Look what you’ve done. I’m sweating like a pig.”
“You are a pig, Robert, but you’re my friend. I’m telling you, I want you to stop this wedding.”
Walpole pulled his handkerchief from the copious pocket of his brocade coat and mopped at his forehead.
“Bronwyn and I saved your life,” Adam reminded.
“Beholden to a woman,” Walpole moaned.
“I did your dirty work at Change Alley.”
“I’ll pay you for it,” Walpole answered immediately.
“Yes, by bringing this wedding to a halt.”
“What has that girl done to you?”
Adam lifted a brow. “I’d be interested in hearing your theory.”
“You used to be passionate about nothing but finance, family honor, and England.”
Not at all offended, Adam said, “I was a ghastly bore.”
“Exactly. Now it’s as though you’ve become a”—Walpole waved his hands, seeking inspiration—“a real person.”
“Dreadful!”
“You hold real conversations with men about real things, like horses and mistresses. Young women don’t faint when you gaze on them. Of course, they pant a bit when you gaze on Bronwyn.” Too late, Walpole realized he’d taken the conversation back to the wedding. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll help you marry her.”
Robert Walpole strode through the halls of Boudasea Manor and muttered. What had that girl done to his friend Adam? The man of fire and ice had changed, mellowed. All his fire was directed, controlled, warming rather than scorching. The ice hadn’t melted. It had only become something stronger, less brittle, more enduring.
All cats were gray in the dark, he’d told Adam. Scratch them and they purred. He scrubbed absentmindedly at his stomach. Made a man wonder if he’d missed something.
Adam wanted him to stop the wedding. Risk his reputation as a sane man to stop the wedding. But was it worth his government career to do it? He’d stepped into the devastation left by the South Sea bubble and was even now creating a new government, a stable government, a government in which he assisted the king as his most valued minister. Did Adam think his love was priceless?
No. Walpole shook his head. No, damn it, he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself. Let Adam get himself out of this mess.
“Robert.”
A soft, female, seductive voice beckoned him. He buttoned his waistcoat, lifted his lace handkerchief to his lips, turned around—and straightened so hastily that his back cracked.
“Robert.” Mab, his own personal nemesis, gestured to him through the gap of her workroom door. “Come here.”
He sidled toward Mab, expecting to be blasted for some peccadillo of his that had gotten out of hand. Instead she smiled on him with charm and warmth, and he knew he was in trouble.
When she had him inside the room, she shut the door, trapping him with no hope of reprieve. Still smiling, she said, “You will stop this wedding.”
Chapter 24
The last time. The last time. The phrase echoed in Bronwyn’s mind like the chant of some maddened dissenter.
Last night, with the laughter, the tears, the shared dreams and heady revelations, had been the last time. No more would she seek Adam’s arms. No more would she rock with him to celebrate a pleasure so complete, they would never seek it again. No more would she smile when they realized no pleasure was ever complete.
She sat on the bed in Olivia’s room and bit her fist as she listened to Lady Nora alternately command and cajole. “Olivia, dear, it’s time for the ceremony. Stop trembling and stand so we can put this dress on you.”
The next woman to lie in Adam’s bed would be Olivia. Olivia—writhing, damp, groaning. Olivia.
Olivia. Bronwyn shook her head. Olivia wouldn’t appreciate Adam’s skill. She’d be disgusted, using the time of love to pray as assiduously as she prayed right now. Olivia, beautiful sister extraordinaire, would never adore him, would never long for him, would never give him the love he craved.
The sun smiled on the day. Still damp with dew, chrysanthemums decorated every arch and vase. Shrill with enjoyment, the guests streamed out of the house to the chapel close by. Everything, everything was right for a wedding. But it wasn’t her wedding. What should she do? She couldn’t break up her own sister’s wedding. Could she?
The mere thought was ludicrous. Everyone—her mother, her father, Olivia, Adam, herself—everyone would be made a laughingstock. London society would never stop giggling.
But, damn it, Olivia would not move. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, kept her knees planted firmly on the cushion.
“This is not the time to pray,” Lady Nora burst out. “Tonight will be the time to pray.”
Turning her pure, composed face to her mother, Olivia chided, “Any time is the time to pray.”
“Not this time. Not—” Lady Nora caught herself as her voice rose. “Every guest is wearing a rosette, tied in a true love knot and constructed of forest green and silver. Your sisters are dressed and waiting. They look so beautiful, each in a pale green matching gown, beaded with pearls and live roses.”
Bronwyn almost bit off her fingernail but jerked her hand away just in time. Adam had accused her of forcing him to marry Olivia, and perhaps he was right. He couldn’t call off the wedding. To do so would offer Olivia a boorish insult. Only Olivia could refuse—and that would offer Adam an equally offensive insult. Adam and Olivia were locked into a marriage destined to make them both miserable, and only one woman could save them. Only one woman was good enough for Adam, and her name was Bronwyn Edana, translator, lover, knife thrower.
“Even Bronwyn looks gorgeous,” Lady Nora coaxed. “All of society is here. Men of all stations are courting her. Lord Sawbridge—he’s a duke!—claims previous acquaintance, and is positively drooling on her.”
Olivia screwed up her features in disdain, and her gentle voice snapped, “He’s so old, he’s just drooling.”
Lady Nora wrung her hands. “If not Sawbridge, then some other gentleman. Look at her, Olivia. Can you deprive Bronwyn of the chance to make a decent alliance for herself?”
Bronwyn would be miserable, too. She knew it. Three lives sacrificed on the altar of society’s morals? That was too much. She’d advised Olivia that if she wanted something badly enough, she should reach out and take it. Hadn’t that been what Adam had been saying? Her decision made, Bronwyn stood and ordered, “Yes, look at me, Olivia.”
Olivia looked. What she saw in Bronwyn’s eyes brought her to her feet. A communication passed between them, and Olivia’s back straightened. Her fingers intertwined, her face glowed with an inner joy.
“That’s a girl,” Lady Nora crooned, bustling to her side. “Let me call the maids and we’ll put you in your gown.”
“Olivia will allow only me to dress her,” Bronwyn interposed. “Isn’t that right, Olivia?”
Olivia hesitated, then agreed. “That’s right, Maman.” She watched Lady Nora with calm eyes, a serene visage. “Only Bronwyn today.”
“But I’m your mother,” Lady Nora wailed.
“That’s why she wants me.” Smiling an enigmatic smile, Bronwyn moved to Lady Nora’s side and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You’re the mother of the bride, and she knows your presence is required as part of the wedding party.” She nudged Lady Nora toward the door. “Won’t you take this opportunity to manage this wedding in the intoxicating style only you can create?”
“Well, I suppose I should.” Lady Nora fluttered under the influence of such brazen flattery. “That is, I am the only true hostess at this affair. Lady Mab has been positively unhelpful.”
“I know, Maman.”
“I do give the best parties in the best society.”
“That’s true, Maman.”
“But…oh, dear.” Lady Nora looked back at Olivia with real affection, and Bronwyn thought she’d lost. “How can I leave my baby at a time like this?”
Softly Olivia said, “Maman, I insist.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
Hurt sounded in Lady Nora’s voice as she repeated, “Not at all?”
“She means she would trust herself in no one else’s hands but mine.” Bronwyn smiled as she held the door wide. “Don’t delay.”
Something about Bronwyn’s smile made Lady Nora look closely, and her eyes narrowed. “Bronwyn…”
“I’m going to put Adam’s bride in the wedding dress you approved for her, and get her down to the chapel on time,” Bronwyn assured her.
Unconvinced, Lady Nora slapped her hand on the closing door. “Yo
u don’t have any mischief in mind now, do you?”
“What mischief could I have in mind?” Bronwyn pointed to Olivia, still and peaceful against the frame of the window. “For me to make mischief, I’d have to have the cooperation of my sister, and you know my sister never cooperates with mischief.”
Lady Nora’s expression lightened, but her suspicions still lingered. “She only cooperates with your mischief.”
“I can hardly knock her down and tie her up, can I?” Bronwyn chuckled, indicating the difference in their heights.
Skepticism appeased, Lady Nora nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you as you walk down the aisle, in front of your sister.”
Lifting a hand in farewell, Bronwyn shut the door hastily. “Now,” she said, advancing on her sister. “Do I have to knock you down and tie you up?”
Tears rose in Olivia’s eyes, and with mute appeal she shook her head.
“Then you’ll let me take your place?”
“Yes,” Olivia whispered. “It’s the answer to my prayer.”
Bronwyn turned her back to Olivia and ordered, “Unlace me.”
“You are so brave, Bronwyn.” Olivia wrapped her arms around her smaller sister in a tender hug. “You make me brave, too. I can’t do it without you, you know that. I can’t face off Da and Maman and all the ministers they’ll call in to talk to me if you don’t help me.”
Bronwyn returned her hug. “Oh, I’ll help you. The trouble is, even I think you’re meant to be a nun.”
“Yes.” Olivia smiled down at her. “I am. Just as you’re meant to be Lord Rawson’s bride.”
Puckered by the weight of the wedding broach, the silver lace bodice drooped. Constructed for Olivia’s larger head, the traditional garland of myrtle, olive leaf, rosemary, and white-and-purple blossoms slithered from side to side. The forest green skirt tripped Bronwyn until she gathered the front in her arms and carried it along. Her hurry did much to contribute to her clumsiness, but she dared not stop and gather herself together. She wanted no one to note a delay, no one to wonder.