The Silver Coin

  “Yes, my lord.” Wells didn't pretend to misunder­stand. “Lady Breanna and Lady Anastasia are in the library playing cards with Hibbert and Lord Shel­drake. I felt more comfortable guarding the door. But now that you're back ...” He made a sweep with his arm. “I'll join you.”

  Royce strode down the hall, veered sharply into the library, Wells only three paces behind him.

  Breanna looked up, and Royce nearly sagged with relief at the sight of her, unharmed, outwardly com­posed as she played her game of whist.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked softly, laying down her cards.

  “Nothing concrete. I'd rather discuss the package first.”

  “As would I.” Hibbert rose, abandoning the game to cross over, hand Royce the box they'd received hours ago. “I'd like your opinion.”

  Royce read the note through twice, his frown deep­ening as he did. Then, he turned to the bottle, looking it over quickly before opening the stopper, sniffing the fragrance. Replacing the stopper, he studied the bottle more closely.

  “This will narrow down the search,” he muttered. “The women are not only in France, they're in Paris. Or not far from it.”

  “So you agree that's where you'll find the jeweler who designed this bottle.”

  “No. That's where you'll find the jeweler who de­signed this bottle.” Royce's stare bore into Hibbert’s. “I need you to do this for me. I'm not leaving—not now. The situation here is far more immediate, and more dangerous, than the one at the receiving end.”

  Damen jumped to his feet before Hibbert could reply. “You're saying he's about to—”

  “Damen, stay calm,” Royce interrupted quietly. “I don't think it's a matter of hours, although he wants us to believe it is. But I do think he's losing patience.”

  “Then what’s stopping him from shooting?”

  “I am.” Royce lowered his head, reread the note. “Not actively, but by what I represent—the ultimate contradiction. On the one hand, my involvement is plaguing the hell out of him. He wants me to get scared, back away. On the other hand, he wants me to figure out what he's about, and to confront him. That way, he gets to enjoy the challenge—and to win. With­out that, I'm just another obstacle to eliminate, which would be a great disappointment. So he'll wait a bit longer, see what I do.”

  Royce looked up, his mind racing. “In the mean­time, he has no idea we've linked him to Medford's selling of women. If he sees me leave the country, hell assume I succumbed to his threats. He'll feel momen­tary triumph, then great disappointment. That will lead to restlessness and then rage. All his anger will focus on the one person he blames for everything: Bre­anna. That 's when he'll act. That 's when Anastasia's— and then Breanna's—lives will be at greatest risk.” A pause. “And that 's why I'm staying right here.”

  Anastasia took Damen's hand in hers, interlaced their fingers. “That makes sense,” she said, address­ing Royce but speaking to her husband. “And it makes me feel much more secure.”

  Royce was studying the package wrapping. “This was dispatched from here in England?” he asked Hib­bert.

  “Yes.” Clearly, Hibbert realized his employer was thinking along the exact same lines as he had. “And it's the first package Lady Breanna's received since the doll and the sketch came, two days ago.”

  “He went to Paris. He bought the perfume there.”

  “Yes, and now he's back in England.” Hibbert rubbed his palms together, making swift plans. “I'd in­tended to wait for your return, after which I was going to ride down to Dover, glance over the manifests of this morning's arriving ships. I'll follow through on that. After which, I'll take the first packet to Calais, then ride on to Paris. I'll find out everything I can.”

  “I have a strategy to help you do that.” Royce's gaze drifted back to Breanna. “Hibbert, go pack a bag,” he instructed his friend. “Include some formal clothing. I'll explain the details later.”

  “Fine.” Hibbert looked distinctly unsurprised by Royce's abrupt dismissal. Rather, he glanced about, leveling a pointed gaze, first at Wells, then at Anasta­sia and Damen, before delicately clearing his throat and heading for the door.

  “A subtle hint,” Stacie noted, coming to her feet. “I think my cousin and her betrothed,” she emphasized the word, “would like a moment alone. Come, gentle­men,” she told Damen and Wells. “You may both es­cort me to the sitting room. We have wedding plans to continue making.” She paused as she walked by Royce, rose up to kiss his cheek. “You, my lord, are a very lucky man. You're also perfect for Breanna, just the man I prayed she'd find. I wish you every happi­ness.” A tremor crept into Stacie's voice, the only indi­cation of her persisting fear “May your brilliant tactics prevail, so you can share a long and happy future.”

  “Thank you, Anastasia.” Royce squeezed her shoul­der gently. “And I agree—my luck is incredible. As for the future, it will be long and happy for us all. You have my word.” He turned to Damen. “As do you.”

  Damen shook his friend's hand. “I echo Stacie's sentiments—with one additional comment. Perhaps now you'll begin to understand why I'm irrational when it comes to my wife.”

  A corner of Royce's mouth lifted. “I've already begun.”

  “My congratulations as well, sir,” Wells said with an approving nod. “I was wrong about you. I should have listened to Miss Stacie's instincts. You're a fine man. I wish you and Miss Breanna great joy.”

  “Thank you.” Royce was torn between gratitude and amusement.

  He waited until the door had closed and he and Breanna were alone before asking, “What exactly was Wells wrong about?”

  Breanna smiled as she walked toward him. “Oh, Wells thought you were a little too wild and daring to be suitable for me. I think he also feared you were a bit of a womanizer.”

  “Did he?” Royce reached for her, pulled her against him. “The wild and daring I can't argue with. As for being a womanizer...” He tilted up her chin with his forefinger. “The only woman I want is you.” He low­ered his head, covered her mouth with his. “I'm con­sumed with you, Breanna Colby,” he murmured into her parted lips. “I think about you all day, burn for you all night. And I worry about you every minute I'm away.”

  “Then don't go.” She twined her arms around his neck. “Guard me personally. Especially at night. The closer you are to me, the safer I feel.”

  A chuckle vibrated through him. “Is that so? Then we'll have to see how close I can get.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight,” he promised.

  “Perfect. Because I just remembered we have some­thing to celebrate.” Breanna brushed Royce's lips with hers. “Today is New Year's Day.”

  “That's right. It is.” Royce's arms tightened around her, and he molded the contours of her body to his. “No wonder the docks were so quiet. I'd completely forgotten.”

  “So did I.” She shivered, pressing closer. “But now that I've remembered, I must say I much prefer this method of celebrating to the line of gentlemen callers I originally intended to receive.”

  “I'm relieved. Otherwise, I'd be calling out a lot of men.” He silenced her response with his mouth, kiss­ing her until she was trembling in his arms. “I hope you got at least a little sleep last night. Because tonight you won't be shutting an eye. And it won't be fear keeping you awake. It will be me.”

  “How enticing.” Breanna's eyes glowed. “I'll leave the door unlocked.”

  Ten minutes later, Hibbert packed his final article of clothing and snapped the bag shut.

  “Do you think I should contact Girard as soon as I arrive in Paris?” he inquired.

  “Definitely.” Royce was perched at the edge of a chair, his posture rigid as he issued Hibbert's instruc­tions. “You know how good Girard is. His instincts are exceptional.”

  “Almost as good as yours,” Hibbert commented, a statement of fact rather than acclaim. “I agree. He's our most valuable contact in the area. Very well. I'll stop in and see him bef
ore I visit the jewelers. How much do you want him to know?”

  “Whatever you can tell him in a half hour. Don't waste your time or his. He already knows about the assassin. I've asked him to do some checking, to see if he can find the physician who treated that wounded hand.”

  Hibbert pursed his lips. “I never thought of that. But it makes sense. He didn't dare have an English doctor look at his wound. It would be too risky.”

  “Not to mention that if the trigger finger's as dam­aged as I suspect—enough to make him drop out of sight for months and then compel him to return just to kill Breanna—he'd need a physician of extraordi­nary skill. An expert.”

  “Perhaps he first met his business contact while re­cuperating abroad,” Hibbert suggested. “Whether by chance or intent.”

  “Most likely intent. Pose that notion to Girard. Then tell him, in addition to the doctor, to start dig­ging for whoever’s been buying the women, whether it's Rouge or someone else. In the meantime, you trace the perfume. Just let Girard know what you're doing so he can watch your back.”

  “You mean, Lord Hobson's back,” Hibbert correct­ed dryly. He quirked a brow at his employer. “I think I'll enjoy playing the part of a nobleman.”

  “I'm sure you will.” Royce rose, thinking through the final steps of his plan. “You know what to say in those letters?”

  “Of course.” Hibbert grasped his bag, swung it off the bed. “I'll take care of things at my end. You just keep everyone here safe.” A penetrating look. “In­cluding yourself.”

  “I intend to.” Royce glanced restlessly toward the window. “He's out there, Hibbert. I can feel it. If only I could force him to confront me, to vent his rage at me, rather than Breanna.”

  Hibbert studied Royce for a long, thoughtful mo­ment. “You've taught me well. So let me give you some of your own advice. A bit of apprehension is healthy. It's what keeps our wits sharp and our senses honed.” A profound pause. “However, this is more than mere apprehension. It's fear. That's because the stakes are personal. Very personal. The life of the woman you love is at risk. So you're terrified—terri­fied and determined to protect her, even at the ex­pense of your own life.”

  Royce's head came up. “And you take exception to that?”

  “No. I admire it. But I'm not the issue here. The killer is. He'll use your vulnerability to his advantage. If he so much as senses the intensity of your feelings for Lady Breanna, it will make things worse for her. Don't let him know how much she means to you, my lord. Don't.”

  Hibbert’s words echoed in Royce's head all evening. He knew his friend was right. The worst thing he could do was alert the killer to his feelings. Lord only knew what kind of leverage that would provide.

  Which meant only one thing.

  Royce had to keep his distance from Breanna. Not just when they ventured outside or stood near win­dows, in full view of the world, but inside, as well. The killer's latest message had made it clear he had access to the house—a taunt that might or might not be true. Consequently, Royce couldn't take chances. Moments such as the one he and Breanna had shared earlier had to cease.

  Except in one place: her bedroom.

  It was the only detail Royce was convinced the killer hadn't yet discovered—that Breanna was sleep­ing in different quarters. He, Damen, and Wells had been careful to continue making her room look lived in, especially at night. Obviously, they'd been success­ful. The assassin's actions, or lack thereof, told them that. If he'd been aware of the switch, his arrogance would have insisted he throw it in their faces. He'd ei­ther have invaded Breanna's new quarters or at least made some terrifying reference to doing so in his notes.

  He hadn't.

  Which meant he didn't know. And that meant that Royce and Breanna still had the nights. Starting with tonight.

  Royce didn't even bother dragging a chair into the hallway when he positioned himself outside Brean­na's door. He was far too restless, too fidgety, too rife with energy to sit still.

  He was also frantic to hold Breanna in his arms.

  He spent the first part of the night pacing outside her door. And the minute the house fell silent, he reached for the door handle, let himself in.

  Breanna was sitting on the bed, sketching by the thin filaments of moonlight that drifted through the window. Other than that and the glow of a crackling fire, the room was unlit, cast in shadows.

  For safety.

  And for him.

  She looked up when he entered, putting aside her sketchpad and rising to her feet. “I'm glad you're here.”

  Royce caught his breath. She was wearing only a thin nigh trail and robe, both of a sheer ivory silk, the lacy edges of the robe barely touching, loosely tied.

  She smiled, reaching up to tug the first pin out of her upswept hair. “I left this task for you,” she added softly.

  Restless energy exploded into raw hunger.

  Royce turned the key in the lock with such force he wondered if he'd snapped it in two.

  He hoped so. In that case, they could stay here, locked away together, forever.

  He couldn't stop staring at her. Staunchly, he fought to control the tidal wave of desire that surged through him, all his earlier tension converging, crashing through his loins.

  “Royce?” Breanna took a step toward him, opened her arms.

  Restraint vanished.

  Royce scarcely remembered closing the distance be­tween them. All he knew was dragging Breanna against him, seizing her mouth with more urgency than he knew he possessed. He tugged the pins from her hair, gathering handfuls of it as he continued kiss­ing her. Her robe dropped to the floor, her nigh trail followed, and Royce savored the exquisite silkiness of her skin as he lifted her, placed her on the bed.

  He felt her fingers on the buttons of his waistcoat, but he couldn't wait. Stepping away, he tore off his clothes, coming down over her the instant he was naked.

  Breanna let out a soft moan of pleasure, rubbing her breasts against his powerful, hair-roughened chest. She clung to him, understanding and sharing his ur­gency, wanting to savor every moment, to savor him, yet frantic to feel him inside her.

  “Later,” he muttered, answering the contacting emotions waging inside her. “We'll go slowly later. Now, I've got to have you.” He was already wedging her thighs apart.

  She felt him tense, as if remembering how new this was to her, and her breath caught as his fingers found her, slid inside to assure him of her readiness.

  She was more than ready for him.

  Royce shuddered heavily as he encountered her satiny wetness, stroked her softly.

  Breanna seized his wrist, pushed his hand away. “Later,” she whispered, echoing his sentiments.

  Royce's gaze darkened to near black. His hands slipped under her, gripping her bottom and angling her to receive him, his rigid shaft probing the entrance to her body.

  He entered her in one slow, inexorable thrust, push­ing as deep as he could go.

  Breanna cried out,” arched to meet him, her entire body softening and opening to take him, to sheathe him inside hen She whimpered in protest when he left her, only to cry out again as he pushed forward, filled her even more fully than he had the first time.

  “Does... it hurt?” Royce could barely speak.

  She shook her head, her arms tightening around him. “Don't stop.”

  “Stop?” Royce was moving again, each lunge of his hips sending skyrockets of sensation shooting through her. “I'd die first.”

  There were no more words then, nothing but the harsh rasps of their breath, the frantic kisses and ca­resses, the broken sounds of need, the grating of the bedsprings beneath them as their motions became more frenzied, wilder, more abandoned. Royce lost himself inside her, and Breanna tossed her head on the pillow, the pleasure too acute to bear, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until she thought she'd die of it

  It peaked... and unraveled in a rush, throbbing spasms of completion radiating out from inside her, clen
ching again and again, contracting frantically around his engorged length.

  Royce gave a hoarse shout, throwing back his head and groping for the headboard. His fingers closed around the bedposts, his knuckles turning white as his own climax slammed through him. His hips moved convulsively, pushing him into her, heighten­ing her contractions as he met each one with a scald­ing burst of heat.

  Breanna bit her lip to keep from screaming. She could feel him spurting into her, sensations so erotic they retriggered her spasms, sent them spiraling even higher than before.

  When it was oven they collapsed, neither capable of moving. Breanna sank into the bed, reveling in Royce's weight, the inadvertent shudders still racking his body, the final drops of his seed trickling into her.

  “I love you,” she whispered, pressing her tips to his shoulder.

  He swallowed, an audible sound in the silence of the room. “You have no idea,” he answered hoarsely. “No idea.” Reflexively, his arms closed around her, as if that act alone could keep her safe. “I'm going to spend a lifetime showing you.” He raised his head, stared deeply into her eyes. “Beginning tonight.”

  Breanna smiled, smoothed damp strands of hair off his forehead. “You've made an extraordinary start.”

  He caught her hand, brought her palm to his lips. “That's all it was—a start.” He rolled to one side, tak­ing her with him. “I just want to hold you, feel you against me, for a minute.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, I'm going to make love to you the way you deserve to be made love to, the way I still haven't mustered enough control to do.”

  A sated sigh. “I've no complaints.”

  His expression singed her. “You'll have even fewer by morning.”

  “I'm intrigued.”

  “Are you?” He bent to kiss her, cradling her head in his hands as he made love to her mouth. His lips moved slowly over hers, ending and tasting, nudging them apart for the intimate invasion of his tongue. He teased her with light, shivery strokes, awakening every surface of her mouth, his tongue gliding over hers in unhurried, lingering caresses, until her breath was coming faster and she was clinging to him, des­perately trying to escalate the pace.