The Lady Chosen

  She rose beneath him. Their breaths mingled as she arched, adjusted, took him in. At the last, he thrust deep and filled her. Her breath fell from her lips; she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feel of him buried inside her. Then she lifted one hand, speared her fingers into his hair, drew his head to hers, and set her lips to his. Opened her mouth to him, invited him in.

  Flagrantly invited him to plunder.

  And he did.

  Each powerful stroke lifted her, shifted her.

  They broke from the kiss. Without waiting for instructions, she raised her legs and wrapped them about his hips. Heard him groan, saw blankness sweep his face as he took advantage and sank deeper, thrust harder, farther. Sheathed himself in her.

  He closed one hand about her hip, anchoring her against his repetitive invasions. As the tempo mounted, he leaned down to her again, let his lips brush hers, then plunged into her mouth as his body plunged wildly into hers.

  As all restraint broke and he gave himself to her.

  As she had already given herself, body and soul, mind and heart, to him.

  She let go, truly let herself free, let him take her with him as he wished.

  Even locked in the throes of an impossibly powerful passion, Tristan sensed her decision, her total surrender to the moment—her surrender to him. She was with him, not just locked together physically but in some other place, in some other way, on some other plane.

  He’d never reached that mystical place with any other woman; he’d never dreamed such a soul-searing experience would ever be his. Yet she took him in, rode his every thrust, wrapped him in the heat of her body—and joyously, with true abandonment, gave him all he could wish for, all he had yearned for.

  Unconditional surrender.

  She had said she would be his. Now she was. Forever.

  He needed no further reassurance, no evidence beyond the tight clasp of her body, the supple writhing of her naked curves beneath him.

  But he’d always wanted more, and she’d given without him asking.

  Not just her body, but this—an unfettered commitment to him, to her, to what lay between them.

  It rose up in a tide, impossible to control. It rolled over them both, crashed, swirled, made them gasp, cling. Fight for air. Fight for their hold on life, then lose it as brilliance swamped them, as their bodies clutched, clung, shuddered.

  He spilled his seed deep within her, held tight, immobile, as ecstasy drenched them.

  Filled them, sank deep, then slowly ebbed and faded.

  He let go, felt his muscles relax, let her hold him, cradle him, his forehead bowed to hers.

  Wrapped together, lips brushing, together they surrendered to their fate.

  She stayed for hours. Few words were spoken. There was no need between them to explain; neither needed nor wanted inadequate words to intrude.

  He’d restoked the fire. Slumped in an armchair before it with her curled in his lap, still naked, with her cloak thrown over her to keep her warm, his arms beneath it, his hands on her bare skin, her hair like wild silk clinging to them both…he would have happily remained so forever.

  He glanced down at her. The firelight gilded her face. It had earlier gilded her body when she’d stood unabashed before the flames and let him examine each curve, each line. This time, he’d left her largely unmarked; only the imprints of his fingers at her hip where he’d anchored her were visible.

  Leonora looked up, caught his eye, smiled, then laid her head back on his shoulder. Under her palm, spread across his bare chest, his heart beat steadily. The beat echoed in her blood. Throughout her body.

  Closeness wrapped them about, linked them in a way she couldn’t define, certainly hadn’t expected.

  He hadn’t either, yet they’d both accepted it.

  Once accepted, it couldn’t be denied.

  It had to be love, but who was she to say? All she knew was that for her it was immutable. Unchanging, fixed, and forever.

  Whatever the future held—marriage, family, dependents, and all—she would have that, that strength, to call on.

  It felt right. More right than she’d imagined anything could feel.

  She was where she belonged. In his arms. With love between them.

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  The next morning, Leonora breezed down to the breakfast parlor somewhat later than usual; she was normally the first of the family up and about, but this morning she’d slept in. With a definite spring in her step and a smile on her lips, she swept over the threshold—and came to an abrupt halt.

  Tristan sat beside Humphrey, listening intently while calmly demolishing a plate of ham and sausages.

  Jeremy sat opposite; all three men looked up, then Tristan and Jeremy rose.

  Humphrey beamed at her. “Well, my dear! Congratulations! Tristan has told us your news. I have to say I’m utterly delighted!”

  “Indeed, sis. Congratulations.” Leaning over the table, Jeremy caught her hand and drew her across to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Excellent choice,” he murmured.

  Her smile became a trifle fixed. “Thank you.”

  She looked at Tristan, expecting to see some degree of apology. Instead, he met her gaze with a steady, assured—confident—expression. She took due note of that last, inclined her head. “Good morning.”

  The “my lord” stuck in her throat. She would not soon forget his notion of an appropriate finale to their reconciliation the previous evening. Later, he’d dressed her, then carried her out to the carriage, overridden her by then thoroughly weak protest, and accompanied her to Montrose Place, leaving her in the tiny parlor of Number 12 while he collected Henrietta, then escorting them both to her front door.

  Suavely, he took her hand, raised it briefly to his lips, then held her chair for her. “I trust you slept well?”

  She glanced at him as he resumed his seat beside her. “Like one dead.”

  His lips twitched, but he merely inclined his head.

  “We’ve been telling Tristan here that Cedric’s journals do not, at first glance, fall into any of the customary patterns.” Humphrey paused to eat a mouthful of egg.

  Jeremy took up the tale. “They’re not organized by subject, which is most usual with such things, and as you’d found”—he dipped his head to Leonora—“the entries are not in any type of chronological order.”

  “Hmm.” Humphrey chewed, then swallowed. “There has to be some key, but it’s perfectly possible Cedric kept it in his head.”

  Tristan frowned. “Does that mean you won’t be able to make sense of the journals?”

  “No,” Jeremy answered. “It just means it’ll take us rather longer.” He glanced at Leonora. “I vaguely recall you mentioned letters?”

  She nodded. “There are lots. I’ve only looked at the ones in the past year.”

  “You’d better give them to us,” Humphrey said. “All of them. In fact, any scrap of paper of Cedric’s you can find.”

  “Scientists,” Jeremy put in, “especially herbalists, are renowned for writing vital information on scraps of whatever comes to hand.”

  Leonora grimaced. “I’ll have the maids gather up everything from the workshop. I’ve been meaning to search Cedric’s bedchamber—I’ll do that today.”

  Tristan glanced at her. “I’ll help you.”

  She turned her head to check his expression to see what he really intended—

  “Aaaah! Aieee-ah!”

  The hysterical wails came from a distance. They all heard them. The cries continued clearly for an instant, then were muted—by the green baize door, they all realized, when a footman, startled and pale, skidded to a halt in the parlor doorway. “Mr. Castor! You got to come quick!”

  Castor, a serving dish in his ancient hands, goggled at him.

  Humphrey stared. “What the devil’s the matter, man?”

  The footman, completely shaken out of his habitual aplomb, bowed and bobbed to those around the table. “It’s Daisy, sir. M’lord. Fro
m next door.” He fixed on Tristan, who was rising to his feet. “She’s just rushed in wailing and carrying on. Seems Miss Timmins has fallen down the stairs and…well, Daisy says as she’s dead, m’lord.”

  Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and stepped around his chair.

  Leonora rose at his shoulder. “Where is Daisy, Smithers? In the kitchen?”

  “Yes, miss. She’s taking on something terrible.”

  “I’ll come and see her.” Leonora swept out into the hall, conscious of Tristan following at her heels. She glanced back at him, took in his grim expression, met his eyes. “Will you go next door?”

  “In a minute.” His hand touched her back, a curiously comforting gesture. “I want to hear what Daisy has to say first. She’s no fool—if she says Miss Timmins is dead, then she probably is. She won’t be going anywhere.”

  Leonora inwardly grimaced and pushed through the door into the corridor leading to the kitchen. Tristan, she reminded herself, was much more accustomed to dealing with death than she was. Not a nice thought, but in the circumstances it held a certain comfort.

  “Oh, miss! Oh, miss!” Daisy appealed to her the instant she saw her. “I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t do nothing!” She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the dishcloth Cook pressed into her hand.

  “Now, Daisy.” Leonora reached for one of the kitchen chairs; Tristan anticipated her, lifting it and setting it for her to sit facing Daisy. Leonora sat, felt Tristan lean his hands on the chair’s back. “What you must do now, Daisy—what would be most help to Miss Timmins now—is to compose yourself—just take deep breaths, there’s a good girl—and tell us—his-lordship-the-earl and me—what happened.”

  Daisy nodded, dutifully gulped in air, then blurted out, “Everything started out normal this morning. I came down from my room by the back stairs, riddled the grate and got the kitchen fire going, then got Miss Timmins’s tray ready. Then I went to take it up to her…” Daisy’s huge eyes clouded with tears. “Swept through the door I did, as usual, and plonked the tray on the hall table to tidy my hair and straighten up before I went up—and there she was.”

  Daisy’s voice quavered and broke. Tears gushed, she mopped them furiously. “She was lying there—at the bottom of the stairs—like a little broken bird. I rush over, o’course, and checked, but there was no point. She was gone.”

  For a moment, no one said anything; they’d all known Miss Timmins.

  “Did you touch her?” Tristan asked, his tone quiet, almost soothing.

  Daisy nodded. “Aye—I patted her hand, and her cheek.”

  “Her cheek—was it cold? Do you remember?”

  Daisy looked up at him, frowning as she thought. Then she nodded. “Aye, you’re right. Her cheek was cold. Didn’t think anything of her hands—they always were cold. But her cheek…yeah, it was cold.” She blinked at Tristan. “Does that mean she’d been dead for a while?”

  Tristan straightened. “It means it’s likely she died some hours ago. Sometime in the night.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did she ever wander at night? Do you know?”

  Daisy shook her head. She’d stopped crying. “Not that I ever knew. She never mentioned such a thing.”

  Tristan nodded, stepped back. “We’ll take care of Miss Timmins.”

  His gaze included Leonora. She stood, too, but glanced back at Daisy. “You’d best stay here. Not just for today, but tonight, too.” She saw Neeps, her uncle’s valet, hovering, concerned. “Neeps, you can help Daisy get her things after luncheon.”

  The man bowed. “Indeed, miss.”

  Tristan waved Leonora before him; she led him out of the kitchen. In the front hall they found Jeremy waiting.

  He looked distinctly pale. “Is it true?”

  “It must be, I’m afraid.” Leonora went to the hall stand and lifted down her cloak. Tristan had followed her; he took it from her hands.

  He held it, and looked down at her. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to wait with your uncle in the library?”

  She met his gaze. “No.”

  He sighed. “I thought not.” He draped the cloak about her shoulders, then reached around her to open the front door.

  “I’m coming, too.” Jeremy followed them out onto the porch, then down the winding path.

  They reached the front door of Number 16; Daisy had left it on the latch. Pushing the door wide, they entered.

  The scene was exactly as Leonora had imagined it from Daisy’s words. Unlike their house with its wide front hall with the stairs at the rear facing the front door, here, the hall was narrow and the head of the stairs was above the door; the foot of the stairs was at the rear of the hall.

  That was where Miss Timmins lay, crumpled like a rag doll. Just as Daisy had said, there seemed little doubt life had left her, but Leonora went forward. Tristan had halted ahead of her, blocking the hall; she put her hands on his back and gently pushed; after an instant’s hesitation, he moved aside and let her through.

  Leonora crouched by Miss Timmins. She was wearing a thick cotton nightgown with a lacy wrapper clutched around her shoulders. Her limbs were twisted awkwardly, but decently covered; a pair of pink slippers were on her narrow feet.

  Her lids were closed, the fading blue eyes shut away. Leonora brushed back the thin white curls, noted the extreme fragility of the papery skin. Taking one tiny claw-like hand in hers, she looked up at Tristan as he paused beside her. “Can we move her? There seems no reason to leave her like this.”

  He studied the body for a moment; she got the impression he was fixing its position in his memory. He glanced up the stairs, all the way to the top. Then he nodded. “I’ll lift her. The front parlor?”

  Leonora nodded, released the bony hand, rose and went to open the parlor door. “Oh!”

  Jeremy, who’d gone past the body, past the hall table with the breakfast tray and onto the kitchen stairs, came back through the swinging door. “What is it?”

  Speechless, Leonora simply stared.

  With Miss Timmins in his arms, Tristan came up behind her, looked over her head, then nudged her forward.

  She came to with a start, then hurried to straighten the cushions on the chaise. “Put her here.” She glanced around at the wreck of the once fastidiously neat room. Drawers were pulled out, emptied on the rugs. The rugs themselves had been pulled up, slung aside. Some of the ornaments had been smashed in the grate. The pictures on the walls, those still on their hooks, hung crazily. “It must have been thieves. She must have heard them.”

  Tristan straightened from laying Miss Timmins gently down. With her limbs extended and her head on a cushion, she looked to be simply fast asleep. He turned to Jeremy, standing in the open doorway, looking around in amazement. “Go to Number 12 and tell Gasthorpe that we need Pringle again. Immediately.”

  Jeremy lifted his gaze to his face, then nodded and left.

  Leonora, fussing with Miss Timmins’s nightgown, rearranging her wrapper as she knew she would have liked, glanced up at him. “Why Pringle?”

  Tristan met her gaze, hesitated, then said, “Because I want to know if she fell, or was pushed.”

  “Fell.” Pringle carefully repacked his black bag. “There’s not a mark on her that can’t be accounted for by the fall, and none that looks like bruises from a man’s grip. At her age, there would be bruises.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the tiny body laid out on the chaise. “She was fragile and old, not long for this world in any case, but even so. While a man could easily have grabbed her and flung her down the stairs, he couldn’t have done it without leaving some trace.”

  His gaze on Leonora, tidying a vase on a table beside the chaise, Tristan nodded. “That’s some small relief.”

  Pringle snapped his bag closed, glanced at him as he straightened. “Possibly. But there’s still the question of why she was out of bed at that hour—somewhere in the small hours, say between one o’clock and three—and what so frightened her, and it was almost certainly fright,
enough to make her faint.”

  Tristan focused on Pringle. “You think she fainted?”

  “I can’t prove it, but if I had to guess what happened…” Pringle waved at the chaos of the room. “She heard sounds from this, and came to see. She stood at the top of the stairs and peered down. And saw a man. Suddenly. Shock, faint, fall. And here we are.”

  Tristan, gazing at the chaise and Leonora beyond it, said nothing for a moment, then he nodded, looked at Pringle, and offered his hand. “As you say—here we are. Thank you for coming.”

  Pringle shook his hand, a grim smile flirting about his lips. “I thought leaving the army would mean a humdrum practice—with you and your friends about, at least I won’t be bored.”

  With an exchange of smiles, they parted. Pringle left, closing the front door behind him.

  Tristan walked around the back of the chaise to where Leonora stood, looking down at Miss Timmins. He put an arm around Leonora, lightly hugged.

  She permitted it. Leaned into him for a moment. Her hands were tightly clasped. “She looks so peaceful.”

  A moment passed, then she straightened and heaved a huge sigh. Brushed down her skirts and looked around. “So—a thief broke in and searched this room. Miss Timmins heard him and got out of bed to investigate. When the thief returned to the hall, she saw him, fainted, and fell…and died.”

  When he said nothing, she turned to him. Searched his eyes. Frowned. “What’s wrong with that as deduction? It’s perfectly logical.”

  “Indeed.” He took her hand, turned to the door. “I suspect that’s precisely what we’re supposed to think.”

  “Supposed to think?”

  “You missed a few pertinent facts. One, there’s not a single window lock or door lock forced or unexpectedly left open. Both Jeremy and I checked. Two”—stepping into the hall, ushering her ahead of him, he glanced back into the parlor—“no self-respecting thief would leave a room like that. There’s no point, and especially at night, why risk the noise?”

  Leonora frowned. “Is there a three?”

  “No other room has been searched, nothing else in the house appears disturbed. Except”—holding the front door, he waved her ahead of him; she went out onto the porch, waited impatiently for him to lock the door and pocket the key.