Let the Night Begin (9 page)

Olivia swallowed, but the lump in her throat made it painfully impossible to get any moisture to the dryness there. “What are you saying, Reign?”

“I want my wife back.” He sounded almost angry at his own confession. “You either give her to me or get the hell out of my life for good. I'll give you until we find James to decide, but I won't be toyed with Liv, not by you or anyone else.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Olivia stayed where she was, her mouth hanging open.

He wanted her back? No, that was too fantastic—too ludicrous—to be true. He had to be lying. He had to be playing with her, trying to rattle her for his own means. He didn't trust her—she didn't care what he said about offering her his trust, she knew the man too well, and he trusted her about as much as he trusted a coachload of cardinals armed with holy water and silver crucifixes.

But he had succeeded in rattling her, if only for a moment. For one brief second she had wanted to forgive him. She wanted to be able to let go of the past and start fresh. But she couldn't. Even if that foolish inclination had lingered, whatever new bonds she and Reign forged would be destroyed the minute she exchanged him for James. And she
would
exchange him for James. She had no other choice.

Unless she trusted him with the truth. If she did that, what then? Would he continue to help her, or would he turn his back on her and leave James to whatever fate awaited at the hands of his abductors. They'd kill him, of that she was
certain. Anyone who could kill an old priest, wouldn't hesitate to kill a regular boy. No, she couldn't take that chance, no matter how badly her conscience prickled her. Reign might claim to offer his trust to her, but thus far, other than saying and doing a few pretty things, she had no real reason to trust him.

God, what had seemed such a small task, such a simple perfidy, now seemed so convoluted and uncertain.

Was she deceiving Reign? Or was Reign trying to deceive her?

“W
hy can't I dangle him over the balcony by his foot until he tells us what happened to James?” Olivia inquired demurely.

Reign removed his discreet gaze from Dashbrooke, who was standing across the room deep in conversation with another man, and turned his attention to his wife, who was also watching the portly gentleman, a predatory, humorless smile on her face.

She was lovely, in a lethal sort of way. On the outside she looked like a normal woman, with her thick tawny and chocolate hair pinned and curled, her lovely figure clothed in a low-cut gown of wine silk. Her bosom was pushed high, her waist tightly nipped, and the saucy little bustle on the back of her gown exaggerated every sway of her round hips. But inside, Reign knew her to be the kind of woman who would kill if she had to. She had been that way even as a human. It had been something that had attracted him to her, that ferocity. But she rarely voiced it aloud.

“Tell me you are not serious.”

“Of course not.” She turned her gaze to meet his, a sliver of humor in her eyes, mixed with a healthy dose of mockery. “I merely thought perhaps we would look more like a happily married couple if we actually spoke to one another. Or do you plan to be silent all evening?”

He shrugged. “I have nothing to say.”

She ran her palm down his arm, gazing at him as though he was the most fascinating creature she'd ever encountered. She was a good actress. “I doubt that.”

“Nothing good.”

The hand on his arm was suddenly gone, as was that expression of adoration. “So now, I'm the villain am I?”

Reign plastered a false grin on his face. He leaned in closer, as though he was about to say something charming, or perhaps apologize for making her cross. “One more word about how much I've wronged you and I'm gone. Understand? I will leave you here and return to London.”

“You would do that?” Olivia's eyes were wide. He had surprised her. Good.

“In a fucking blink.”

She must have sensed just how serious he was, because she didn't pursue the subject. Her mouth tight, she resumed watching Dashbrooke. “Are you going to approach him or are we just going to stand here all evening?”

He took a swallow of champagne. “Woman, you have as much patience as a horny sailor with his first whore.”

That predatory smile was directed at him now. He could feel the tension vibrating in her tense form. When this evening was over they were going to either pummel each other or…well, sex was a bit like pummeling for them anyway. “You know, your charm was one of the first things that attracted me to you.”

He lightly touched his index finger to the tip of her nose—a loving husband's teasing touch. “Just as your sweetness called to me.”

She swatted his hand away. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“I want him to come to us. He won't be so quick to defend himself if we let him come to us.”

“Defend himself?” Incredulity made her eyes round, but she kept her voice low. “You think the father of James's friend might be involved?”

He shouldn't feel quite so smug at having surprised her, but he did. “Darling, I prefer to suspect everyone and then whittle it down from there.”

She snatched the champagne from his hand and took a sip. “Even me, I suppose?”

“No. Whatever your trespasses are, kidnapping your nephew isn't one of them.” He stopped a footman for another glass of sparkling wine. Olivia finished the drink in her hand and took another
from the tray before the footman walked away. She drank like a fish, his wife.

“How can you be so sure?”

“You would never hurt someone you love.”

“I tried to hurt you.”

He met her gaze with a wry one of his own. “Yes, I rather think that proves my point, don't you?” Olivia's smooth brow furrowed as she looked away, and hope, tiny and uncertain, fluttered in his chest.
Damn her.
He didn't want hope. This would be so much easier if he didn't want her affection. “Sir Robert and his wife are coming this way,” he murmured. “We'll ask them about James.”

“What would they know about James?” she asked.

“Probably nothing, but Dashbrooke will hear that we've asked.”

She shot him a sharp glance. “Deception is a regular function in your life, isn't it?”

Her words stung—more than he cared to admit. “Right now that's a little like the pot and the kettle, darling…Sir Robert, Lady Anderson, good evening.”

Robert Anderson was a baronet and quite possibly one of the tallest men of Reign's acquaintance. Being of good Scottish stock, the baronet was six and a half feet of ruddy-cheeked, bright-eyed good humor. His wife, Heather was tall as well, slender with classical features and a quick grin. Both were so open and good-natured that they were impossi
ble not to like, and for that reason Reign was loath to introduce them to the wife they never knew he had.

“Reign, my lad!” Sir Robert clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “What a surprise to see you in this part of the world again so soon.”

Reign smiled at the larger man. “Thank you. May I present my wife, Olivia?”

“Wife!” Lady Anderson cried, echoed by her husband. “You sly dog. You never told us you were engaged.”

How lovely of her to give him a convenient way to lie. “It was rather unexpected. Once I met my Liv, I knew I had to have her.” He put his arm around his wife's shoulders and squeezed. He knew she'd love to smack him, but she smiled instead and took Heather's extended hand, murmuring an appropriate greeting.

“So you're here on honeymoon, then?” Sir Robert inquired.

“I wish the occasion were so happy, but I'm afraid I'm not here for pleasure, Robert.”

The big Scot frowned. “What's the matter?”

Reign gestured to Olivia. “My wife's nephew recently disappeared from Edinburgh. We fear he may have been abducted.”

The baron and his lady were honestly horrified, that was obvious. “Oh dear lord.” Heather shot Olivia a sympathetic gaze. “Is there anything we can do?”

Reign smiled slightly, as though their generosity came as a bit of a surprise. “Perhaps you might let it be known that we are inquiring after James Burnley of London? He would have been out in society. Perhaps you have acquaintances who might have useful information.”

“Of course,” Sir Robert agreed. “Burnley, you say?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes. James.”

The Scotsman nodded. “I believe I met the young man a fortnight ago. He seemed in very good spirits and company. You say you believe he's been abducted?”

The hopeful expression on Olivia's face broke Reign's heart, so he tore his gaze away from her and concentrated on Sir Robert instead. “We have every reason to believe just that, yes.” He didn't want to reveal anything too particular. The less he gave away, the more anyone with connections to the crime might then reveal.

“We will certainly let our acquaintances know and encourage anyone with information to contact you.” Lady Anderson's expression was both determined and sympathetic. “Meanwhile, if there is anything else we can do, please let us know.”

“You're very kind,” Olivia replied, her voice soft and hoarse. “Thank you.”

After a few more moments of conversation and making Reign promise that he and Olivia would call some evening, the Andersons left to chat to
other guests. They would be true to their word and mention James's disappearance, Reign would bet on it.

“Are you all right?” he asked his silent wife once they were alone again.

Olivia glanced up at him, a little too surprised by the question for his liking. “Do you care?”

“Don't play with me, Liv.” It came out gruffer than he intended. “Do you think I'd even be here if I didn't care?”

She tilted her chin defiantly, and he knew her silence was about to come to an abrupt end. “I thought perhaps guilt was your motivation. Or is it having me in your bed once more?”

Truth came easily to his tongue. “Neither would be half so motivating, if you didn't mean something to me.”

She looked away, her hand pressed to the delectable swell of her breasts. “I'd really rather you wouldn't make such confessions.”

Reign studied the delicate lines of her bare throat, how they convulsed when she swallowed. She was not immune to him. He would have thanked God if he didn't think the old bastard would smite him with a lightning bolt. “Then perhaps you shouldn't ask.”

They stood in silence for a little while longer until a few couples decided to take advantage of the string quartet the Andersons had hired and began dancing.

“Care to dance?” Reign asked.

A self-conscious chuckle answered him. “It's been a very long time since I danced.”

“All the more reason to do it now.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

It was a country dance called The Tartan Plaid. As most country dances, it didn't have much time for closeness, but that wasn't the reason for dancing. Reign simply wanted to see Olivia smile. Dancing always made her smile.

It worked. By the end of the dance she was smiling, and there was a brightness in her eyes he hadn't seen since their wedding. They danced so much that night.

They participated in another country dance called the Irish Washerwoman, which neither of them were terribly familiar with. They were both smiling at the end of that one.

So when the music started for a waltz, it seemed only natural for Reign to take Olivia into his arms—in proper form, of course.

“I had forgotten how well you dance,” she remarked as they glided gracefully around the floor. They certainly looked the doting married couple now, he'd wager.

He smiled wryly. “I think you've forgotten a lot of my good traits.”

Her lips quirked, as did one brow. “It does make it much easier to remember all the bad.”

Reign laughed—and
she
chided him for blunt
confessions! He would rather trade insults with this woman than be flattered by any other.

When they had finished their waltz, Reign went and fetched them both a glass of champagne. He hadn't been back a full minute when Dashbrooke approached.

“Gavin, by all that's holy, what are you doing here?”

Six centuries might not have made Reign any wiser, but they had made him smarter. For example, just as he knew Olivia was keeping secrets, he knew that Dashbrooke was not the least bit surprised to see him. That might be because he had seen Reign earlier in the evening, or perhaps heard of his arrival the day before. Or, it might be for another reason—one that it wouldn't be wise to attempt guessing at this point.

“Dashbrooke,” he greeted with a smile and handshake. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Olivia.”

Was it Reign's imagination, or did Dashbrooke's astonishment ring false once again? “Wife? Deuce take it, man. You weren't married three weeks ago!”

“We eloped,” Olivia lied—and with surprising jocularity. “It was a whirlwind courtship.” She giggled.

Giggled. It was the oddest sound Reign had ever heard, but he realized what she was doing, and he quickly fell in line. “Once I saw her I knew I had to have her.”

A hint of a leer colored Dashbrooke's grin as he gazed at Olivia. Reign stiffened, but didn't act upon instinct—which made him want to rip the fat bastard's throat out.

“Actually, I believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Mr. Dashbrooke,” Olivia went on, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the old cur was practically salivating over her breasts. “A young man by the name of James Burnley.”

Instantly Dashbrooke's expression became one of sympathy. “Of course I know the boy. He and my Reggie are thick as thieves. Tell me, Mrs. Gavin, have you any word from him? We haven't heard from him in days. Reggie's quite convinced he's run afoul.”

Most of the color Reign worked so hard to put into Olivia's cheeks drained at the callous remark. “I have not, sir. I was rather hoping you might have some clue as to my nephew's whereabouts.”

Dashbrooke shook his head. His jowls made a faint slapping sound. “I am truly sorry, my dear madam. One morning he was there at the breakfast table and by that evening he had disappeared.”

“Perhaps your son might know something?” Olivia wrung her hands, giving away her fear though she kept her voice calm. Her eyes were calm as well. Damn it, she wasn't as fragile as she let Dashbrooke—or Reign—believe.

Their companion shrugged. “Perhaps. I'm afraid Reggie isn't with me tonight.”

Reign could take no more of Olivia's distress, real or otherwise. “Perhaps your son might call upon us at my town house?” Reign suggested. “I beg your pardon, Dashbrooke, but I really must take Olivia home.”

Dashbrooke said something, but Reign wasn't listening. He took Olivia by the shoulders and steered her toward the exit. He didn't even bother to bid good night to Sir Robert and Lady Anderson. He would send them a note tomorrow. Right now, all that mattered was his wife.

Thankfully his house wasn't far and leaving the party early helped them avoid heavier traffic. They were home within twenty minutes.

“You must think me so weak,” Olivia whispered, standing in the hall, her shoulders slumped and her gaze sad. “I feel weak.”

“No woman who can handle me is weak,” he informed her. He took her by the arm and led her to the stairs. “You are afraid. There's a world of difference.”

“I am afraid.” The confession seemed to surprise her. “I didn't want you to see it. I thought you might use it against me.”

Jesus. Was her opinion of him truly that low? At the top of the stairs he stopped and turned to her, making sure her gaze met his before speaking. He wanted her to see the truth in his eyes. “I might use many things against you, Liv, but fear will never be one of them.”

“So blunt.” A ghost of a smile curved her wide lips. “So honest. I always admired that about you.”