Samantha James (5 page)

“Why?” she asked bluntly.

Again that slow smile—a breathtaking one, she acknowledged. All at once she felt oddly short of breath. And there it was again, that smolder of something in his eyes. And now it was evident in the glint of his smile, too.

“Perhaps fortunate is not the best way to describe it.” He pretended to ponder. “No, that is not it at all. Indeed, I must say, I relish my luck.”

“Your luck, my lord? And why is that?”

“It’s quite simple, really. I relish my luck…in that I have found you before my brother.”

Fionna’s cheeks heated. Oh, heavens, the man was outrageous! He was an accomplished flirt—but surely he wasn’t flirting with her. No one flirted with Fionna Hawkes.

“And another thing, Miss Hawkes.” He traced a fingertip around the shape of her mouth, sending her heart into such a hammering rhythm that she could barely breathe.

She could not have moved if the earth had tumbled away beneath both of them.

“I am immensely delighted,” he murmured, “to discover that you are most definitely
not
a vampire.”

No, she was not. Still, Fionna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ah, she thought, if he only knew…

It was a dark red brick building toward which Fionna directed her steps the next afternoon. It sat at the end of the street, surrounded by lawn covered with a blanket of white; it had snowed last night. Sunny and bright, a stream of sunlight seemed to cast glitter through the air. Fionna found herself praying as she approached. In the summer, she’d been told, there was a lovely, secluded garden where the patients could walk. Indeed, the façade was beautiful and so stately that one would never have guessed what it was—or who lived there. Dr. Colson called it a private hospital, catering to exclusive patients. As she climbed the wide stone steps to an ornately carved door, a bitter thought took hold. It was not at all grim from the outside. Indeed, it was a rather stately-looking building.

But the inside…She shuddered. It wasn’t like Bedlam perhaps. Not that she’d ever seen Bedlam, nor would she. Or more aptly, she would see that her mother never would.

Raising a hand, she took hold of the brass knocker and rapped firmly three times.

The door was opened by a matronly-looking woman named Eunice.

“Good evening, Miss Hawkes,” the woman said cheerily. “Come to see your mum?”

Fionna nodded.

“I believe she’s in her room, miss.”

Fionna walked down an adjacent hallway. There was a common room, filled with several other patients. One man sat alone in a chair, jabbering nonsense. Another knocked his head repeatedly against the pristine white trim surrounding the window, while a nurse sought to pry him away.

Fionna longed to clap her hands over her ears and squeeze her eyes shut. She hurried forward, rapping lightly on the door before entering.

Her mother sat in the middle of a small, cushioned sofa. There was a wide, comfortable bed on the far wall, a teakwood table before the sofa. Dr. Colson did not spare comforts for his patients.

“Hello, Mama.” Fionna summoned a bright smile.

Her mother stared at her for a moment. She searched Fionna’s features, her expression one of confused consternation. Fionna’s heart sank. Some days were better than others; of late they had not been good.

“Fionna?”

The sofa was situated before the window. As she approached, Fionna noticed a cool draft emanating from the glass. She would have to speak to the staff and see that the sofa was moved—perhaps to the far corner.

There was a warm shawl on the rocking chair opposite the bed. Fionna retrieved it and
wrapped it about her mother’s shoulders, knotting it firmly at her breast.

“Mama,” she said gently. “You must remember to wear your shawl and a warm gown. It’s rather drafty here by the window.”

“Drafty? But it’s summer, Fionna.”

“No, Mama.” Fionna pointed at the window. “It’s winter. January, in fact. Remember the embroidery I bought as your Christmas gift? See the snow? Lovely, isn’t it?”

“January? I thought it was June.” Her mother suddenly seemed crestfallen. “I forget things, Fionna. Why do I forget? This morning I could not find my slippers. You know, those lovely yellow kid slippers you bought me last week.”

It hadn’t been last week; it had been at least three years.

And the slippers on her feet were black.

Her mother’s face suddenly brightened. “I had a visitor yesterday, dear.”

“Did you, Mama? How lovely! Who was it?”

“It was Vicar Tomlinson. He chided me for not coming to church, Fionna. For failing to sing in the choir. But I am too tired.”

Vicar Tomlinson from the village. Highly unlikely, Fionna decided.

Fionna regarded her mother with a mix of tears and endless regret.

Her mother had always been of a frail constitution. Painfully she recalled those days after her father had died, when Mama’s frailness ex
tended to the mind. She fell into a debilitating bleakness that could not be breached. She had to be coaxed to eat and to dress. She took pleasure in nothing. Previously, the highlight of her week had always been church on Sunday, when she sang in the choir—she loved singing above all else. Her mind wandered—and
she
wandered, once in the middle of the night. Kindly old Vicar Tomlinson brought her back after finding her in the church.

For a time after her father’s death, the other villagers would come to call, or send baskets of food. But Mama said little. She sat in her chair, rocking…rocking.

And as Mama retreated further and further into herself, eventually the neighbors stopped visiting. They stopped asking after Mama’s health. Once she heard a woman whispering as she coaxed Mama out for a brief walk near their house. The woman had called her “touched in the head.” Fionna was furious. Finally, their only caller was the vicar. Only Vicar Tomlinson treated Mama with kindness.

Fionna had been at her wit’s end. Her mother’s prolonged state baffled the local physician, a simple, country doctor.

Dr. Colson’s institution was Fionna’s last hope.

Vicar Tomlinson had corresponded with her several times since the move to London, inquiring as to her mother’s condition. But somehow she doubted the vicar had come to see her.

For Mama’s periods of lucidity were growing fewer and fewer.

Fionna laid her hand atop her mother’s fingers. “Perhaps you would not be so tired if you would eat more, Mama.” Fionna knew from the nurse that her mother’s appetite was almost nonexistent. She barely ate enough to subsist.

“I will, dearest. But your father did not come to tea today.” Thin fingers plucked the folds of her gown. “Nor did he come yesterday or the day before. I shall have to have a word with him. My William…well, he makes me so angry sometimes.”

Despair descended, thick and unrelenting. Fionna spoke with painful truth. “He is gone, Mama. Do you not remember the day we buried him in the churchyard?”

“No!” Her mother’s outburst startled her. “You must tell him, Fionna. Tell him that I am angry at his disregard! I will not stand for it, do you hear? Tell him that when you see him!”

Her mother leaped to her feet and paced, calling her dear, departed husband disparaging names. It wasn’t like her mother—it was as if she
wasn’t
her mother. It was clear she was growing increasingly agitated. Fionna sought to soothe her, to urge her to sit once more.

Someone must have heard her. Very soon the door opened. A nurse hastened into the room, a small glass in hand. “Mrs. Hawkes? It is time for your daily tonic. Drink it, dearie. You will feel
better soon. There you go, just like that.” The nurse managed to calm her. She helped Mama into the chair in the corner.

After the nurse was gone, Fionna waited a few minutes, but she could coax no further speech from her mother. She gazed outside the window, ignoring her. Or perhaps she didn’t even realize Fionna was there. It was so much like before, Fionna could have screamed. At last, she rose, kissing her mother good-bye.

Mama never even noticed.

Dr. Colson was just coming down the hall.

A gentleman in his forties, his eyes were nearly black, cleanly intelligent. His nose was prominent, his lips a bit thin but tipped up in a faint smile, as they usually were, as if he were disposed to put on a cheery front for his patients. His manner toward her had always been that of the utmost politeness, and to her mother, that of the utmost patience.

Perhaps that was what led her to trust him in the first place.

“Miss Hawkes. How good of you to come see your mother.”

Fionna visited without fail, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and Sunday mornings.

“It is not a good day for her,” Fionna admitted.

The doctor shook his head. He must have seen her despair. “Do not lose hope. I’ve seen cases that took many, many months before improvement was evident.”

Fionna wanted to cry out with pain.

“She is so thin. It’s almost as if she is wasting away.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Her appetite has not been particularly stout of late.”

“The last few weeks, she speaks incessantly of my father. As if she still cannot comprehend that he is dead.”

“In her mind, he is still very much alive. The mind refuses to accept what it does not want.” He paused, then repeated. “Do not give up, Miss Hawkes. It is far too soon for that. It may take time, but I truly believe she can be cured.” They talked for several more minutes before Fionna left and started for home.

But inside her heart was breaking apart.

For she could not hide the dread that had taken root inside her. In her heart of hearts, she was desperately afraid her worst fears were coming true.

That Mama would never get better.
Ever.

The next few days dragged endlessly.

Fionna was not usually given to moodiness, but worry about her mother was never far from the back of her mind. Adding to her strain was the fact that Raven and Rowan were not behaving. They were squabbling ceaselessly, when they should have been hunting down their quarry. Usually the words flowed fast and furious at night, and
she would look over what she’d written the next day, making changes as needed.

Shortly after opening the shop one morning, she sat at her desk in the back room. If anyone entered, the bell gave enough notice that she could be up and on her feet.

But it wasn’t only worry about her mother that disrupted her concentration. It was
him.
Aidan McBride. It was silly, for they’d only met twice. When he appeared at the shop the day after they’d met, he’d told her right out that he hadn’t come to see
her.
Yet somehow she’d convinced herself it wasn’t true. But really it was probably just as he’d said—he’d come to buy—marvel of marvels—a book.

Yet Fionna continued to think of him at the oddest moments, in particular when she was writing about Rowan, she kept picturing
him.

Aidan McBride.

It was disconcerting to the point of distraction. Distracting to the point of frustration. Furthermore, every time the shop bell rang, her pulse leaped. Did she fear it would be him…or did she
want
it to be him?

She stared down at her manuscript. Drivel. All of it. She would have to write the entire scene over.

Just then the shop bell tinkled. Fionna found she was relieved for the interruption.

Sweet heaven, it was
him.
Aidan McBride.

“Hello,” he greeted with a faint smile that set her heart bounding. He was even more devilishly striking than she remembered. He removed his top hat and tucked it beneath his arm.

She inclined her head in return. “Good day. Is there something I can help you with, my lord?”

A brow cocked high. “I thought we’d resolved that,” he stated smoothly.

“What is that?”

“The subject of my name. I should prefer it if you call me Aidan.”

Fionna said nothing. She repeated, “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

“I think I’d just like to browse for now.”

“Certainly.”

Fionna took her place behind the counter, pretending to rearrange the books there.

It wasn’t more than five minutes later that he presented himself there again, a glint in his eyes. Fionna eyed him warily.

“Miss Hawkes, I fear I cannot find the book I’m looking for.”

“What is it? Do you know the author?”

“I do. His name is Vatsyayana.”

Oh, but he was horrible. Hateful! It was Fionna’s dearest wish to slap him, but he was too far away.

And if he thought to rattle her, he was sorely mistaken. “Ah, yes, I know his work.”

His smile widened slowly, an unmistakable
gleam in his eyes. For an instant he looked almost boyish. Under other circumstances, it might have been utterly engaging. As it was, it just infuriated her more.

“But I must inquire…you didn’t find F.J. Sparrow to your liking?”

“It wasn’t that. I simply found I wasn’t in the mood for ghouls and monsters.”

“And I am not in the mood for
you,
sir. Since it’s
Kama Sutra
you’re after, I suggest you find the nearest brothel. You may well find it there. Now please remove yourself from my establishment.” She started to stalk around the counter, intending to wrench open the door and push him out if need be.

“My, my, you’ll be going to the poorhouse if you keep turning away all the customers.”

“And that would be my affair, wouldn’t it? Not yours,
Lord Aidan.
You are the most intolerable man I have ever met, and I hope I shall never meet another like you. Furthermore, if you ever come into my shop again, I shall call the constable.” This time she did march to the door and drag it open.

To her shock, he reached out and closed the door firmly with the heel of his hand.

Fionna whirled—only to stop short when she found herself confronting a broad, wool-covered chest.

He gave a slight bow. “My apologies, Miss
Hawkes. I stand duly chastened…and duly charmed.”

She looked him up and down. “Charmed, is it?” she snapped. “Well, sir, I am not charmed. And I am certainly not impressed with your impertinence. Furthermore, I advise that if you wish to charm a lady, you might employ a drastic change in tactics.”

“I do believe you are right, Miss Hawkes.” The gleam faded from his eyes. “It was in poor taste, and I truly apologize. The truth is, I spent the span of eleven years in India, most of them in the Punjab, where ladies such as you are in short supply.”

If it hadn’t been
un
ladylike, Fionna would have snorted.

“I suppose,” he went on, “in all honesty, it was an attempt to gain your attention. I believe you were ignoring me.”

“Ignoring you? I was merely letting you do as you stated you wished to—browse freely.”

“I should like to make it up to you,” he said quite seriously.

“Impossible,” she stated coolly. Fionna tried to step past him, but he’d angled his body slightly so that it was…well, impossible.

Little did she realize what Aidan was thinking. What the
hell
was he doing here again? He was impressed by her speech, her diction. He was also impressed by his reaction to her. He’d returned to
see if it was the same, if he was as drawn to her as he had been the other times he’d seen her.

By God, he was.

If anything, he found himself more taken with her than ever. In all honesty, he didn’t know
when
he’d been so damned attracted to a woman.

It was ridiculous because he couldn’t even see her figure. She was covered by one of those damnable Paisley shawls. Aidan’s estimation was that she could have surely wrapped the wretched garment about her body at least four times. He leashed the very impatient urge that clamored inside him. He’d like very much to unwrap that unwieldy, shapeless shawl to see if he was right—that beneath all the silly, ruffled petticoats and starch that defined women’s fashion these days was a woman who was far from shapeless. A slim, lithe woman with softly rounded breasts and warm, silken limbs.

For the love of God, he didn’t quite understand his fascination with her. For all that the companionship of a woman was enjoyable, he wasn’t sure he wanted or needed the complications of a woman in his life right now.

As for the lady, she was hardly an exquisite beauty. Hers was of a sedate quality, though it appeared the woman herself was not! Her hair was pinned up primly, her gown buttoned up clear to her chin.

It made her no less desirable.

If anything, it only made her
more
so.

“Let me pass,” she said sharply.

Aidan moved to accommodate her request. Once she’d resumed her station behind the counter, she tipped her head back and stared him straight in the eye.

“Must I remind you I asked you to leave?”

Aidan arched a brow before turning and curling his fingers around the doorknob.

Behind him he heard her voice, rather shrill this time. “I meant what I said, sir. You are hereafter banished from the premises!”

Hereafter banished?
He nearly threw back his head and erupted into laughter. Such melodrama! Why, the chit should have been on the stage instead of owning a bookshop! Aidan donned his hat and sauntered through the door.

“Good day, Miss Hawkes.”

His tone was mild. The emotions running through him were not.

She enticed him. She intrigued him. By heaven, she entranced him.

A woman,
he thought again. Aidan hadn’t been convinced, yet maybe Alec was right. Perhaps a woman was just what he needed.

But he rather suspected this prickly chit wasn’t what either of them had in mind. No, he strongly suspected Miss Fionna Hawkes was not the kind of woman with whom one had a hot, torrid affair.

Yet there was no denying the desire that scalded his veins like fire.

He wanted her, the lovely Miss Fionna Hawkes.

Around him. Beneath him. Atop him…he didn’t care how.

And that certainty shocked him, as much as he was sure it would shock the fetchingly lovely Miss Hawkes.

Inside the shop, Fionna’s thoughts were not quite the same. She stared daggers into the straight lines of his back as he strode boldly down the street, still seething. And to think when he’d first walked in, she had entertained the notion of giving him a signed copy of
The Devil’s Way
for his brother!

She’d obviously made a grave misjudgment about his character. No matter that he was part of a well-respected family—not just a well-respected family, but the aristocracy!—he was the worst kind of rogue. Which was probably why he’d spent so many years in India—in the Punjab, no less. No doubt his family had sent him away in exile!

And now her morning was ruined. But she’d learned her lesson. Never again would she allow thoughts of this ever-so-handsome wretch to enter her mind.

I stand enthralled.

From behind the shelter of a tree, he lifted his head ever so slightly, peering at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

It was as if he’d known her forever. She belonged to him. He saw the way she paused, as
if she sensed his nearness, as if she knew he was nearby…watching.

It was amusing, this game he played, and he knew that once they were together, she would find it just as amusing.

He’d known they belonged to each other, for…oh, ages now.

He thought of her mother. Quite delusional, the poor thing—he’d seen other such creatures before, before he came to his present position. But there was the occasional period of complete sanity.

And he knew that Fionna hoped to someday have her back.

She wouldn’t, of course. Her mother…well, she had gone too far into the most distant realms of the mind to ever return.

But Fionna was, as much as he, a creature of the dark. A creature of the night.

Sometimes he walked with her, her silent companion. Sometimes he just watched, unmoving.

For they were meant for each other. To be together. Forever.

For always.

With that, he rose and slipped into the shadows as silently as he had come.

Fionna tucked up her hood and buried her chin in the warm depths of her fur-trimmed mantle, pulling the velvet-lined interior tighter around her body.

It was horridly, wretchedly cold, so cold she fancied she could almost see her breath freeze as she expelled a rounded puff of air. She wished she’d stayed indoors tonight, where the fire burned warm and cozy…but Raven and Rowan had finally settled in over the last few days, and she was quite happy with the way
Demon of Dartmoor
was coming along. She needed one of her nightly walks to inspire her creativity.

And then, all at once…she felt it. A shiver touched the base of her spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the frozen air ran up her back until it prickled the very hairs on the back of her neck.

She paused, every sense screaming, then glanced quickly around, executing a full circle that she might see in all directions.

There was nothing. Nothing but the endless blur of the night, the eerily patterned glow of the gaslights behind ice-encrusted panes. Across the street, naked, gnarled branches twined in a mating that was almost macabre.

Good heavens, what was she thinking? It was like something out of one of her books. She was being utterly ridiculous.

Nonetheless, Fionna quickened her pace. But only to warm herself, she told herself stoutly. She rounded the corner. Four more houses and she would be home.

But then there was a crunch of snow. She spun around. And then she saw it…a shadow tres
passed on the frozen walkway. In her mind it was black as the devil’s soul…Her stomach churned. She hated the way she suddenly felt…as if the night was no longer her own…and she was angry, bloody angry.

And terrified as well.

“Come out, you wretched dog,” she cried. “Show yourself.”

A form stepped from the shadows just as she whirled. A man, she realized. Big. Dark-skinned…

Fionna screamed.

Hands clamped down over her shoulders. To her they were like iron manacles.

She twisted madly, but she couldn’t escape.

“Fionna! Fionna, stop! It’s only me—Aidan. For pity’s sake, stop before you wake the entire city.”

Aidan.
Aidan.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” A cry. A gasp. An accusation. “You followed me before. You came to the shop. You follow me now! Why?
Why?
”

“I did not follow you, Fionna! I was just returning from my brother’s. I usually walk from there. Then I saw you—again.”

Oh! How dare he accuse
her
?

“So you followed me out of concern? I don’t believe you!”

His town house was directly to the right. Taking her arm, he guided her up the stairs. A sleepy butler opened the door. Aidan dismissed him with a nod.

In the drawing room, he guided her to a settee angled before the fire. “Sit,” he ordered.

Golden eyes sparked like fire. The air of command he possessed grated.

“You were a military man, weren’t you?” she demanded.

“Whether I was or wasn’t has nothing to do with…” He suddenly caught her meaning.

“Please,” he said grittily, “please sit.”

He lit several lamps, then stirred the fire with a poker. The fire blazed anew, orange tinged with blue. When he turned back, his expression was still stony.

Fionna sat on the edge of the settee, her features schooled into an expression of decided defiance as she peeled off her gloves.

“You are the damnedest woman I know!” he growled. “And I believe you owe me an explanation.”

“I owe you nothing, my lord.”

He made a sound of extreme exasperation. “Why are you so frightened?”

“I’m not frightened. I’m angry!”

“Because you thought I was following you?”