She reached down and fumbled with trembling fingers.
“Hurry,” he whispered.
“Sorry.”
She finally managed to get the door locked. The instant Ambrose heard the unmistakable click of iron against iron, he carried her back across the room to the sofa.
He set her on the cushions, straightened and turned down the gas jet so that the library was lit only by firelight.
She watched, fascinated, as he unfastened his shirt with quick, impatient movements. He left the garment hanging loosely and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She heard one boot hit the floor with a soft thud and then the other.
He turned and leaned over her, caging her between his arms. For a moment he just looked at her, as though he needed to commit her to memory because she might vanish at any moment.
“I knew that you would be waiting for me,” he said.
She looked up into his haunted eyes and smiled.
“Is that a bad thing?” she asked gently.
“I am not accustomed to having someone waiting for me,” he said, as if that explained everything.
In some strange way, it did, she thought. An oddly wistful sensation whispered through her.
“Neither am I,” she said.
“I want you.”
“It’s all right.” She touched his jaw with her fingertips. “I want you, too.”
He never took his eyes off her while he untied the sash of her dressing gown.
She could see some of the curling hair on his chest and the strange flower tattoo. Intrigued, she slipped her hands inside the edges of his open shirt and flattened her fingers on his bare skin, enthralled by the heat and strength of him.
The dressing gown fell away, leaving her in her nightgown. He reached down her leg. When she felt his hand on the inside of her bare thigh, she drew a sharp breath. The intimacy of his touch left her shaken, utterly consumed with a great need.
He kissed her throat and undid the bodice of the nightgown. Then, quite suddenly, she felt the edge of his teeth on her nipple. The sensation electrified her senses.
She clenched her hands in his hair. A violent shudder swept through her. “Ambrose.”
He opened his trousers and pushed himself against her bare thigh, hard and heavy and demanding.
When he touched the damp, aching place between her legs, she became shatteringly aware of the compelling tension that was building within her there. She lifted herself against his hand and he responded with slow, deliberate strokes of his fingers that drove her to the brink of madness.
Sensation after sensation coursed through her, leaving no room for uncertainty, let alone any sense of modesty. She was caught up in the whirlwind and she could not wait to see where it would take her.
Desperately curious, she circled him with her fingers. He responded with a hoarse groan that could have reflected either intense pleasure or intense pain.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked anxiously.
“I am in agony.”
“Oh, Ambrose, I never meant—”
“Do it again,” he ordered roughly.
She explored him while he rained kisses on her throat, shoulders and breasts.
Abruptly, but with obvious reluctance, as though he yearned for more but feared he could not tolerate the sensation, he levered himself up and away from her. His fingers closed around one of her ankles. He raised her leg.
Assuming that he was going to complete their union, she braced herself.
But he did not enter her. Instead, to her great shock, he draped her leg over the back of the sofa and moved down the length of her body. When she felt his tongue on her in the place that he had just finished caressing, she was so stunned, she could not utter a single word, let alone protest.
By the time she finally found her voice, it was too late. Her entire body was clenched as tight as a fist.
Without warning a dazzling sense of release burst through her. The sensation was so overwhelming that she barely noticed that Ambrose had changed positions and was now looming over her.
She opened her eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of his intent, fiercely shadowed features, and then he was sinking himself into her body.
It was too much. She could not endure the alchemical brew of pain and pleasure. Her lips parted on a small scream.
Ambrose sealed her mouth with his own, silencing her before the cry escaped.
He groaned and then, as though he could not help himself, as if he had lost some portion of the self-control he valued so highly, he began to move within her.
She clutched his shoulders and clenched her teeth against the uncomfortable, impossibly tight feeling, knowing that he needed this release, aware that it was a gift that she could give him.
He stroked into her again and again. Then, quite suddenly, he went absolutely rigid. It was as if he was engaged in a battle of some kind.
“Hold me,” he begged against her throat.
The words seared her soul. The discomfort she had been experiencing did not matter. The only important thing in the entire universe in that moment was holding Ambrose as close as humanly possible.
His climax surged through him.
Time stood still and the night burned.
28
Along time later she felt Ambrose move. He eased himself away from her body and got to his feet. She opened her eyes and watched him close his trousers. The act made her acutely aware of her own nakedness.
The atmosphere in the room had changed. The night was no longer white hot. In spite of the glowing embers on the hearth, there was a chill in the air.
She sat up quickly and pulled the dressing gown around herself.
Ambrose went to the mantel, retrieved her spectacles and came back to the sofa. He positioned the eyeglasses gently on her nose, took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, of course.” She adjusted the folds of the wrapper, ignoring the slightly bruised sensation between her legs and the small stains on her nightgown. All perfectly natural under the circumstances, she thought. “Why would you think otherwise?”
He smiled wryly. “Determined to play the unconventional, freethinking, modern woman to the hilt, aren’t you?”
“It is not an act. I am unconventional, freethinking and modern.”
“You were also a virgin.”
She frowned. “See here, you are not going to allow yourself to be guilt-stricken about that small fact, are you? If so, I can assure you that regrets are entirely unnecessary. I certainly do not have any.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Positive. All in all, it was an extremely instructive experience.”
“Instructive.” He did not seem to know quite what to do with the word.
“I would even go so far as to call it enlightening.” She went to the mirror on the wall and fumbled with her hair. “There is a great deal to recommend virginity when one is a young woman, but it is a far less interesting condition when one has arrived at a certain age.”
“I see.”
She met his eyes in the mirror and was unable to resist a chuckle. He looked so serious and intense. “Calm yourself, sir. It was the right time. You were the right man. Had you not taken the initiative tonight, I would no doubt have felt compelled to do so and that would have been so very unconventional.”
He came to stand behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, watching her in the mirror. “How did you know that I was the right man?”
She hesitated, uncertain how to put it into words. She could not tell him that she loved him. It would only add to his guilt.
“I just knew.” She put one of her hands on top of his. “I was very attracted to you from the start.”
He tightened his grip on her shoulders and bent his head slightly to kiss her ear. “I had a similar reaction to you.”
Her spirits rose. “Did you?”
He startled her with one of his rare smiles. Then he released her
and went toward the brandy table. “Told myself it was merely the effect of having shared the back of a horse with you for an extended period of time, of course.”
She turned around very slowly. “It was a very intimate experience, wasn’t it?”
“It was, indeed. One that I will certainly never forget.”
Better to leave it at that, she thought. A modern, free thinking, unconventional woman would certainly do so.
He poured brandy into two glasses and set down the decanter. “Shall we drink a toast to your new, enlightened status?”
“Certainly.” She took the glass from his fingers, feeling very worldly. She was now a woman of experience.
He raised his own glass. “To you, Concordia Glade.”
“And to you, Ambrose Wells.” She took a small sip, lowered the glass and looked pointedly at the newspaper on the floor. “Whoever you are.”
The ghosts returned to his eyes.
He picked up the newspaper and looked at the front page for a long time. She knew that he was reading the piece about the suicide.
“Who was he?” she asked gently.
He did not look up from the paper. “My father.”
“Oh, Ambrose, I was afraid of that.” She went to him and put her hand on his sleeve. “I’m so very sorry.” She glanced at the date on the old newspaper. “How old were you at the time?”
“Thirteen.” He refolded the paper with great care and put it on a nearby table.
“Dear heaven.” She tightened her grip on his arm. “To lose a parent in that way is such a dreadful thing.”
“My father did not commit suicide.” He took another swallow of brandy and lowered the glass. “He was murdered.”
She frowned. “You know that for certain?”
“Yes.” He turned away, freeing himself from her hand. “I was there that night. I was the only one, with the exception of the killer, who knew the truth.”
“Ambrose, you must tell me what happened.”
He slanted her a strange, veiled look. “It is not a pretty story.”
“Obviously. But now that you have told me this much, I must know the rest.”
He turned the glass between his palms, seemingly lost in the play of the light on the faceted crystal. She knew he was choosing his words carefully, deciding how much to tell her.
“My father sent me upstairs early that night,” he said. “He gave me strict instructions not to come back down for any reason. He was expecting a late-night visit from a gentleman with whom he had business dealings.”
“What of your mother? Where was she?”
“My mother died when I was born. My father never remarried.”
Tragedy upon tragedy, she thought. “I see.”
“My father had been tense and distracted all day. I knew that the man who was to call on him was the cause of his agitation, but I did not know the nature of the threat. I was still awake when the visitor arrived. He came to the back door. I got out of bed when I heard my father greet him, went to the top of the stairs and stood in the shadows. I saw the two go into the study.”
“What happened?”
“There was a quarrel, a violent one. My father and the other man were partners in an illicit financial scheme.” He glanced at the newspapers. “The press got that much right.”
“They argued about their business affairs?”
Ambrose nodded. “Something had gone wrong. A maid had discovered some details of the swindle. My father’s partner had murdered her to ensure her silence.”
“Dear God,” she whispered.
His mouth twisted humorlessly. “I told you, this was not a cheerful tale.”
“Go on, Ambrose.”
“My father told his partner that he could not abide murder and that he intended to end their association. The partner had a pistol.” Ambrose gazed deeply into the firelit brandy. “When I heard the shot, I knew what had happened. I was . . . transfixed with fear and shock. It was as though I had found myself in a waking nightmare.”
She put her hand on his arm again. This time he did not pull away. She got the impression that he did not even realize that she was so close. He was lost in the terrible memories that he saw in the brandy.
“I was still standing there in the darkness at the top of the staircase when the stranger came out of the study. He looked around and then he started toward the stairs. He knew I was in the house. He did not intend to leave any witnesses.”
She tightened her grip on his arm.
“I just stood there, mesmerized. He could not see me from the bottom of the steps, but I knew that by the time he reached the first landing he would almost certainly notice me. Then he appeared to remember the housekeeper.”
“What about her?”
“I think he reasoned that she was more of a threat as a witness because she was an adult. He was right. In any event, he decided to deal with her first. He turned and went back down the stairs toward the kitchen.”
She put her arms around him and held him as tightly as she had earlier when they had been locked in a passionate embrace.
He hesitated as though he did not know what to do with the offer of comfort. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and let her hold him.
“Mrs. Dalton, thank God, was not there that night. My father had sent her away for the evening, to make certain that she did not overhear anything incriminating when he confronted his partner. But I knew that once the killer had assured himself that the housekeeper was not a problem, he would resume his hunt for me.”
“What did you do?”
“When he disappeared to search for Mrs. Dalton, it was as though I had been freed from a trance. I could move and breathe again. I knew I had only a very short span of time to find a hiding place upstairs, but I had one major advantage. I was, of course, quite familiar with the interior of the house. There was a cushioned window seat in my father’s bedroom. It opened up to form a cupboard, but when the lid was closed, it appeared solid.”
“You hid inside the window seat?”
“Yes. I had to remove the blankets that had been stored inside first. I shoved them under the bed. I managed to get into the window seat and lower the lid just as the killer started up the stairs. I heard him make his way down the hall, searching every room on the floor.”
“What a terrifying experience.”
“The worst part was that the bastard kept calling to me, urging me to come out of hiding. He said that my father had just killed himself and that he would take care of me.”
She shuddered and tightened her hold on him. “And all the while he meant to kill you.”
“He went through every room. I heard him open the wardrobes and cupboards. When he came into the bedroom where I was hiding, my heart was pounding so loudly I was certain he would hear it. I tried not to breathe, not to move so much as the tip of my finger. I was certain that he would open the window seat and find me.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. I heard him swearing in frustration and rage. But he was also nervous about delaying his escape from the house. He did not want to linger at the scene of the crime any longer than was absolutely necessary. He concluded that I was not there and left. I stayed where I was for a time because I knew that he might be watching from outside, perhaps waiting to see if I turned on a light.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“When I could not bear it any longer, I climbed out of the window seat and went downstairs without turning on any lights. The lamp in the study still burned. When I got to the doorway I could see my father lying there on the floor.” Ambrose watched the dying fire. “There was . . . a great deal of blood.”
“You were so young to look upon something so terrible,” she whispered.
“I never even got to say good-bye.” He flexed one hand. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had gone downstairs earlier, while my father and the stranger were still quarreling.”
Alarmed, she stepped back to look
at him. “Ambrose, no, you must not think that way.”
“Perhaps my presence could have altered the outcome.”
She hushed him by putting her fingers against his mouth. “Listen to me. I know what you are thinking and it is wrong. You bear no blame or responsibility for what happened that night. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I was there and I was helpless.”
“You were a boy, only thirteen years old. Indeed, it is astonishing that you managed to outwit the killer and save yourself.”
He did not respond but neither did he attempt to free himself from her arms.
“Did the police ever catch the man who murdered your father?” she asked after a while.
There was a short pause.
“No,” Ambrose said. “They did not catch him.”
Anger on his behalf shot through her. “Do you mean that in the end there was no justice done?”
He looked bemused by her display of outrage.
“It took some time,” he said quietly. “You could say that there was justice of a sort, but no true revenge.”
“What do you mean?”
“Evidently the killer became very anxious after he failed to find me. He went to America for four years. When he returned, I was waiting for him. I had made elaborate plans.”
“What happened?”
Ambrose’s mouth tightened at the corners. “By the time he returned, he was dying of consumption.”
“And you decided to let nature take its course, didn’t you?”
“Nature and the smoke of London.” He shrugged. “It seemed to me that killing him would have been akin to an act of mercy.”
“Did you go to see him?”
“No. I sent a message to him, letting him know who I was and that I was out there, somewhere, watching and waiting for him to die. He lasted less than six months.”
“What happened to you after your father was killed?” she asked. “Did you go to live with relatives?”
“I had no close relatives. My grandfather died a year before my father was killed. There was no one else.”
“Did you end up in an orphanage or the workhouse?”
“No.”
“What did you do? You were only thirteen years old.”