The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)
He didn’t have to say more, it was there in his eyes. There for her to see. A vulnerability so deeply enmeshed in him, in who he was, that he could never not have it, and still have her.
A dilemma, one he could never resolve, but could only accept. As, in taking her as his wife, he’d chosen to do.
She leaned into him; her hands were still bracketing his face. “I will never willingly place myself in danger. I’ve decided to be yours—I intend to continue in that role, to remain important to you.” She held his gaze. “Believe that.”
His features hardened; he ignored her hands and lowered his head. Took her lips, her mouth in a searing kiss that bordered on the wild.
Drew back to whisper against her lips. “I’ll try to, if you’ll remember this. If you fail, we both will pay the price.”
She traced his lean cheek. Waited until he met her eyes. “I won’t fail. And neither will you.”
Their hearts were thudding; familiar flames licked hungrily over their skins. She searched his eyes. “This”—she shifted sinuously against him, felt his breath hitch—“was meant to be. We didn’t decree it, you or I, it was there, waiting to snare us. Now the challenge is to make all the rest work—it’s not an endeavor we can escape or decline, not if we want this.”
“I definitely want this, and more. I’m not letting you go. Not for any reason. Not ever.”
“So we’re committed, you and I.” She held his darkened gaze. “We’ll make it work.”
Two heartbeats passed, then he bent his head; his hands firmed, lifting her against him.
She dropped her hands to his shoulders, pressed back. “But…”
He paused, met her eyes. “But what?”
“But we’ve run out of time tonight.”
They had. Tristan tightened his arms, kissed her witless, then shackled his demons, clamoring for her, and, grim-faced, set her on her feet.
She looked as chagrined as he felt—a minor consolation.
Later.
Once they had Mountford by the heels, nothing was going to get in their way.
His carriage was waiting; he escorted Leonora out to it, helped her in, and followed. As the carriage rattled off over the now wet cobbles, he returned to something she’d mentioned earlier. “Why does Humphrey think pieces of Cedric’s puzzle are missing? How can he know?”
Leonora settled back beside him. “The journals are details of experiments—what was done and the results, nothing more. What’s missing is the rationale that makes sense of them—the hypotheses, the conclusions. Carruthers’s letters refer to some of Cedric’s experiments, and others which Humphrey and Jeremy reason must be Carruthers’s own, and the sheets of descriptions from Carruthers we found in Cedric’s room—Humphrey thinks at least some of those match some of the experiments referred to in Carruthers’s letters.”
“So Cedric and Carruthers appear to have been exchanging details of experiments?”
“Yes. But as yet Humphrey can’t be ce
rtain whether they were working on the same project together, or whether they were simply exchanging news. Most pertinently, he hasn’t found anything to define what their mutual project, assuming there was one, was.”
He juggled the information, debating whether it made Martinbury, Carruthers’s heir, more or less important. The carriage slowed, then halted. He glanced out, then climbed out before Number 14 Montrose Place and handed Leonora down.
Overhead, the clouds were scudding, the dark pall breaking up before the wind. She tucked her hand into his arm; he glanced at her as he swung the gate wide. They walked up the winding path, both distracted by the eccentric world of Cedric’s creation gleaming in the fitful moonlight, the odd-shaped leaves and bushes embroidered with droplets of rain.
Light beamed from the front hall. As they climbed the porch steps the door swung open.
Jeremy looked out, his face tense. He saw them and his features eased. “About time! The blackguard’s already started tunneling.”
In absolute silence, they faced the wall beside the laundry trough in the basement of Number 14 and listened to the stealthy scritch-scritch of someone scraping away mortar.
Tristan motioned Leonora and Jeremy to stillness, then put out a hand, and laid it on the bricks from behind which the noise was emanating.
After a moment, he removed his hand and signaled them to retreat. At the entrance to the laundry, a footman stood waiting. Leonora and Jeremy went silently past him; Tristan paused. “Good work.” His voice was just loud enough to reach the footman. “I doubt they’ll get through tonight, but we’ll organize a watch. Close the door and make sure no one makes any unusual sound in this area.”
The footman nodded. Tristan left him and followed the others into the kitchen at the end of the corridor. From their faces, both Leonora and Jeremy were bursting with questions; he waved them to silence and addressed Castor and the other footmen, all gathered and waiting with the rest of the staff.