Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

“He’s a killer at whist. I do hope that Charlotte plays well.”

She sounded like Jeremy was nothing more than an acquaintance, perhaps a distant relation. It made him feel very good indeed. He said, his voice light, easy, “Isn’t it nice that we’re not involved in any of it?”

“Very nice.” She smiled at him.

Thomas eyed her one last time, rose and stripped off his clothes. When he was naked, he walked back toward the bed, in truth, thinking about where they would search tomorrow at dawn for Jenny MacGraff and also trying to come up with some way to draw out the killer and stop the madness.

“Oh my.”

Those two very short words brought him back immediately to the fact that he was standing naked and that his wife was staring at his groin. He looked down at himself. Predictably, he was hard as the peach pit he’d seen Barnacle throw across the entrance hall for Miss Crittenden to chase down this afternoon. A training technique her ladyship would surely approve, Barnacle had told him.

Thomas took a step back. He stayed hard, got even harder. He was very pleased that his wife admired his body. He was now so hard he hurt. He wanted to weep as he said, “You’re not well, Meggie. Forget all your lustful thoughts. To help you get a grip on your self, remember that your father, who just happens to be a vicar, is seated downstairs in our drawing room.”

She smiled at him, a smile he didn’t trust for a minute. Well, damnation, who cared?

She said, “You’re right. At least you will hold me, will you not?”

Oh yes, he would certainly hold her, dammit.

When she was settled against his side, her breath warm against his flesh, no, her breath was really quite hot now, he felt her hand glide down his belly.

Oh God. “Meggie, you really don’t want to do that.”

“Do be quiet, my lord,” she said, and he nearly wept again at the sound of those wonderful words of hers.

He had to be noble, he had to stop her. It nearly killed him, but he said, “But you’re still not well enough, you’re not—”

“It’s just my hand, Thomas. I won’t hurt myself.”

“All right.”

“I’ve been thinking quite a bit of taking advantage of you,” and she did.

Before he fell asleep, Thomas found himself thinking for the first time that his mother could be the one who wanted Meggie dead. She could be determined and vicious, he’d seen it too many times over the years. Her mind didn’t really work like other people’s did. She went to extremes, both in her speech and in her actions. But why would she hate Meggie enough to kill her? And if she did have a reason, why then, who would she have hired to shoot Meggie off the cliff?

No answer.

At the end of the next day there was still no sign of Jenny MacGraff. No one believed she had run away to Dublin. Everyone believed she was dead. Everyone believed that someone had killed her.

It became clear that everyone believed it was William Malcombe who had lured Jenny from the MacGraff cottage and killed her.

Since Meggie was still weak, Thomas carried her to the drawing room, where his mother served everyone afternoon tea.

It was a quiet group. Every few minutes Madeleine said, “I had rotten cards last night. You, Vicar, never should have won.”

“That is indeed true,” Tysen agreed pleasantly for the third time, giving his hostess his best social smile.

Mary Rose, her beautiful red hair corking out about her head, was pacing, something Thomas did with great regularity, more now since all the bad things had started happening. Every once in a while Mary Rose paused, looked at Meggie, who was, in truth, still on the pale side, still suffering some pain in her shoulder, and still refusing to take more laudanum. Mary Rose looked nearly desperate. Thomas knew the feeling well.

He also had finally come up with an idea.

Mary Rose turned toward Lord Kipper when he came into the drawing room. He said, standing on the threshold, “Barnacle seems to have taken a brief conge from his post at the front door, Thomas, so I allowed myself to come in.”

“Welcome, Niles,” Thomas said. “You are just in time for tea.”

Lord Kipper opened his mouth, doubtless to say something amusing, when he stopped cold. He stared at Mary Rose, who was standing with her back to the window. The afternoon sun was pouring in, making her hair look like fire.

“By God you are beautiful,” he said slowly, and strode toward her. “Who are you? Where have you been? I—”