“That one missed you most severe while you were away.” The lines around Tante Cristelle’s mouth became more pronounced in her disapproval. “I do not think it is well that he is so close with you.”
This conversation was old, and normally Emeline might argue, but today she didn’t have the heart. She gathered her papers silently. Behind her she heard the thump of Tante Cristelle’s cane on the Persian carpet and then felt the old woman’s frail hand on her shoulder. She looked up into wise eyes.
“It is the right thing that you do tonight; never fear that.” Tante Cristelle patted her once—an extreme outpouring of affection—and walked from the room.
Leaving Emeline with eyes once again filled with tears.
BY THE TIME the carriage pulled up outside Sam’s town house, it had been dark for hours. A late start combined with a wait for fresh horses at one of the inns had made the journey back to London an overlong one. And then, once they had turned into the street where they lived, there had been an uncommon crush of carriages. Someone must be hosting a ball. As Samuel stepped down and turned to help Rebecca from the carriage, he realized that the lights were blazing in the house next to his. Emeline’s house.
“Is Lady Emeline having a party?” Rebecca asked. She hesitated before the steps. “I didn’t know she would be throwing one, did you?”
Sam slowly shook his head. “Obviously we weren’t invited.”
He saw her glance swiftly at him. “Perhaps she planned it before she met us. Or...or she might not have expected us back from the country so soon.”
“Yes, that must be it,” he said grimly.
The little witch was thumbing her nose at him, showing him that he had no part in her London life. He knew that he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but his hands had already bunched into fists, his legs twitching, ready to stride into her house and confront her. He grimaced. Now was not the time.
He relaxed his fists and held out his arm to his sister. “Shall we see if Cook can lay out a cold supper for us?”
She smiled up at him. “Yes, let’s.”
He led her up the front steps and inside, all the while aware of the house next door and the elegantly dressed guests arriving for Emeline’s party. He sat his sister in the dining room, ordered a simple supper, and was even able to make polite conversation while they ate. But his mind was elsewhere, imagining Emeline in her most elegant gown, her bosom glowing white and erotic in the light of thousands of candles.
After they ate, Rebecca excused herself, already yawning. Sam went to the library and poured himself a glass of French brandy. He paused and held the glass up to the light. The liquid shown translucent amber. When he was growing up, his father had drunk homemade spirits, bought from a family ten miles away through the woods. Sam had once taken a sip. The drink had been clear like water and hot, burning his throat as he swallowed. Had Pa ever drunk French brandy in his entire life? Maybe once while visiting Uncle Thomas in the big city of Boston. But it would have been an exotic thing, something special to be savored and thought about for days afterward.
Sam sank into a gilt armchair. He didn’t belong here; he knew that. There was too wide a gulf between the life he’d led as a boy and the life he led now. A man could change only so much in one lifetime. He would never fully fit into English society, and he didn’t really want to. This was the life that Emeline led. The beautiful town houses, the French brandy, the balls that continued until well past midnight. The ocean that yawned wide between her world and his—both metaphorically and physically—was too great a distance. He knew all that, had considered it many times before.
And it didn’t matter.
He gulped the rest of the brandy and rose with purpose. He needed to see Emeline. Worlds apart or no, she was a woman and he was a man. Some things were basic.
Outside his town house, he saw that the lights still blazed next door. Coachmen sat huddled on their perches, a few running footmen stood together, passing a bottle between them. He leapt up Emeline’s front steps and was confronted with a burly footman. The man made a move as if to block his path.
Sam stared at him hard. “I’m Lady Emeline’s neighbor.”
This was no invitation, of course, but the footman must’ve seen the determination in his eyes and decided the point wasn’t worth arguing. “Yes, sir.” He held the door open.
Sam crossed the threshold and immediately realized his peril. The hall held only a few servants, but the grand, curving staircase was crowded. He began making his way up the stairs, past loudly talking groups. Emeline’s ballroom was on the upper floor, and as he neared, the clamor became louder, the air heavier and hotter. He felt sweat start at his neck. He hadn’t been in such a crowded space since the Westerton ball, and there he had succumbed to his demons most ignominiously. Not here, he prayed.
By the time he made the entrance to the ballroom, his breath was coming fast and short, as if he’d run miles. For a moment, he considered turning back. Emeline had lit thousands of beeswax candles in her ballroom, in mirrored chandeliers overhead. The place was bright, sparkling like a fairyland. Swags of scarlet silk hung from the walls and ceiling, orange and red flowers caught in the knots. The room was beautiful, elegant, but he didn’t care. His woman was somewhere in this room, and he meant to catch her and hold her.
Sam inhaled carefully through his mouth and dove into the mass of sweating, milling humanity. He could hear violins faintly playing, but they were all but drowned out by laughter and chattering voices. A gentleman in purple velvet turned and bumped into Sam’s chest. Blood and screaming, eyes wide in a white face below a bleeding scalp. He closed his eyes, shoving past the man. Ahead was an opening in the crowd where the dancers paced with stately grace. He made the edge of the dance floor and paused, gasping for air. A matron in yellow silk eyed him and whispered behind her fan to her companion. Damn them all, anyway, these overfed, overornamented English aristocrats. When had they ever known fear or felt the splatter of blood from a fellow soldier? The surprise in a young soldier’s face as half his head was blown away.
The dancers halted, no more out of breath than if they’d sat for the last five minutes. They looked bored and bloodless, as if they could barely take the trouble to keep themselves upright. The crowd shuffled against him, and he had to close his eyes and concentrate to keep from striking out at the nearest person. He breathed deeply and tried to think of Emeline’s eyes. In his mind, they were narrowed with exasperation and that made him almost smile.
He opened his eyes, and Lord Vale strode into the middle of the dance floor, now nearly empty. “Friends! Friends, may I have your ear?”
Vale’s shout, loud though it was, was swallowed by the mass of bodies. Nevertheless, the conversations began to die.
“Friends, I have something to say!”
A group of young gentlemen moved in front of Sam, obscuring his vision. They looked barely old enough to shave.
“Friends!” came Vale’s shout again, and Sam caught a glimpse of scarlet.
His heart galloped. He put out a hand to shove against a padded shoulder, and the young buck in front of him turned to glare. Sam inhaled and caught the stink of sweat. Male sweat, sour and burning, the smell of fear. The prisoner MacDonald crouching under a wagon as the battle raged all around. MacDonald catching Sam’s eye from his hiding place. MacDonald grinning and winking.
“I have an announcement that pleases me greatly.”
Sam started forward, ignoring the stench, ignoring his demons, ignoring the realization that he was already too late.
“Lady Emeline Gordon has consented to be my wife.”
The crowd applauded as Sam barreled through the men, those dead and alive, who stood between him and Emeline. He came out on the dance floor and saw Emeline smiling politely beside Vale. Vale had his arms raised, triumphant in this moment. Emeline turned her head and her smile died as she saw Sam.
He started for them with no thought in his head save murder.
Vale caught sight of him. His eyes narrowed and he nodded to someone behind Sam. Sam felt his arms seized and pulled behind him. And then he was being hustled from the ballroom by two burly footmen, a third clearing the way ahead. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to call out to Emeline. At the side of the ballroom, Sam finally came to himself and twisted violently, catching one of the footmen by surprise. He pulled his arm free and swung at the man, but before his fist could connect, he was shoved from behind. The first footman still holding him let go, and Sam half fell into the hall. He straightened and whirled, and Vale’s fist slammed into his jaw.
Sam stumbled back, landing on his arse. Vale stood over him, his fists still balled. “That was for Emmie, you whoreson.” He turned to the footmen behind him. “Take this rubbish and pitch it—”
But Vale didn’t finish the sentence. Sam rose, low and fast, and charged him, catching him about the knees. Vale went down with a thunderous crash, Sam on top. Several women shrieked and the crowd scattered away from them. Sam began to crawl up him, but Vale twisted, and they both went tumbling, rolling toward the stairs. A matron screamed as she fled down the stairs, pushing other ladies ahead of her. Their skirts swept across suddenly cleared steps.
Sam grabbed the top banister to stop the momentum of their roll. He teetered, his shoulders over the first step, until Vale kicked at his undefended stomach and Sam had to let go to shield himself. He slid, head-down, but managed to snatch Vale’s arm, bringing the other man with him. They careened without control down the stairs, tangled together in a murderous heap. Each tread raked painfully across Sam’s back as they thumped down. He no longer cared if he lived through this encounter or not. He just wanted to make sure he took his enemy with him. Midway down, they slammed into a banister, halting their descent. Sam hooked an arm around a wood pole and kicked viciously at Vale, catching him good and solid, low on the side.
Vale arched under the impact. “Hell!” He twisted and pressed his forearm down on Sam’s windpipe, thrusting hard. Sam gagged from the weight. Vale brought his head close to Sam’s and spoke low, his face black with rage. “You stupid, shitty colonial. How dare you put your filthy hands on—”
Sam let go of the railing and slammed both hands against Vale’s ears. Vale rocked back, freeing Sam’s throat, and Sam gasped painfully for air. But they were sliding farther down the stairs. Vale pummeled him, hitting at face and belly and thighs. Sam jolted with each impact, but strangely, he didn’t feel a thing. His entire being was filled with rage and sorrow. Sam punched the other man, striking anything he could hit. He felt his knuckles split against Vale’s cheekbone and felt the wet smack as the other man’s nose broke. His back jarred into the landing. Vale was on top now, a clear advantage, except that Sam didn’t goddamn care. He’d lost everything, and right now this man was the cause of it all. Vale might have righteous anger, but Sam had the rage of despair, pure and simple. There was no match.
Sam lurched up, right through Vale’s punches. He could feel their impact on his face, but he plowed through the blows. There was only the need to kill. He caught Vale and threw the bigger man down, and then Sam was hitting him, slamming his fists into Vale’s face, and the feeling was glorious. He felt the crunch of bone, saw the splatter of blood, and didn’t care. Didn’t care.
Didn’t care.
Until he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He swung up and froze, his clenched, bloody fist only inches from Emeline’s face.
She flinched. “Don’t.”
He stared at her, this woman he’d made love to, this woman he’d poured his soul into.
This woman he loved.
She had tears in her eyes. “Don’t.” She reached out one small, white hand and wrapped it around his bruised and bloodied fist. “Don’t.”
Below him, Vale wheezed.
