Page 127 of When We Touch

And the next moments seemed like a final breath to take, something of ultimate wonder, to be savored now with abandon, before the night could come.

She flew into the bedroom, swore that she would think no more. What she had then was meant to be seized with all abandon, and reflection could come later.

She had scarcely entered the room before he came behind her, carefully locking the door, and turning back to her. She felt her heartbeat, still racing at her pulse, and then, again, watching him, it was as if she froze. As he walked toward her, she met his eyes, with everything that was open and honest in her own, and in the seconds it took for him to walk to her, she thought of all that had combined to make her fall so heedlessly and hopelessly in love. Definitely, those eyes, gray, misting, light with laughter upon occasion, so very grave at others. His voice, the same, gentle in tenderness, deep in passion. Hands . . . the way they could move upon her, and the strength they offered when needed. All that was within his heart and soul, vibrant, never easy, volatile . . .

He reached her, and their eyes continued to meet for the longest time, infinite heartbeats, and then, his lips touched down upon her throat where that heartbeat raced. She leaned into him, craving ever more, and he obliged. Fingers upon the ribbons of her bodice, catching the tiny buttons of her skirt. And when those had fallen, he came to his knees, intent upon the removal of shoes and hose. The brush of his fingers created minute sensations that electrified and multiplied, streaking in hot little lines up her thighs. The pressure of his lips against her kneecaps seemed the most intimate and erotic stroke that ever existed. And yet, he proved that such a touch could be greater still, for his touch and kiss moved on, and she began to shake until her knees gave, and she came down before him, falling into his arms, finding his mouth with her own, and igniting a fire where they knelt there on the floor, so aware that she was alive, that she was in love, and that this touch was the ultimate luxury she had ever known.

Somewhere soon, they were up together, and his clothing became strewn, and their passion and hunger were as volatile as ever. And yet it was all the sweeter, for there were those moments when urgency was staved, and their eyes would meet again, wonder would fill them, and if not the desperate love she felt for him, at least he returned something of the simple awe of the fire that raged between them. Then time became of the essence. Simple need raced raw between them, and still, the need between them to touch everywhere, elicit the greatest hunger, know the total diving into the flesh and soul of another, the drowning there. Until, at last, they came together, he gloved within her, she filled with him, and the last fever rose in a frenzy, climax like lightning, and the slow sweet reality of drifting downward, flesh cooling, the tangle of sheets and limbs, and the awareness again of the world, and the fact that he must go.

They remained entwined together for some time before he stirred at last, his arms closer around her, pulling her tight, and then he released her and rose.

Maggie remained where she was, watching him, his every movement.

He walked to her at last, gently brushing her lips with a kiss, and saying, “It is another woman dragging me away. The Queen,” he told her.

“You owe me no explanations of your time,” she said softly.

He smiled. “I wish that there need not be such explanations for my time.” Regretfully, he rose, dressed, and headed for the door. He paused there.

“Maggie, please, at this time, stay out of Whitechapel.”

She held silent.

“Maggie?”

“I know what’s happening there, Jamie.”

He seemed satisfied that her grave words meant that she was in total agreement.

* * *

The Queen was naturally and visibly distressed.

“Two, Lord Langdon. Two women horribly butchered in one night!”

“Your Majesty,” Jamie told her, “I was there, throughout the night. I watched the police work the streets. There are plainclothesmen in abundance; despite their differences, the head of the City and Metropolitan forces have every available man working the district.”

“So. The greatest city in the world is just to be held hostage by one maniac?” she said, and didn’t await an answer. “And what do you make of this writing on the wall! Sir Charles Warren was afraid there would be horrible riots, that common folk, and maybe others, would blame it all on our Jewish population. But others are saying that it gives reference to the Masonic lodge, to the rites they practice, and therefore, there must be some government conspiracy, that the highest in the land are protecting a heinous killer!”

She was outraged, so indignant, that she was shaking.

“They are going so far,” she said softly, “as to suggest that Eddy is responsible! That he had some silly affair, and government officials are killing women who might know about it! Next, they’ll be saying that I’m out there as a Jill the Ripper, doing these deeds myself!”

“Your Majesty, no one would ever suggest such a thing.”

“But they will blame Eddy, or his tutors, or his friends—they are looking for a scapegoat.”

“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, people will talk, and we are the greatest country in the world, and therefore, they have their right to talk. But you, madam, with your upright life and fever for the plight of the poor prove that you are a great and good Queen.”

She flashed him a wise and angry look. “Don’t try to soothe me! Do you know that Eddy is not even in London? He is in Scotland, hunting!”

“Then let that be known.”

“Some have said that the police officials are Masons—and therefore protecting the killer!”

“It’s to my great indignation that the words on the wall were erased, no matter what they said,” Jamie told her. “They were evidence.”

“Perhaps they weren’t even written by the killer.”