Page 35 of When We Touch

She gripped his upper arms for a moment, gathering her balance to stand on her own.

Their eyes met. “Have you . . . been spying on Justin, too?” she asked.

He thought she sounded a bit breathless.

He shook his head. “I happened to run into him.”

She nodded, stepping back. “Thank you, again. You are quite resourceful, actually.”

He swept her a deep bow. “I do my best. And yet, I fear, with you, I may not always be resourceful enough.” His tone became serious. “Quite seriously, you might well give my uncle heart failure, you know.”

She seemed to stiffen. “The wedding is but days away, now.”

“You really must consider your position as the wife of such a man.”

She sighed deeply. “I swear to you, I have found him to be an exceptional man, noble in his words, thoughts, actions, as well as title and appearance. I mean to be absolutely loyal, and do everything in my power at all times to insure his happiness and good health.”

He nodded. “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, Sir James.”

And yet neither moved, and the distance between them might not have been, for he felt her heat and the burning energy and passion that were so much a part of her. Wild imaginings flooded through him; he pictured a world in which his uncle did not exist, in which they were just two people who had met, who had felt that burst of electricity in just a moment when their eyes had first met. He saw a mist of silver in which he was free to draw her into his arms, ravage and explore with the passion of his kiss, send clothing scattering to the winds of time, and sink into clouds of floating wonder where naked flesh burst into a glory of sensuality, touch and taste....

“Good night,” she said again, and there was a strange and desperate sound to it.

Silver clouds evaporated.

She turned and started up the walk.

* * *

They would pay!

Crouched in an alley, his shoulder bleeding, the man who called himself Adrian Alexander kept himself from passing out again by concentrating with a fervor on the extent of his wrath.

The three of them—the fake Irishman, the so-called lady with her brother. He had considered himself such an astute judge of human character! And they had taken him down in one night, despite all his precautions, his simple resolution that he would prevail, even if it meant murder.

All dead, his own people, dead—or in the custody of the police. Jane! His beloved Jane. They’d have her in Newgate, awaiting trial, and he’d have no way to reach her.

But he would. Oh, yes, he would. He’d find a way. But first . . .

“Gar-dez the loo!” someone cried from a window high above him in the darkened alley.

And then, a pile of foul-smelling slop fell atop his head.

Urine and fecal matter crept down his forehead to his face, and he nearly screamed aloud with a terrible rage.

They were dead! They were all dead! The two men, and the woman.

The woman . . .

He’d have a few surprises for that wretched beauty, indeed. She’d wish she were dead, long before he delivered the coup de grace!

* * *

“Maggie!”

Maggie had nearly reached the steps, nearly reached what was becoming in her mind a simple place of salvation. Her house. Just her house. And still, then when the door had closed between them, with walls around her, she would be all right.