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“Say no more.” Features stark with desire, Damen rolled her to her back, covered her mouth—and her body—with his. “You couldn't feel any better,” he murmured huskily. “You already feel too damned good.”
“Show me,” she whispered, twining her arms around his neck.
Damen proceeded to do just that, breathing love words against her skin, into her lips, as he penetrated her slowly, exquisitely, melding their bodies into one.
Their lovemaking was as shattering as ever, pervading every pore of Anastasia's body, touching every inch of her soul, leaving her weak, bonelessly sated.
But afterwards, wrapped securely in Damen's arms, sleep evaded her.
Unbidden, the uneasiness crept back, latching its disturbing tentacles into her mind. And, like the relentless queasiness that plagued her, it refused to be shaken.
Something was wrong, she concluded, stirring fitfully on the bed.
Her gaze shifted to the cabin's tiny porthole, and she willed the winds to propel them swiftly to England.
Breanna needed her.
She had to get home.
4
The headline of The Times was quite disconcerting.
It seemed that, try though they would, Bow Street could not definitively prove who had killed two prominent noblemen.
Although, after carefully questioning dozens of people—servants and associates alike—they did have their theories.
This should be fascinating , he thought, settling back in his dining room chair and skimming the article beneath the headline.
His brows raised in interest as he read on.
While the murders were still unsolved, Bow Street had begun to alter their original theory that the crimes were linked, at least so far as sharing the same assailant. Instead, the police were now speculating that, while one crime probably inspired the other, the two murders had been committed by different killers. And not by two hardened criminals, but by two women, each with the same relationship to the victim and the same motivation to do him in.
Women?
Now that was an intriguing notion.
Leaning forward, he read on.
Evidently, Bow Street was corning to suspect that the wives of these renowned noblemen were, in fact, the murderesses they sought. The women in question might or might not have devised their plans together, but their motivations were doubtless the same: greed and a yearning for freedom.
He continued, almost laughing out loud as he followed Bow Street's reasoning.
The fact was that both wives had mysteriously disappeared at the same time their husbands had been shot. Initially, it was presumed that they'd been kidnapped. But now, more than a week later, no ransom notes had surfaced, nor had any trace of the women or their whereabouts been uncovered. So it was looking more and more like they'd killed their husbands, then run -off, perhaps with other lovers, most likely taking with them some private source of wealth—be it cash or jewels—that no one other than they and their husbands knew about.
Haw clever, he thought, his teeth gleaming with amusement. What would we ever do without Bow Street and their unmatched genius?
The article concluded by assuring everyone that the authorities were hard at work, determined to apprehend the perpetrators.
What a waste of time, he reflected, folding the newspaper in half and placing it on the table. Bow Street will never find them. No one will. They've vanished forever.
He was just biting into his second scone when a knock sounded at the dining room door.
His butler entered. “Pardon me, m'lord, but a gentleman from Bow Street is here to see you. A Mr. Marks. He insists on speaking with you personally.”
A flicker of apprehension—one he kept carefully concealed.
Slowly, he chewed and swallowed his food, then dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. “Does he now?” He rose, a frown creasing his brow as he smoothed his gloves into place. “Did he state what his business was?”
