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After The Abduction Excerpt
Lady Juliet entered the study to confirm that it was empty. Not that his lordship’s absence or defection from dinner surprised her. He was avoiding her because he knew she didn’t believe one jot of that nonsense about his twin being her abductor. She’d thought about it all afternoon, picking away at the loose threads of his tale, exposing the gaps in the seams. She still hadn’t figured out the how and why of it, but one matter she was sure of—Lord Templemore was the one who’d kidnapped her.
Steps sounded in the corridor, startling her. Quickly, she ducked behind the door and held her breath as candlelight poked a finger of light into the dark room.
"Sebastian, are you in here?" came a voice so near she jerked.
But it was only his lordship's uncle, Mr. Pryce, who was also apparently looking for the man. Fortunately, he couldn’t see her.
"Off to your guns again, are you?" the older man muttered as he continued down the hall instead of returning the way he’d come.
She hesitated. She really shouldn’t follow men around strange houses, but she could hardly resist this opportunity to confront his lordship alone. Depending on how he responded to her suspicions, she might garner enough evidence to convince Griff to act.
Griff was being incredibly stubborn, insisting upon leaving in the morning. He’d heard her protests and her reasons for not believing Lord Templemore, then dismissed every one! She supposed she couldn’t blame him. If she hadn’t met Morgan herself, she’d have been skeptical, too.
But she had. And that changed everything.
The sound of Mr. Pryce’s steps climbing a stairway prodded her into hastening after him. Perhaps he could lead her to her nemesis.
Following him was easy enough. Years of walking softly to and from her father’s chamber during his illness had made her light of foot, and the years of penury they’d suffered before Rosalind’s marriage had taught her how to navigate poorly lit corridors.
Stealthy as moonlight, she edged up the staircase at a discreet distance, relying on Mr. Pryce’s stiff tread above as her guide. She froze when he reached the top. Then she slipped onto the landing below to wait breathlessly. Light shot into the hall from a door being opened.
"Still hiding yourself away up here, are you?" Mr. Pryce said as he walked inside.
Only then did she dare climb to the top. Heart pounding, she skirted the square of light and pressed into the shadows beyond to wait until Mr. Pryce came back out. She’d dearly love to eavesdrop on their conversation, but dared not venture nearer. Being caught would defeat her purpose.
Seconds later, Mr. Pryce came out and closed the door behind him. He descended the staircase quickly, but only when his footsteps died away did she approach the room he’d left. Fear punched holes in her confidence. What if she was wrong, after all? What if she made a fool of herself?
She wasn’t wrong; she couldn’t be. And if she didn’t confront Lord Templemore now, she’d lose her chance. Dragging in a steadying breath, she swung the door open and stepped inside.
Into the maw of hell. Lantern light reeled eerily over bits of firearms stuck to walls and disgorged onto a long table. Vials of suspicious powder marched down the middle, and a faint stench of sulphur pervaded the smoky air. At the center, with a lantern before him on the table, reigned Lord Templemore, his fingers working metal just as Hephaestus crafted ironwork in the flames of an immortal forge.
His back snapped straight as a sprung bowstring, but he didn’t look at her. "Ah, Lady Juliet. You must be lost. The guest bedchambers are in the east wing."
Judging from the sooty ceiling and the faltering fire, his servants were afraid to enter his workshop for designing pistols. How very sensible of them. She began to regret not being equally sensible. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Then he spoke without looking up. "Close the blasted door, Uncle. It’s cold enough as it is without you letting in the draft."
Swallowing her fear, she shut the door behind her. "Do forgive me, my lord—I shouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable."
As always, the cold-hearted beast held his emotions close. "I’m not lost, as you well know. I’ve come to make you tell me the truth. Because no matter what name you use—Morgan or Lord Templemore—you’re still the man who kidnapped me."
With those precise motions she remembered so well, he set down his metalwork and slid around on the leather-upholstered stool to face her. "My lady, you’re distraught, and that has made you irrational. Shall I call your sister?" Full of false concern, he started to rise from the stool.
"Stay where you are! I’m more rational than I’ve been in my entire life."
Eyes black as his soul assessed her. "I see. Do you regularly accuse lords of the realm of running with smuggling gangs and kidnapping young women?"
"You’re my first. Though I dearly hope you’re my last."
"So do I. I’d hate to see another man wrongfully accused."
Her temper flared. She hadn’t come here intending vengeance. She’d simply wanted answers. But his arrogant refusal to admit the truth stirred some wretched, uncivilized instinct to punish him. "You might as well give up this pretense. I know you’re the man we seek."
"Do you?" His smile was edged in menace. Behind him, the lantern light peeked over his substantial shoulders, limning his image in flame, making him appear even more the God of Fire than before. "Pray tell me, other than wishful thinking, what has convinced you I’m your kidnapper?"
Oh, how she hated that placating tone—the one he’d used two years ago, when she’d been a silly, gullible girl. If it took all night, she would banish it from his voice. "Wishful thinking has naught to do with it, unless the wish is to see you on your knees begging for mercy while I hold one of your nasty pistols to your head."
That did it. The smile vanished. "Bloodthirsty little baggage, aren’t you?"
Yes. And it felt good, better than she’d expected. "I only wish for justice." She paused. "As for how I can be sure who you are, I have more than enough proof of that."
"Oh?" He rose from his stool, straightening to his full height.
Tall men had always intimidated her, and he was awfully tall. Still, the thought that he might use that against her merely firmed her resolve. "Your brother was educated abroad, didn’t you say?"
A wary nod was her answer.
"And not even in an English colony, but in Geneva, where they speak French."
"His education was given in English, madam. He had the best tutors."
"Not until he was thirteen. By your own admission, he spent his early years without such advantages. And with the sort of mother you’ve described, he might have been left to run wild in the streets. At the very least, he would speak with an accent; at the most, he’d lack breeding and refinement as well."
His lips thinned. "Is there a point to all these insults to members of my family?"
"My kidnapper had a refined English accent and a polished manner. Like yours."
"Did he indeed?" He strolled closer, stopping only a foot away. "But two years can alter one’s memory greatly, especially when memory tells us lies to soothe our feelings. Perhaps remembering him that way makes it easier for you to …excuse your bad judgment in eloping with him."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. How dared he even insinuate such a thing? "That isn’t my only proof, sir. I’ve found more since you spun your tale this morning."
Leaning against the table, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Have you? I’m all ears."
The words tumbled out. "First, there was my kidnapper’s manner of dress—as sober as yours. And the lie he chose to tell—that he was in the army. Your brother was a navy man, so why didn’t my kidnapper say he was in the navy? That would’ve made the masquerade easier for him and more convincing."
His gaze flicked over her. "From what you and your family said, convincing you didn’t prove terribly difficult."
She flushed. It was true; how readily she’d believed his lies. He’d said what she’d wanted to hear, made her feel what she’d wanted to feel. What she still wanted to feel, truth be told. Although now she knew better than to give in to such uncertain and dangerous emotions.
"Besides," he went on, "if Morgan had revealed that he’d been in the navy, it would have made it easier for him to be tracked afterward, wouldn’t it?"
"Yet he used his real name with the smugglers," she countered triumphantly. "Obviously he wasn’t too concerned about being tracked."
A muscle ticked in Lord Templemore’s jaw. "I’m afraid I can’t explain that. Just as I can’t explain why he kidnapped you to learn some spurious information about the Oceana, or why he went aboard. If you’d care to enlighten me with some theories, I’d vastly appreciate it."
That was the trouble—she had none. Nor had Griff. Indeed, it was the primary reason he’d dismissed her concerns so cavalierly.
"Do feel free to question the townspeople, madam," he prodded. "They’ll tell you I was here in Shropshire when my brother was consorting with those smugglers. At least until August, when I went to town to see to some matters concerning my pistol designs. But you said yourself that you know I was in town as late as November."
An idea suddenly occurred to her. "But how do we know it was really you? Perhaps Morgan took your place, appearing in public to cover your actions while you went to Sussex. Once you found out about the ship, you told him and he sailed off in it."
He gave the heavy sigh of a man much beleaguered by fools. "Why would I leave the brother I barely knew in charge of my estate, so I could go…what? Adventuring? And why on earth would I consort with smugglers in the first place? Or perhaps you think that’s how I came by my wealth? Because if so, then speak to my servants. They’ll be happy to enlighten you about how I did that, and it wasn’t anything illegal, I assure you."
He was so fiendishly logical, it annoyed her. His calm words ought to sway her convictions, but they didn’t. Because she knew on some level beyond logic that he was her kidnapper. She just knew it.
"So, madam, have you any other ‘proofs’?"
"It hardly matters," she complained, "since you ignore the ones you don’t like."
He flashed her a surprisingly genuine smile. "And you ignore my explanations."
Her obstinacy reasserted itself. "Explain this then—my kidnapper knew guns well just like you. He even recognized a Manton flintlock, though he saw it from a distance."
"I hate to disappoint you, my lady, but any military man would. And my brother, as I told you, served several years in the navy."
That flustered her. "Still …he excelled at using his own pistol, and I understand that you excel in that area as well."
"I see. So you saw him shoot? Was it at a person or a target?"
Her stomach sank. It was at a sandstone ceiling. Morgan had shot so as to make it crumble right in front of them without the entire tunnel collapsing. His lofty lordship would hardly find that convincing. After all, it could easily have been accidental.
"Have we come to the end of all your ‘proofs’? Or are there more?"
His patronizing tone grated on her, but all she had left was the argument he’d find least persuasive. "There is…one more. His scent. And yours. They’re the same."
He burst into laughter. "Now that’s rich. We smell alike? I dare say many men do. If that’s your most compelling evidence, you don’t have a nose to sniff on."
She stamped her foot. "How dare you laugh at me, you…you scoundrel! After what you did—"
"I did nothing, Lady Juliet." Pushing away from the table, he strode up to hover over her, forcing her to crane her head back to look into his forbidding features. "Forgive me for laughing, but this notion of yours is madness. I understand why you’re eager for vengeance, but you wish to visit it upon the wrong person." He spoke patiently, as if correcting a child. "The persons you should attack are the rascals attempting to ruin your reputation. Concentrate your powers of deduction on figuring out who they might be. Not in revenging yourself on your dead kidnapper’s brother."
"This isn’t about revenge! I want to know the truth, that’s all. I want to know why you did it, what purpose was served by it. I think I have the right to know, especially if I shall have to suffer the consequences of it."
“I had never read anything by you but saw this and decided to try it. I'm just on page 174 and can't believe how I have missed reading you. I was laughing so hard I had to get a kleenex. I am truly enjoying the book, every page is a joy and we all need laughter, which I'm getting, from the conservatory. Thank you for your gift and I will be looking for any and everything you do, have done or intend to do.”—Judy from Missouri
The rawest remorse flashed over his features before he regained his iron control. "You do have the right to know. But I can’t tell you, no matter what you think. I have no idea why my brother acted as he did."
The man was too infuriating to be believed. How dared he continue to stand here and deny his identity to her face!
For a moment, they stood eye to eye, neither one willing to give an inch. But as her temper cooled, she acknowledged that straightforward accusations did her no good. He knew he could hide behind his bulwark of family lineage and money, so no matter how damning her evidence, he’d ignore her demands that he confess.
Unless she tricked him into it. And Lord knew, he’d tricked her enough times.
Dropping her head, she began to sniffle. "You’re right, of course. I’m grasping at straws. But it’s only because I’m frustrated that your brother is beyond my power. I can hardly believe I’ll never have the chance to make him pay for what he did."
"Was it really so very awful?" The tone of false concern had vanished. Now he sounded earnest, almost gentle. "You said he didn’t…assault your honor."
She gave an exaggerated sigh and wiped away an imaginary tear. "What else could I say, with my family listening? I’m too ashamed to tell them what really happened—how that beast mistreated me, debauched me, and took my innocence."
He swore a low oath. "You’re not claiming that he—"
"Yes." She lifted her face in great distress. "That’s exactly what I’m claiming."
She waited for him to explode, to deny it loudly and thus reveal himself.
He searched her face; then his look turned calculating, as if he’d guessed precisely what she was about. "So my brother deflowered you, did he?"
Swallowing hard, she nodded. She’d never told such a monstrous falsehood in all her life.
"You’re lying."
Her pulse quickened. Success at last. "And how would you know?"
"Because my brother was a gentleman. He’d never have mistreated a woman."
Disappointment knifed through her at his deft parry. "You said you barely knew him, so how could you possibly know his character?"
That flustered him. "I just do, that’s all." He stepped closer, and the sudden glint in his eyes made her back up. "But I have a way to prove he didn’t debauch you."
He advanced again, and her heart dropped into her stomach. She could think of only one way he could prove such a thing. "Surely you can’t mean to—"
"No, nothing so dramatic as that." His arm snaked about her waist, tugging her flush against his lean body. "But if my brother introduced you to the seductive arts, then you probably know something about kissing. Let’s see, shall we?" And before she could even protest, his mouth covered hers.
She froze, swamped by memory. The last time he’d held her. The last time he’d kissed her.
This was the same, but different. His lips were softer now, more coaxing, sliding over hers with a heat and familiarity that startled a trembling in her belly. She tried the tactic that generally worked on her most impertinent suitors and went rigid in his arms. But how could she stay stiff as a poker with him? It was too much to ask.
Especially when his hands roamed her ribs, his thighs pressed into her skirts, and his mouth caressed hers. He stirred to life the attraction that she’d truly thought buried, the craving for his touch that had once tormented her.
Suddenly, his tongue swept her lips, and she jerked back in shock.
His breath came raggedly, but triumph glittered in his eyes. "You don’t even know how to kiss intimately." His voice wound about her like scented smoke. "How can you claim you’ve known the greater intimacies shared between a man and woman in bed?"
She hated the blush flooding her cheeks and giving her away. "I… I…"
"It’s all right," he whispered. "I never believed you anyway."
That stung. "I didn’t kiss you intimately because I don’t like you, that’s all."
Amusement glinted in his eyes. "Is that so? Then tell me, Lady Juliet, what do I mean by intimate kissing?"
Drat it all, she had no idea. She’d only kissed a few men, polite little presses of lips to lips. Did it have something to do with Lord Templemore’s outrageous attempt to lick her lips? Was she supposed to lick his lips back?
Chuckling, he skimmed his thumb over her chin, then pressed down until she opened her mouth slightly. "Here, I’ll show you."
Then he kissed her again. Except this time his tongue pressed between her teeth. Intrigued, she opened her mouth further, and he groaned low in his throat as he plunged his tongue inside.
My oh my oh my, that was interesting. It made her quiver in the oddest places, burned through her like flame devours wick.
Curving his hands around her face, he kissed her more thoroughly than any man had ever dared. He did the most wicked and yes, intimate, things with his tongue. As if he had the right to invade her mouth.
She could hardly breathe, yet she wasn’t about to stop him, not when he made her feel so utterly delicious. His fingers snagged her curls, then pressed into her scalp to hold her still as a man clutches a brandy glass in his hour of need. He drank his fill in hearty, deep kisses that made her knees buckle.
An ache thrummed between her legs, unfamiliar and surely scandalous. Though she tried not to react, she couldn’t stop herself from swaying into him. Apparently that inflamed him further, for he grasped her hard about the waist, settling her against him belly to belly as he plundered her mouth like a reckless adventurer.
She liked it, liked how intense and uncontrolled he was. Two years ago, she’d yearned to have Morgan want her like this, and at last he did…he did!
It reminded her of running away with him, and later, escaping the smugglers with him. The burst of heat and excitement mocking her silly girlish dreams. The wild, fiery need scorching her innocence.
What was wrong with her? How could she repeat her mistake of two years ago? She was supposed to be unmasking him, not throwing herself at him, for goodness sake!
But this felt so right …
Besides, after this, he could hardly deny their previous connection. That thought tipped the balance from uncertainty into surrender, and she flung her arms about his neck, crushing the velvety waves of hair at his nape. The scent of iron and neat’s-foot oil engulfed her, made her dizzy. Hephaestus was dragging her into the forge, and she would leap willingly into the fire, oh yes.
He tore his mouth from her eager lips to whisper, "Juliet…ah, sweeting . . ."
Only he had ever called her sweeting. "Morgan…" she whispered back.
He froze. Jerking back from her, he stared uncomprehending into her eyes. Then his face drained of heat as suddenly as hot iron dunked in water and he dropped his hands from her. "What the devil am I doing? I must be mad…"
Pivoting away, he leaned over to brace his fists on the table. His shoulders shook from the force of his sharp, heavy breaths.
"Morgan?" She stepped forward to lay her hand on his back.
He flinched at her touch. "Don’t ever call me that again. Call me Sebastian or Lord Templemore, but never Morgan. I’m not him!" He whirled to face her once more. His haunted eyes gleamed in the dimness, and his features were twisted into anger. "I think I’ve proved that sufficiently."
His denial struck a dagger to her heart, and she began to tremble. Surely he didn’t mean to continue in his lies after what they’d just shared. How could he? "Please, Morgan, don’t—"
"I’m not Morgan!" He glanced away. "I’m not." Only his shaky hand shoving his beautiful, thick hair from his face belied his seeming control. "And another thing: no woman ruined by a man waits two years to hunt him down when her family is spoiling for vengeance. She doesn’t hide the truth from them, and she doesn’t come in secret to accuse her supposed debaucher."
His gaze swung back to her as he dropped his voice. "She certainly doesn’t let him kiss her intimately. Your encounter with my brother wasn’t ‘wicked’ at all, was it? This was merely another of your little tests."
He did mean to deny it all! Of all the infernal, dastardly—
"But now you should realize," he went on, twisting the dagger, "that your attempts to paint me the villain are pointless. I’m not the man you seek. You’ll never prove I am."
If she’d had one of his horrible weapons in her hand right now, he’d be dead for certain. That he could stand here and kiss her with such passion, then deny that it meant anything, deny their entire past together, while she still tasted him on her lips . . .
Very well, she could play that game. Lord knew she’d seen enough games played in society to manage one of her own. If that’s what it took to make him confess the truth. "You’re right. It was a test. But you passed."
Her sudden change of tactic made him eye her with suspicion. "I did?"
"Certainly. First, by your reaction to my calling you Morgan. And second, because you kiss nothing like him."
"You mean because he didn’t kiss you intimately."
"No. Because he put more feeling into it. Like the rogue he was, Morgan kissed with great abandon." She’d die before she admitted that his lordship had done the same. If he could deceive her without remorse, he deserved this. "Of course, that’s to be expected of a reckless adventurer. His sort excel at inflaming women’s passions. Whereas you . . ." She broke off, as if the rest were perfectly obvious.
He gazed at her mulishly. "Whereas I what?"
"You’re a gentleman, of course. You’re much too proper to kiss recklessly, and certainly you’d never attempt to inflame a woman’s passion."
"You can’t tell me that my brother kissed you with more passion, for I know otherwise. His kiss was—" He broke off, realizing his error too late. "You’ve already said that his kisses were perfectly chaste."
Aha! Finally she’d pierced his infernal armor. She hadn’t told him there’d been only one kiss; he’d slipped up already. Let him believe she’d given up her suspicions—it would lull him into lowering his guard. She’d use his own arrogance against him, batter his pride at every opportunity with perfectly innocent comments about the past.
She shrugged. "Chaste? Well, that’s a different matter entirely. His kiss may have been ‘chaste,’ as you put it, but it was still thrilling." She could hardly suppress her smile at the lovely effect her words had on Lord Templemore. He looked positively offended. "I mean, your kisses are perfectly adequate, but—"
"Adequate!" he thundered.
"But it’s understandable," she hastened on, warming to this new tactic. "Morgan was a man of the world, whereas you’ve preferred to remain out of it. You can’t have had too many encounters with the fair sex while isolated on this estate. For all I know, you may not even like women—"
"What the devil—" he roared. "I am not of that persuasion, madam!"
She blinked, unsure what he meant. "What persuasion?"
The outrage in his face faded a little. "Never mind. Just rest assured that I like women well enough."
She forced concern into her voice. "Dear me, I think you’ve misunderstood. I was merely saying—"
"I know what you were saying," he clipped out. "My ‘reckless adventurer’ of a brother swept you off your feet with his romantic kissing. No doubt that’s why you wish to find him—so you can punish him for not marrying you as he’d sworn to do."
He would put that construction on it, since it preserved his pride. But she wouldn’t let him preserve any of that. "Not at all. I only want to find him to learn the truth. It would have been disastrous if he’d married me as promised."
His eyes widened. "You didn’t fancy yourself in love with him?"
"Of course I did at the time, or I wouldn’t have run off with him. What kind of wicked creature do you take me for?" She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "But I came to my senses when I realized he was kidnapping me. No sensible woman wants to marry a man of Morgan’s sort, even if he does make her heart race and her bones melt and…" She trailed off with a condescending smile. "Whereas even if you don’t have the most thrilling kisses, you are still a respectable—"
"—gentleman," he finished, his tone dripping sarcasm. "Yes, I believe I thoroughly grasp the distinction you’re making."
"I’ve insulted you. I’m so sorry." Sorry she hadn’t started this sooner. It was awful of her, but she was enjoying herself enormously. "I mean it as a compliment, you know. A naïve girl might fall madly in love with a scoundrel, but a rational, grown woman knows that proper gentlemen—like yourself—are infinitely preferable to dashing rogues, even if the proper gentlemen’s kisses don’t exactly…" She purposely trailed off.
"‘Make her heart race and her bones melt.’" He sounded as if he were squeezing words through the small end of a bellows.
"Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. As I tried to—"
"Enough, madam," he growled. "I’ve heard more than I care to hear about how ‘proper gentlemen’ kiss."
"I was merely trying to explain why you’ve convinced me you’re not Morgan."
"You’ve explained it deuced well." He looked apoplectic.
Good. She hoped he choked on her words. Maybe next time he wouldn’t leap to deny who he was.
And she dearly wanted a next time, now that she’d stumbled upon the way to strike at him. He’d lost some of his cursed arrogance, and perhaps if she hammered enough at it, he’d tire of having his pride assaulted and scream out that he was Morgan, he was the man who’d kissed her with passion.
She needed more time, that was all. Somehow she must convince Griff and Rosalind to stay a day or two longer in Llanbrooke.
"As fascinating as this discussion has been," he snapped, "I have some work to do, so if you don’t mind…"
"Oh, of course, Lord Templemore." She gave him an exaggeratedly formal curtsy. "I’m sorry for taking up so much of your valuable time."
That might have been a bit overdone. He eyed her suspiciously. "We needn’t stand on formality, I should think, after what we just did. I’d prefer you call me Sebastian."
"And I’d prefer that you’d turned out to be my kidnapper. It would make my life so much easier. But apparently neither of us shall get what we prefer. So good night, my lord. Sleep well."
With that, she marched out of the room, feeling decidedly better than she had in years.