But at least then you would have had those months with her, his inner voice taunted. Now you have… nothing.
He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Clearly he’d made a mistake forcing her to choose all or nothing, but damn it, he’d wanted her for so long, been waiting so long. Had been so hopeful that she’d come to care for him. Would realize they belonged together.
An image of that bastard Carmichael dragging her toward the springs flashed in his mind and his hands clenched. What had triggered such deep hatred of the Guide that he’d been driven to kill the author? Yes, the Today’s Modern Woman premises and explicit content were scandalous-but to the point of inciting murder?
He recalled meeting Carmichael after the shooting at Lord Ravensly’s birthday party. Something odd, almost familiar, had struck him about Carmichael while he’d listened to him give his account of witnessing a man running into Hyde Park after the shot was fired. And he’d experienced that same sensation at both the duke’s soiree and at the museum yesterday. Philip had said Carmichael had spent time in America…
Andrew closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall every detail of his encounters with Carmichael, first at the parties, then at the museum-
An image flashed in Andrew’s mind, of Carmichael stroking his chin, prisms of light bouncing off the square-cut diamond-and-onyx ring he wore. Recognition hit Andrew, and everything inside him froze. Carmichael had been wearing that ring at both parties as well. It wasn’t the man who had inspired that flare of memory-it was the ring.
Andrew dragged his hands down his face, his heart pumping hard. If he hadn’t relived the day Emily died, he would have missed it. He’d buried that hurt, that image so deeply… but there was no mistake. Carmichael’s unusual diamond-and-onyx ring was identical to the one that Lewis Manning was wearing the day Andrew had shot him.
Carmichael isn’t after Charles Brightmore. He’s after me.
The truth struck him like a blow, and his mind reeled. Carmichael must have some connection to Lewis Manning. There was a resemblance, around the eyes, he realized as pieces rapidly clicked into place. Was Carmichael Lewis’s father? Uncle? Father, most likely, Andrew decided. Which would certainly give him a motive to hate Andrew.
When Catherine was shot, Andrew had been standing next to her. The bullet had been meant for him. And tonight, Carmichael had planned to kill him-a plan set awry by Catherine’s presence. She’d unknowingly saved his life and nearly drowned in the process.
He blew out a long breath and raked unsteady hands through his hair. Jesus. All he’d ever wanted to do was protect her, and he was the danger. Which meant he had to get away from her. Immediately.
After eleven years, it appeared his past had finally caught up with him. And had twice nearly killed Catherine. Well, Carmichael wouldn’t get another chance.
Andrew walked swiftly to the wardrobe, pulled his leather satchel from the bottom, and quickly began shoving his belongings inside.
Don’t worry, Carmichael. You’ll find me. I’m going to make it very easy for you.
Catherine sat in her wing chair, staring at the grate of the fire that had burned out hours ago, the dead, gray ash a perfect reflection of her mood.
With a sound of disgust, she rose and paced. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d made the right decision, the only decision she could have made under the circumstances. All or nothing? How could she possibly have agreed to give him “all”? She couldn’t have, and it was that simple. Yet in spite of that logic, she somehow still felt as if she’d been sliced in half.
Dear God, the things he’d told her. His past should have shocked her, but after hours of thought, the ordeal he’d been through only served to reinforce her sympathy and admiration for him. Yes, he’d killed a man, but a man who only seconds before had tried to kill him. A man who had killed his wife-a young woman he’d risked a great deal to help. Andrew had lost everything, and all in the name of love. Yet he clearly had not turned his back on love, on marriage, as she had. He was kind, noble, generous, thoughtful, and…
Oh, my, the way he’d looked at her, his heart in his eyes, all raw desire and naked emotion. She halted, and her own eyes slid closed, picturing him as clearly as if he stood before her. No one had ever looked at her like that before. And God help her, as much as she hadn’t wanted it, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she wanted Andrew to look at her like that again. She simply wasn’t ready to give him up as a lover.
She opened her eyes and resumed pacing, her mind racing. Surely if she put some effort into it she could convince him that his proposal was precipitous and persuade him to continue their liaison. Today’s Modern Woman would not allow him simply to have the last word and walk away. No, Today’s Modern Woman would use all the ammunition in her feminine arsenal to tempt, allure, entice, and seduce him around to her way of thinking.
The instant the realization hit her, it was as if the sun broke through a bank of dark clouds. Why had it taken her all night to realize something that now seemed so obvious? She roundly cursed her stubborn streak, but at least she’d come to her senses.
The sooner she began her persuasive campaign, the better. And what better way to start than issuing him an invitation to return to Little Longstone next week? Even better if she were to issue the invitation right now. In the warm intimacy of his bedchamber. While she was dressed in her nightrail and robe.
The pale light of dawn was just breaking through the windows as she left her bedchamber and hurried quietly down the corridor. When she reached his door, she tapped lightly. “Andrew?” she said softly.
Silence greeted her, and she tapped again, but still heard nothing from within. Concerned, she turned the handle and opened the door enough to peer inside. Her heart stuttered, then she slowly pushed the door wide.
The room was empty, his bed undisturbed. She scanned the room, noting with stunned dread that none of his personal items remained. As if in a trance, she crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the oak doors. Empty.
A sharp, acute ache stole her bream. With hot moisture pushing at the backs of her eyes, she turned toward the bed, and her heart leapt at the small bundle set on the pillow. She dashed across the carpet and snatched up the note on top of the parcel. Breaking the seal, she scanned the words.
My Dearest Catherine:
I believe Carmichael is Lewis Manning’s father, and that it is not you, but me whom he seeks. In my attempt to protect you from danger, I brought it right to you. Keep the doors and windows locked, and you, Spencer, and the staff remain in the house. I’ll see to it that Carmichael never hurts anyone again.
I leave as a parting gift my most prized possession. Philip was going to leave these behind when we departed Egypt, so I took them. From that very first time I heard the words you ‘d written to Philip, I felt as if I’d been turned inside out. I fell deeply, hopelessly in love with you the moment I saw your beautiful image in his miniature. You’ve lived in my heart since that day. I lived off your every word for years, and I thank you for the courage and hope they brought me. Please keep the ring as a token of my gratitude and affection.
Andrew
With shaking fingers, she unwrapped the white linen, realizing with a heavy heart it was the handkerchief she’d given him. Unfolding the last piece of material she looked down. The emerald ring rested on top of a thick bundle of faded letters tied with a worn piece of leather. She instantly recognized her own handwriting.