An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Druid’s Daughter

ISBN 9781419908477

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Druid’s Daughter Copyright© 2007 Jean Hart Stewart

Edited by Helen Woodall.

Cover art by Philip Fuller.

Electronic book Publication: April 2007

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.  (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

DRUID’S DAUGHTER

Jean Hart Stewart

Dedicated to my husband, who every day encourages me to be more than I think I can be.

Chapter One

London, July, 1898

The black dog bared his teeth at the sergeant guarding the doorway, growling deep in his massive throat.

Morgan reached down and patted his silky head. “Ambrose, this gentleman is only doing his duty. Quite evidently the Chief Inspector wasn’t expecting you to escort me. Sergeant, will you please tell the Chief Inspector that Miss McAfee is here?”

She had to give him credit. The sergeant stood his ground, even though Ambrose advanced on him and slowly backed him against the door, rattling the hinges.

“Sorry, Miss, I wuz told to let you in when you came. I got no orders about a beast like this. Cor, that’s the biggest Labrador I ever did see.”

Morgan laughed, just as the door opened and Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield stood glowering in the doorway. A man as imposing as his title was cumbersome. A mouthwatering male—large, handsome and gloriously masculine. Also a male looking at Morgan and Ambrose with unambiguous disdain. His hazy aura was a deep gray shot through with yellow of disbelief in her abilities.

“I assume you’re Miss McAfee. Step in, please. Sergeant, get rid of the dog.”

Morgan chuckled as Ambrose ruffled his fur and turned to growl at the Chief Inspector.

“Ambrose is quite gentle unless provoked. I think you’d be wise to let him in. He’ll tear the place apart if you try to separate him from me.”

Chief Inspector Dellafield gave her a disgusted look and then held the door open. Morgan and Ambrose entered, although Ambrose uttered a vibrating “grrr” as he marched past the Chief Inspector. Dellafield waved her to a chair in front of his big uncluttered desk and seated himself behind it, laying his folded hands on the surface. Large hands with long, strong fingers. Morgan could feel his waves of antipathy. She was used to disdain for her Druid abilities, but she regretted his hostility was consuming so much essential time.

After all, the missing child was more important than the personal feelings of either of them.

His implacable face made her furious, although she gave no sign. He was wasting valuable minutes when every second was needed to find out who’d kidnapped the little boy.

Dellafield went on the attack immediately.

“I understand you are a Druid, Miss McAfee and claim to have psychic visions. I did not know you claimed to be a witch. At least I take it the dog is your familiar.”

Morgan tried to keep her sigh of exasperation silent.

“You are wrong, sir. Ambrose is my companion only, although I rely on him to help me. However, I am not a witch. Druids and witches are very different, as I would explain if you cared to listen. And if I were not more interested in finding the child.”

Dellafield quirked his heavy eyebrows. “But I understand one of your visions is why the Commissioner asked me to work with you. That you had a vision showing the hiding place of a necklace stolen from Commissioner’s mother?”

His delaying tactics were annoying her to the point of lashing out and telling him so. Only the fact they must work together stopped her.

“That is true. I saw it hidden under a pile of laundry and Ambrose immediately found and uncovered it.”

His dark brows raised in disbelief.

“And the Commissioner expects you to have another vision, but this time one that reveals where the kidnappers are keeping his son?”

This time her anger flushed her face, as she looked into those cobalt blue eyes with a disdain to equal his.

“Commissioner Randall is a good friend to my mother and me. I understand he also is a friend of your family. You must know he is not the sort to expect impossible deeds. If I have a vision, it will be welcome. I cannot call them at will and he knows this. He is only expecting I do my best.”

Her expertise in reading small involuntary movements caught the slight lifting of his dark brows. So. He hadn’t known the Commissioner’s request was personal.

“But I thought—”

“That I can command a vision to appear? Of course not.” She let a little of her impatience show in her peremptory tone. Sinfully handsome or not, she was getting more and more irked at His Muscled Elegance.

“I am not a magician, nor a witch, as I’ve said. I am merely a Druid, trained in Druid ways. And now, if it’s not too much trouble, could you fill me in about Jamie? I know he’s been missing two days and the newspapers haven’t yet learned of it. I would appreciate anything you feel you can reveal.”

His heightened color showed he was finally embarrassed. She didn’t need to check his aura. His basic feeling was antipathy. He resented her and the fact he must at least make an attempt to work with her and had not the slightest belief she could help. Not for the first time, she wished she could call up a vision at will. His brain was too bound by prejudice to accept anything less than a miracle.

“I pray to the Goddess of us all I am granted a vision,” she said quietly.

Her soft tone seemed to reach him and he finally leaned back and answered.

“The boy. Jamie.”

He hooded his eyes, but not before she’d caught the flash of pain. Some personal affection, then. She liked him a little better for that brief, unguarded reaction.

His magnificent body was still tense, but his voice softened as he surrendered and began to talk about the child. He steepled his hands and stared down at them.

She sat quietly, watching and listening. She’d heard Dellafield was called Lucky Lance by his men, although never to his aristocratic face. May the Goddess preserve his luck by helping him find Jamie.

“Jamie was taken to the park two days ago by his nursemaid. He chased a ball into the bushes and never came back. After searching the maid came home and police were called. Naturally we questioned the nanny thoroughly, but I’m convinced she knows nothing. Jamie is six years old.”

He paused as if unsure how to go on. No, it was distress that had stopped him. Good for him.

He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to hers.

“There were few others in the park and no one saw a thing. There has been no ransom note, so we truly have no clues. I fear not sending a ransom demand is a deliberate ploy to make the Commissioner more frantic.”

As he talked Morgan rose and went slowly to the window. When he finished speaking she turned and scrutinized the room. She found his office informative.

Dellafield’s office was spacious. Books lined one wall, their papery smell blending with the aroma of the red leather chairs. A small Turner watercolor of a scene in Wales hung over a three-legged table placed against a wall. A large walnut table dominated the center of the room with some papers in neat stacks. Good taste and good work habits.

Her respect for his abilities went up a notch. Only a valuable man could commandeer this much space. Being the fourth son of a duke would count for something, but not this much in the police hierarchy. He had to have earned his reputation through intelligence and hard work.

She scrutinized the man once again. Her impression of his physical strength was not wrong. She doubted he had a soft ounce on him. His sable hair showed a few white hairs at the temples. That hint of white surprised her, since the Commander had mentioned he’d just turned thirty-two.

She liked his looks, as any breathing woman would. Darkly handsome as a brooding Zeus. She loved his resonating baritone. His imposing air of competence definitely was appealing. An aura of power clothed him like a second skin. So far though, she didn’t much like him.

She grinned at the last thought and watched him frown in reaction. He waited for her to speak, so she obliged him.

“I don’t know what you’re planning, but I’ll try to help. As I told you, I can promise nothing.”

He looked skeptical again, but said no more about her abilities. Or lack of them.

“You are not what I expected. However, it seems we must work together. What do you want of me, Miss McAfee? I would not have it said I was uncooperative.”

Morgan felt a sudden spurt of anger. “I’m not likely to report on you to the Commissioner, my lord.”

He put down the pen he’d been twirling between his fingers, looking embarrassed. “I spoke rashly and I apologize. And please, I prefer to be called by my police rank rather than my title.”

She always thought better in motion. She began to circle the big walnut table while he watched her from under half-shut eyes. On the third round she stopped in front of Chief Inspector Dellafield.

“I need to visit the boy’s room as soon as possible.”

Dellafield’s thick eyebrows rose. “Are you sure this is necessary? I hesitate to disturb the family. There’s an aunt, Lady Cynthia Thornton, who cares for the boy since his mother died four years ago. Lady Cynthia is completely distraught. I’m loath to go against her wishes.”

“I appreciate her feelings. I’m not insensitive. But I must insist on this. The more I know of his habits and his interests, the better my chances of helping.”

The pen was back as he twirled it again with his fingers.

“I am very much against this, Miss McAfee.”

His skepticism and hostility were again in place. He stared at Morgan and she stared back. She was not going to be the one to blink first.

“I can do nothing without my own awareness of the child. His room will tell me much.”

Her voice was quiet, but as firm as his.

The Chief Inspector looked down his nose, but said nothing for a long space. Probably seconds, but it seemed like minutes to Morgan.

She could not quite grasp his essential aura. Now shimmering a brighter shade of grayish blue, but still too hazy to pin down. His scent swirled around him, a combination of sandalwood, soap and potent masculinity. Common enough ingredients and not unusual except he smelled so clean. The aroma held nothing to betray the inner essence of his thoughts. Merely a sensuality she could discern by looking at him.

What a shame anytime she found a halfway attractive male his prejudices marked him as out of bounds for even friendship. No one, especially an arrogant Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, would ever comprehend the mystical world into which she’d been born. He’d find it effortless to attract any woman of his own sphere. He’d consider a psychic Druid as anathema. An abomination.

She stood silently for a moment, then half-turned to leave, her own nose as high as his.

“Let me know as soon as I can go to Jamie’s room. I assure you my request is urgent.”

Putting all personal thoughts into a separate pocket of her mind, she gathered her skirts in one hand and swept toward the door. She noticed Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield staring before she started to swish away.

He could stare as much as he wished. She detested his haughty attitude. Still his superior, Commissioner Randall, wanted her to help. Her own mother seemed on quite friendly terms with the Commissioner and was anxious for Morgan to do what she could. There was no question but she would try. This went far beyond the recovery of a necklace. Far beyond her personal reactions.

A precious child was lost to dreadful danger.

She could feel those frigid eyes boring into her back as she left.

She gave her skirt an extra little flounce as she and Ambrose marched out the door.

* * * * *

Morgan and her mother were enjoying a leisurely breakfast the next morning when the footman brought in a note. Chief Inspector Dellafield sent word he’d escort her to Jamie’s home at ten o’clock.

Surprised, she folded the note into a small square and turned to her mother.

“I don’t think I’ll take Ambrose. I don’t want to distract the Chief Inspector, Mama and he’s perfectly safe. Aggravating, but safe.”

Not smiling, she sped upstairs. He’d wasted time and the delay worried her. Still she could only do her best. Doubtless he resented her every bit as much as she’d suspected. Probably he’d chased down every possible clue before turning to her.

She took more care than usual in dressing, which amused her. Finally she chose a dark green skirt trimmed in yellow braid. Her shirtwaist sported yellow and white stripes and she carefully tied a large green bow at the collar. Turning around several times in front of her mirror, she decided she would do. She’d loved bright green long before being told the color matched her eyes.

She smoothed her skirt over her slim hips, thankful its fullness allowed her freedom of movement. She pinned a simple straw sailor hat onto her thick hair. Yellow roses decorated the brim and green ribbons floated down her back.

One more twirl before her cheval mirror and she felt ready. At least Dellafield couldn’t fault her appearance. He might consider her a charlatan but she was a stylish one.

She went downstairs to await the maddening Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield. He arrived exactly on time. His punctuality didn’t surprise her, but the carriage and driver did. The driver was a sergeant from Scotland Yard, the same one who’d admitted her into the office yesterday. The luxurious carriage obviously belonged to Dellafield. She leaned back against the velvet squabs with a small sound of contentment.

“Do you usually travel in such style, my lord?”

She’d meant the statement half in earnest and half teasingly.

Dellafield raised his patrician nose. She was beginning to watch for this habit of his. It expressed displeasure even though his words were dispassionate.

“I do indeed furnish my own coach, but using a sergeant as driver is quite ordinary in the force.”

“I did not mean to criticize, my lord,” she said. Her own nose went up just a trifle. “I quite enjoy such comfort. If I fault you, it is for the length of time you wasted before calling on my help.”

His anger at her reprimand showed in the sudden thinning of his lips. He looked away and did not dignify her remarks with an answer. Neither one said a word as the horses clopped along. When they reached the Commissioner’s house Dellafield offered her his hand to help her descend. She barely touched his palm with her glove and walked rapidly ahead of him to the door. The Commissioner’s butler let them in, greeted them gravely, then disappeared.

The atmosphere of the house closed about them in unnatural and sad silence.

Morgan flinched as she absorbed the family’s anguish. A dark gray aura of despair hung over the hall and, she imagined, the entire house. Her antipathy to the Chief Inspector disappeared like a hampering phantom.

Dellafield’s voice was pitched low. No longer harsh, as if the sense of sorrow had also conquered him.

“Jamie’s aunt is prostrate with worry and grief. I’ll take you to the boy’s room, as I’m well acquainted with the house. I’ve known the commissioner since I was a child.”

Neither spoke again until Dellafield opened the door of a darkened room. Morgan immediately went to the window coverings and pulled them back so sunlight flooded in. Everything else fled her mind as she stood in the center of the room, turning slowly in a circle. Dellafield propped himself against a wall, his arms folded across his chest as he watched with unreadable eyes. She roamed around trying to sense a mood. The room still held a faint scent of an active boy. The cream-colored walls were bright and the windows cheerful with yellow curtains. Four stuffed animals, stiffly in a line, lay on the bed.

She spoke softly. “Is Jamie so neat then? I doubt it, but I imagine his playroom has also been picked up. Let’s go see.”

Dellafield shrugged and opened the door to the adjoining play and schoolroom, which was also scrupulously tidy.

“An unnatural neatness,” said Morgan. “Someone’s straightened the rooms, of course. His aura tells me differently. He’s as cheerfully messy as most youngsters.”

She grinned as the Chief Inspector set his teeth and struggled to refrain from telling her what he thought of auras. Morgan sat on the child’s bed and patted the covers, even cradling the boy’s pillow and holding it to her cheek. She noticed Dellafield looking at her strangely, but ignored him. When she concentrated deeply, as she was now, she needed no distractions. She picked up one of the toy dogs and put it down. Going through to the other room she finally focused her attention on a bookcase in the corner.

“He’s quite intelligent. This Latin primer shows he’s grasping the rudiments. I imagine he’s slated for Eton or Harrow.”

“I trust not,” said Dellafield. “I’m urging Winchester as an alternative.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Why volunteer this particular bit of information? A statement saying much more about him than the boy. Dellafield had doubtless been entered at Eton before he’d even been born.

She would definitely like to keep the Chief Inspector talking.

“Oh? But you went to Eton and Oxford, I think. I’m sure the Commissioner mentioned you did.”

“Let us say there are boys from the top of the peerage at Eton and Harrow who take advantage of their rank. Jamie is a rather small and gentle boy. Nor is the Commissioner titled. I would not have Jamie treated like some boys at Eton.”

He turned from her when he finished talking. Did he know what a revealing statement he’d just made? Yes, his mouth set in grim lines as soon as he spoke. Did she discern a tinge of regret in his voice? But he was both well-titled and without doubt had been a large youngster.

She started to say something then stopped. She doubted if demons from his private vision of hell could force Lord Lance to say another illuminating word. He set his jaw as she went one more time to the youngster’s bed.

Finally she gave the stuffed dog on the bed a hug and a pat and spoke some soft words to the toy. Then she turned to Dellafield.

“I’m through here. I feel I know the boy. His aura has dark streaks and he is quite terrified.” Her low voice revealed her deep concern. “If only I keep him deeply in my mind perhaps I can get a feeling for where he might be.”

“His terror is what haunts us all.” The Chief Inspector pitched his voice almost too low to hear. “May an authentic vision come to you, Miss McAfee.”

She stared at him in utter surprise. He couldn’t mean to imply he believed such a thing possible. He volunteered nothing more, but put his hand on her elbow and gravely escorted her from the house. They were both silent during the drive to her house. When they reached her doorway, he nodded in response to her thanks for his arranging access to Jamie’s room. He offered nothing more than a curt goodbye as her butler opened the door. Dellafield doubtless regretted his slight inference she might be able to help. He’d made it plain he placed little credibility in visions and less in auras. A reaction to which she’d become quite accustomed.

If she possessed witching powers, one thing she’d do would be to apply them to understanding the thought processes of this complicated man. She didn’t think him as unfeeling as when they first met. She’d seen his face in Jamie’s room and she’d never again consider him totally insensitive. He cared deeply about the boy.

Dellafield reminded her of a dormant volcano. Or a boiling tea kettle. Cover on tight yet steam capable of blowing the lid off. She knew he was unmarried and had supported several beautiful mistresses over the years. Could he unleash his strong emotions in such an ordinary way? Somehow she didn’t think he’d waste his passions on a transient affair.

Against her wishes he intrigued her. In a strictly analytical way. They were too far apart to ever interact except in aversion. She’d always felt most members of the aristocracy were regrettable.

But Jamie, a young boy she now felt she knew, gripped her mind and her heart. Even if he were safe, he’d now been three days away from all he loved. He was desperate, frightened and bewildered.

Goddess of us all, how she wished she could call up her visions at will. She’d seldom longed quite so much to be able to summon her powers. She was very much afraid she might be Jamie’s main hope.

She climbed the stairs to her room more slowly than usual. Would she be able to help? Really help?

Equally important, would the arrogant Dellafield allow her to do so? Or did he feel he’d done his part by taking her to Jamie’s room?

She could feel Jamie clamoring to get in her mind. Unpinning her hat, she threw it on the bed and then lay back.

Would Dellafield believe her if a vision came to her? At least enough to take action? Action in time to help?

Chapter Two

Morgan awoke with a start the next morning and jolted up in her bed. Danger, terrible danger, permeated Jamie’s aura. She wrapped her arms around her body as a chilling awareness shivered through her. In her mind, she could hear a childish voice calling to her. An immediate need for action hammered through her frightened body, speeding her to her feet.

She dressed as quickly as possible and asked her butler to summon a hackney. Although she loved horses and riding, neither she nor her mother kept a team in the city. Morgan and her mother spent as little time as possible in London. They both disliked the frantic pace and refused to make their occasional stays easier by keeping their own horses.

She gave the address of Scotland Yard to the hansom driver and sat back, trying to control her mounting impatience. Something had gone badly wrong. Chief Inspector Lord Laniston would just have to tell her what had happened. Pray to the Goddess he was in his office and not out on some other duty.

At the doorway to his office his sergeant regarded her with disdain and implacably crossed arms.

“You’re not on his visiting list, ma’am. I cannot admit you.”

Even his “ma’am” showed his contempt for an unaccompanied female who’d dare to brave the Chief Inspector’s office alone. Evidently it was acceptable for his chief to call on her, but not the other way around.

“Then will you please tell him Miss McAfee is most desirous of seeing him? You admitted me yesterday, if you remember.”

“He’s very busy right now, miss. Suppose you try again later.”

Before he could even turn aside the sergeant was suddenly confronted with the oversized black Labrador baring his teeth and growling in the startled man’s face.

“Where’d you come from?” gasped the sergeant.

Dellafield threw open the door.

“What in Hades is going on? Oh, it’s you, Miss McAfee. Do come in.”

Ambrose bared his teeth at the Chief Inspector. Morgan again gave him credit. He didn’t flinch, just held still.

“Give him a moment, Chief Inspector. He’s upset and he’s very protective. I think he’ll soon be satisfied you pose no danger to me.”

Dellafield did as she said, although disapproval marked his grim face as Ambrose sniffed every inch of him he could reach. The dog rounded him one more time and then paced to lie at Morgan’s feet. Putting his nose on his paws, he looked gravely up at the startled Chief Inspector.

Dellafield tried to catch some revealing expression on Morgan’s lovely face, but all he could see was amusement. He was not used to, nor did he enjoy, being laughed at.

“Does Ambrose often appear this suddenly?”

He deliberately made his tone mocking, as he’d seldom felt so unsettled. He did not like it at all that her face when laughing seemed even more beautiful.

“Ambrose is my mother’s dog, but charged with protecting me. Shall we leave my mother and Ambrose out of this, my lord?” Her voice plainly showed her controlled disdain at more delay. “They don’t apply at this time, nor are you truly interested. I know you’ve received some word of Jamie. Will you tell me what it is?”

Dellafield shrugged his shoulders and gave up. He was desperate for any help he could get. He had nothing to lose by confiding in this outlandish girl.

“The Commissioner received a ransom note late yesterday. The note demanded ten thousand pounds.” He grimaced at Morgan’s gasp. “A large sum indeed. We were directed to deposit the money behind a certain tree in Hyde Park. The note promised Jamie would be released at the same tree one half hour later.”

Morgan raised anguished eyes to his.

“The huge sum was left and no Jamie appeared.” She shrugged her acknowledgement of the fact.

Dellafield hoped he did not look as devastated as he felt.

“How did you know? I’m sure no word escaped this office.”

Morgan got up and began to circle the room.

“I would not feel this cold sense of utter desolation if there’d been a favorable outcome. What’s being done now?”

“Nothing,” Dellafield groaned. “Until we hear from this villain again we are powerless.”

Morgan twisted a strand of her curls around one finger.

“We will not be powerless. I can’t call up my visions, but I can pray to the Goddess of the Druids. Jamie is quite, quite frightened. Good day, Chief Inspector. Come, Ambrose.” She turned back at the door. “Oh and you might advise your Sergeant to admit me next time I want to see you. It would save both of us a lot of trouble.”

With her skirts swirling around her long legs she walked out, a picture of graceful femininity. The big dog followed her after delivering what Dellafield swore was a mocking glance.

As the Chief Inspector watched her leave, he thought her beauty and sense of innate honesty grew more impressive each time he saw her. He could not figure her out in the slightest. He would desperately like to understand her.

He must be losing his mind. There was nothing to understand. She was a self-proclaimed psychic and the daughter of a self-proclaimed witch, or at least a practicing Druid. He couldn’t believe even slightly in her claim to clairvoyant power. Even so, her scent still perfumed the air, evoking her provocative presence, lingering in his reluctant mind.

Could there be any more disastrous relationship for a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard to even contemplate?

Yet he wanted to know her much better. His impulse to pull her to him and kiss those luscious lips was too ridiculous to even contemplate.

He must be insane! He’d barely met the girl.

He buried his face in his hands. Just when he needed every mental faculty he possessed, a semi-witch distracted him to the point of imbecility. If he closed his eyes this minute he knew he could see every feature of her lovely face. Her chestnut hair with its reddish highlights framing her proudly held head. Emerald green eyes smiling at him, even as she refused to surrender to his politely bullying tactics.

He had lost his mind. Yet no warning seemed about to change the fact he kept seeing the face of a beautiful, intriguing, thoroughly disturbing Druid. To make everything worse, in his visualization she seemed to be laughing at him.

He groaned and pulled some papers toward him.

* * * * *

Early the next morning the Chief Inspector sent his sergeant and carriage to request Miss McAfee join him as soon as convenient. Shriver was instructed to wait at her home and bring her to the office as soon as she could possibly come.

Morgan quickly set out with a now respectful Shriver as her escort. As the sergeant knocked and then opened the door for her, she rushed into the Chief Inspector’s office. She’d not taken time to do anything but stick a hat on tawny hair waving halfway down her back. A hastily slung-on cape covered her blue serge skirt and pleated white blouse.

“Tell me what’s happened. I know something has for you to send for me.”

She started talking even as she walked through the door. She stopped in front of the Chief Inspector’s desk, not even noticing he’d not risen to his feet. At first he kept his head down and then the cobalt eyes raised to hers were bleak with despair.

“We gambled and lost. The Commissioner received a second note requesting another five thousand pounds. One of Jamie’s curls was enclosed. The note instructed us to leave the money at the same specified tree in Hyde Park. The time frame was more appealing. After the scoundrel picked up the package and verified the contents, Jamie’s release would follow in only ten minutes.”

Morgan leaned over the desk, resting on her hands and said nothing. She knew the Commissioner and his Chief Inspector must have considered every possibility and yet made a deliberate choice to take the chance.

“Of course you posted men to observe.”

Dellafield gave a short bark of a laugh.

“We posted ourselves. We’re the best, aren’t we? We’d planned to grab the messenger as soon as he made the pickup. Unfortunately our nearest cover was too far away. The blackguard who picked up the money wore a mask.”

Dellafield got up and began pacing the room, staring at the floor as he strode.

“He didn’t stop to count the bills, just slipped into the bushes so fast we got only the impression of a middle-sized man. He wore a big, concealing cap pulled down over his features, although he appeared clean-shaven.”

Dellafield sat down at his desk, his intense eyes fixed bleakly on her. “I’m a powerful runner and I tore after him but he’d gotten too large a start. We’re worse off than before. Now the villain knows we won’t pay up so easily a third time.”

Morgan twisted her hands in her lap, her heart aching at the thought of the young boy in such evil hands.

“I called you in to see if you’ve had even a glimpse of something possibly helpful to us.”

He didn’t try to hide a supplication that almost cracked Morgan’s heart. She’d already surmised this man wasn’t quite the unfeeling and cold-blooded aristocrat he appeared. His suffering eyes betrayed him to be a caring and passionate person. A confirmation she cherished. She’d think later about why this was important to her.

“You’re dreadfully worried about something you haven’t told me that made you call me. What has you so fearful?” she asked.

Dellafield snorted. “You certainly seem to be able to read me more easily than anyone except my mother. All right. I’ll tell you exactly what I fear, although it’s not the usual subject for a young lady’s ears. Our villain may think it too dangerous to exploit the Commissioner again. I fear Jamie might be sold to an overseas slave market. He’s a most appealing child.”

“Dear Goddess of us all,” murmured Morgan. “I never imagined such wickedness. I’d already determined to see you today. Although I don’t know if what I have to tell you will help.”

She chewed on a knuckle before she continued.

“A startling picture appeared to me during the night. I’m not at all sure this has anything to do with Jamie, but I knew I should tell you.” She took a deep, reinvigorating breath. “As clearly as I can see you, I saw a bar in a tavern. The bar itself was a dark polished wood and was semi-rounded, a kind of half circle, which must be unusual. No people appeared in the picture. A door on each side of the bar was painted a bright blue.” Her voice slowed down as she continued. “That’s all, I’m afraid, but I could see every detail clearly. I could even see the white painted door handles.”

Dellafield said nothing and she lowered her head in disappointed rejection.

“I don’t think that’s much help.”

“We’ve nothing else to go on.” The Chief Inspector showed no emotion in his graven face. “Nothing at all. We must try to make some sense of this. Let me call in my sergeant.”

Sergeant Shriver snorted an uncomplimentary sort of grunt when his Chief Inspector described the tavern just as Morgan described it to him.

“Sure and I know the place well, Chief. It’s down on the docks, a really disreputable hole. Called The Blue Doors of course. Before I came to you my division kept trying to pin smuggling on the dive, but they were always too slippery for us to catch. That it’s a den of villains, I’m positive.”

The Chief Inspector looked up with more hope on his handsome features than Morgan had seen since she entered the room. He stood up abruptly and placed both hands on the desk.

“We’re going to surprise them, sergeant. Maybe we can pin something even worse than smuggling on them. Gather twenty men. I want to be well covered. Nothing must go wrong. I’ll go in first and the rest of you can stand by to support me.”

Sergeant Shriver had at first looked pleased and now looked doubtful.

“Begging your pardon, Sir, if you go in just the sight of you will sound an alarm. Every crook in town knows Lucky Lance. They’ll scatter and we’ll find nothing. There’s no way to disguise who you are. Let me rough myself up a bit and go in first.”

Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield sighed. A deep, disgusted sigh.

“Of course you’re right. But I want nobody to open those blue doors after we enter. Nobody. This is of the utmost importance, sergeant. No matter what you have to do after you enter, prevent anyone from going through either of the blue doors.”

Morgan smiled inwardly. The man evidently didn’t have the slightest idea how impressive he was, his muscled heft coupled with undeniably aristocratic face and bearing—a most unusual and alluring combination. He would be remembered by anyone who’d ever seen him. The sergeant was right. Someone who could masquerade as a worker off the docks should enter first.

Morgan looked up, her expression impressed but skeptical.

“Are you admitting, my lord, that my psychic powers might produce visions convincing to an incredulous officer of Scotland Yard? I find this hard to believe.”

The Chief Inspector loomed over her as he rose to his feet, his voice at its most distant as he answered.

“Of course I don’t believe in your so-called powers, Miss McAfee. However, in this case we will at worst round up some villainous types. At best I will be proven wrong about you and we’ll find something to help Jamie. Or some other child about to be shanghaied to a slave vessel.”

He paused and let a little of his anxiety show in his voice.

“I’m desperate for a clue. I’ve no qualms in ordering such a raid, even if it doesn’t directly help us in our search for Jamie.”

His face set and grim and his blue eyes clouded by inner storms, he raised his glance just for a moment to Morgan’s. Morgan’s certainty grew. He was the most compelling man she’d ever seen. What a shame they would probably never agree on anything—he, not capable of even conceiving of the world of magic and she, a daughter of the Druids desperately wanting to be more than her poor powers allowed her to be.

She struggled to put her private thoughts behind her. Jamie’s safety was much more important than any of her desires.

“May I go with you?” she asked.

Dellafield stared at her as if she’d sprouted scales and a tail.

“Of course not. What an idiotic request. This tavern is in the worst part of town and all its customers would doubtless give one look at you and decide you’d do very well for their next rape victim. You are extraordinarily beautiful, you know.” He turned and started toward the door. “You definitely will not come near that den of murdering thieves.”

She didn’t even blink at the unexpected compliment.

“I intend to go. If necessary I will take a common hackney and pay the cabbie well to wait with me outside the tavern. If by any chance at all Jamie is there, he’ll appreciate a female to cuddle and love him.”

The Chief Inspector looked his horror. “You are beyond insane. I absolutely forbid it.”

“I’ll take Ambrose,” she said. “No one will come near me, I assure you.”

Lord Lance stared at her, his aristocratic face as frozen as ice floes on the northern seas.

“Absolutely not. You have no idea of the kind of stews we will be in. Stay here if you wish and I’ll get word back to you as soon as I can. But do not come near the Blue Doors Tavern. Tonight, or any other night. That’s an order.”

Dellafield turned to give more directions to his sergeant and then stalked away. Morgan suspected he’d put her out of his mind. Probably just as well since he was being so damnably despotic. Men could be so difficult. She waited ten minutes after he’d disappeared and then mentally called on her mother to send Ambrose.

Huge, dependable Ambrose. What could go wrong when Ambrose furnished her protection?

Chapter Three

Morgan waited until Dellafield strode out of the room. Then she called for a hackney and climbed in. The big dog padded alongside and jumped on the seat beside her. The cabbie started to object at both the dog and the address Morgan gave him. Turning around he found Ambrose with his face quite close, staring directly in his eyes, his fangs just barely showing.

The cabbie swallowed, quietly clucked to his horses and put the cab in motion toward his passenger’s stated destination, the Blue Doors Tavern. Why any decent woman would want to go there he couldn’t comprehend, but that big dog didn’t make for objections. Not of any kind. Her destination was strictly up to her.

God help her though, if she didn’t know what that hellhole of a tavern was like.

* * * * *

Morgan sat back, knowing with a deep conviction she would be needed at the coming confrontation. She didn’t know how, but all would be revealed. She put her arms around Ambrose, ruffling his thick fur and burying her face in his luxurious pelt. Surely now they were on their way her Goddess would keep Jamie safe for just a little longer.

“Thank the Goddess you’re here,” she whispered to the dog, who slurped on her cheek in return.

The Blue Doors was as grubby as a tavern could be. Morgan looked out at the sky where she could usually find peace. Her Druid soul was always attuned to the natural and strength-giving Earth. If it was night and the sky glittered with star-fire, she could find a soothing message in the shining points of light. Today the somber clouds in the sky brought little tranquility. She attempted to center her being into an inner peace, but calmness did not come easily. At last some serenity returned and she leaned back against the cushions to await the raid’s outcome.

She didn’t have long to wait. She watched the best of Scotland Yard take their place in a ring around the tavern and a large part of them march in. A great deal of noise came from the tavern, as most of the customers seemed to be shouting their objections and their panic. The doors were closed and held tight. Yet somehow one culprit escaped the net. He slunk out a small door with no handle, a door blending almost without notice into the wall of the building. He crept along the side of the tavern, quite evidently meaning to sprint away as soon as he got clear.

Morgan whispered a few words to Ambrose, who immediately leaped from the hackney cab and cornered the escapee. Ambrose rumbled deep in his throat and the thug whimpered, a high-pitched, terrified sound.

The seedy man slunk back along the wall of the tavern, obviously horrified by the bare fangs of Ambrose. The dog stood with his front paws on the criminal’s shoulders, breathing into the hapless man’s face. The huge dog’s fur stood out in a big ruff as he snarled at his cowering victim.

“Keep him right there, Ambrose,” Morgan said with a shudder. “He has a perfectly hideous aura. I don’t think I’ve ever seen worse. Ugh. But I want Lord Lance to talk to him.”

Hearing the name of the Chief Inspector caused the trembling man to make a thrusting attempt to get past the dog. Ambrose merely put his teeth in the thug’s shirt and dragged him back, rearing up against the man’s body so he was again trapped.

“For Gawd’s sake, lady. Call your brute off before he kills me.”

“I don’t think I can let you go,” Morgan said. “In fact I think a gentleman is coming right now who is most desirous of speaking to you.”

The Chief Inspector appeared, beaming and obviously delighted, his arms wrapped around a small child with golden curls. Not much could be seen of his angelic face as Jamie peered shyly from the comfort of his rescuer’s shoulder.

Then Dellafield spied Morgan. His initial reaction was sheer incredulity, followed by a blazing anger that would have terrified almost anyone else.

He started to stalk toward her, but Morgan ignored his fury and walked to him, holding out her arms to Jamie.

“Will you let me hold you, Jamie? I know you’re a big boy and can take care of yourself, but your Uncle Lance wants to know you’re safe. Will you come to me, brave boy?”

Jamie smiled a smile of heart-stopping sweetness and held out his arms to Morgan, who quickly took him and cuddled him in her arms.

“I’m not really so brave,” he said, hiding his face in her shoulder. “I cried after the man took my food away before I could eat it all. But only after he’d left.”

“There,” she said, smoothing his curls. “We’ll go to the carriage and wait for your Uncle Lance. Nothing is going to hurt you again. Lord Lance simply won’t allow it. He’s going to arrest the bad man Ambrose has pinned against the wall and then you can feel safe again.”

She walked with him to the carriage, murmuring to him all the while. Lord Lance looked at her in astonishment, his anger at her evaporating as her words got through to him. He spun around and spied the quivering man Ambrose held trapped and in waiting.

“My God,” he said simply. “Cuttering. I thought you’d gotten away once again even though your men didn’t. So now you like to starve little children. Another black mark among your many.”

His fists clenched and unclenched and Cuttering cringed back against the wall. Lord Lance exerted his formidable self-control and whistled for two of his men who came running and secured Cuttering with heavy cuffs. Ambrose seemed satisfied and paced proudly to the carriage.

“Unless I miss my guess here’s the ringleader,” Lord Lance said to his men with a grimace. “He’s not fit to touch, but take him in. No, let’s search him first.”

Cuttering struggled wildly, but handcuffed and held by two officers he had no chance.

“How nice,” said the Chief Inspector, his tone curt yet satisfied. “Here’s ten of the fifteen thousand. I imagine he’ll be glad to tell us about the other five thousand.”

Dellafield’s contented grin made the thug shudder even more.

“Take him in now, men and be very careful he doesn’t get away. He’ll doubtless try, as he knows he’s going in for a long prison term. Or worse. I’ll be along presently.”

Dellafield walked quickly to Morgan’s carriage and swung in. Ambrose welcomed him by holding out his paw to be shaken and Morgan’s face lit up with pleasure and surprise that Ambrose approved of the tall, upright man.

The Chief Inspector gravely offered his hand to the big dog and then turned to Morgan.

“It seems Ambrose accepts me as the friend I would like to be. Truly, Miss McAfee, I am forever in your debt. You can call on me at any time for any service I might do for you.”

He picked up her hand and kissed it with all the sincerity and gratitude he felt. Without this girl Jamie might soon be on his way to a ship taking him to be the sex-slave of some perverted Maharajah. He meant the kiss to convey a little of how truly grateful he felt. What he’d not counted on was how touching her sent a thrill shooting up his arm and whispering little shivers down his spine.

He raised surprised eyes to startled green ones. Evidently she’d felt that buzzing delight as much as he.

Neither said a word for a moment, until Jamie broke into a smile when Ambrose reached over and licked his face.

Jamie chuckled and mopped at his wet cheek. “I like this big dog. May I pet him, ma’am?”

Morgan’s smile shone sweet and unchanging. “Of course you can. He’s just told you he wants to be your friend and I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you accept his friendship.”

Jamie immediately knelt to nuzzle Ambrose’s ruff.

The two grownups sat looking at each other, with a bit of wonder in the gaze of both.

“You have shaken me to the core, Miss Morgan, in more ways than one. I cannot say I believe in your powers as a psychic and yet I can no longer completely disbelieve.” He shook his head in perplexity. “Your vision of the Blue Doors Tavern was an inspiration of a kind I don’t understand. But without it we would never have found Jamie.”

His deep voice rang with such sincerity and gratitude Morgan felt herself blush.

“And you caught the really bad man. Or I guess Ambrose did,” Jamie chimed in.

“Why do you say he’s really bad, Jamie?” asked Morgan before Dellafield could do so.

“He’s mean. He’s the one who snatched my bread and cheese. Then he’d scold me and hit me for not being grateful for my meal. And he yelled at everybody.”

The child talked rapidly, undoubtedly pleased to have someone he loved listen to him.

“He only hit me sometimes, though. Said he didn’t want me marked up, or else he’d really teach me how to behave in the presence of my betters. Except I couldn’t believe he was my betters.”

“Nor is he, Jamie. Not in any respect.” Dellafield patted the child’s head with such affection in the gesture Morgan felt her eyes fill.

“He’s lucky I didn’t know this before they took him away. I might have forgotten what I strive to teach my men. But he’s on his way to jail, where he’ll stay for a very long time. And we must get you home, Jamie.” He ran his hand through the bright curls. “I sent a constable ahead telling your papa to expect us soon. I think he’ll particularly want to thank Miss Morgan for leading us to find you.”

The Chief Inspector’s wide smile showed his own still strong gratitude.

Jamie took his arms from Ambrose’s neck and flew to Morgan again, crawling onto her lap and hugging her.

“Thank you, thank you, Miss Morgan. Thank you forever.”

Tears were welling in Morgan’s eyes as she hugged the small boy. The thought of the wicked plans for him seemed too much for her mind to acknowledge. She thought she knew about evil since she’d long been dedicated to fighting it in her own way, but such sick malevolence disturbed her deeply.

She hugged the boy, burying her cheek against his curls, grateful to her Goddess for the opportunity of holding him.

“Jamie, would you let me visit you from time to time? Of course I’d bring Ambrose, as I think he’s already adopted you as his very special friend. He belongs to my mother, you know, but helps me from time to time.”

“Ooh, yes ma’am. You’re both awf’lly nice.”

The little boy’s sunny smile revealed how the horror of his imprisonment wouldn’t cling to him forever, even though a wary look lurked deep in his eyes. Morgan and the Chief Inspector exchanged satisfied glances and once again Morgan thought what a thoroughly good man the Chief Inspector had proven to be. He might try to hide behind curtness, but she now thought it a shield held high in an effort to mask a caring nature.

Why did he cover up to this extent? Could she get behind his stony countenance and find the real Lance Dellafield? The interesting study of contrasts beckoned to her. Yet he showed no signs of attraction for her beyond a slight and recent appreciation of her powers. And that strange, buzzing, kiss on her hand. Perhaps she should concentrate on searching for the genuine Lord Laniston Dellafield buried somewhere under his official façade.

Morgan smiled and unconsciously smoothed her hair. The hidden Lord Lance might be rather pleasing to know. She thought the name his men had given him, Lucky Lance, was a clue to how they both respected and liked him. And now she could sincerely echo the respect.

Had he felt the tingling she did when he touched her? Even when he did nothing but hand her out of the carriage, her bones shivered. A prickly awareness, exhilarating and most peculiar, seemed to heighten all her senses when he was near.

No, she must ignore her deep desire to decipher this appeal of his. It would be fatal to care for a man who could never care for her. Life surely would not hold such an ultimate irony. She must be cautious she never came even close to making such a dreadful mistake. Lord Lance might be the most tempting man she’d ever encountered, but that only proved she should be all the more on her guard.

Not that she’d see him after tonight. She’d doubtless fulfilled a function he appreciated, but what further use could he have for her?

Chapter Four

The two adults were silent on the ride to the Commissioner Randall’s house. Jamie played with Ambrose, to the delight of both boy and dog. Dellafield folded his arms and leaned back against the squabs of the hackney, his big body seemingly relaxed. He gave one piercing glance at Morgan and then with deliberation, closed his eyes.

Morgan kept sneaking a peek at him, but his eyelids never budged. She thought if she could only look into those beautiful deep eyes she might discover a great deal. Perhaps he was worried about just that, since he gave her no opportunity to read any mirrored thoughts.

In a short time the cab drew up in front of the home of the Commissioner of Scotland Yard. The hired hackney driver had responded with immediate respect when given the address. The sight of the large colonnaded home in Grosvernor Square drew a low whistle from him. Morgan too was impressed, but not by the building. On the steps stood a tall gray-haired man who must be Commissioner Randall and with him were two women. One was a cold-eyed spinsterish-looking woman with a rigid bearing. The other was Morgan’s always surprising and lovely mother, Viviane McAfee.

Almost before the carriage stopped, Commissioner Randall strode and reached in for his son. He held him for a long moment a little away from him and then crushed the boy to him as if satisfied there was no perceptible damage.

“Welcome home, son,” he said huskily and buried his face for another long moment in Jamie’s curls. He hugged him again and then set the boy on his feet, still holding his small hand in his big one.

Dellafield helped Morgan down and then watched with a smile as Ambrose burst from the carriage to run to Morgan’s mother and after an affectionate greeting from her, settle by her side.

Lady Cynthia sniffed, but turned to Jamie. “It’s good to see you, Jamie. My, are those the clothes you wore five days ago? Come along now, you’ll want to bathe and put on fresh garments after so many days in those filthy ones.”

Jamie clung tightly to his father’s hand. “Please, Papa, I don’t want to leave you yet. Please.”

“Nor do I want you to, Jamie. Cynthia, I appreciate your concern, but I’ll see Jamie is freshened when he is ready to do so. He might even like a little nap. I’ll wager you haven’t been sleeping well, have you, my son?”

Jamie shook his head, relief lighting his eyes. “Not really, Papa. But I want to be with you.”

He looked so adoringly at his father Morgan’s throat caught.

“Then let’s all go into the house. You and I will go to your room and you can sleep a little while. I give you my word I’ll not leave your bedside ‘til you waken. Say your goodbyes and thank yous, Jamie.”

Jamie quickly hugged Morgan and the Chief Inspector and to Morgan’s surprise, her mother. He took his aunt’s hand and shook it as her face tightened. Then he gave Ambrose one last hug.

With a quelling glance at Lady Cynthia who’d opened her mouth then closed it, and a soft “goodbye” to every one else, Commissioner Randall led his son away. Morgan stood in shock. Jamie knew her mother well enough to warrant a hug from an exhausted child?

She shot a sidewise glance at the Chief Inspector, who’d certainly not missed a thing, yet didn’t seem surprised. In fact he turned to her with a knowing grin, which under the circumstances made her want to slap his smiling face.

“Suppose you leave me here, Chief Inspector,” Morgan said. “I haven’t seen my mother for several days and would be glad of a chance to have a long chat with her. Perhaps we can walk home together.”

Her mother merely smiled in the wise and loving way usually warming to Morgan’s affectionate heart.

“Truly my daughter and I are overdue for some time together. But Ambrose and I must return home more quickly than by walking. Could you drive us to our place, Chief Inspector Lord Lance?”

For the first time in her life Morgan glared at her mother. She’d deliberately maneuvered so Morgan would not find time to talk to her. Viviane McAfee merely smiled sweetly and patted Ambrose on his silky head as they walked out. Still smiling, she waited for the Chief Inspector to hand her into the carriage.

Dellafield could not resist grinning as Viviane McAfee began to talk the minute they were all in the carriage. She completely dominated the conversation, not at all her habitual method of listening so she could accurately judge a stranger. Her daughter watched her and could not believe the chatter. Viviane finally turned to the Chief Inspector and asked him sweetly if he knew much about witches.

He grinned more widely and said he did not, but somehow he’d recently conceived quite a desire to do so. Morgan gritted her teeth and scowled at them both as her mother began to explain and Dellafield settled back to listen.

“The word witch comes from the word ‘wicca’, which means wise woman. True witches have always worked for the good of all. The main foundation of witches’ belief is simple, above all do no harm.” She smiled as if at a promising pupil. “The dominating rule commanding every action is ‘And you harm none, do as you will’. One must never do harm to oneself, nor to any other. Anyone who harms another is not a true witch.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “All very true, my mother, but I can’t think a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard is interested.”

“But I am,” interrupted the Chief Inspector. “I find this fascinating. As I’ve always found my title ridiculously long. I’d be honored if both you ladies called me Lance.”

“I don’t think so,” snapped Morgan. When her mother looked her surprise she added, “But perhaps Lord Lance, if that’s agreeable. Although you said once you didn’t like your title as well as that of Chief Inspector.”

Her glance, laced with honey, was directed more at her mother than Lord Lance.

“I’d be honored to have you call me whatever you like,” said the Chief Inspector.

Morgan admitted to herself he’d outmaneuvered her. She waited, now smiling sweetly as both her mother and Lord Lance leaned back against the squabs. Then she added words that should squelch him and alert her mother.

“You are wasting your time, mother. This particular man will never understand what it means to be a witch. He even thinks Druids and witches are one and the same.”

Lord Lance flushed at her implied conviction of his arrogance. He turned again to Mrs. McAfee.

“Please go on,” he said in a sincere voice. “I would appreciate anything you could say to enlighten me. I know I’m woefully ignorant on the subject of Druids.”

Viviane McAfee laughed at them both. “No, I think not. At least not now, maybe later. Actually witches are much simpler to understand than Druids, which is why I started with them. Many, many people confuse the two. But there, my gates are coming near, Lord Lance.”

“I fear I need much enlightenment,” said Lord Lance as he tapped with his cane on the roof of the cab. “I trust you’ll continue your teaching another day.”

His driver swung between the black iron gates, while Lance and Mrs. McAfee smiled at each other in perfect accord.

The dwelling beyond the gates was the most gracious townhouse Lord Lance had ever seen. It was not large, but every golden brick seemed to proclaim welcome. Lance could not discern exactly what made it so pleasing. He turned to Viviane to compliment her on her home and found her looking at him with a complacent delight.

“You do not disappoint me, Lord Lance. I’m glad you appreciate our London home. I know your father and your mother and you are a credit to them both. Now if you would just escort us to our doorstep, Ambrose and I will bid you goodnight.”

A very proper butler threw open the doors, as Viviane McAfee and Ambrose paced through. She must have signaled somehow for the butler closed the door behind them.

Lord Lance and Morgan were left standing on the threshold. Alone. With Morgan still fuming.

“Your mother is most attractive,” said Lord Lance, but Morgan noticed his eyes suddenly fastened on her agitated breasts. “And seemingly as much a mind reader as you.”

“Of course she is both those things,” snipped Morgan. “Right now I think she’s a Judas of the first degree.”

Morgan was bubbling with indignation.

“She left us here alone with unanswered questions filling your mind. Just the kind of situation where a man grabs a woman merely to calm his confusion. She’s very wise about people, so she deliberately set us up for some kind of confrontation. I think it too bad of her.”

“I don’t,” said Lance in a soft voice. “I agree she’s very wise. She recognizes you and I are attracted to each other.”

Morgan gasped. “I’m not attracted to you, you narrow-minded member of the aristocracy I dislike. You have no idea of the kind of woman I am.”

“Don’t I indeed?” murmured Lance in a stronger tone as he reached out a long powerful arm and grabbed Morgan to him. “Perhaps I’d like to find out.”

His arms wrapped around her, yet she didn’t feel trapped. This was the consoling comfort she never realized she’d been seeking. She raised her face to his in wonder and looked into blue, blue eyes blazing with a spark of heat in their depths. His lips came down on hers, his eagerness restrained as if waiting for her response.

She surged against him, contrary to what she’d thought was her will and lifted her hands to plunge them into his thick dark hair. He needed no more encouragement and he kissed her deeply as she responded with innocent ardor. He pressed kisses over her face and then coming back to her mouth, kissed her again. Then he parted her lips with his tongue. At first he was gentle, silently asking her to let him inside. She drew back in shock and leaning a little away, looked at him with eyes flared open.

“I’m sorry,” he said, leaning his face against her hair. “I went too fast.”

He loosened his tight hold on her slightly, but did not release her.

He drew a very deep breath. “Have you ever been kissed, Morgan?”

She struggled to get free and he let her go. But not far. She tried to step away, but that he would not permit. He held her lightly imprisoned against the door with one arm on each side of her shoulders, making a cage that did not touch her. A cage only he could open.

“Of course I have.” Her indignation made him smile.

“Not by a friend, my dear. By an amorous man who might like to do more than mere kissing.”

Morgan turned aside. “I think this is a ridiculous conversation and I don’t care to answer.”

“You have answered me,” the Chief Inspector said in a soft, pleased voice. “I’m sorry I rushed you, Morgan. I’ll not make such a mistake again.”

There was a short pause, while Morgan adjusted her skirts and her hair and refused to look at him.

Lord Lance stared at her a long time and then spoke in his usual crisp manner.

“Again you completely surprise me. While we seem to agree on very little, I would like to get to know you and see if our differences are as great as you think. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the opera Saturday night? I believe they’re singing La Traviata.”

Morgan’s reactions flitted expressively across her mobile face.

“I adore the opera,” she said, “and La Traviata is one of my favorites. But you cannot be serious. You are the son of a Duke and a respected official, a highly respected official of Scotland Yard.” She fastened her green eyes on him and continued in a serious tone. “I’m a known psychic and Druid and am thought by many to be at worst a witch and at best slightly deranged. You cannot wish to be seen in public with me.”

He was silent for some time, trying to read the thoughts behind her words.

“That is rather my concern than yours, is it not?”

He knew his voice was huffy, but he resented with surprising force her thinking he cared about such ridiculous things as others’ opinions.

She flushed at his anger.

“But it’s my concern as well. I know in my heart we will work together again on another criminal activity. I also know it will be best if we don’t deepen our friendship.” She took a long breath as if it were an effort to go on. “I realize even this is asking you to believe in me when I know you do not.”

Lord Lance looked at the beautiful girl before him, her eyes meeting his with candor. Still he thought he saw a spark of desire she wasn’t experienced enough to hide. That lack of experience intrigued him beyond words. He found it hard to believe at her age she’d never been thoroughly kissed. How old was she, twenty-two or three? Had her reputation frightened away men of the quality she deserved? Even ignorance of her true value didn’t seem enough excuse. Had her mother protected her somehow? Or was it just a sweet and beautiful innocence not common at all in today’s dissolute world?

Blazing hell if he wasn’t beginning to believe in the possibility of spells! Either that or he was losing his mind.

Maybe both.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead and left her.

Chapter Five

On the ride home Lance suddenly remembered Viviane McAfee’s words. She knew his parents well enough to consider him a credit to them? This was definitely something an experienced detective of Scotland Yard should check out.

With a smile, Lance rapped on the roof of the cab with his cane and redirected the driver.

Before long the cab drove up to the ducal home on Park Lane. A large and impressive mansion, it was a place Lance loved. Not for its architecture, which was too ornate for his tastes, but for the people who lived there. Only his next older brother resided here now with his parents, but at one time he and his three brothers filled the home with noise and laughter when the family was in London. On reflection, Lance was not surprised his parents might have known Viviane McAfee. They’d always been, to his delight, far less stuffy than their contemporaries. They’d also encouraged their children to ferret their own way through issues of the day and not accept even their parents’ opinions. Mealtimes often featured rousing discussions clarifying everyone’s mind.

He dismissed the cabbie and strode to the door, where the butler admitted him with a smile.

“Lord Lance, how nice to see you. You will indeed be welcomed by the whole household.”

Lance handed over his hat, coat and cane with a grin.

“I don’t come often enough, I know, Bradley. Have you been well? How is your arthritis?”

“Very well, my lord, thank you.”

The butler’s voice was suddenly eclipsed as his father, a bear of a man almost as tall as his son, strode forward.

“Lance, it’s high time you came calling on your ancient parents. What brings you?”

He hugged his son, shook his hand vigorously and led him to the parlor where the Duchess greeted him with equal delight. As Lance kissed his rather delicate mother, he again remarked to himself on her fragility. How on Earth had she produced four strapping sons? And how under heaven could he be excused for not seeing her more often?

“Madam, I think I’ve been more negligent than I realized if my father wants to know what motive I have for coming.”

His mother, her voice as light as her graying blond hair, tugged on his hand so he would sit beside her.

“Well,” she grinned. “Tell us the reason, then.”

Lance threw up his hands.

“I often wish I could hire you two on my staff.”

The Duke went to the door and called for three glasses and a bottle of brandy. He’d never believed women should be denied the pleasures of good spirits while men drank alone. His lady wife heartily agreed.

When they were all settled with their glasses in hand, his father looked expectantly at the son who so much resembled him in appearance.

“Well,” he said. “Who is she?”

Lance could feel himself blushing, for the first time he could remember since he was a callow teenager.

“Gerald, I’m ashamed of you. Let the boy talk in his own time.” His mother tapped his father lightly on his nearer arm.

His father now looked almost as abashed as Lance felt, although the grin stayed on his father’s face. Somehow the atmosphere settled into easiness again.

“Actually it is a woman,” Lance said. “Or two women. Morgan McAfee and her mother Viviane.”

“Two excellent women,” his mother said. “Although actually I do not know the daughter and only met the mother briefly. I imagine Viviane has raised and trained her daughter well.”

Lance looked his surprise. “Am I hearing things? We are discussing here a self-proclaimed Druid and her daughter who claims to be a psychic and wants above all else to have witch’s powers. I’m not only amazed you know them, but astonished you esteem them.”

The Duchess smiled at the Duke and tapped him lightly on his arm.

“As for me, I esteem Mrs. McAfee highly. I believe your father thought favorably of her at one time and she was too wise to allow a relationship to even begin. Naturally I think her exemplary.”

The Duke’s possessive smile at his wife warmed the room.

“As you well know you are and have always been my only love.” He turned to his son as he continued. “Your mother was in the country with you children and I met Viviane while riding in the park here in town. She knew a great deal about everything and I learned to value her opinions. She’s unusually interesting to talk to.”

He took another sip of his brandy and seemed lost in reminiscence for a moment.

“I wanted to be friends, although there was never a suggestion of anything else with either of us. She’s a highly moral woman, as I imagine is her daughter. I thought her the second most intriguing and beautiful woman I’d ever met. Although I never had any desire to be unfaithful to my wife.”

His wife tapped him lightly on his knee.

“A very astute addition, my lord husband.”

The Duke smiled at his wife.

“She knew this and we could have been friends in other circumstances. I think your mother and she would have been friends also. At one point Viviane very gently made me realize our relationship could go no further. She was concerned about the same issue you are now, I imagine, Lance.”

Lance watched his mother’s hand reach out and grasp his father’s.

“How very interesting.” Lance’s voice was a low and enthralled murmur.

His father favored him with a shrewd glance.

“And so how can we help you, Lance? You must know by now Viviane and her daughter follow the Druid teachings. The name Viviane comes from the name of one of the most revered and powerful priestesses in Druid history. No one can really quarrel with the learning Druids impart, nor diminish the good Viviane does with her medical knowledge. Yet still she is ostracized to a certain extent.”

Lance lowered his blue, blue eyes. “I didn’t know any of this. I only know a girl who has helped me immeasurably with what she calls her psychic powers has caught my interest. In spite of the fact she talks to stuffed animals.”

His wry grin did not conceal to his parents how important this conversation was to him.

“Of course,” the Duke said. “Perhaps you’d best study Druid lore, Lance. Druids believe trees, plants and animals have feelings of their own. They often talk to them. I can see how the lady might extend the premise to a stuffed animal. I find the thought charming, myself.”

Lance raised his eyebrows. “Now that does surprise me.”

His father only grinned back at his son. “But many think the Druid teachings are beyond ridiculous. It’s generally acknowledged to be a good thing civilization stripped Druids of most of their powers, although I’m not at all sure that’s true. They might have produced a more peaceful world, as well as a most interesting one.”

Lance sat looking at his parents with eyes that seemed to see them for the first time. True, he had always known, growing up in the rigid world of British aristocracy, that his parents were remarkable for their care and communication with their sons. Still, the fact his father had been friends with Viviane McAfee and found Druid lore admirable amazed him.

“I’m astonished,” he said.

His parents looked at each other and as was often the case, an unspoken communication seemed to take place.

His father cleared his throat. “Make no mistake, Lance. I realize your questions are tentative. But being interested in a girl like Morgan McAfee has untold complications. She would not advance your career at all.”

“I know,” Lance said quietly.

He kissed his mother and shook his father’s hand. On the way out he turned back.

“Life is interesting, isn’t it? Did you know Commissioner Randall is quite familiar with Viviane McAfee, to an extent that surprised me? They seem the best of friends.”

With a smile for them both, he again started out.

“Lance,” his mother’s voice called him back.

He wheeled slowly and faced her.

“Don’t flirt with her, Lance. I know you’re not the type to trifle, but I would imagine she is unsophisticated and unspoiled and very tempting. She might not understand a flirtation for what it is.”

Lance looked at his mother, thinking she was wise as usual. But he’d already given himself the same advice and he wasn’t sure it was working.

“I know,” he said and continued out the door.

Was the Commissioner jeopardizing his career by his relationship with Morgan’s mother? Did his parents feel their son should be wary of a relationship with Morgan solely for her sake? No, they were concerned for him, too.

How had meeting and knowing one slight girl so thoroughly upset his deliberately circumscribed existence?

* * * * *

Lance went to Scotland Yard the next day, determined to attack this personal problem with his significant intelligence. He called in one of his constables, a lad new to his division. He did not want anyone who might have seen Morgan to put pieces of a puzzle together. Shriver would catch on immediately.

He’d just ordered Constable Madison to go to the nearest library and bring back any books he could find on Druids, when Constable Rainley burst into the room as Shriver threw the door open for him.

His face white and his eyes staring, Rainley stood just inside the door, obviously in a state of semi-shock.

Lance immediately rose to his feet.

“What’s happened, Rainley?”

Rainley gulped and then gulped again, an obvious and arduous effort to keep himself from casting up his accounts on his chief’s valuable Persian rug.

“I’ve just gone out to see about a note a boy brought into the office, Sir. It’s horrible, Sir, horrible.”

Rainley shuddered from his tow-blond head to his serviceable boots and Lance swiftly came around the desk and pushed his constable in the nearest chair.

Rainley was one of the younger policemen and Lance gave him time to regain a little color. Still Rainley seemed anxious to get his story told and blurted out the rest soon enough.

“We got a note brought round by a young boy, Sir, who scampered before we thought to stop him. It was poorly written but told us to go to Cow’s Head Alley. Somebody wanted to alert us without getting involved. Of course we went, Sir. There was a body there, Chief Inspector, a horrible body. Her throat slit from one side to the other by a big knife. She’d also been stabbed with a real thin knife in her back. Inspector Davis is with the body, Sir, waiting for you to come.”

Rainley gulped again and Lance waited until the boy’s breathing became more normal.

“There is something else bothering you,” he said gently. “Tell me the rest.”

Seeing the pallor of Rainley’s face, Lance went to his desk and pulled out a small flask. He strode to Rainley and held the flask to the boy’s lips.

“Drink a little,” he said. “Your news can wait a moment.”

Rainley took a big swallow and his face flushed as the powerful liquor hit him. He quivered from head to toe before he recovered enough to speak.

“The corpse is just horrible, Sir. She was facing away from her murderer, we think. Facing a wall. Her hands were holding up the back of her skirts and her bum was bare. We, that is, the Inspector and I, think the murderer paid her to have sex from behind so she couldn’t see him as he stabbed her.”

Lance sat motionless and without speaking. A horror story which left him understanding why the youngster in front of him, actually seeing the mutilated body, was so distressed.

“Do you think it’s Jack the Ripper again?” burst out the sergeant.

Jack the Ripper had never been officially charged, but Scotland Yard felt fairly sure they knew the identity. Most experts in the case thought the guilty person fled to America. True, the Ripper also killed prostitutes and speculation was most had their hands busy lifting their skirts when attacked. But the Ripper killed with his victims facing him. Also, the Ripper usually carved a grisly piece of female anatomy from the victim, sometimes leaving the gruesome evidence beside the body and sometimes carrying a bloody bit away. There was a complete viciousness about the Ripper’s murders just a little different from this case. This one seemed to Lance just as vicious, but definitely not the same.

No, he didn’t believe the Ripper was back, although he couldn’t blame the young sergeant for thinking so.

“I doubt it.” Lance made his voice purposely cool and almost disinterested. The sergeant must go back with him and sympathy would be the worst emotion Lance could show.

“Jack didn’t attack from the back, for one thing. And he never used a thin blade. No, someone is trying to make us think he’s the Ripper. And if you found her with her hands still lifting her skirts there was probably no overt sexual act. Merely a ruse to get her to turn her back.”

The sergeant followed his Chief out the door when Lance beckoned to him. The boy stiffened as rigid as a plank, but forced himself to move. If his step was halting at first, Lance did not blame him.

They were soon at the scene of the atrocious crime. A young woman, little more than a girl if one noted the pathetically smooth limbs. Their thinness also suggested a sparsely fed youth. She was lying on her stomach. The Inspector in charge must have pulled down her skirts, so she at least now had a modicum of respectability. Her garish clothing, the blazing red hair with dark roots, the short length of her dress, all proclaimed her calling.

Lance stayed still for a long moment and then began circling the body. He bent over twice without touching her, but said nothing. The Constable had reason to be so revolted. This was a hideous crime, made more so somehow that a poor and young prostitute agreed to perform what must be a degrading act. That selling oneself was against the law of man and God made no difference to Lance. She was a pitiful creature, who’d been savaged.

“Have you touched her?” he asked his Inspector.

The man turned scarlet. “I did, Sir. I know that’s against the rules but it seemed indecent to leave her with her bottom exposed. I pulled her skirt down. And I closed her eyes, Sir.”

“Against the rules, Inspector. But well done of you.”

Lance finished circling the body and then squatting beside the corpse, lifted her head. Her neck gaped in an obscene slash. A well-honed and large knife, as well as a good deal of strength was necessary to accomplish this revolting deed. He tried to reconstruct the scene in his mind.

The girl, although her trade made her seem older, must have faced the wall and leaned over, holding her skirts up and expecting the purchaser of her favors to penetrate her. Instead, he’d stabbed her in her back with a long thin knife which left little trace and then turned her enough to cut her throat with a stronger one. Then he’d flipped her over again on her stomach, her skirts hiked. He wanted the police to know she’d exposed herself to him. There was a manic deliberation suggesting to Lance the killer had never been interested in sex, but chiefly in humiliation.

Where had he seized her? Lance had no way of knowing for sure, but he’d guess her shoulders. Yes, slight smudges on the left shoulder of her light blouse made it seem probable. If so, her murderer had at least one not-too-clean hand. Which meant nothing at all.

After she’d been stabbed she’d fallen forward on her face. Gruesomely, the face was framed by a puddle of congealing blood. Not nearly so much as could be expected. Doubtless she was dead before the throat slashing. Looking at the position of the small tear in the back of her blouse, Lance wondered if the murderer had studied anatomy. Was he just lucky enough to do this job so neatly, or had he attended medical school? At least the bastard had been accurate. The tip probably hit the heart at once. Again the probability was she died before the monster slit her throat.

Lance also noticed a small stain in her blouse at about her waistline. He fingered the material for a moment and then leaned over and sniffed. The murderer had probably ejaculated over her dead body. Not surprising at all in a crime of this type. But another strong indication the murderer had never completed sexual intercourse with her, nor had it ever been his intention.

“Help me, Inspector, I want to turn her over. Gently now.”

Together the two men grasped her and turned her on her back. The gaping throat was enough to make Sergeant Rainley gulp again. This time he could no longer control his nausea and went to the side of the alley and vomited. Neither Lance nor the Inspector paid ostensible notice.

Lance spoke with deliberation. “I’m fairly positive he didn’t have sex with her, if you want to call this kind of perversion sex. No, he was trying to humiliate her by exposure and thus outdo the Ripper.”

As they turned the girl over, they found a garish surprise. What no one could have possibly expected was a large letter “W”, torn out of cheap paper a child might draw on. The letter had been colored a bright red with crayons. The clue was positioned under her stomach and untouched by any real blood.

Not a child’s work, however, but the deliberate and almost mocking clue left by a murderous villain. He’d wanted them to find the letter intact. Lance put on a glove from his pocket and picked up the “W”. It would be nice if they could find a fingerprint on it, but he doubted they would. Sir Francis Galton had recently published a book on detection by fingerprint details which at least gave them a little advantage over that lack of knowledge in the Ripper case.

The possibility of fingerprints would have to be checked. Much detective work would now be required to find out who the victim was, if she had any enemies, or even if she knew anyone with violent tendencies. Besides the usual canvassing of the neighborhood for clues, his men must now visit stores selling stationery.

He patted at her skirt pockets, but felt no money. So the wretch had retrieved whatever he’d paid her to turn her back to him. Too bad, they might possibly have found fingerprints on coins.

Lance sighed. He stared at the paper initial in his hand and then carefully inserted it in an envelope he took from his pocket. Probably impossible to trace the paper, but still they must try.

Well, he’d chosen this life. Still, scenes like this made him wonder. With his background and intelligence he could have taken many paths. But then, how could anything be more worthwhile than finding justice for this poor, pitiful corpse of a girl?

He thought of William Gladstone, who twenty-five years ago as Prime Minister, had walked the streets at night seeking prostitutes to rehabilitate. If only someone similar to Gladstone had found this girl and saved her from the vocation that probably contributed to her gruesome death. Not likely when there were thousands of young whores just like her.

“Cover her, Inspector, until the medical men get here.”

Dellafield took off his jacket and tossed it to his officer, who laid it with care over the stiffening corpse.

Then the Chief Inspector turned and walked slowly away.

Chapter Six

Lance and Morgan were settled in the tenth row of the orchestra seats at Covent Garden. Although Morgan frequented the opera, she loved the lavish decorations and always viewed them with delight.

“Don’t you relish these last minutes before the opera starts?”

Lance smiled down at her. “I’d like to know why it’s so special to you.”

“Oh, many reasons.” Morgan smiled up at him, delighted to be here with this handsome escort and about to enjoy one of her favorite operas. “For one thing, the very vastness of the concert hall always awes me. The gorgeous décor produces a mood of wondrous anticipation.”

Lance looked around trying to see it through her sparkling eyes. Chandeliers of impressive beauty hung throughout the huge main chamber, winking and dazzling with their sparkling prisms. He smiled down at her.

“Are the seats satisfactory, my dear?”

Morgan snorted. A ladylike snort, but still a snort.

“You know they are. They are beyond good, they’re excellent.”

She beamed at him and leaned back to enjoy an evening of marvelous music.

The glittering jewels of women and their luxurious dresses added to the glamour of the scene. To Morgan’s sensitive nose, there was too much scent in the air, both from corsages and private perfumes. Still she could will herself to conquer her distaste. The entire scene was fascinating. With a contented sigh, she settled in.

At the end of the second act Morgan turned to her escort with a melting smile.

“What excellent voices. I’ve always thought if Germont does not possess a deep and resonant baritone, it matters little how good the other leads are. This time Violetta, Alfredo and Germont are all wonderfully talented. We’re so fortunate.”

Her enthusiasm snatched at Lance’s heart. This beautiful girl sat next to him, thrilled by the marvelous music, looking at him with elation. He could not resist. He picked up one hand and kissed her fingers.

She snatched them back, blushing gloriously.

“Lord Lance, we’re in the most public of places. The people in the boxes can see you.”

“I think I must have intended them to,” Lance mused. “If you will look up and to your right, you will see three people well known to me.”

Morgan glanced up, startled at his words and saw an older couple and a young man. The men were grinning, while the woman smiled pleasantly. The younger man gave a mock salute before leaning back to speak to the woman.

“My father and mother and my next older brother,” Lance murmured. “I chose to sit down here so we could have some privacy, but if you care to we can join them in our family box. It’s quite comfortable and I’m sure they’d all like to meet you.”

He’d caught her hand again and held it tightly as he felt her stiffen and try to draw away.

She looked at him directly for a long moment.

“I see no artifice in you at this time,” she said. “But I don’t care to meet members of your family. And I cannot believe you would want me to.”

Lance looked at her downcast and troubled face.

“My dear,” he said. “I spoke the simple truth. I chose these seats because I wanted you to myself and to have the chance to get to know you better. I would like you to meet my parents, but not necessarily tonight.”

She kept her eyes on her hands for a while and then to his great relief, looked up and smiled at him.

“I thank you for the thought. Now, are you prepared for the exquisitely melodious death scene? I always think I’m ready and then even though I know every word and note, dissolve in emotion.”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

“Then let us dissolve together,” he said.

* * * * *

Lance had instructed his driver to bring his carriage to the front of Covent Garden and in spite of the jostling of horses and cabs, he and Morgan didn’t have long to wait. Once inside the cab, she turned to him with a tremulous smile and gave him back his damp handkerchief.

“I did warn you, you know. I’m a ridiculous water bucket when they reach the last scene.”

Lance half-frowned as she scooted to the corner of the seat.

“I think the more of you for being affected by the beauty of the opera. You would have a heart of stone did you not.”

After a long moment of silence he put out his hand and took hers.

“Have I offended you in any way, Morgan? I can feel you withdrawing from me with every clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.”

She flicked a glance at him and then away.

“No, of course you haven’t, my lord. You have given me a wonderful evening filled with beautiful music. You have my most sincere thanks.”

Her eyes were on her lap as she spoke.

“Morgan. Look at me.” He reached over and forced her chin up and her eyes to meet his. “What have I done?”

She shook herself out of his grasp. “Nothing, my lord. Nothing. I do not blame you for the circumstances that exist. We are simply too different to continue to be friends, even though my heart tells me I would like to. I don’t think we should see each other socially again.”

The blazing anger flushing his entire body startled Lance.

“Do I have no say in this matter, my lady?”

He deliberately emphasized the last two words to tell her how much he disliked her using his title and how he considered her his equal.

She surprised him once again, as she suddenly sat forward in her seat and focused her intent glance on him. He didn’t think he’d ever been subjected to such an examination as she now gave him, the green of her eyes occasionally visible in the flashes of the passing gas lights.

She eventually sighed.

“I might be mistaken about this. Though your aura would be more clouded if I am. You are a fine man. I think you will soon want me to consult with you at Scotland Yard. There I will never deny you any aid I can give you, my lord Lance.” She looked down again at the hands in her lap as she continued in a soft voice. “But our friendship should remain businesslike.”

Lance was too angry to speak. The hell with what she wanted. He desired to know her and learn what made her able to take hold of his heart and shake it like a limp muff. No woman had ever done this and he needed to understand her. He leaned back for a silent ride to her townhouse. Surely there was nothing wrong with a deepening friendship.

Of course, there was no question of going beyond friendship.

Maybe it was time he started learning about the history of the Druids so he could talk sense into just one of them. He truly wanted to be her friend. No more than that.

* * * * *

The next morning, Dellafield regarded the books Madison brought in from the library. There were quite a few, but still it was a surprisingly sparse stack. Evidently Druids were no longer the main interest of the British public, even though they’d played such a vital part in their history.

Sitting at his oversized walnut table, Lance read with his usual meticulous care, making notes and marking sections he wished to check again. To his utter frustration the information was fascinating in one book and he formed a grasp on the people and their religion. Only to have all he’d learned contradicted in the next. The Druids were responsible for the mighty slabs at Stonehenge, or they were not. Most authorities thought not. They once practiced human sacrifice, or they had not. But if they had it was only in a religious ceremony when the victim was willing. They could work magic, or only illusions.

One story was especially interesting, the Druids sponsored the legendary King Arthur and propelled him to power as one of their own. They turned against him when he broke his vow as their priest and accepted the Christian religion, probably at Queen Guinevere’s urging. Arthur’s power supposedly diminished from then on.

A solitary, shining premise in all the books riveted his attention. The Druids believed in One Goddess and her consort the One God, who encompassed all religions under her banner. All Gods were one and all religions were welcomed and accepted by them. Part of their downfall could be traced to this tolerance. It was anathema to the Romans and then the Christians who wanted to force universal belief in their own one God.

A truly magnificent belief, this idea that all gods were equal. He could agree with his whole heart. How wonderful the world could be if everyone united on this simple concept. Wars would be brought almost to a standstill. Most intriguing of all, Druids were credited with using their knowledge only to serve and protect, never to harm as Viviane McAfee had plainly told him.

Yet many Druid priestesses were reputed to work magic and cast spells. This idea Lance didn’t like at all. While he was fascinated by Morgan, he didn’t want to think he was ensorcelled. Still she’d made it plain she only wished she could do magic. He threw down his books, no more sure of what he felt about his green-eyed enchantress than before he’d started to read.

He hoped he’d learned more about Druids, but he wasn’t even sure of this.

He’d seldom known his mind to be so muddled. Well, Morgan wanted them to be only business acquaintances. If he would agree, life would be easier for them both. Easier, but not nearly so interesting.

Dammed if he was ready to agree to so prudent a solution.

* * * * *

Morgan found her mother still up and reading when their butler let her into the townhouse. She smiled at Jackson as she handed him her long velvet cloak and her gloves. She felt completely bemused. Was her mother meddling in her affairs? It was not like her if she were, but Morgan’s incipient feelings toward Lord Lance Dellafield were too important for her to take a chance.

She went into the sitting room and sat opposite her mother. Her clear green eyes were fixed on the vibrantly stylish woman in her gilded chair. The sumptuous golden cushions would have swallowed up or dimmed a lesser woman, but Viviane shone brightly as the only worthy sight in the room. Her red hair glowed in the light of the gas lamps.

“Mmmm,” said Viviane putting her book aside and looking up with the special smile reserved for her daughter. “You smell wonderful.”

“Did I use too much scent? I hope not.” Morgan appeared as alarmed as she felt. She hated overpowering perfumes and was careful to apply her own lilac scent lightly.

“No, of course not, love. You know how I can smell anything within ten feet.”

Morgan grinned as she sat. “And I remember how I used to be upset when you instantly knew when Cook had slipped me an extra biscuit.”

Her mother laughed, a low and attractive sound Morgan had always loved.

“And for a while you wondered how I always knew. Chocolate biscuits have a very loud smell.”

Viviane paused and then motioned to her daughter. “Come sit by me and tell me what’s bothering you, my dear one.”

Morgan’s answering chuckle was rueful. “I’m sure your mother was equally talented and knew what you were thinking most of the time. It does take a bit of getting used to though, when you’re young and trying to get away with some kind of nonsense or other.”

“But now I no longer invade your privacy, Morgan, as I think you know. I only used that power on occasion when I worried about your safety. Now I can feel emotion radiating from you and since you’ve just been out with the handsome Lord Lance, I assume your thoughts concern him. But I don’t know for sure.”

Morgan’s sigh was heartfelt. “I do thank you for telling me. I guess you’ve already given me my answer. I needed very much to know what Lord Lance and I feel for each other comes from our hearts alone.”

“No wicked witchery, you mean. Don’t blush, dear, it’s a natural thought in a family such as ours. I would not interfere in anything this important unless you requested me. And maybe not then.”

Viviane reached out and took Morgan’s hand.

“You two have a natural and rare attraction for each other. What you do with such a feeling is up to you. I think, however, such unusual appeal could delight you or wreck you. I would you be very careful. If you possibly can.”

Viviane stroked her daughter’s hair and added in a pensive voice, “I will confess I interfered just a little when Lord Richfield made plain his interest in you. You were just sixteen and newly thrilled at being a beautiful young girl. He was a hardened rake, as I think you now know. I let slip to him I still had some witch’s power, if I chose to use it. Notably I could destroy the erect status of one’s manhood.”

Morgan hooted. “You are a wicked woman! I knew you’d frightened him off somehow, but I never dreamed of such a diabolical threat.”

The two heads, one chestnut gold shot with red, the other a deep auburn slightly shot with silver, came together as mother and daughter threw their arms around each other, locked in merriment.

Finally Morgan gasped. “Could you do that, could you really?”

“I don’t know,” her mother said between chortles. “But I would have tried if he’d pursued you any longer. That’s when we got Ambrose to help safeguard you.”

“But you were married at sixteen.”

Viviane stopped laughing. “No love, you were conceived when I was sixteen. I was under orders in my training to be a Druid priestess and a false priest convinced me I owed my virginity to him. All part of the Goddess’s plan, he said, for the religious festivities of Beltane.”

Morgan had not heard the unmarried part before, although she’d never seen her father. “What happened to him,” she asked. “Do you know?”

“Not really.” Viviane’s soft voice grew even softer. “He was banished from Druid training and disappeared. When I learned he’d tricked me I didn’t care to see him again in any case. Maybe I should have tried some wicked witchery on him, but I was very young to cast a good spell back then.”

Her charming smile lit up the room as she added, “And as you know, I’m sworn to help people, not harm them, no matter the provocation.”

Morgan tried to mask her surprise. She was surprised, but not shocked. Her mother was always perfect in her eyes. If she ever met her father she’d try to pull off a wicked spell herself.

“Have you ever discussed your talents with the Commissioner? Does he even realize how gifted you are?”

“Not really. We met at a friend’s party and he’s been pursuing me ever since. He knows I’m a Druid and would have been a priestess in olden days. He doesn’t seem to mind, but I fear greatly associating with me might hurt his career. I’m not sure he knows what my training entails. We’ll have to see. I worry about him most of all.”

Morgan got to her feet, her fluid grace slowed by her anxiety. Her mother with the same problems as she! A more wonderful woman than her mother had never existed. Any man should be honored if she were even interested in him.

She would pray for her mother’s happiness. Her father had been false to his vows and to any sense of decency. She could not mourn his absence from her life. She never had.

For the first time Morgan wondered if her beliefs made sense in the world she lived in. Perhaps it was better to acknowledge the old rites had vanished. She certainly would never submit to giving her virginity to an unknown man, no matter the phases of seasons and the dictates of the Goddess.

But those days were surely over. Druids might no longer have any place in the modern world. Still the Druid central premise that all gods were one would solve many of the world’s problems if it were universally accepted.

Even less acceptable today seemed to be the Druid belief that each person’s deeds were counted in contributing to improvement of one’s position in his next life. This made perfect sense to her, but seemed difficult for others to accept. Yet how else did anyone have a chance of achieving perfection?

She was out of step. Totally. She’d been raised in and esteemed a world that no longer existed. Yet she could not give up the values she treasured.

Was she out of step with Lord Lance Dellafield?

Definitely. She and Lord Lance were poles apart and always would be. They could never agree about the essential purpose in life, the very basis of her existence. He was a born aristocrat, no matter his current occupation. He would always champion his class. His interest in her was simply a fancy that would pass and he’d eventually go back to his conventional existence.

She slowly climbed the stairs to her room, wondering why her thoughts depressed her quite this much. All the joy had gone out of the night.

* * * * *

Lance could make no sense at all of the newly found murder. That she was a prostitute was established. Her name was Polly Adams and she worked the Covent Garden area, evidently on her own. She’d been very young. Operating on her own was unusual, as the girls in this area generally worked for a pimp who directed a bevy of prostitutes. Perhaps that was one reason she’d been easy to entice into the dark alley where she met her death. Definitely her lone status made the search for her murderer more difficult.

His men had combed the Seven Dials area and beyond. There were far too many stores selling the cheap brand of paper the murderer had used in forming the letter “W”. No one remembered a particular purchaser of the paper.

The famed C.I.D. of Scotland Yard had little else to investigate. Merely a corpse who was not likely to give up her secrets.

Lord Lance sat at his desk, frankly wondering what he should do next. Had he left any clue uncovered? Going back once again over all the details, he could find no fault with his investigation.

He pushed aside the papers with the sparse data they’d been able to collect. Not much beside the facts quite evident at the scene of the crime. Going to the door, he called to Shriver.

“Are there any new facts at all, Shriver? Or any old ones we should be addressing more carefully?”

Shriver bristled. Only a little, as he knew how harassed his chief was feeling.

“No, Sir, nothing at all. I think we’re well on top of the facts we have.”

Lance walked over and patted his man on the back. “Sorry, Shriver. Of course you’d have told me instantly if any new fact came in. This case is getting on my nerves, I’m afraid.”

“Yes Sir, I understand, Sir.”

Lance walked back to his own desk, leaving the door open. How he’d relish seeing Morgan walk through into his office. He couldn’t seem to stop his thoughts drifting to her. She seemed to slither in any chink on his concentration.

He had not seen her, although he’d called on her twice. The butler had informed Lance Miss Morgan was not at home. Still he couldn’t stop her from invading his mind at all times of the day. Sometimes he would be staring at his calendar, always crammed with routine tasks he should be pursuing, when her image floated before him. Suddenly boring tasks. Morgan was interfering in every aspect of his life.

Her lovely face, her green eyes glowing, her lower lip trembling as she listened to the melodic arias of La Traviata. Unashamedly wiping her eyes, giving him back his handkerchief and smiling at the same time. Her depth of emotion was just one more reason to make him determined to understand her. He was sure no man had touched her deep reservoir of passion.

Her lack of experience both amazed and thrilled him. She was virtually untouched. But did he really want to be the one to unleash the emotion buried deep within her delectable body? If he succeeded he knew his life would never be the same. His brain told him she was not a woman he could pursue and then drop. His body didn’t seem to recognize the warning.

He did not, did not, want a close relationship with any woman. Certainly he could not afford to let an intuitive woman like Morgan near enough to try to understand him. It would be disaster.

He threw down the papers in his hand. To hell with dreary duty and his dreary thoughts. Nothing was pressing enough it couldn’t wait an hour or two. He’d head for Miss Morgan McAfee’s residence.

He was shrugging into this coat when Sergeant Shriver burst in. Lance gave one look at his white face and staring eyes and stopped and turned back to his desk.

“Daniels is here, Sir. I made him sit for a minute. There’s been another one and he found her.”

“Did he leave no one with the body?” Lance asked in a sharp tone.

“No Sir, a policeman was passing by the end of the alley and Daniels called him in to stand watch. He wanted to come himself and tell you. This one must have been horrible, Sir. He’s shaking like a wet dog.”

Lance headed for the door. A warm-blooded man, he seldom wore an overcoat. The days were still pleasant, so he merely grabbed his hat and started off on a near run, motioning Daniels and Shriver to follow. Daniels stopped his shaking enough to run after his chief. A driver was already waiting and Lance jumped in his carriage, holding open the door for Daniels and Shriver.

“Give him the directions, Daniels. I want to see this one as soon as possible.”

Daniels stammered out the address, a street deep in the Seven Dials stews and then shrank back again as the carriage set off.

Lance was beginning to be seriously annoyed. Some loose fiend was almost thumbing his nose at the police and Lance was beginning to take it as a personal insult. He did not intend to have a maniac running around killing people while he was the head detective in the C.I.D.

Lance, Shriver and Daniels soon reached the alley where the victim lay. The brutal killing method appeared to bear the same evil marks. Again a young girl lay viciously murdered and again it seemed likely she’d been a prostitute. She lay on her stomach, her hands now limp but on the edges of her hiked-up skirts. Her throat had been slashed so violently part of the wound could be seen at the side of her neck. There seemed to be a little more blood this time. Her long brassy hair was oily and fell over her cheek and down into the blood. On looking closer Lance saw the expected little slit in the back of her red-and-white-checked blouse.

“The bastard has to have studied anatomy,” ground out Lance. “Whether in a medical school or reading by himself. If it’s the latter he’s been very lucky to hit just the right spot to get to the heart. Or rather I should say the victim’s lucky, since she was dead before he started carving her up.”

And carve her he had. Besides slitting her throat, on each bare buttock he’d carved the letter “W”. This time the red of the letter glistened not from a crayon, but from blood. These letters were evidently cut even after the throat slicing, as the cuts of the letters had bled scarcely at all. The damned killer must have dipped his finger in the blood from her throat and painted the letters on her naked backside.

Lance growled. “I’ll get the bloody bastard one way or another. He can’t be allowed to survive much longer.”

He pulled the girl’s skirts down and turned away. Somehow it seemed almost indecent to stare at her, although he’d looked as carefully as he could for any clue. There was another small stain on her dress, again about the middle of her back. This one was still damp and as he leaned over and sniffed it definitely smelled like semen. There was no other clue. Nothing new to help them.

A sex deviate killer was loose and daring the police to catch him.

Lance was well aware the investigation of Jack the Ripper had rebounded on the police because they tried to exclude the press from any information. The press had been forced to make up and exaggerate a good deal. As a result the general population became frantic with fear. This time the press should be given as much accurate information as possible without compromising the case. Hopefully fear would be lessened if imaginary clues weren’t printed and magnified.

Lance gathered his mind and spoke to his men.

“One of you reach the Commander immediately and ask him to meet me at the Commissioner’s office. I think the Commissioner will want to tell the Queen. Then we’ll call in the press.”

He tossed a rapid series of orders to Shriver and then dropped him off at the office. He directed his new driver to take him to the Commissioner’s office.

He had no way of knowing Morgan was pacing in his office. Waiting for him and anxious to see him.

Chapter Seven

The night before, Commissioner Devon Randall had taken Viviane McAfee to dinner with the express determination of talking her into marriage. He knew it would take all his powers of persuasion. He entertained no illusions of his position or his wealth influencing the independent, baffling woman he loved. Loved with a passion he’d never even known existed.

No matter Queen Victoria herself sometimes called Randall in for consultation. Queen Victoria, now ruler of her people for over sixty years. His royal mistress would never understand his unconventional choice. But then she seldom understood anything outside her conformist experiences. Nor would many of his associates exhibit any more sympathy. He knew Viviane would throw these facts at him. He did not care about others’ opinions in the slightest, as long as he could convince her. Viviane was the only one who mattered.

He wanted Viviane as his adored wife and devoted mother of his son. Jamie worshiped her and she seemed to love him with equal intensity. Why should the opinions of others then be of any significance?

Commissioner Randall smiled a lot through dinner.

“Could I give you more wine, my dear? I know you drink little, but this is mild and very good.”

He held up the bottle, preferring not to call a waiter to the table.

Viviane smiled her beautiful, knowing smile and shook her head. He kept the conversation light and on general topics until dessert. He doubted he was fooling Viviane about his seeming lack of purpose.

Viviane spooned the last of a delicious trifle into her mouth, as Randall watched her lips lick the last bit and wished they were someplace private.

“Devon, you’re looking like a child denied a treat.”

He crossed his long legs under the table and looked at her, his yearning for a different kind of dessert evident on his face.

Viviane’s smile vanished.

Devon groaned.

“I’d hoped to ply you with a little more wine before I got serious, my dear. But as usual, you can see through me as if I were a two-way glass.”

He reached over and took her hand as it lay on the table. With the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, she covered his hand with her other one.

“Devon Randall, you’re forty-eight years old. Don’t you yet know you shouldn’t try to keep secrets from a woman who loves you?”

He half rose from his chair with delight, but then something on her face made him sit slowly back down again.

“You’ve just said the words among all those under heaven I most want to hear. Why do I feel there’s something more I’m not going to like at all?”

Viviane for the first time did not look directly at him. One of the traits he most treasured was the way her steadfast gaze locked on his own. He never had the slightest doubt Viviane was honest in all she did and said.

“You are too honorable a man to want any relationship beside marriage. And while I will gladly consent to be your mistress, I will not marry you.”

For once Randall allowed his face to show exactly what he felt. Which was shock and horror at her suggestion.

“I will not consent to anything less than marriage,” he ground out between his teeth. “As you must already know. I would never insult you by taking you as my mistress.”

Viviane looked up at him with a small smile. “I’d be disappointed in you had you stated otherwise. But I would have accepted it. I think being your mistress might be a good solution for us both.”

Randall pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

“I feel a sudden desire to get out of here.”

He was still too insulted to be anything but stiff and unsmiling. Viviane arose with her usual grace and put her hand in his.

“You are my love, you know,” she murmured. “Let’s go to my place and talk this over. Morgan is out at some musical society meeting. We’ll have time and enough for you to hear what I feel forced to tell you.”

Randall said nothing. He threw some bills on the table, tucked her small hand in the crook of his arm and walked her out of the dining room. He found it difficult to hold onto his anger when Viviane looked at him with her beautiful dark green eyes and told him again she loved him. How could he do anything but dissolve at her touch?

He believed her completely. She never, ever lied. And if she loved him, surely he could persuade her to marry him.

They did not speak at all in Randall’s carriage. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She melted against him and it was all he could manage not to shout at her they belonged together. But neither one of them said a word.

As they descended from Randall’s carriage, a sudden gust of wind wrapped Viviane’s long skirts around her so she could not move. Laughing, Randall scooped her up in his arms.

“I hope I’m not such a slow top as to miss such a heaven-sent opportunity. Even nature wants you in my arms, my love.”

Viviane laughed with him, but her eyes remained sad and serious. All hope he was making headway with her vanished under her somber gaze. Solemn and desperately concerned, he carried her up the stone steps to the entrance of her townhouse. The gaslight over the doorway shone on her auburn hair, bringing out golden highlights. His lips touched her head briefly and with reverence as he sat her on her feet. He followed her into her home, greeting the butler and then going with her as she marched in the open door to the small parlor.

He loved to see her walk. He’d read enough to know Druids trained their priestesses to glide almost silently about their duties. How far had her training taken her? Not to the level of a priestess, he knew, or she would be in seclusion in a temple most of the time. No, she’d left before the final rites. But she’d certainly learned the most graceful walk he’d ever seen.

She left the door open and Ambrose soon ambled in. Ambrose came over to shake hands and then settled down by his mistress, his head on his big paws. Viviane gave him a loving pat.

“Don’t mind Ambrose, please. He knows everything I’m about to say.” Her voice sounded constrained and unnatural and Devon suspected she was thinking of how best to frame her next words. He had no doubt she meant to tell him a story he didn’t want to hear. He didn’t care about her past, he loved her and wanted her. Well, he would listen and then shoot down whatever argument she mistakenly thought relevant. Knowing Viviane, she could never have been dishonorable.

He sat in the large chair she motioned him to and leaned back. Viviane always had flowers in almost every room in the house. For some reason he didn’t understand roses made him sneeze and he appreciated she’d noticed and massed an unusual arrangement of snapdragons and daisies in a low bowl. His future wife possessed talents in many respects.

“Go ahead, my dear. I’ll listen to whatever you want to say and then we’ll plan our wedding date. I’m not about to give up because of whatever silly sin you think you must confess. But go ahead.”

Crossing his legs at the ankles, he hoped he appeared perfectly at ease although he most certainly was not. He dreaded the next few moments.

Viviane seated herself beside him, pulling a chair close enough she could hold his hand. Ambrose watched her, but didn’t follow to her side.

“I need to touch you for courage.” Her nervous laugh revealed a true hesitancy. “I think I must start when I was sixteen and was far along in my training for a Druid priestess. On Beltane, which is the celebration of the summer solstice, a priest persuaded me the Goddess ordained I lie with him, that my virginity was fated to be a gift to her through him. You might know there can be a commingling of many initiates at that time, but never unless the priestess or novitiate wishes it. Never, ever, can it be a matter of false representation.”

She drew a deep breath and he started to reach for her, but she waved him away.

“I became pregnant, from that one night. When I told the High Priestess she was incensed, not at me for being pregnant, but for the deception played on me. Druids revere life and while in your world I would be a fallen woman, I was not to the High Priestess or to the Druids. I was not chastised or ostracized in any way. A new daughter is always especially welcome to them for training.”

Randall was rigid with anger. “And him?”

“He was dismissed from the Druid community. Druids despise falsehood in any form. I do not know what happened to him nor do I care.”

She took a deep breath and continued. “When a girl was born to me I knew one thing, I didn’t want to continue my training. The Druids would gladly have given her to be fostered and then taken into their teaching. I wanted to raise her myself. I named her Morgan after Morgan La Fay the enchantress, Merlin the magician’s enchantress. I took the name McAfee as the closest I dared come to La Fay. She is well named. My Morgan enchanted me from the moment I saw her.”

Randall knew he must conquer his fury. When he thought he had himself in control as he leaned toward Viviane, who sat in silence. Only a slight twisting of her hands betrayed her distress at finally revealing her past.

“My dearest love, please don’t go on. I can tell this is difficult for you.” Randall took one hand and pressed it firmly in both of his.

“No.” Viviane’s sigh came from deep in her chest. “I’m almost done.”

She took a long breath. “I left the Druids and became a servant. My training for a priestess didn’t extend to teaching me to earn a living. I only took work if Morgan could be with me. After about six years I became housekeeper and then secretary to Lord Sinclair. He loved Morgan and begged me to marry him and let him adopt her. He had a large library and we were both given full rein. When he died he left me a good deal of money and I bought a place in the country plus this townhouse. But I have never lain with any other man except the false priest. I am untouched except for that one horrible night.”

She got up and began to walk around the room with her graceful glide. Brushing her hands across her eyes, she smiled with artificial brightness.

“There. You have the whole story.”

Devon Randall said nothing for a long moment. He was filled with emotion, so much so he hesitated to speak. He knew well he could not express his fury at the bastard renegade priest. It would be useless in the present circumstances and would just divert them both. Still, he realized he must essay something.

What would be the best way to handle this? The deep pity flooding his heart would not help her now. Nor would protestations her story mattered little to him except to make him admire her all the more. Finally he made up his mind to tell her at least one of his candid feelings.

“So? Have you decided how I’m to take all this? If I could find your deceiver I’d gladly rid the world of his obnoxious presence, but other than that, I don’t see your story has much to do with your refusing me.”

Viviane’s astonishment was written large on her expressive face.

“Devon, I just told you I’m an unmarried mother with what the world would call a bastard child. I have no impressive family background, in fact I’ve worked most of my life. Outside of the training I received as a Druid, I’ve educated myself. In addition, if my story were known, Lord Sinclair’s leaving me money could be made into a nasty scandal.”

Devon rose and went to her, taking her lightly in his arms. “You’re beginning to annoy me mightily, my dear. Do you think I’m so shallow that what others say matters?”

Viviane paled. “Your position as a high government official should make it matter. Your friends would shun me and perhaps you. You would be ostracized in the world you cherish. I will not let you throw away all that. Can you imagine what Queen Victoria would say?”

He tried to hold her to him, but she struck down his arms and whirled away. Ambrose got to his feet and growled. Viviane shushed the dog automatically and looked at Devon with what seemed to be true anger.

“You’re insane to want me. I’ll not permit such destructive nonsense. I’ll not let you ruin yourself for a misguided passion. You may let yourself out of the house when you’re ready.”

Before he could stop her she ran out the door and up the stairs. Ambrose shot him a reproachful look and then trotted after his mistress. Devon considered rushing after her, but the butler was starting toward him and he hated to be forced to shove the poor old man around. And Ambrose would not let him near Viviane in any case.

Devon took his hat and coat from Jackson, his every movement slow as love for Viviane overflowed his heart. She was even more magnificent than he’d ever suspected. He’d do anything to persuade her to marry him, but as yet he didn’t have an idea in his rattled head.

First he must persuade her to see him again. He thought he might manage to get past Ambrose, but then Viviane would likely refuse to even speak to him. He had a horrible idea this siege was going to be difficult indeed.

He’d stood gawking at her as she ascended, graceful even in her distress. She slammed a door very hard after she’d reached the top of the stairs.

Lord, what a magnificent woman!

Chapter Eight

Seated in his office the next day, Commissioner Randall turned his focus from his own crisis to the one Lance described. He shoved his personal problems aside with ruthless efficiency as he listened to the horror story of the new murder.

“You’re absolutely right, Lance. The press should be given as much information as you can without jeopardizing the case.”

“I shudder to remember the amount of criticism aimed at the press in the Jack the Ripper case. I feel much of it resulted from the decision to tell the newspapers nothing. I’m glad you agree, Sir.”

The two men, one the head of all of the Metropolitan Police and the other the most revered inspector in the C.I.D., were in accord. The Commander, never energetic, had chosen not to attend the meeting,

“This time we must be smarter.” Randall leaned back in his chair and contemplated what the next step should be.

“I do agree.” Dellafield was now pacing around the room, thinking on his feet. “Hopefully panic won’t ensue when the people of London suspect another vicious serial murderer is loose. At least they’ll know their police were doing their best to protect them.”

“Our plan is settled, then,” said the Commissioner and the two shook hands as the cohorts and friends they were.

Lance decided to take a short walk before returning to his own office. As he strode along, the irritations of the city’s dirt and noise seemed to evaporate into the mellow air. He could not remember when London had been blessed with a more lovely summer. Leaves of trees were still a shining green, although they would soon change. Grass sprouted in the dirty cracks of the pavement. Even the usual city odors seemed to be muted and a freshness filled the air. London was always a fascinating city, but today it seemed even more attractive. In such a beautiful world, how could anyone be driven to such horrendous deeds as those he was now investigating?

He arrived back in his office with his thoughts a little clearer. As he headed toward his inner room, Shriver put his finger to his lips to shush him and then slowly opened the door. Throwing his sergeant a questioning glance, Lance entered and discovered the delectable reason for Shriver’s unusual behavior. Morgan lay curled up in a chair, fast asleep. Lance stopped short as every nerve in his body came to exhilarating life.

Lance closed the door, softly and walked with care to look down and exult in his beautiful Druid. No matter their intrinsic differences, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. She was lying curled with her head resting on the arm of the chair. Her mouth in repose was curved almost into a smile and her impossibly long lashes swept down on her creamy cheeks. Her hair had come loose from its thick coil and several chestnut strands lingered over her face and neck. Her breath in peaceful sleep barely moved her perfect breasts. She far surpassed any female even of his rather fertile imagination.

He could not resist. He leaned down and kissed her soft-as-satin skin. Her breath halted, then caught as she sat bolt upright.

“Lance!” He could not decide if her tone was delighted or accusing. Maybe both.

He knelt beside her chair so their eyes were level. Her fragrance drifted to him, a floral scent he could not name. He must ask her sometime. He was sure it would be as unusual as the rest of her lovely self.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, my dear. I had no idea you’d come to visit me.”

He felt himself subjected to one of her long, searching glances. Then her face cleared.

“I can see you’re all right. I’m glad. I’ll come back another time.”

She made an effort to rise but he stopped her.

“Oh, no, my girl. Not quite so fast. Why did you come? I know you had a good reason. Now tell me.”

He stood quickly even as he leaned over and imprisoned her in her chair with his long arms.

“I want to know what’s bothering you. If your mother and Ambrose can’t fix the problem, it must be bad indeed.”

His tone was joking, but she didn’t answer his smile.

“Oh, I’m so foolish,” she muttered. “I feared you’d been injured. I seemed to see your aura and it quite frightened me. It’s tinged with black, even now. But I guess you escaped what worried me.”

Lance was unbearably touched, both that she’d seen danger to him and also that she came scurrying to check on him. Had the murderer been in the vicinity when he and his men examined the body? He smiled as he realized he no longer dismissed her comments as completely foolish.

He turned away from her as his traitorous body let him know how much just the sight of her affected him. If he told her how he appreciated her concern he’d send her out the door in embarrassment. As well as committing himself in a way he did not want to be committed.

“Well,” he said, “I thank you for a most thoughtful action.” His tone was properly cool and she relaxed.

He willed his body to behave itself.

“I wonder if we should take this seriously,” she mused. “I don’t as a rule foresee danger in an aura, but perhaps it’s possible. Yes, I think you should be extra careful for the next week or so.”

He was glad his back was turned. What to do with a girl whose beauty and integrity grabbed at his heart, but who honestly believed she saw auras warning of danger? No use telling her a policeman was always in danger. Actually he usually sat at his desk and directed others into possible peril. He was not as often in the field as many of his men were.

Still she had come out of concern for him.

“If I promise to remember your warning, will it satisfy you?”

Her sudden grin was a pert delight.

“Not unless you remember in time to avert an injury and not afterward.”

He laughed at her quick wit. “Let me tell you about two new murders.” he said. “We’re giving the details to the newspapers in about an hour, so you’ll soon be able to read about it. I’d rather tell you the whole story myself.”

After one horrified glance, she settled back in her chair as he sketched the details. He briefly told her of the first killing, then moving on and leaning more heavily on the latest one.

“The same evil man, do you think?”

“I most definitely think so. His method was the same and again he killed a poor and young prostitute. Why the startled look, my dear?”

Morgan gazed intently at her fingernails. “I was thinking of Mr. Gladstone and his admirable work trying to rescue prostitutes from their miserable life. Too bad someone like him couldn’t have saved these two before this monster got them.”

Lance looked his surprise. “How strange, Morgan. I had the same thought the other day. But not only are these thoughts of ours immaterial, but this monster, as you call him and as he certainly is, would merely have picked another two victims. In any case, I always thought it stupidly reckless for the Prime Minister to jeopardize his career as he did.”

Red spots flared in Morgan’s cheeks. “Just like a man! I think Mr. Gladstone was a saint to try to improve pitiful creatures’ lives. In spite of malicious criticism.”

“And I think he was a fool,” said Lance in one of his cooler tones. “He almost destroyed his ministry in spite of being warned to desist.”

Morgan glared at him and rose to leave, but Lance put out both his hands and stopped her.

“I apologize. Not for my opinion, which is honest, but my stupidity in voicing it. And he’s dead, my dear. Let’s not argue over long-ago policies.”

With a wry grin at his own folly, he smiled at her. He hoped he somehow conveyed his genuine regret. He also wished to hear what her astute brain would make of the latest happenings. There was no way he wanted to deliberately antagonize her.

Morgan looked at him for another long moment. Lance held steady and tried not to flinch. Her piercing gaze made him feel an imbecile at the times she stared at him with such deep intent. Her Druid look.

“We’ll go on from here, my lord. We’ve always known our viewpoints are miles apart. Tell me more about the latest murder, if you will.”

Her lovely voice was now impersonal. All the warmth had vanished with his thoughtless words. Lance could feel her withdrawal and it hurt. Regretting he’d widened the fissure between them, he composed himself and gave her a dispassionate account of the latest murder.

“We’ll be giving most of the facts to the newspapers. What we’ll not tell them is about the letter ‘W’ which figures in both cases, even though in different ways.”

“And what you fear is even the act of leaving the talisman letter behind is getting more violent.” Morgan’s tone was now more sympathetic.

He silently appreciated her quick comprehension.

“Yes, that’s part of it. The other worry of mine is our villain, having evaded us twice, will feel flushed with success. I think we can expect another corpse soon.”

Morgan breathed out in horror. “Dear Goddess, no! Do you really think so, Lance?”

Pleased beyond reason she was again using his name naturally, Lance took her hand in his.

“I do indeed, Morgan. Please stay home as much as possible. If he branches out I want you to be safe. I’m sure our latest killer is insane and we can’t count on his following a pattern when he strikes again.”

She smiled at him, a little wistfully and turned to leave.

“I would appreciate it if you keep me informed as much as you can, Lance.”

He nodded, delighted to have easy communication between them again. She waved her hand at him, a slight gesture he couldn’t readily interpret. Her skirts swishing around her long legs, she left the room with her graceful half-glide, half walk. Her own natural stride combined well with her mother’s Druid teachings.

He did not move until minutes after she disappeared from his sight. Then with a deep sigh, he called to Shriver.

“Come in, man, we have much work to do. Let’s get at it.”

A feeling he was working against a maniac’s timetable grew more daunting as he tried to pierce an insane mind.

* * * * *

Once again Lance scrutinized all the data his men had compiled on the shops who sold the paper used in cutting the first “W”. There was no helpful information at all, as the paper was far too common. The medical report was a little more promising. Not many instruments could produce such a deep, thin wound. Almost certainly a type of stiletto was used, as Lance had suspected. Perhaps a longer one than usual. The knife had to be thin, sharp and long enough to penetrate to the heart. And sturdy. An Italian stiletto from the seventeenth century could do the trick although he couldn’t rule out others he didn’t know about.

The second victim’s name was Rosie McDonald. She was twenty-one years old and also solicited on her own. While she might have made more money working without a protector, this also left her more vulnerable. Lance thought it significant both victims operated alone. No one claimed either body and they were both buried by the township of London in a plot as miserable and neglected as their pitiful lives.

Nothing at all distinguished them from the thousands of other prostitutes scouring the London streets. They were young, but by far not the youngest. Girls of ten and less were sold by their parents or kidnapped and put on the squalid streets. The letter “W” seemed a calculated clue, one the murderer wanted to flaunt. First on paper and then in blood. A furious expression of psychopathic loathing. There were many possibilities of the significance of the letter “W”, but Lance was sure it stood for “whore”. Knowing the proper spelling of whore would be another sign their man had some education.

They were up against a nasty killer who hated prostitutes for some dark reason of his own. Lance could think of many grounds for this kind of virulent hatred, but until he had some other clue he could only guess.

He decided to concentrate on the idea of an Italian stiletto. An exotic weapon like this was not an item easy to obtain. His men would have to comb the city, visiting all shops selling foreign weapons, as well as pawn shops and street fair vendors. Not a simple job and perhaps a useless one. He’d tell his men to question if the shopkeepers knew of a similar dagger.

Certainly this was the best idea he’d had for a while. A possible place to start.

God knows they needed to start someplace.

He grinned and leaned back for just a moment before beginning to compile new orders to his staff. Morgan would have said “the Goddess knows”.

He frowned as he realized she’d once again popped into his head. Unbidden. When he had time he’d worry about this ridiculous propensity for mental lapses. Morgan, his ever-beckoning Druid. He shook his head. He’d not ride that horse just now.

He pulled his notes toward him and examined them once more. Then he went to his door.

“Shriver, will you come in? I have an idea that might possibly help.”

* * * * *

Commissioner Devon Randall turned to his secretary.

“I’m not making sense of my thoughts, Miss Stanton. I think we might as well let this go ’til tomorrow.”

“I’ll have this new batch of reports sorted out by then, Sir.”

He barely noticed her leaving. Damn, but he was unhappy with his world and with himself. Just when he needed his clearest thinking, Viviane McAfee’s lovely face floated before him. He’d not seen her since she refused his offer of marriage. Rather definitely refused.

He’d been without her vital companionship for two long weeks. He could summon up no new argument for their marriage except how much he loved her. Which was hardly new.

Perhaps his need was the key. Her presence was truly a requirement for the happiness of his son as well as himself. Jamie was miserable without Viviane’s frequent visits. He’d requested Cynthia to bring a footman for protection and take the boy to the park daily as an extra treat. He’d been reluctant to hire a new woman when the former nursemaid quit. Although he didn’t think Jamie was any longer in danger. Word of Cuttering’s imprisonment for many long years had sobered London’s underworld.

Randall looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk with disgust. He really must see to getting a second secretary. Poor Miss Stanton was definitely overworked.

He lifted his suit coat off the rack. He usually walked home to get a little of the exercise he missed. He stopped once to watch some children playing a skipping game with a rope. Did Jamie have a rope? Would he like one?

He neared his home along Hyde Park anticipating how gleeful Jamie would be to see his papa at an earlier hour than expected. Running up the steps he let himself in, appreciating the coolness of the hall and the pleasing furnishings. His first wife had done well in this respect. In fact she’d tried hard to be all he could want. It wasn’t her fault he’d never loved her as much as she loved him. He often felt guilty he regarded her death with less than sorrow. In spite of a brief infatuation, they were not well suited. Still, he held her in undying gratitude for Jamie. His truly wonderful son.

His butler was not in the hall. Randall stopped and listened for a sound and dimly heard Cynthia wailing. Wailing in a despairing way that quite frightened him. He headed for the stairs on a run and took the steps two at a time. If anything else had happened to Jamie— He couldn’t even finish the thought. Surely the gods wouldn’t torture him twice.

The minute Lady Cynthia saw him her keening became louder. He rushed to her and knelt in front of her.

“Cynthia, has anything happened to Jamie?”

She buried her face in her hands and kept weeping.

He shook her, at first gently and then with harsh strength. Still she sobbed, moaning into her hands and refusing to look at him.

He finally took her hands from her face and slapped her, although not harshly.

“Where is Jamie?”

Either his expression or his voice must have frightened her, for she shrunk away from him. He felt hard put not to slap her again and harder.

Millson entered just then, breathing heavily and with red spots in his cheeks. The thought flashed into Devon’s mind his butler was old enough to be retired. He pushed it away. He could not afford distraction now.

“Well?” he asked tersely.

“I’ve done a second search of the garden, sir. I looked under every bush and tree. Jamie’s not been seen since Lady Cynthia ordered him to take a nap.”

Devon raised his brows at the word “ordered”. He knew his man spoke precisely. He’d used the word deliberately.

“Cynthia, you’d better start talking sense and quickly. What happened here today?”

She gulped and sniffled and tried to evade him but Devon took her chin between two iron fingers.

“Talk, madam,” he ordered.

Her words came in gasps.

“Jamie was out of sorts because I refused to take him to the park. It’s simply too dangerous for him. He sulked until I told him to go to his room.”

He didn’t bother screaming at the fool woman for disobeying his orders.

“When did you find he was gone?”

“Millson went to check on him about a half hour ago.”

“Millson did? Not you, Cynthia?”

She flushed an unnatural red unbecoming to her puffy face and eyes, but did not answer. Devon glared at her for a moment in silence, too angry to trust himself to speak to her. Evidently Millson was taking care of his son better than his aunt. When Millson did get around to retiring and it would not be at Devon’s suggestion, he could expect a sizeable annuity.

He turned to his man.

“Can you add anything, Millson?”

“The young master was quite upset when he went to his room, sir. I worried about him and when it got late went to check on him. His room was empty. I don’t think he stayed there long.”

Devon couldn’t shake the fear of another kidnapping, but his analytical brain told him Jamie left on his own accord. Even so terror gripped his whole being. He’d try briefly to find Jamie and then call in Lance. Surely life wouldn’t be so unfair as to make his beloved child suffer a second time.

“I’ll deal with you later, Cynthia. I need the whole story first. Come, Millson, let’s go to the library. Be thinking of any thing that might help. If Jamie left on his own he not only had a good reason, but a destination in mind. I’m sure he wouldn’t just wander the streets.”

Millson had little to add at first, seeming reluctant to discuss the matter. On further questioning he volunteered Jamie had been unhappy for some time.

“Can you tell me why he’s been unhappy, Millson? Please remember I’m deeply concerned and afraid for my son. And you owe your loyalty only to me.”

With a sigh Millson let down the bars. “He’s been restless, sir. He’s shut up in the house most of the days, except for a small stint in the garden.”

Devon started. “Lady Cynthia’s not been taking him to the park, then. I wonder why Jamie didn’t tell me.”

Millson cleared his throat. “I’ve heard her tell Master Jamie more than once not to bother you, you’re a busy man. Also to remember no gentleman tells tales on others.”

“By God,” Devon exploded. “He left on his own then. I’d wager to Mrs. McAfee. He’d know she’d give him time and sympathy even without knowing why. ‘Telling tales’ indeed!”

He strode from the library and down the hall to the front door, calling Cynthia the names in his mind he couldn’t permit a servant to hear.

“Sir, can I come with you?”

A brief glance at Millson’s distraught face convinced Devon he owed it to the man, yet he knew Millson would slow him down. He intended to run as fast as he could to the McAfees’. Since the distance was only about a mile, running was speedier than having his team hitched.

“I need you to stay here and get a message to me if one comes, Millson. I’ll depend on you to take care of this important task.”

Millson’s shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly.

“Yes sir,” he said and opened the door for his master.

Devon’s emotions were completely scrambled. Anxiety about his son mixed with guilt he’d not seen the signs of Cynthia’s selfish domination. His job definitely would have to go. He couldn’t afford nor did he want these long work days.

If fate gave him another chance, the good of his son would come before so-called duty.

Pray God for that chance.

* * * * *

As Millson held the door open for his master, both of them heaved identical and heartfelt sighs of relief.

Jamie and Viviane, hand in hand, stood on the top step.

“Thank you, God,” Devon murmured. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes and he stood stiffly still, not able to say another word.

One look at his son’s face and Devon knew Viviane had done his parenting for him. Jamie’s stricken expression told him all he needed to know. Jamie’s act had been one of desperation. A temporary escape from the despair caused by his unheeding father. Jamie’s face was white as he dropped Viviane’s hand and marched sturdily to his father.

“I’m most awf’lly sorry, sir. I ‘spect you’ll want to punish me. But honest, I didn’t mean to worry you. I just needed to see Mrs. McAfee.”

Devon’s throat clogged as he dropped to his knees beside his son and took him in his arms.

“I know, my son.” He buried his face for a long moment in Jamie’s curls. “Would you like to discuss later about how to avoid something like this in the future? I’m sure we can work something out, you and I. For now, I’m grateful you’re home and well.”

He turned with as much of a smile as he could manage to Viviane.

“I’ll express my gratitude to you later, my dear. Shall we all go in now? I don’t think you need any punishment, Jamie, but I do think we all need dinner. If you can persuade Mrs. McAfee to stay for something to eat I’ll forgive you for anything.”

“Not fair, Devon,” Viviane murmured. In her normal tone she said of course she’d be glad to stay and swept into the hall.

The men followed her, Devon with a grin and Millson struggling against one. Jamie held his father’s hand, looking up at him. Seeing his bewildered small face, Devon mentally cursed Cynthia. He’d never been fond of her, but when Marian had died it seemed simplest to allow her sister to move in and take care of Jamie. In spite of his dislike for Cynthia he’d never imagined her capable of neglect and treachery. She’d be gone as soon as he could speak with her. He wished he never had to see her again, but he would once more and with finality.

They were all still in the hall and Millson spoke.

“Shall I tell Cook we have one more for dinner, sir?”

Devon hoped he didn’t look as grim as he felt. “No, Millson, but would you inform her Lady Cynthia will be eating her meals in her room tonight and from now on.”

The look of total relief suffusing Jamie’s face made his father even angrier. And even more guilty. Jamie had been compelled to coerce his father’s action in a way possibly disastrous to them all.

By God, he’d not see Cynthia’s sour face across the table from him ever again. Why he’d put up with her so long he didn’t know. Yes, he did know. His wife had adored him and after a brief infatuation, he’d thought her a silly creature. He’d let Cynthia take over as silent penance for the love he could not give his wife.

He saw Vivian looking at him with a penetrating gaze, as if she could divine his thoughts. She doubtless could.

He smiled at her and offered his arm to his love and led her into the parlor.

He quietly asked Millson to fetch wine for the grownups and a little, well watered, for Jamie. When the wine was poured, Devon lifted his glass and spoke to the two persons he loved.

As his son’s eyes widened he said in his most solemn manner, “This is one of the most propitious occasions of my life. My son is returned to me once again and this time I will make sure he’s content to stay. I propose happiness for us all.”

When he saw the grown-ups drink Jamie took a sip and wrinkled his nose.

His father smiled at him and raised his glass again in a silent toast to Viviane. She looked torn between amusement and something like dismay. He smiled beatifically and held her gaze.

No matter the reluctance with which she returned his ardent glance. He knew now how to break down her defenses. It was simple. His conceit must have kept him focused on his own desperate yearnings. Like any skillful card player he would now focus on his opponent’s weakness.

Jamie. Jamie would help him achieve what they both wanted. Jamie was his winning card.

As Millson appeared to summon them to dinner, he took Jamie by the hand and placed Viviane’s on the curve of his other arm.

“Shall we go in to dinner, my dears?”

Viviane gave a small snort and Jamie looked at him with love in his big brown eyes. He smiled at them, not caring if the depth of his emotion was evident. The three of them belonged together. He’d made many mistakes in his life, but this time he intended to see everything went the way it should. Nothing else would ever matter to him as much as these two precious people.

He must lay his plans with meticulous care. There was no room for error in his planned pursuit of the elusive Viviane McAfee.

Chapter Nine

Once again Lance called for Shriver. Seated at the table of his office in Scotland Yard, he was surrounded by the paperwork accumulated from the investigation of the Light Skirt Murders.

“Do you have information as to how the newspapers started calling this the Case of the Light Skirt Murders? It’s a little too close to the truth to suit me.”

Shriver shook his head. “No covering up the fact that they’re prostitutes, Sir. In fact we haven’t tried to do that.”

“Just so long as the press doesn’t find out about the ‘W’s. It’s the best clue we have.”

“Not likely, Sir. Our men are well primed to keep that fact to themselves.”

Lance nodded and picked up his stack of papers again. Suddenly he smiled. He’d gone stale on the case and would drive out and call on Morgan. Unsuitable for him and not at all understandable, still she fascinated him.

Although he longed with all his heart to kiss her breathless and teach her a little about the art of passion, he couldn’t afford to even consider such a foolish act. The only true conclusion with a girl as innocent as Morgan was to marry her, an entanglement he wasn’t prepared to even consider.

When he eventually married, he’d choose a girl from a suitable and aristocratic family who knew how to move in his circles. Also one who wouldn’t care to delve deep into his private memories. One who would leave him heartfree. Morgan would move right into his soul and have him jabbering his secrets to her within a month of a wedding ceremony! No, a week.

He’d treasure a marriage like his parents had, but for him such rare intimacy was impossible.

Still he enjoyed Morgan’s company. She’d become almost a palpable presence in his mind. She relaxed and invigorated him at the same time.

Maybe it was time to see her once again. Perhaps then he could banish her from his thoughts.

He wouldn’t touch her. He’d just talk to her.

* * * * *

He found her home and reading in the parlor. His first reaction was sheer relief, of a surprising intensity. He’d tried two other times to see her, only to be told she was not at home. The second reaction was curiosity as to her reading tastes.

She rose to greet him, her book in the left hand as she extended her right.

“My lord Lance, you’re welcome. I fear I’m a bit untidy. I started reading earlier this morning and have taken time for nothing else.”

Her smile showed she was pleased to see him and nothing else mattered to Lance. Actually he thought she looked perfectly charming. Her morning gown of light green with darker green accents in the sash made her look like a flower of spring. Her emerald eyes were sparkling and he dared to hope the brilliance was due at least partly to his arrival. Her hair had slipped a little from its coil and several reddish brown strands strayed around her blooming cheeks.

She blew a wisp of hair away. He dug his hands into his pockets. It was all he could do not to reach out and push back another soft strand drifting across her silken skin.

She motioned him to a nearby chair and resumed her own, the book still dangling from her fingers.

Lance strove to speak lightly.

“May I ask what you’re reading that has you enthralled?”

“Victor Hugo’s treatise on the battle of Waterloo. A short book, but one with a very different viewpoint from our British one, I can tell you. Quite a revelation, in fact.”

Lance took the book from her hand and leafed through it.

“In French, I see.”

Her nose tipped up in the way he found so charming.

“I read a good deal, my lord. In several languages.”

He laughed at her effort at hauteur and flicked his finger on her cheek.

“Come now. I do not mean any of my comments to be disparaging. I’m not surprised, although you must have gone to an exceptional school. You are more learned in many ways than the young ladies I know.”

“I went to no school, my lord. My mother hired tutors and directed my education herself.”

This was by far the most informative personal remark she’d made and it explained a good deal. With her mother’s knowledge pushing her daughter’s intellect no wonder this girl was special in so many ways. As well as her lack of some feminine pursuits such as flirting. And her innocence.

He turned to her with a genuine smile.

“I came to ask you to have lunch with me. Might I hope you’ll accept? I promise to be my least cantankerous self.”

Instead of smiling back as he’d expected, she solemnly looked at him for one of the longer moments he could remember. Longer even than her usual scrutiny.

Her face cleared like a surge of sunshine.

“Yes, I see you truly want my company. May I have my choice of where we eat?”

She dimpled and watched him gravely. Quite surprised, he could only nod yes. The little minx. What did she have in mind? He was sure of only one thing, none of the overpriced restaurants currently favored by society would be in the running. Not with his thoroughly enchanting Druid.

“I’m delighted to take you anywhere you wish to go, my dear. I hope I don’t have to guess, however, as your captivating mind is always a mystery to me.”

She gave a triumphant crow of delight.

“Hyde Park,” she announced. “I want to go for a ride in Hyde Park.”

“But there are no restaurants there.”

“We don’t need one.” Her smile displayed her sheer pleasure in the suggestion. “There are plenty of vendors on the outskirts. We can pick up some pasties and oranges and picnic in the Park. I’ll even bring a blanket to sit on.”

Looking at her glowing face he regretted his absolute decision not to touch her. Everything about her came close to being irresistible. Her beauty was only part of her appeal, although her sparkling emerald eyes would bewitch a better man than he. Her hair fascinated him. A tawny shade he couldn’t name, he found himself watching for its changing highlights. He badly wanted to hold her close to him, just for a second and taste those full rosy lips.

Instead he answered her with a grin.

“You’re a baggage! It’s a wonderful idea, but we probably won’t find any Banbury tarts. Can we also stop for lemonade?”

“Of course! I’ll bring some water in case we can’t find the lemonade. Isn’t this a wonderful idea?”

She danced from the room, her exceptional grace evident in every movement.

Lance watched her go, amused and enthralled. If he didn’t want to act on his amorous thoughts, he’d better start controlling them. They really had no place in a Chief Inspector’s mind. Not one who was determined to let his interest in Miss Morgan McAfee go no further.

One who didn’t dare let his interest go any further.

* * * * *

Morgan smiled delightedly at Lance as they sat on a blanket under a shade tree in Hyde Park. The sky was a delphinium blue and a soft breeze caressed their cheeks. It was one of those special days when a golden autumn sun seemed to bathe the whole world with added beauty. They had just passed a bed of lavender and the spicy scent hung in the air. Morgan was peeling an orange and giving Lance every other fragrant segment.

“I didn’t think to look for sweets. But this is simply wonderful. What a special day nature has given us. It’s easy to forget winter will soon be upon us when the breeze is this balmy. I find it felicitous we are under an oak tree. Oaks have many important meanings to the Druids.”

“And you honor those beliefs?”

From the sudden drop in his voice as well as his piercing glance, Morgan realized her answer was important. She phrased her words with obvious care.

“I cannot be other than I am, Lance. I know the manner of life of the Druids has no place in life today. I’m not stupid, I see the faults in the Druid philosophy guaranteeing they can’t survive in the modern world. Still I honor their primary principle that all religions should be tolerated and I know their wise women could help with the terrible problems of sickness. The Druid beliefs that all gods are acceptable could transform this world of ours if everyone respected those beliefs.” She paused to breathe a small sigh. “Not likely at all.”

Lance was chewing on a leaf of grass, leaning back on the blanket and gazing up at the sky. He’d stretched out, his arms flung behind his head. Morgan thought she’d never seen such a perfect male. He’d taken off his jacket and his shirt was stretched tight across his corded chest. She watched as his muscles flexed as he shifted position. She forced herself to look away. He tempted her to touch him with every breath he inhaled.

His body was magnificent. He could easily pose for a statue by Michelangelo, had he been born in another day. Perhaps he had been born once at that time. Had she known him in his then life? Was this one of the reasons he fascinated her so?

They finished their picnic lunch, accompanied by remarks from Lance about the low standard of service.

He tilted his chin up high and looked down his nose in imitation of a snobbish aristocrat.

“Do you realize not even one waiter has asked what we desire? And the chairs are not comfortable at all. I hope madam doesn’t feel she ever wants to come back to this establishment.”

Morgan thought him funny and very dear, as she took up the game.

“But m’seiu, we have given you our best service. Please tell me there is anything at all we can do for you to make up for our regrettable negligence.”

She thought her take-off on a waiter’s pretended French accent to be rather well done, but she found herself looking at Lance and wondering why he wasn’t amused. To her astonishment he reached over and yanked her on top of him. The feel of his prone body touching hers from shoulder to toe struck her like a flame set to tinder. She felt fashioned of fire as she gasped and began to draw shallow breaths. Then she froze into perfect stillness as he reached up and drew her lips down to his.

“Beautiful, irresistible Morgan,” he whispered as he claimed her in a blazing kiss. She felt herself dissolving into a puddle of some kind of soft material he could mould as he wished. Her very bones seemed like treacle. The sensation was not a bit alarming, in fact she quite liked it. She wriggled her body a little closer, loving this very intimate contact.

Lance ran his hands over her figure, lingering a moment at her hips as he pressed her even closer to his body. She slightly angled her head to kiss him again, but before she could do so felt herself lifted from him and set aside. He turned on his stomach and lay there without speaking.

Morgan lay beside him, bewildered. The thrill of his hot kiss still reverberated through her body. She could feel little shivers creeping from her spine outward. She’d been amazed at how easily he raised her and placed her beside him. She’d always guessed he was an incredibly strong man, yet this brief proof was an exciting joy.

She wanted more. She sat up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Is that all?” she asked.

Lance flipped over and stared at her. He didn’t seem to be breathing quite steadily.

“Do you want it to be all?”

Morgan stopped to think just a second.

“No,” she said.

Lance still stared at her, his blue, blue eyes burning with intensity.

“Morgan, you’ll purely be the death of me. I stopped because if I go on I’ll kiss you much more deeply and I’m afraid I’ll frighten you.”

She looked at him stretched on the blanket. He took up a good share of the blanket and she was right he’d been framed by a master. Every bone and muscle seemed to flow into the next. She wanted to be wrapped again in his strong arms and kissed even more, no matter what it entailed. She knew enough to realize the pronounced bulge in his pants meant he desired her and she gloried in her power to so affect him.

“Please,” she said in a husky voice, as she lay down again, as close to him as she could wriggle.

Lance groaned and reached for her. He laid his lips against hers, gently at first and then with insistence. This time when he ran his tongue around her lips and then pressed to gain entrance she let him in. A shock ran through her, a thrilling shock, as he swept his tongue into and around every crevice of her mouth, seeking her sweetness. She was determined to reciprocate and he held still and let her try, at first tentatively and then with a joyous assurance as she realized he was affected just as much as she.

They both had to surface for air and Morgan clung to his shoulders as she put her cheek on his and gasped.

“Did you like that?” His voice was a low rumble in her ear.

“Oh yes, Lance. Beyond anything.” Although her breath was still short he understood her and turned her lips again to his.

He increased the intensity of the kiss immediately and Morgan drowned in a sea of pleasurable sensations she’d never dreamed possible. His lips and his agile tongue swept her away into a world of pure feeling. She barely knew when he started caressing her breasts, she only knew she loved his touch anywhere he chose to move his hands.

Abruptly, every intoxicating caress was over. Lance pushed her aside almost roughly and putting his hand on the ground, vaulted to his feet. His back was to her as he ground out his words.

“That’s all, Morgan. You don’t know what you’re doing, but I do.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

His voice sounded a little steadier, although he still didn’t face her.

“I enjoyed it far too much.” His laugh was short and bitter. “This was not what I intended when I asked you to lunch. At least not consciously.”

She was too embarrassed to answer. Not by his rejection as much as her own knowledge she’d not wanted him to stop. The fact he could give her such delight amazed her, but she suspected it was too dangerous a delight to dally with again. She’d not trust herself if he kissed her even once more.

All her certainties had flown at his kisses. Was she such a spineless creature as this? She’d better reconstruct her values and have them firmly in place before she saw him again. She had no future in his life, nor he in hers.

She finally found a rather creaky voice.

“I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. We won’t do this again.”

His laugh sounded genuine. “You have no idea what I’m thinking, my dear girl. But of course we mustn’t do this again. Shall we go back to the carriage?”

He’d asked the driver to stop around a corner. When they’d first pulled over so she’d thought he was looking for a big enough tree to shade the horses. Now she suspected he mainly wanted to give them privacy.

They picked up the small amount of debris from their lunch, Morgan shouldered her blanket and they walked silently back to the carriage.

Holding out one big hand to help her into the carriage was the only time a solemn Lance touched her again.

The ride home was far too long.

* * * * *

Lance Dellafield, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard’s famed C.I.D., felt as if he had just engaged in a major skirmish with an overpowering enemy and barely escaped intact. Outwardly intact, at least. He might have changed a bit inside. When he finally found and married the conformable girl best suited to him, would he still go over and over those delicious moments with Morgan? The way he couldn’t stop doing now?

Blast her for being his own personal witch, regardless of her claims to be nothing but a Druid. Certainly he’d been close to taking her right there on the blanket, in a public park and to hell with the consequences.

How could she do this to him? And with no effort at all.

He and Morgan had so little in common. She lacked regard for anyone except on his individual merits. He’d been raised to feel members of the aristocracy were superior to the common people. She believed living one’s life so your goodness would produce a better situation for you when next you were born. He was born and raised in the English church, who believed if you at least tried to be good you’d be let into heaven. Especially if you belonged to the peerage! She saw visions, for God’s sake and auras. And her mother could work magic. It was impossible to think two such dissimilar worlds could ever mesh in peace. Worst of all, she seemed able at times to read his mind. Part of his half-buried fear was if he let her get close enough she’d find out what he was really like. He could never stand to have her look at him with disgust darkening those bright green eyes. Not this particular girl. A girl whose purity shone from her mesmerizing eyes.

Lance was back to the resolve with which he’d started out on this disastrous and unforgettable day. He must keep away from Morgan McAfee. This time he must keep his resolution.

What was she doing now? Was she going over and over in her mind those remarkable kisses? Was she regretful she’d allowed him to kiss her almost into submission? He was no green lad, he realized she’d been close to allowing him any liberty he chose. Which was exactly why he’d called a halt to their amorous pleasures. He knew where they were headed and she didn’t.

Not seeing her ever again was for the best. Or if fate decreed they meet again, he would coolly keep his distance. Perhaps it was time to examine some of the other women he knew with an eye to marriage. He’d not kept a mistress for over a year, which was probably the reason Morgan could break his control so easily. That was doubtless the problem. His last mistress had bored him to tears and he’d been delighted to rid himself of her. He’d thought his fencing twice a week would take care of his surplus energy. Evidently fencing wasn’t the right kind of exercise.

He needed an outlet for his sexual vigor, but the idea of another mistress didn’t appeal. Perhaps it truly was time to look for a wife. Yes, that was what he needed. He’d keep his eye out for a suitable woman. One trained to be amenable to her husband and who’d not probe too deeply into intimacy. If he picked carefully he would not have to let this chosen wife get close to him at all.

Marriage must be the answer to the pernicious unrest and longing now driving him mad.

* * * * *

His schedule was so tight he found no chance to make a sustained move to start courting another woman. Worse yet, every time he met a suitable female at one of his parents’ or his married brothers’ affairs he found he was glad to be so busy. He tried but couldn’t summon up interest. He danced with them and even took one of them out to dinner and wondered why he could not wax enthusiastic about girls who were charming, well-bred and obviously interested in him. Morgan’s natural beauty, her beauty from within as well as her outer loveliness, outshone any woman he met.

When under heaven or hell was he going to stop thinking of his Druid witch?

* * * * *

Commissioner Devon Randall was also distraught. He couldn’t make his mind function at top speed, if at all. He was distressed not with fear but with worry about what would be best for Jamie. The morning after Jamie’s flight to Viviane he’d faced his sister-in-law in her room.

Her face was puffy and she was still in her dressing gown. She looked like a slattern. He didn’t much care if his disgust showed, although at least she’d always looked like a lady until now. Or had she? He remembered the few times he’d pushed to the back of his mind when she appeared at dinner in an inappropriately low cut gown. Several times she’d manufactured opportunities to bend over him, her meager breasts almost fully exposed. He’d risen to avoid her. He should have evicted her then. Instead, out of desperation for care of Jamie, he tried to ignore her unwanted approaches.

Now was different. Not his discomfort, but Jamie’s safety was involved.

“I will give you two days to get your things together, Cynthia. You will then move either to your brother’s home in Sussex, or to a hotel. I will stand your expenses in a hotel for a month if that is your choice.”

Her fresh outburst of tears did not move him, except with a revulsion he tried to mask.

“Do not waste your time asking me to change my mind. I will never forgive the fact you were so uncaring of Jamie’s wellbeing you forced him to flee his own house for a friendlier one.”

“Marian would be heartbroken to see me treated this way,” she sobbed, her face made even more unattractive by her uncontrolled weeping.

Devon neither knew nor cared what his former wife would have thought. He doubted Cynthia was correct. Looking back, he remembered Marian had never been overjoyed when her sister announced a visit. He surmised Marian realized Cynthia was selfish from top to toe. None of that mattered now. Nothing mattered except Jamie’s safety and happiness. He did not even bother to answer her accusation.

“Let Millson know when you need help with your luggage.”

With that he’d gladly left the room. He hoped he’d never have to see her petulant face again.

Since then he’d pondered a variety of solutions.

Millson could guard the boy for a while each day, but he knew he must find companionship and warmth for his son. Hiring a stranger wouldn’t do, any more than sending him away to school. He needed love and affectionate guidance.

Of course that meant Viviane.

He envisioned a kind of triumvirate care system, Viviane and Millson during the first part of the day and himself during the afternoon. He would have to delegate more of his duties. There were certainly plenty of ambitious aspirants eager to help him lessen his load. His deputy commissioner would be delighted. In addition, he’d long wanted Lance to accept the rank of Commander, but Lance had not cared to leave active investigating. He’d try once again to persuade Lance so there’d be an exceptional policeman coming up the chain of command. Lance would make a superlative Commissioner some day. With his ability and his connections he’d be assured to reach that goal if he so desired.

Now he needed to approach Viviane. Viviane, whom he wanted beyond reason for his wife. He well knew the more he enchained her with Jamie, the better off his chances of claiming her in the future.

Viviane said no word at first when he approached her about committing time to Jamie daily.

Then she smiled and barely touched his cheek with one finger.

“You’re a reprehensible rogue. But I love Jamie and agree he needs stability in his life. I’m well aware of your hidden motives, but your main concern is genuinely for your son.”

Devon had endured so much stress in his life lately he exploded against the one he loved.

“Damn it, of course I have other motives. I’ve loved you for ages and want you in my home. I also love my son. Blast if this isn’t a regrettable situation where I have to beg you to help me, even though it’s the very thing I want. I just don’t want you here under a compulsion of pity.”

Viviane walked over to him and pulled his face down for a brief kiss.

“My dear, you’re not talking coherently but I understand what you’re saying. You’re so loveable sometimes I don’t know how I resist you.”

Her smile glowed as welcome as water in the desert.

He grabbed her shoulders and held her a little away from him. She was dressed in a rust colored outfit that fit her perfect figure snugly. He wanted to run his hands over those fetching curves, but knew that would frighten her away. He kissed her forehead and contented himself with holding her lightly. She always smelled like heaven.

“What scent are you wearing, my love?” He nuzzled her auburn hair.

“I distill my own fragrance. This is from the daffodils of spring. Shall I tell you what daffodils mean? I’m an expert in the language of flowers and herbs. They have their own language you know.”

He sensed this was important to her and so kept his grasp light and his mind attentive.

“Of course I want to hear. Anything about you fascinates me.”

“Daffodils mean ‘the sun shines when I’m with you’.”

Warm eyes looked at him directly, with no equivocation.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead and tried to grasp her to him but she used both hands to stave him off. He threw his own up in despair.

“Viviane, Viviane, what can I do to persuade you to come help me and my son and never go home? You say you love me. Is my job stopping you? I’m willing to quit if that is what’s needed to persuade you. Is that it? Shall I resign? I’ll leave the police force tomorrow if that’s what you want.”

She turned and went to the window, looking out at the passing scene. He followed her. A premature few leaves of autumn were now spiraling in a desultory manner slowly to the ground. They had not yet begun to change color. The window was open a little and a soft breeze rustled the curtains. Smells of roasting chestnuts wafted in from the street vendors.

Her voice was muffled as she placed her hands on the window ledge and her forehead against the pane of glass.

“I think it’s time I tell you the truth, Devon. I have to tell you sooner or later. You deserve to know my shortcomings even though they shame me. Part of the problem is I’m quite simply terrified. I’ve never known a man except for the brief encounter that produced my darling Morgan. That encounter was not pleasant and nothing I want to repeat. You’re worldly and experienced. I know you’d be disappointed if you took me to bed and I couldn’t respond as you have a right to expect. I couldn’t stand your scorn. I just couldn’t. I’d rather we stayed the best of friends. That’s what I ask of you now. I hope very much we can always be friends.”

Devon thought his emotions in the last week had bounced around like a rubber ball. Yet never in his life had he experienced or even imagined the flood of tenderness that swamped him at Viviane’s words. The sight of her, her proud head leaning against the window as she confessed her most secret fear, nearly unmanned him.

He rushed to her and turned her to face him, taking her in his arms and holding her cheek against his shoulder with a tender, strong hand. He brushed a lock of her auburn hair from her forehead and touched her quivering lips with one gentle finger.

“Viviane, my dearest love. Don’t you know teaching you to enjoy your body would be the greatest pleasure I could ever imagine? You’ll have no distaste or displeasure with me. Your warm heart and loving soul proclaims a passion you’ve never suspected. Let me help you find the joy you deserve. You can trust me to be both gentle and patient.”

She wrenched free and moved a small distance away.

“Even if that were so, I’m still a Druid. I was trained to be a Priestess, as you already know. I really can do magic and will if it will help someone. I also am versed in Druid medicine and am an exceptional healer. Many people depend on me. I don’t want to change, in fact I don’t think I can. Have you truly thought how your world will change if you marry a witch? Even a good witch?”

Before he could frame words of denial she moved farther away.

“I’ll be here tomorrow to take Jamie to the park.”

She left so swiftly he still hadn’t been able to think what best to say. Why was he tongue-tied at the very moment he needed all his persuasive powers? He knew there was a compromise. There had to be. He simply loved her too much to let her go.

He was a novice at love. Not of sex, of course, but of the kind of deep love he felt for Viviane that would only increase through the years. Growing old with Viviane would be a pleasure. This kind of love was indeed new since it seemed to have thoroughly tied his diplomat’s tongue.

Her nonsense about sexual inexperience didn’t worry him, he was confident he could take care of that and delight in doing so. Although he’d love to find that ex-Druid priest and wring his bloody neck. Or preferably more sensitive parts a little lower down. The bloody bastard had virtually raped her. Still he must direct his mind to thinking of answers to her other concerns.

Pacing around the room, he thought it a good sign she’d talked so frankly to him. He wouldn’t come home early tomorrow, she’d be expecting that and have her guard up. The day after tomorrow he’d waylay her in his home and settle all her objections. He’d surprise her before she could get her defenses in place.

She’d be in his arms and he’d never let her go.

* * * * *

He wrestled with his impatience and waited a day before going home early. Bounding up the steps the next day shortly after noon he hurried to the dining room where Viviane and Jamie usually took lunch. Jamie was there and Morgan. No Viviane.

Suddenly apprehensive, he sat in the chair beside Morgan.

“How nice to see you, Morgan. Is your mother upstairs then?”

Morgan’s green eyes looked back at him with a hint of pity.

“You know she’s not, don’t you? But I will fill in for her until you can make some other arrangement. We both love Jamie, you know.” She directed a smile at Jamie, who seemed unnaturally subdued. “Jamie misses my mother right now, but I hope he’ll come to find me acceptable.”

Jamie slipped from his seat and ran to her.

“Oh, Miss Morgan, you’re wonderful. I’m sorry if I’ve been most dreadf’lly impolite.” Jamie went to her and hugged her.

“You haven’t been impolite at all, sweet boy. I’m glad you love my mother so much.”

Devon had had enough.

“Where is she, Morgan?”

Morgan’s mischievous smile twinkled at him.

“I’ve been expecting that question, which I promised not to answer. Although I didn’t promise not to agree if you guess the truth.”

Devon’s tension loosened a little even as her smile took on the aspect of a devilish grin. He must call on his intelligence, it seemed. Unfortunately his intelligence seemed to fly out the window where Viviane was concerned.

He rose and started to walk around the room, Jamie staring at him. Morgan sat there waiting, obviously hoping he’d succeed in his quest.

“I don’t think she’d want to go to a strange place to escape me. I think she’d head for somewhere she could be at peace and think things over. And where she can be of use. She can’t stand being idle. Your country place…has she left for your home in the country?”

Morgan beamed. “What an intelligent guess, sir. She is well loved by the small town where we live. Not only do many of its inhabitants work for us but she does much doctoring there.”

Devon blinked. Many inhabitants? How big a place did she own? He was glad he had an excuse to visit, since this was a part of his love’s life he needed to know and understand.

“Well, missy, will you give me directions or should I get out my maps of Kent?”

Morgan sat there glowing at his response.

“Of course I’ll direct you and I’ll stay here at your house with Jamie ’til you return.”

Devon sighed with relief as he kissed and hugged his son. “You’re a darling girl, Morgan. I’d love to be your papa if I can work things out. Hush, Jamie,” he said as Jamie came out of his seat and started to explode. “I’ll do my best to bring Mrs. McAfee back with me but I can’t promise anything now. Wish me Godspeed and good luck, both of you. I might be gone a while.”

He gave Jamie an extra hug, kissed Morgan’s cheek and hurried out of the room even as he called for Millson to come help him pack.

He was determined to lay siege to Viviane at her home until he’d secured a fiancée.

Chapter Ten

Lance shoved back from his desk with a frown and a sigh. He disliked himself intensely. He’d tried to become interested in three different girls, all lovely, all raised in his own milieu. He found every one sweet, anxious to please him and boring. Not one of them looked him in the eye and defied him. Not one of them made him laugh or long to kiss her. Not one of them was Morgan.

He walked over to the table and glanced at the neat piles of paper and frowned again. He’d caught up as much as he could, another boring fact. To top it off, depression was his constant companion.

Restless, he rose again and paced to the window and opened it. In the last few days the early autumn air was touched with a cool hint of the season to come. The ever present smoky scent of London air seemed muted by the brisk breeze ruffling his hair as he leaned out. A gray sky echoed his mood. Damned if he wasn’t getting morose.

He was absorbed in his thoughts and did not at first hear Shriver’s knock. To his astonishment, his sergeant threw the door open wide.

“Sir,” he blurted. “Miss McAfee is here.”

Shriver saluted Morgan briskly, as he held the door open for her and then closed it after her. His beautiful Druid was dressed as impeccably as usual. A blue-green skirt and jacket with a pristine white shirtwaist. The skirt rustled a little as she walked in, her big eyes locked on his.

An instant delight swelled from his heart to every other part of his body. In fact his body hardened just at the sight of her. He seemed to be powerless in his physical response to her. His second reaction was worry she looked abnormally pale.

He strode to her swiftly and took her hands.

“Morgan, I’m so very glad to see you.”

Her brilliant green eyes seemed larger than usual as she pinned him with her direct gaze.

“Yes,” was her slow response. “I think you are. I’m surprised. I didn’t think you wanted to see me again.”

Lance opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him.

“Whatever you feel is immaterial, I think. I only came to tell you of my vision. A horrible vision.”

She started to shake and Lance quickly pushed her into a chair.

“What I feel is definitely not immaterial, but I won’t press the subject now. Morgan, you’re as pale as a sheet of vellum. You’d better catch your breath and then tell me what brought you here.”

He pressed his fists to his side to keep from drawing her into his arms. His weeks of striving to forget her were useless and forgotten. One look and his lust for her pounded in unabated force. In fact desire welled stronger than ever. She aroused him so easily as to be pathetic. Now he’d better concentrate on getting his blood back to his brain where it belonged. His body was even more traitorous than his mind and his mind was bad enough!

“Lance, I…” She swallowed and started again, throwing her head up and obviously forcing herself. He waited, not wanting to hurry her. “I’ve had a vision. I saw a fence made of vertical boards, at the end of what appeared to be an alley. The boards at the end of the alley had once been painted white, or else white-washed, I’m not sure. Boards on one side of the alley were a faded green, on the other they’d not been painted and were weathered to a dirty gray.”

She swallowed again and then drew a deep breath. It was obvious her vision had upset her to the point of almost desperation.

“On the boards facing me were three notations of verse, all from the Bible. The vision didn’t last long enough for me to read them all, but the one in the center was the largest. Romans 2:23. They were all scrawled in either red paint or blood, I couldn’t tell which. I rather think blood, as there was a brownish cast where the writing thinned.”

She shuddered again and then sat back in her chair.

“Did you look the verse up?” Lance was intent on her story and spoke more sharply than usual.

“Of course I did,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “Even pagans study the Bible. The verse is a most familiar one, ‘the wages of sin is death’.”

Lance walked to the chair behind his desk, his long stride effortless as his brain began to function again. He would have to make amends to Morgan, but not now. He willed his voice to be dispassionate.

“Is there any other detail, no matter how small, you can remember?”

“Nooo,” she drawled out as she wrinkled her forehead and tried to remember. A little of the light came back into her eyes as she exclaimed, “Wait! Yes, I do. I could see the sun setting behind the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral, directly over the center verse. The church was quite far away.”

“You wonderful girl!”

They smiled naturally at each other for the first time since she’d entered.

Neither one thought it unusual the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard took for granted his informant was handing him a valuable clue.

“Now what we need is a detailed street map of London. We know exactly which direction to pinpoint. We just have to find all the alleys where you can see St. Paul’s to the west.”

Morgan stopped smiling. “What a horrendous task, Lance.”

“Merely the minutiae of paper work, my dear. Not at all horrendous. Would you like to stay and watch? I might have more questions to ask if you could wait.”

She beamed again and Lance thought her smile the most glorious sight he’d ever seen. He grinned back at her and went to the door to call Shriver.

* * * * *

Shriver quickly recruited three more officers and sent them scurrying to buy maps from different shops, while he and Lance bent over the ones in the office. It soon became apparent more detail was needed, so they kept working, but without much hope until the first of the officers returned. Shriver spread a very large map over the center table and all three men bent over it. The other men returned with more maps, but they all decided the first one showed the best details.

Morgan watched with fascination. Lance hadn’t needed to admonish her not to interrupt. Completely absorbed in observing Lance at work, she admired his concentration. He showed himself as impressive in this as in every other facet of his personality. Quietly in control, his men trusting in his judgment and eager to obey. She let go of her determination not to allow him to ever affect her again and sat in silent respect. He exuded domination over his mind as well as his body, as he moved around the table, correcting an angle for one man or making a suggestion to another.

Finally, after much discussion Lance and his men settled on three likely locations. There were others, but Lance decided to hold them in reserve, as they were either too close to St. Paul’s or too far to see the spire.

Lance suddenly turned to Morgan. “Do you have normal eyesight, Morgan? No difficulty with eyestrain in reading, for instance?”

She understood and thought the question an astute one.

“I have good eyesight, my lord. And I am not notably far-sighted.”

“Could you see the ground, Morgan?”

She knew what he was really asking and blanched again as she answered.

“No. I could only see the top parts if the fences. If there was a body on the ground I couldn’t see one. I focused on the writing on the back fence.”

With a nod Lance turned back to his men.

“I would like you to split up into three squadrons. I’ll head up one with Shriver and Thomas and Gilman can take the others. Be very careful. A murderer might be lurking around, or might not, but I don’t want any of you to take any chances. When you get there stay at your locations. If mine isn’t the right spot we’ll come along and check out yours.”

“Lance, may I go too?”

Blast, she’d forgotten she’d meant to keep him at a distance by using his title.

His eyes were twinkling just a little as he came round the table, handed her her hat, put on his own and escorted her out the door. The reprehensible scoundrel had probably caught on to her little ploy.

Still his voice was grim as he came close to her and commented for her ears alone, “Yes, I want you to come. I’ve saved the most likely spot for myself. I will want your corroboration if what we find is the same as your vision.”

* * * * *

Morgan and Lance went in his carriage with Shriver as usual driving, while five of his men followed in another cab. Morgan was silent, incredulous at the Lance she was discovering. One who valued her visions and her opinions. He’d sinned against her in caressing her to the point of idiocy and then disappearing. She didn’t dare forget he was capable of leaving her without a word. Yet in spite of herself this new Lance fascinated her.

He tried to take her hand in the carriage, but she snatched it away. After giving her a sardonic smile, he turned and looked out the window. She did the same, although she saw little of what they passed. The man completely baffled her. Certainly as erratic as he seemed to be in his friendships, she’d be wise to guard her heart even more than she had.

They’d long since come to one of the worst parts of town. Lance now watched the streets with tight-eyed intent. The houses were ramshackle, most of them narrow two-story houses with only one or at most two rooms to a floor. None of them had seen paint for a good many years. Refuse piled up in the streets and the smell was atrocious. The days had turned a little cooler and Morgan could only imagine the stench in the heat of summer. She could see a pump with a half-broken handle at the end of one street. How many homes did this one well supply?

She’d never conceived of this kind of degrading poverty. No wonder her mother so much preferred living in the country. There, one could make a real difference. Here, any effort would be swept away by the sheer magnitude of the problem.

Lance was leaning out the window, evidently watching for any signpost he could match to the map in his mind.

“Ah,” his small sigh one of relief. “I think we are almost there. Morgan, I don’t have to ask you to register every point you can in that intelligent mind of yours. I think you’ll soon know if this is the right alley. The colors of the fences you described were quite specific.”

He leaned even further out to shout to Shriver.

“Turn right at the next corner, man. I think we’re here.”

They were indeed there. Lance sucked in his breath and Morgan shut her eyes for a long moment. Before them extended a short alley, exactly as Morgan had described. Faded green planks on one side and weathered fencing on the other. In front of them was a whitewashed wall. Only now there were three Bible verse references written in smeared, uneven red. The red writing was surely in blood, running a little at the first set of letters and getting thinner as the script went along the fence. At the center bottom of the inscriptions was a faint “W”.

And in front of the wall sprawled another pitiful, horribly murdered girl.

Over the fence could be seen the marvelously beautiful spire of St. Paul’s. Morgan looked at the body once and then concentrated on the beauty she could see if she just raised her eyes.

Lance leaped from the carriage before it stopped.

“Damn it to bloody hell,” he cursed. “We’re too late once again.”

Morgan was not offended by his language, indeed she thought the situation called for even stronger words. Almost in shock, she shifted her eyes and read the other two verses. The one to the left of center read Isaiah 13:11 and the one to the right was Proverbs 14:9. She memorized the references so she could look them up as soon as possible. She had little doubt they referred to retribution for sinners.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’d know what those numbers refer to, is there?” Morgan scrambled out of the carriage and went up to Lance, who was still standing staring at the corpse.

“Oh god,” groaned Lance. “You shouldn’t have to see something like this. And the hell of it is I can’t take you right back. I have to do what I can do here. I’m so sorry, Morgan.”

Morgan started to say everything was all right, when he hustled her back to the carriage almost bodily.

“You’ve done your part by leading us here. Now get in there and stay. I don’t need anyone tampering with whatever clues there are.”

He lifted her and sat her in the carriage and then closed the door. “Please, just this once do as I ask. I do not need to worry about you.”

She started to bristle and then calmed down. He was right and she’d hate herself past enduring if she handicapped him in even the slightest manner. Beside, her stomach seemed to be doing the strangest flip-flops. She put her head down to her knees, but raised it as soon as she could. No way would she miss any action Lance might take. How thrilling to see him on the job, masterful, controlled and completely in charge of himself and his men.

The second carriage with the five men arrived. Each officer filed out, going still and quiet as soon as he saw the body.

“Keep away unless I call you up,” snapped Lance.

He slowly circled the body.

“This one’s different from the others.” Morgan thought he meant to train his men as he called out what he saw.

“She’s on her back, which is a big departure. I’m guessing when he asked her for sex from the rear she’d read or heard enough to panic. The newspapers are getting that warning out at least, although they didn’t much help this poor girl. Her skirts are not drawn up, so I imagine she turned and tried to run. Yes, this one is different, her throat is bruised. I think he strangled her before he cut her throat. Probably strangled her to keep her from escaping. Yes. He stabbed her after she was dead, there’s no blood around the slash in her blouse. He seems to want to kill again and again. She was unconscious, although not quite dead when he cut her throat. There’s more blood this time, which gave him all he needed to write with.”

He paced around again and then bent over the body and sniffed.

“And once again the bloody bastard masturbated over the corpse. This spot is quite fresh and most definitely semen.”

Morgan shrank back into the corner of the cab. Lance had forgotten she was there. She didn’t want him to think of her right now. Never would he be talking so frankly if he’d remembered her presence.

Lance went on ruminating. Morgan wondered if he wanted to clear his own mind or to keep instructing his officers.

“But he’s the same killer, I have no doubt. He deviated into a little different modus operandi, but still left his trademarks. Now we just have to figure out why he wrote the Bible verses. Not too much doubt about that either. He’s obsessed with punishing whores. There’s so much sick hostility evidenced that I pray nobody gets in his way before we catch him.”

He paced once again around the body, but again did not touch it.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope he left a fingerprint when he wrote on the wall. Probably wore gloves the whole time.”

He walked over to the fence, staring at the writing.

“I don’t suppose any of you can pinpoint the references?”

His men shook their heads and Lance’s lips curved in a grimace of his usual attractive grin.

“Too much to expect, I guess. Let’s get the coroner and the rest of the crew out here. Donaldson, you and Thomas stay here with the body. Make absolutely sure nobody comes near the corpse.”

He vaulted into the carriage and sat fuming. Morgan didn’t want to remind him she was there, so she sat in silence. When they were almost back to the station, Lance roused himself and picking up her hand, kissed its back. Then, turning her hand over, he set his lips on her palm. Was this his way of apologizing for what she’d been forced to see?

Morgan didn’t make a sound. She didn’t want Lance to have any idea how warm and exciting she found his lips even through her gloves. Even with such a simple gesture and at such a time.

He dropped her hand and looked out the window. There was another silence, although the air seemed to vibrate. She wished she could read the blasted man’s thoughts just this once!

When he spoke, his voice sounded completely steady.

“I’m so sorry you had to see such a horrible sight. I would have spared you if I could. Still, thanks to you we were quicker on the scene than the others. Perhaps this will make some difference in the long run.”

“Lance, my feelings are not a bit important compared to that poor girl.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he sighed. “Still I wish I could be with you tonight and help you erase that terrible memory from your mind. But I can’t. We’ll doubtless be up most of the night. Is your mother at home yet?”

Morgan smiled. He wasn’t up on everything in London, then.

“No, she’s still gone. And I’m staying right now at the Commissioner’s house with Jamie. The Commissioner is doubtless having his hands full trying to persuade my mother to marry him.”

Lance raised his eyebrows, but asked no questions. He didn’t release her hand, but held it until they reached Commissioner Randall’s house. She didn’t think Lance was conscious of how very tightly he gripped it.

He insisted on escorting her to the Commissioner’s door. She gravely bid him goodnight as he watched until she was safely inside.

When would she see him again? She didn’t know why she cared so much about the answer, but she did. If past performance was any hint she might be in for a long wait.

She sighed as she turned toward the stairs to her room.

* * * * *

After Lance and Morgan left the alley, the murderer moved stealthily away from the back of the fence where he’d been lurking.

The damned slut. So she’d somehow led the police to his latest victim! How in hell had she known? He’d had a close call. Much too close. Lucky for him he’d heard the carriages coming. Still he’d barely had time to vault the fence before the police were there.

What were the bloody Bobbies now thinking about his inspiration of the Bible verses? How he hoped they’d all be printed in the newspapers. He wanted every cursed whore in London to be afraid to ply her satanic trade.

Now his mind locked onto a new and imperative mission. Lucky Lance’s latest inamorata was doomed for her interference. It would be easy to discover the name of the bitch in the carriage. Whore or so-called lady, he’d find her out. All women were whoring Jezebels anyway.

He’d make her pay twelve times over. He wouldn’t be so merciful as to give her as easy a death as the others. She’d meddled in his affairs and she must pay.

His insane thoughts cackled in his mind, as he ran in silence from the scene of his latest butchering.

This victim’s death throes had been most satisfactory. He’d loved the terror in her eyes before he strangled her. Perhaps he’d made a mistake killing the others before cutting their throats. His sexual satisfaction was even greater with this one. All was going so well until the police arrived.

It galled him to the point of fury he’d never be able to personally pay back the whore who’d once refused and laughed at him. She’d even had the nerve to call him insane. She’d died of tuberculosis a few months ago, but there was a plentitude of sisters in sin he could punish in her stead.

Of course he hadn’t been caught. Close, but once again he’d proved too smart for the bloody coppers.

Before he took care of another whore, he must take care of Lucky Lance’s woman. His madman’s eyes lit when he considered the increased pleasure he’d be sure to savor as he slowly killed her. Very slowly. He’d truly take his time with this slut. The sexual satisfaction would be extraordinary with her.

Lord Lance would never be called “Lucky” again.

Chapter Eleven

Lance sent word both to the Commander and to Commissioner Randall requesting an immediate conference. Word came back Commissioner Randall was out of town on personal business and did not wish to be disturbed unless the matter was vital. Lance immediately went storming into the Commissioner’s office.

“How dare you put me off when I need to reach the Commissioner? Give me his address at once.”

The secretary gave one look at Lance’s darkened face and stammered out the address of an inn in Kent. Lance immediately dispatched a messenger to inform Randall of the horrible new developments.

Devon Randall received the message that evening at the Three Chimneys Inn in Bibbenden. He was amused every day when he walked out and could only count two chimneys. The garrulous landlord relished telling him the name came from a corruption of the French words “trois chemins” for the conjunction of three roads where the Inn stood. During the Seven Years’ War with the French, French prisoners kept at nearby Sissinghurst Castle were forbidden to go beyond the junction of the three roads in the village. The Inn and its unusual name were a source of great pride to all the villagers.

Whitewashed and half-timbered, the old inn proved a delightful place to stay. The friendliness of the townsfolk more than made up for tiny rooms. He’d walked twice a day to Viviane’s home, a distance of only about three miles. The countryside looked and smelled delightful and he felt as if he were walking through one of the most beautiful gardens in England. Of constant entertainment and interest were the fertile fields of hops he passed along the road. No wonder the ale at the Three Chimneys was excellent!

Viviane’s home was as charming as he’d expected, but much larger. A spacious country manor surrounded by fields, streams and a delightful wood blazoned the fact his love was not destitute. A big plus was that although he wasn’t making progress with Viviane at least all his walking provided exercise.

Devon tapped the envelope from Lance against his thigh and whistled through his teeth. He did not need this. He badly wanted to stay where he was, hoping he could dream up some way to smash Viviane’s resistance. Still these murders were his responsibility, at least until they were solved. He knew no way in honor to avoid going back to London.

His face resigned, he sat down to write Viviane a short note telling her the recent developments. He ended his explanation for his departure with a few short sentences. “I will tender my resignation as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police the day I return to London, to take effect at the termination of this case. Then I’ll be back to claim you. Your Devon, loving you for all of time.”

While Devon was throwing his few belongings into his valise, Lance demanded a session with his Commander, who heard him out, looked down his lorgnette and again told Lance he was in charge and to use his best judgment. Exactly what Lance expected, but the formalities were there to be observed. Not for the first time he wondered if he’d been too hasty in refusing to be promoted to Commander. This one was worse than useless.

In his own office, he sent for a Bible. Doubtless clever Morgan had already looked up the references. As suspected, both verses targeted sinners. Isaiah thirteen verse eleven contained the words “and I will punish the wicked for their iniquity” and Proverbs fourteen, verse nine ended with the phrase “and the lamp of the wicked shall be put out”.

He sat thinking for a long time. The stiletto type knife had again been used, but this time after the victim was already dead. The heart was directly pierced but from a frontal angle. The stabbing itself revealed a frightening violence, even more than those before. A great deal of strength was needed to drive a thin knife so far into a body. Even more worrisome loomed the fact there was no need for this thrust to the heart. The first two he’d killed and then mutilated. The first stabbings were in identical spots and a methodical killer could have ascertained his target from books. This new direct hit from a different direction disturbed Lance.

He was afraid the murderer’s violence was growing. He was beginning to form a hazy picture of the villain. This was a seriously disordered mind. A killer who was convinced he labored under God’s sanction and directions from the Holy Bible itself.

He’d already ordered a search of doctors in London against whom complaints were once filed. A necessary first step and yet it consumed more policemen than he liked. He’d not forgotten a doctor was a chief suspect in the Ripper case and that particular doctor immigrated to the Americas. Now Lance felt he needed to extend the search to medical schools where students had dropped out of training, or were released for some kind of unusual problem. Lance thought it likely the perpetrator of these crimes evidenced disquieting traits a long time ago. There always lurked the chance the killer had studied on his own, but the accuracy of the latest stabbing seemed to argue against this theory.

Yes, an urgent search of teaching facilities was overdue. He would have to find the officers someplace.

Lance rose, stretching his big body by vigorously feigning some fencing moves. He needed a true match and would make time for one. He’d drop in on the fencing gymnasium later today. He knew from experience nothing cleared his mind like a session with an equally skilled partner. The talented instructor was his favorite and maybe he’d be lucky enough to find the man free.

With a small sigh, he gave one last false thrust and sank down again at his desk, leaning back for a moment. So far fencing had proven to be no use in banishing his lustful longings for Morgan. She was there, glowing in his mind, the minute he laid down his épée.

He pulled a fresh tablet and some pencils toward him. Then he threw them down and started for the door. He’d have to get his Commander to assign him more men. He wanted every man he could commandeer to be placed on the new search for the killer. This came before he could make a list of duties for men he didn’t yet have.

* * * * *

The killer was dressed in nondescript clothes although he’d been careful to clean himself up. He aroused no comment in the pub near Scotland Yard many policemen fancied. If anyone noticed him they looked past him as if he weren’t there. He was used to this. All his life he’d felt invisible. Often he railed in his mind against the fact no one paid him the slightest attention, but tonight he was grateful.

Tonight was his third night in the pub. He sat in a corner, nursing his pint and listening to as much conversation as he could. His hearing was keen and he could pick up much of what was said at the tables around him.

Suddenly he heard the words “Lucky Lance”. Cursing to himself the fact the speaker was across the room, he got up and began wandering around as if without purpose. Edging closer to the table, he could soon hear clearly.

“That woman Lucky’s been taking with him sure is a looker. No wonder he got his nickname.”

There were a few chuckles and then one of them said, “Funny name though for a girl. Morgan. I thought Morgan was a boy’s name.”

“She’s all girl, though. Have you seen her? Purtiest green eyes I ever did see.”

One of them suddenly noticed the man who’d stopped to eavesdrop. The murderer lingered, spellbound in exultation. He was finally starting to get the information he needed.

“Hey, you. Get along with you. Don’t go trying to hear your betters talk. Get off.”

The officer half-rose from his seat and the nondescript man scurried away. He was content with the name “Morgan”. There could not be many with such an unusual name and a few questions in the right place would tell him the rest. There probably wasn’t more than one Morgan in all of London with green eyes. If there were more than one he’d hide himself and see which one Lucky Lance visited.

Well pleased, he left the pub. Not a person noticed his departure.

He chortled as he sidled away. The Chief Inspector wouldn’t be called “Lucky” much longer. He was about to lose his woman. Lose her in a manner sure to haunt him for the rest of his life. What a wonderful revenge he would take on them both. The Chief Inspector would never be able to forget how horribly his Morgan died.

He busied himself thinking of details of her death he meant to etch in the Chief Inspector’s mind for all of eternity.

* * * * *

Lance lowered his head onto his hands and groaned. He was getting exactly noplace in the current investigation. Following leads on the newest murdered girl turned up exactly nothing. She was as anonymous in her life as the other victims. Another girl who’d somehow been recruited or who’d turned to prostitution to merely survive.

She seemed to have no family to mourn her and if no one claimed her she’d be buried by the city in a pauper’s grave, in a pauper’s coffin. Lance had taken time to attend the lowering of the other two murdered girls into the ground. He was the only one present. No one else appeared to weep or say a kind word for either one. Lance commended their souls to God in his mind. He left word he wanted to attend the burial of this one as well when the coroner released the body.

The futility of such a barren life haunted him. He began to think even more seriously about marriage. He’d like to at least leave a child or two who might grieve at his death. He cursed to himself as his ever disobedient mind drew images of the beautiful children Morgan would produce. Would they all have her gorgeous green eyes? Would they have her laughing attitude toward pretension and her piercing intellect?

My God, what could he do to erase her from his thoughts? The last thing he wanted was a wife who would eventually ferret out his every thought. He wanted a calm, no-nonsense wife who’d not bother him and would quietly do her duty to him and his children. Was that too much to ask?

Still, he could use a fresh viewpoint on the present murder. He decided to visit Morgan and discuss the latest developments. Or rather the lack of them. At best she might be of help. If not, perhaps he could finally find something about her to give him a justifiable reason to ignore her charms. He didn’t think he could go on like this much longer without losing his pitiful mind.

At six o’clock in the evening Lance’s carriage pulled up to the McAfee residence.

Lance didn’t have the faintest idea the murderer was lurking behind some bushes at the side of the house.

Waiting.

Waiting for Morgan.

* * * * *

The killer experienced no trouble pinning down Morgan’s full name and address. It took just a few drinks, bought for a police officer who could not hold his liquor well. When he judged his victim to be slightly drunk, the killer casually mentioned Morgan’s unusual name. Had the officer ever seen her and was she as beautiful as he’d heard?

Eager to be agreeable to the nice laborer buying him drinks, the sergeant answered at once.

“Oh, she’s a beauty, she is. You should see her.”

The killer pretended to take a large swallow of his bitters.

“I think I have seen her. Morgan Thomson, isn’t it?”

“No, no.” The half-foxed sergeant was delighted to be in the know. “The one I’m talking about is named Morgan McAfee. She’s a rare one. Most be-you-ti-ful eyes I ever did see.”

The killer took a true swallow this time. He had exactly what he needed. He must be the smartest man in London. Those fat-headed doctors who’d dismissed him from medical school at King’s College would never know how wrong they’d been. Or was there a way of telling a reporter so they’d have a hint of their idiocy? He’d have to think seriously how to get in touch with the newspapers. He hated to have his brilliance unacknowledged.

But not yet. For now he needed to concentrate. Morgan McAfee would soon pay his price for her interference. She’d be sorry not only she’d hampered a genius, but horrified she’d ever lived to hear of him. After she was dead, painfully dead, he’d see about getting recognition for his intelligence.

* * * * *

The killer went to Morgan’s house and boldly knocked at the door. He didn’t expect to gain entrance but he hoped for information. With the best of luck, she might even wander into the hall and he’d know she was at home. The rest would be easy.

Jackson answered the door and the killer’s eyes narrowed as the stuffed-up bastard’s expression changed to hauteur.

“The kitchen is around the back. Although we have no positions open, you should inquire there.”

The killer tried his best smile, which seemed to further repel Morgan’s butler.

“I wanted to see Miss McAfee, please,” he said.

“She’s not at home now nor will she be to the likes of you,” Jackson snapped out as he slammed the door in the caller’s face.

Cursing in a low monotone, the killer pulled his hat further over his face and went back down to the street. He saw a curtain move and knew the butler was checking to make sure he left. He went down the block and turned the corner, waited about ten minutes and then reversed and again approached the house. He hid in the tall hedge at the side of the yard. He’d wait for missy to come home or go out. Either one would do and he had all the time in the world. It was hard for him but he could force himself to be patient. It was only a matter of time until he caught up with the treacherous bitch.

The delay was longer than he’d expected and frayed the killer’s patience. For four hours he waited in the shrubbery, afraid to move lest he give his presence away. He could barely exercise his self-control not to jump, scream, or rush from his hiding place and pound on the door. He’d found his other victims quickly. The ever-present tic in his left eye grew frantic. Still he waited.

Cursed silently, twitched and waited.

He couldn’t have been more surprised or pleased when he saw Chief Inspector Lord Lance Dellafield’s carriage draw up at the house. For just a moment, he shrank back and then he realized with a spurt of joy he might be the one to be lucky.

He stilled so he could hear.

“I didn’t realize she was still residing with Master Jamie. Should I look for her there, then?”

Dellafield’s voice was strong and clear and the murderer heard every word.

“You can try, sir, although she often comes by this time of day to pick up fresh clothing. Would you care to wait?”

The bloody butler certainly was oily enough with a Duke’s son! The murderer chewed his lip and waited.

“No, I think I must go back to the office. But thank you, Jackson.”

The murderer slunk back in his bushes. He needed only to wait a little longer. He cracked his knuckles over and over as he grinned his rictus grin. Now that he knew he’d have success it was easier to stay.

His tarrying was not in vain. Late in the afternoon he saw his quarry approach. He noted her graceful walk with a sneer. No wonder she captured men so easily. She was dressed simply, with only a small scarf tying back her hair. Certainly no lady ventured out minus a proper hat. Her abundant hair hung down her back as she looked up at the sky with a joyous smile. Soon she wouldn’t have a thing to smile about. She was just the slut he’d expected.

He moved just a little so he could see the door.

She knocked briefly and the bloody butler opened for her with obvious pleasure on his face.

“I need to get a few things, Jackson. Could you find me a cool drink while I pack what I need? Walking over was hotter than I expected.”

Jackson nearly split his face smiling. He held the door open for his mistress.

“Certainly, Miss Morgan. It’s always good to see you. There’s a letter from your mother you’ll want to read. Oh and Lord Lance was here looking for you.”

“Indeed! I’m…” As the door closed quietly behind her the killer grimaced and shrunk back in the bushes. So. She wasn’t going to stay at the house right now. Where was the slut sleeping? Who was Jamie? Another lover? Not that mattered. No one was ever going to see her alive again.

He flexed his hands to make sure they were limber. And waited once again. This time the wait was pleasurable, as he felt the anticipation begin to build throughout his body. He smiled as he felt his male member start to stretch his pants. This killing would be even more satisfactory than the others.

Nothing must go wrong while he dragged Miss Morgan McAfee into her own garden and slowly killed her. The Chief Inspector would never be able to forget this particular crime. There was no way the killer could be caught and that would only add to the Chief Inspector’s terrible guilt. If he’d only waited for Morgan he might have saved her. He’d never forgive himself.

The killer chortled with barbaric glee as he dragged a scarf out of his pocket and wound each end securely around his hands.

Miss Morgan McAfee would be coming down the front steps soon.

He was ready and waiting.

* * * * *

Lance went back to his office to find reports seeming to identify the killer. Lance sat there, leafing through them, wondering why he was not more elated. He should be feeling on top of the world. He was positive he’d cracked the case and there remained only the technicalities of arresting the murderer.

A certain Tom Tomlinson, a student ejected from Kings College. Tomlinson had been a brilliant student, but one who refused to obey any of the rules. He’d only studied the subjects interesting to him, notably the physiology of the human body and its anatomy. His professors tried again and again to persuade him to conform to the curricula, but finally gave up. He’d shown an almost pathological interest in points of pain and the circulatory system. Even now, three years later, they remembered him with regret for a wasted brilliance.

Lance had nothing definite to go on but this information and the inner intensity of his conviction he’d found his man. He’d always been right on the occasions when he felt this sureness.

He would bring his staff up to date and start them searching for Tomlinson and then go see Morgan. A feeling his visit was important nagged at him and made him uneasy. He should have gone straight to the Commissioner’s home when he did not find her at her own place. His stupid pride made him want to avoid the appearance of chasing her. A foolish concern when a vicious killer was still loose in London.

Did Morgan feel this unease when she sensed something was wrong? Did this inner certainty accompany her visions?

He called his men together, anxious to get the meeting over with and be on his way.

“And now you all know as much as I do,” he finished with a slight smile. “No, one other thing. As I’ve told you Tomlinson is a rather nondescript man with sandy hair, not very big or noteworthy in any way. He does, however, have a definite tic in his left eye. I’m told it’s quite noticeable. So keep your own eyes open.”

Lance half turned to go when he noticed one of his younger sergeants turning white as the pad of paper he was using to take notes. Lance wheeled around.

“Murdock, you look as if some of this triggers a memory. Have you seen this man?”

The sergeant nodded, his young face a mask of horrified guilt.

“I’m afraid so, Sir. I think I had drinks with him two nights ago. He was asking questions about a lady named Morgan. I’m afraid I blurted out her last name.”

“Dear God.”

Lance almost ran from the room. Shriver, who’d been sitting with the rest of the team, leapt up to get the carriage. Very shortly after Lance ran out Shriver pulled up with the carriage and the two set out for Commissioner Randall’s house.

The logical part of his brain assured Lance no harm could come to Morgan when she was staying at the Commissioner’s home. My god, Randall was the head of all the Metropolitan Police Force. Who would dare attack her in such august surroundings?

Another part, stoked to a brooding fire by his visceral instincts, told him Morgan was in mortal danger. The murderer knew her name and had somehow found her and Lance might not be in time to save his love. Maybe an irrational reaction, but he felt in his innermost being this was true. Surely this was the exact certainty Morgan sometimes felt.

Suspected danger to Morgan downed all his defenses. His mind settled into a sure conviction she was indeed his love. He might never be able to claim her, but all doubt of his feeling for her was swept away with a surety that shook him to the toes of his boots.

He knocked on the roof of the carriage, even though he knew it was a needless question.

“Shriver, can you manage to go any faster?”

They made it to the commissioner’s in record time, although the trip seemed hours long to Lance. He ran up the steps and when Millson opened the door he asked to see Miss Morgan immediately.

“But she’s not here, sir. She went back to her house to get some things she needed. She said she’d be right back, but something must have delayed her.”

Lance thanked him and started running to the carriage when he stopped. If Tomlinson indeed held Morgan in his power, the sound of a speeding carriage would alert him. Morgan had walked, so perhaps he’d find her if he took her return path. His heart didn’t believe that, but he could then also be on the lookout for any sign someone had dragged her into the bushes. More importantly, if he ran he would raise no signal of pounding horses’ hooves to anyone in hiding.

He called to Shriver to wait five minutes and then follow him with the carriage at a discreet distance. And to go slowly to Miss Morgan’s house and to keep his eyes open. He himself would run. He was a strong man in his prime and could speed almost as fast as the horses for such a short distance. He would slow down when he got close. He definitely needed the advantage of surprise.

He set out, a big man running as easily as only an athlete can. He covered the distance in record time, leaving it to Shriver to search for any clues along the way. At the corner of Morgan’s block he slowed down to a walk. Any footsteps should sound normal if someone were actually listening.

He didn’t think she’d be in the house. There were too many people for the murderer to dispose of to accost her inside. Lance cautiously crept along the side of the house, noticing instantly where the bushes were crushed as if someone had hidden in them. What small doubt he’d permitted himself fled his fearful mind.

He forced his mind to steady into the cold, calculating machine he’d always been able to summon when necessary. Especially when a case was drawing to a close or disaster threatened.

Tomlinson had either dragged Morgan away or he was in the backyard with her. There was no sign of a scuffle nor any blood near the place where he’d hidden. He knew his Morgan well enough to know she wouldn’t leave without a fight.

He’d better try to figure out where in the garden they could be. That Morgan was there with the killer was by far the most likely answer. He wished he could be sure, but after a second’s hesitation decided to go with his instinct.

He prayed to his own God and especially to Morgan’s Goddess that her Druid daughter still lived.

* * * * *

Morgan left the house carrying a small valise and started down the street. In a matter of seconds Tomlinson darted out and looped his scarf around Morgan’s neck. He pulled it tight immediately, so only slight choking sounds came from her almost garroted throat. Much stronger than he looked, he had no difficulty dragging her to the bushes where he’d hidden. He’d done it all quite quickly.

He speedily grabbed the valise, shoved it in the back of the bushes and frowned. This was not a good location. He needed much more privacy for the delicate delights in mind. He could gag and muffle her but he still needed to be sure no one would interrupt. Not likely, but he preferred a spot more secluded. Even though the bushes were dense, they were too close to the street and a passerby could possibly spot them as she thrashed about.

Morgan kept frantically trying to loosen the scarf, but then her hands went limp. Alarmed that he might be about to lose the games he wanted to enjoy with her, he drew his knife and held the wicked blade against her body as he slowly slackened the scarf.

“I’ll take this off if you remain silent.” His obscene whisper sounded in her ear. “If you call out I’ll stick this knife in your stomach. I know a place where you’ll die from the wound in ten to twelve hours. You can’t imagine the amount of pain you’ll suffer in those hours. Do you understand me?”

Terrified, she nodded and he loosened the scarf with one hand, leaving it around her throat in case he needed to apply more pressure. His other hand held the wicked-looking, very thin knife pointed at her upper stomach.

Morgan tried to speak and only produced a croak.

The murderer grinned in such an evil way that Morgan’s considerable fear escalated.

“Well,” he commented. “I guess I don’t have to worry about you screaming. All to the good. Now march down the garden, staying behind those trees along the fence. You can stop behind that big clump of bushes near the back of the yard.”

Morgan lowered her eyes while she tried to conquer her terror. This would never do. She must keep her wits about her if she was to have any chance. Above all she couldn’t let him see her fright. She was sure that was exactly what would make him gloat. Peering up from under her downcast eyes, she saw him looking at her, evidently trying to gauge her feelings. She would not oblige him by showing her terror in any degree.

She started to the back of the garden, going exactly as directed. She tried to mask her glee, as he pointed to a thick clump of bushes and pushed her toward them. He’d directed her to the bushes hiding her herb garden. Surely a propitious spot for her, since many of the plants were Druid healing herbs. The very aura of the place should be of help to her.

Nearby a large rowan tree shaded part of the area. Did the killer know she was a Druid and rowans were a sacred tree to her people? To make her garden more hallowed, she’d encouraged a mistletoe to grow in the top of another nearby tree. An additional plant revered by Druids and one considered a strong protection against evil.

He could not have picked a spot more favorable for her, nor one silently proffering her more courage. She and her mother had planted this area together, with flower beds on the other side of the tall bushes. Only the bushes with flowers in front of them were visible from the house. Somehow she could feel her mother reaching out to her now. Her courage mounted as she turned to face him.

She summoned up as disinterested a tone as she could manage. Her hoarseness didn’t help convey the attitude of uncaring acceptance, but still she hoped she’d shake him by her lack of pleading. She suspected begging for mercy was exactly what he wanted.

“I do admire you, you know,” she croaked. “Not many men want to tangle with a witch.”

He slammed his fist against her cheek so that she needed all her strength to keep from crying out. In spite of herself a few tears escaped.

“I know you’re a witch,” he growled. “All women are.”

“No,” she murmured, mustering a smile from somewhere. “I’m really and truly a witch. I can cast any spell I want. Do you want to risk one of my curses?”

For the first time his gloating wavered. “Don’t lie, you slut. Nobody nowadays is a real witch. You’re just making it harder on yourself, you know. I think you just added about an hour to your death throes.”

His knife lashed out and cut a long slash in her blouse, starting at the neckline and going almost to her waist. The very tip of the knife sliced her and she could feel blood welling. She resisted the impulse to grab the sides of her blouse and hold them together. She forced herself to smile at him instead, pleased as she saw his obscene grin waver.

“That was a mistake.” Her voice was clearing a little, but was still rasping. “Now I think I’ll have to use the curse my mother once dreamed up for a man who was annoying me. She thought it appropriate if his private member shriveled up so he could never find enjoyment again with a woman. Yes, if you hurt me badly, that’s the curse I’ll be forced to wish on you.”

She didn’t lie. Her mother had thought of the curse. Just the threat seemed to be having some effect. She watched her tormentor carefully as he blanched and looked wildly around the herb garden.

“I don’t believe you, bitch.”

He fingered the knife again, his fingers tightening on the hilt as he seemed to control an impulse to slash at her a second time. He grinned a lascivious grin, which widened when he noted her shudder.

“Go ahead, whore. I’ll give you one try. After all a man doesn’t like to take a chance with his balls. So prove to me you can work magic.”

Morgan hoped her fair skin wasn’t blushing at his crude language. She lowered her head as if thinking. Nor an act, as she really had to think. What under heaven’s name could she do now?

“Aha!” Her tormentor grabbed the edges of the scarf again. “You can’t do magic! You’re a bloody liar like all the rest of your sex.”

As he moved to tighten the scarf, Morgan coolly put up her hands and inserted them under the edges of the material.

“Don’t be so rash. I don’t really want to curse you. Such a cruel fate for any man. But to do magic I have to say the proper spells first and you mustn’t hear those.”

Tomlinson dropped his hands and stepped back a few inches. “I’m waiting, you lying slut. But not for long.”

Morgan knew she had only a few minutes. She frantically looked around for inspiration. Suddenly a great calm stole over her. She smiled as she realized her mother had somehow divined her daughter’s danger and was speaking to her inside her mind. The soothing words flowed over her.

“Remember, love, I am with you and you are under a rowan tree. A tall oak is just beyond you, as well as the mistletoe. Absorb the authority of this sacred spot and then look for some easy object to magic. Do not attempt anything too hard.”

Morgan felt a confidence, a certainty, she’d never felt before. She was under a rowan tree, the most sacred tree of the Druids. She lifted her eyes to the oak, another revered tree.

She’d edged over and placed herself more deeply in the shade of the rowan. Now for something easy. Was this the reason she’d failed before, she’d tackled subjects too difficult for a beginner?

Her gaze fastened on a smaller tree, a chestnut, along the back of the house. Squinting, she thought she saw a tinge of yellow on a few leaves. Perhaps they’d already lost some of their vigor, although the tree was full and bushy. She would not hurt that particular tree.

She muttered several nonsense words under her breath and turned back to Tomlinson. His manic glare jangled her. Even so, she refused to say something nonsensical like “abracadabra”. Her brain didn’t help her much and she came close to that ridiculous word.

She took a deep breath, as deep as her swollen throat allowed and threw her head back.

“I’m ready now. Do you see that tree near the house, centered in front of the middle window? It must have thousands of leaves. I will make them all fall off in one instant.”

Tomlinson peered through the bushes at the tree and gave a derisive snort.

“Go ahead, bitch. Nobody can do what you say you’re going to do. You only have one chance and then we play the games I like to play. You might not like them at all, but I will. Yes indeed I will.”

He sniggered obscenely and fingered his knife as he leered at her. Morgan’s calm did not desert her. She felt the all-pervading love of her mother suffuse her mind and heart. She, Morgan, was the daughter of a long, long line of Druids. She knew she fully possessed the support of the Goddess of the Druids. She would not fail.

She raised her head high and lifting her hands intoned as calmly as if she were ordering tea.

“Goddess of Druids, hear your child’s plea

Make all the leaves fall from yon chestnut tree.”

There was a pause and then loud swooshing sound as every single leaf fell from the tree. She watched in fascination and delight. She was a true Druid at last! She could work magic. Behind her she heard a loud gasp and she turned to see Tomlinson lose all color. He paled and took a step away from her as if she were a poisonous snake.

Before she could figure out how to use this to her best advantage, to her utmost astonishment she heard a familiar, deep voice coming from the side of the yard.

“Put down that knife, you sick bastard. I’m coming for you.”

Lance, large, solid and impressive, was charging across the lawn, not letting anything get in the way of his reaching the killer. Morgan screamed, a hoarse sound that made Lance momentarily flick his eyes toward her although he never paused in his attack.

Morgan saw he was breathing harshly and she kept her delighted eyes fixed on him as he rushed over the lawn.

“You can’t stop me, can you, Tomlinson?”

He was deliberately goading the killer, his tone mocking and his every phrase insulting.

Suddenly Tomlinson threw his knife straight at Lance’s chest. Lance swerved and ducked and took the knife in his shoulder, but never slackened. He grabbed the knife from his body and threw it behind him, even as he ran. His triumphant face showed his tactics were consciously planned to rid the killer of his murderous knife.

“You bloody bastard, stop or I’ll kill your whore.”

“No, you can’t,” panted Lance, as he reached Tomlinson and threw a hefty punch that landed accurately on the killer’s chin and knocked him to the ground. Lance stood over him a second while Tomlinson cursed and tried to get up. Then Lance reached over and pressed a spot in the murderer’s neck and rendered him unconscious.

Then and only then, did he hold out his arms to Morgan.

“My brave, brave girl,” he murmured, holding her a little away from him, but with his face buried against her hair. She tried to snuggle closer but he held her off.

“You don’t want to ruin what’s left of your pretty blouse, do you?”

Looking up, she noticed the tension in his darkened eyes. She looked down quickly to see blood streaming from his shoulder.

“I guess I should have left the knife in ’til I could get to a doctor,” he said. The corners of his mouth turned up, but the rest of his face wasn’t smiling. “I’ve got to secure this miserable ruffian first, Morgan. Shriver will soon be here with the carriage and can take him to jail.”

He picked up her hands and kissed them. “There’s no doubt he’s our killer, but I’m sorrier than I can say you were forced to endure a minute of his vile presence. He disgraces even the word ‘criminal’. Few are so vicious or cruel.”

He gently put her aside and leaning down, took off his belt and used it to wrap around and bind Tomlinson’s ankles. He secured those murdering hands with the scarf used to choke Morgan.

Lance turned to her, running his fingers over the swollen ridges in her neck, cursing under his breath as his fingers moved in a touch so light as to be a caress. As he stared at the slash on her chest his cursing grew louder. His eyes flared as he saw her partially exposed body, but he made no move beyond reaching down and drawing the edges of her ruined blouse together.

Morgan loved his deep concern and she moved closer. She wanted to lose herself in his arms and try to forget the last hour. Lance was sanity, honor and warmth after an experience of cold and unbelievable cruelty. She needed him to hold her close. Then she saw the streaming blood wasn’t slowing and knew she couldn’t stop to express her feelings or let him utter his. They’d wasted too much time already.

“Forget about me, Lance, I’ll be fine. We’ve got to get you to a doctor. How I wish my mother were here.”

She stared at the crimson flow and wished she’d absorbed more of her mother’s great knowledge of herbs and medicine.

“But I am here, my loves,” came the familiar voice of Viviane McAfee as she walked down the garden. “I knew you needed me and Ambrose and I are both here with you. Ambrose, stand watch over this pitiful excuse of a human while I take Lord Lance into the house and stitch his wound.”

The big black Lab nosed the bundle on the ground with a growl of disdain and then sat squarely on Tomlinson’s stomach. Morgan laughed for the first time that day and even Lance smiled. She’d love to be around to see Tomlinson’s expression when he woke to find Ambrose sitting on him and literally breathing down his neck. And himself helpless with tied hands and feet. But she wanted more than anything to go with Lance and help if she possibly could.

He was losing far too much blood.

Lance refused any help from the women and got himself to the front of the house. Then Jackson ran down the steps and carefully placed his arm around Lance’s good shoulder. With marked reverence he helped the man who’d saved his young mistress into the parlor.

Now it was up to Viviane.

Chapter Twelve

Viviane looked her daughter over with care but some haste.

“You’ll be fine, my dear, you only need some of my special salves. What’s more important is I get this excellent man’s bleeding stopped as soon as possible.”

She turned to Lance, now lying propped up on pillows on the sofa where Jackson led him. He was still breathing more heavily than usual, but whether that was due to exertion or his wound Morgan couldn’t tell. She didn’t know how long he’d been running before he found her and the murderer in the garden.

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. His eyes flew to hers in surprise, although he smiled a little.

“That was to express my thanks to you, my lord Lance. It was only a question of a short time before Tomlinson turned on me again. I could see the fury building in his eyes.”

Her voice shook as her whole body shuddered with the remembered terror and Lance reached up and caught her hand and held it to his lips.

“It’s over, Morgan. You’re safe.”

If Viviane noticed the intimacy in his tone, she made no comment. Instead she busied herself opening the bag she’d brought with her, bringing out a little bottle.

“The wound itself is not large since the weapon was so narrow. But you tore the entry slit when you jerked the knife out. That was quick thinking, incidentally. No way could he get past you to retrieve it.”

“Thank God he didn’t turn on Morgan. That was my biggest fear and why I goaded him so. What a horrible specimen of humanity. He makes one ashamed to be called a man.”

Lance voice was steady although his eyes still were shadowed with his fear for Morgan.

“I wonder what he’ll come back as in his next life. I can’t think of anything low enough.” Morgan’s musings made Lance smile again.

“A worm? A piece of algae?”

Morgan shuddered again. “You are maligning both those good creatures,” she said quite seriously.

Viviane smiled at them both, even as she rummaged in her kit. “I will have to stitch the wound, of course, after I cleanse it. I would like to give you something to dull the pain, my lord.” Viviane was readying a needle and coarse thread as she spoke.

“I need nothing, ma’am,” Lance said. “Go ahead, I’m quite ready.”

Viviane looked at him carefully. “At least let me get you a glass of wine. No, I’ll get it, stay with him, Morgan.”

She disappeared toward the kitchen, calling for Jackson as she went. Entering the room after a short while, she handed Lance a small glass of wine.

“I would have thought the condemned man deserved a larger glass than this,” he joked after he’d swallowed the contents.

“But then I’d not have been sure of how many drops of mandrake to use, would I?”

She smiled sweetly at Lance, who glared back.

“Madam, I resent extremely your taking my decisions into your own hands. I am quite capable of choosing whether I wish to be sedated or not. You had no right to take that choice from me.”

Viviane patted his hand. “I’m going to have to finish ruining your clothes. The knife has slit them anyway and I’d like to cut them off. It will be easier for you that way.” When she was done she pushed him back against the pillow of the couch and looked closely at the wound.

“You are right, my lord, I’m a reprehensible woman by keeping you from involuntarily jerking,” she grinned at him as his glare grew more intense, “I said involuntarily, my lord. I do not question your ability to withstand pain. I am just trying to make this easy on myself.”

Lance relaxed a little, a wry grin on his stoic face. Whether he accepted her remarks or the opiate was starting to take effect Morgan couldn’t tell. Although she was glad to see him lie back against the pillows as her mother took the needle in her hand.

She put it down. “I’m truly sorry, Lord Lance, but I must trim the edges of the wound a little. Morgan, bring me a glass of brandy.”

Lance started up. “I will drink no more of anything, madam.”

Viviane and Morgan both laughed.

“The brandy is to cleanse the scissors and needle of any impurities, Lance.” Morgan moved over and smoothed the hair off his forehead with a tender hand.

“You only drank wine and few drops of an old herbal remedy, my lord,” she whispered.

With a sheepish grin, Lance lay back again and the stitching proceeded. Lance, in a half-daze, was perfectly quiet and Morgan was well pleased with her mother’s clever trickery.

Viviane bandaged him carefully and when she was done, went to the door and called for Jackson.

“Do you think between us can get this hulk of man up the stairs? I want him here for at least two or three nights, or until we are sure he has no fever.”

Between them all they managed well enough, with Lance reviving enough to help but not enough to protest. Jackson divested him of the remainder of his outer garments and put him to bed in his underwear. He wore only the underpants, leaving his chest bare except for the bandages. Since Jackson’s nightclothes would be much too small there was little choice. Morgan smiled to see Lance half-conscious, or else he’d be having a tantrum at his semi-nudity. Morgan and her mother tucked him in and then Viviane turned to her daughter.

“Love, I’ll leave you to care for our large friend. You should stay with him tonight and keep checking for a fever. I think the knife went very deep and a fever will not surprise me. If he gets too hot you might try sponging him down with cold water. I think he’ll be fine, but in case that wicked knife was not clean there could be complications. Check him hourly and send to the Commissioner’s house if you need me. I’m going to Devon’s now. I have unfinished business with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force. I’ll be back in the morning.”

With a wide smile, Viviane kissed her dumbstruck daughter and swept from the room.

Morgan stared after her. Her mother, leaving her alone in the house to care for a virile, handsome man like the Chief Inspector? And going to the Commissioner’s house to spend the night?

She understood not at all what her mother could be thinking. She shrugged her shoulders and turned back to Lance. Her cheeks flamed as she looked at him lounging against the pillows, his perfect body delightfully exposed. She’d be most pleased to spend the night taking care of Lord Lance Dellafield.

Conscious or unconscious, he was the man she now knew she loved.

* * * * *

Viviane had been well on her way back to London when her mind flashed a strong alarm of Morgan’s danger. A few days before she’d acknowledged she’d not been fair to Devon. Her feelings for him were so powerful she knew she must either accept him or never see him again. It wasn’t fair to refuse to talk to him, as she’d done at her home in the country. She came back in London to set things straight and in the process at least come to know her own mind.

Besides, she yearned to see him.

The fact her daughter had been in such peril and she’d been able to help reinforced the rightness of her decision to return to London. Morgan was safe and now she could concentrate on her own affairs. As she left her townhouse, she asked Jackson to get a message to the Commissioner she was on her way to his home and to call her a hansom. For such a short ride she would have much preferred to walk, but even a Druid priestess was not immune to London’s night stalkers.

* * * * *

Millson admitted Viviane, as big a smile on his face as she’d ever seen him permit himself. Still he spoke in his formal butler’s manner.

“You are welcome, madam. Shall I tell Master Jamie? He’ll be delighted, as you know.”

She brushed her hair off her face where it had crept as she’d swept off her hat and took a deep breath.

“Yes, do, Millson. It’s very good to see you.”

His façade cracked a little. “And good to see you, madam. Very good indeed.”

He hurried away and quite soon a whirlwind of a boy burst into the room and threw himself into her arms.

“Mama Viviane! I’m sooo glad you’re back.”

She hugged him as hard as he hugged her, kissing his cheek and forehead.

“So I have a new name, do I? You’ve never called me that before.”

Jamie colored and hung his head, then flung it upright. “That’s how I think of you. Was it very bad of me to say it out loud?”

“No, darling, not bad at all. Let’s sit and talk ’til your papa comes home. I think he’ll be here shortly.”

“Yes, he often comes home early nowadays. He told me he’s winding down. Do you know what that means?” A puzzled frown creased his forehead, as Jamie cuddled closer on the sofa.

“I hope I do.” Viviane’s smile grew broader as she hugged the small boy again.

The front door opened and shut with a bang, as Devon burst into the room, stopping short when he spied Viviane and his son.

“You two make the loveliest sight I’ve seen in weeks,” he said, dropping kisses on both their foreheads. If Viviane’s kiss lingered longer than Jamie’s nobody seemed to mind.

“I’m very glad to be here, Devon,” she said, covering his hand on her shoulder with her own.

He looked at her with such love she colored. Not wanting him to take the blame for Jamie’s dismissal, she turned to the boy.

“Your father and I have many matters to discuss, Jamie. Will you excuse us if we go into his study?”

“I ‘spec you want to be alone.” His boyish grin made even Viviane laugh.

Giving both of them a kiss, Jamie smiled and left. Millson was waiting for him and Viviane suspected he would stay with the child and entertain him for as long as needed.

Devon took her hand and tucked it into the fold of his arm as they walked to his study. The minute he closed the door behind them, he turned to her.

“Dare I hope you have favorable news for me, my love? I know the killer has been caught and Lance is wounded but not seriously and is at your home with Morgan. What Shriver didn’t disclose, Jackson told me when he enclosed a note with yours.”

“I’m definitely coming round, Devon, but I’m not quite there yet. Give me just a moment to formulate my thoughts.”

Devon pulled her onto a small sofa and sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder. His smile beamed as she sighed and laid her head against his arm and took one of his hands in hers. She’d never initiated such an intimate act before.

“I want you in my life, Devon, but I’m still frightened. May I spend the night in your bed?”

He started to grab her and then stopped. “There is nothing I’d like better, my love, but I need to understand your thinking. Does this mean you’ll marry me, tomorrow if possible?”

She couldn’t bring herself to face him directly. Twisting her hands together, she took a deep breath.

“Not exactly, Devon. I mean to try my best, but if I disappoint you tonight, then I’d like you to let me stay here and look after you and Jamie. You wouldn’t be obliged to marry me.”

The arm lifted from her shoulders as Devon bolted to his feet and planted himself directly in front of her. There was a prolonged silence, until Viviane forced herself to raise her eyes from his boots. She found his eyes blazing at her. She’d never seen him so angry before and a little thrill shot through her. No wonder he was such a success in whatever business role he attempted. He probably scared his rivals to death. His face was stern and set, his eyes cold behind their anger, one intimidating male as he directed his fury straight at her.

“Do you have any idea of how much you’ve just insulted me, madam?”

She hadn’t suspected his voice could be so icy. Not with her.

She shook her head, dismayed at the resentment radiating from his every inch. “I didn’t mean what I said as an insult,” she whispered. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased? Pleased at your suggestion I treat you like a whore? Pleased at having my sexual prowess somehow construed as the index of your affection? Pleased that you think your sexual prowess is the index of my affection? Think again, madam. I am far from pleased.”

She gave a small laugh. “Yes, I can see how pleased you are. Please forgive me, Devon. I had no idea you’d take my words this way. I want to marry you, I’m just so frightened I will disappoint you and you’ll be trapped in a marriage that’s a disaster for us both.”

She stopped and when his face still looked black, tried again to explain her viewpoint. “For I’ll know if I’ve failed to satisfy you and will be as miserable as you. I see no way out if you reject my suggestion.”

She wrung her hands together and then whispered, “I’m positive I won’t satisfy you in bed.”

He stared at her for a long moment and the anger in his face gradually relaxed until she found herself gazing at the loving man she knew.

“I see plenty of room for negotiation here. Come to me, Viviane. Let me try a little convincing.”

She slowly rose, but didn’t move. Her fright was plain to see and Devon took the last few steps to her and gently folded her in his arms.

“How long did your encounter with that damned Druid priest last?”

He tipped her face up to his and she was sure her astonishment showed. She’d expected him to grab at her. And what did his question matter after all this time?

She relaxed a little as his hold remained loose. “Oh, not long. Five to ten minutes. But I must tell you I hated it.”

A shudder she could not help ran through her body.

Devon’s arms tightened just a little.

“Viviane, listen to me carefully. You know I’ve never lied to you.”

He waited for her nod before he proceeded.

“The first time we join our bodies in love will be only after many long and leisurely minutes of me holding and caressing you. You will need much time to get used to my embrace, but hopefully, you will gradually relax in my arms. I would guess it would take about an hour before we actually unite our bodies and then only if you are ready. If you need more time, we’ll try again another night and another night after that. We will not actually come together until you tell me, tell me plainly, you desire to do so.”

Viviane knew she was staring. What was he saying? Could any man be that patient?

“Viviane, I love you. I will teach you to love me. But only within the bonds of marriage. I have a special license. Will you marry me tomorrow and give me the chance to prove my love for you doesn’t depend on how sexually proficient you are?”

He was holding her slightly away from him. No man had ever been this close to her for so long without attacking her. She knew now from Devon’s words “attacking” was just what that degenerate priest had done. She breathed a deep sigh.

There was a silence as she turned his words over in her mind and he waited, holding her loosely in the cage of his arms.

“All right, Devon. I’ll trust you in this. I do want to be near you and take care of you and Jamie.”

He grinned, a delighted yet devilish grin as he held her close, tipped her face to his and kissed her gently but firmly. She didn’t find it unpleasant at all!

“We’ll marry tomorrow. Let’s go tell Jamie.”

He drew her tenderly to him as he again kissed her. He kept his lips soft and feathered his kisses all along her jaw before returning to her mouth. She’d been racked by both love and fear when he began and now the fear seemed to be fading. To her delight her heart held only wonder as she thought of the marvelous man who was holding her so carefully. He was beyond kind, truly understanding in a way she’d thought not possible. She returned his kiss with gratitude. Soon her gratitude changed to a warm sensation that turned to fiery as it suffused her body. One she had never known. Her whole being felt hot and yet shivery. She liked his kissing and when he nudged her lips with his tongue, she started and then opened them.

Amazing! He actually put his tongue inside her mouth, taking his time, tasting her as if she were some sort of luscious dessert! To her infinite surprise she liked this also. When he withdrew and looked down at her with a smile, she tugged at his coat lapels to pull him back.

His smile grew even broader.

“I don’t think you have a thing to worry about, my love. You have depths of untouched passion I’ll teach you to discover. Our marriage will be a very good one.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, wiggling a little closer in his arms. She wasn’t paying much attention to his words. “Kiss me again, Devon.”

He laughed as he wrapped her tightly to him. “Yes, madam. Anything madam says. Then we’ll go tell Jamie.”

* * * * *

Sitting in a large armchair by Lance’s bed Morgan tried to focus on the book in her hands. If he were seriously hurt she’d never forgive herself. She never meant to pull him into danger, but somehow he’d been injured because of her.

Lance twitched on his pillows and started muttering.

“Justin, I didn’t want you hurt. I really tried to stop them.”

The rest was too low for her to catch. Who was Justin? One of his officers, perhaps. Had one of them once been injured and Lance blamed himself for some reason?

She’d risen when he started mumbling, but now he was quiet again and she sat back down. She stared at the same page for a long time. Lance usurped every one of her thoughts. His extreme bravery as he’d charged Tomlinson was unforgettable. Now he lay wounded. Her innate honesty made her admit he’d not acted simply to save her, but to catch an unusually despicable villain. Still, if he’d not found Tomlinson so close to killing her he might have used different tactics, ones not so dangerous to himself.

Again she shuddered from head to foot. It would be a long time before she could forget those maniacal eyes glaring at her. She could not afford to even think of how he would have tortured her before killing her if Lance had not arrived.

Lance was now turning his head from side to side and muttering again. She quickly put her hand on his forehead. He was warm, but she didn’t think dangerously so.

“Justin, Justin, please forgive me. I’m not worthy of forgiveness, I know. But I did try.”

Morgan didn’t want to hear any more.

“Lance, don’t fret. When you’re well you can set it straight with Justin. Just be quiet and rest.” She smoothed his forehead, trying to erase the wrinkles that were creasing his brow.

He grabbed her hand with a grip of steel. “Don’t try to stop me. I must see Justin.”

He half-lifted off the pillows and then fell back. He turned his face from her and continued to toss and mumble.

Morgan felt his forehead again. Definitely warmer than the last time she’d checked. Going to the door, she called for Jackson. She needed cloths and fresh cold water. As soon as he’d brought them she put a damp towel on Lance’s forehead. He seemed to settle, but only for a while. When he began to toss again she doubled her efforts as Jackson replenished the water again and again to keep it cool.

Hours later, she was limp from exhaustion, although she’d sent Jackson away to rest for a while. Lance still seemed far too warm to her and she perched on the edge of his bed. The moment she did so, he grabbed her.

“Are you Morgan? No, Morgan can’t be here. I don’t want her here. She would hate me if she knew how wicked I am.”

“I’m just your friend.” She smoothed the dark hair from his forehead. “Relax, my lord. No one will ever know your secrets.”

He smiled at her, a beautiful smile that tore at her heart. “Good,” he said. “I could not stand it if Morgan thought me dishonorable.”

His restlessness continued as she sat beside him, trying to make sense of his mysterious ramblings. She longed to absorb his pain and make it her own so he could have some rest. Suddenly he clutched her again. His glazed eyes looking at her but not seeming to see her.

“If you’re not Morgan, then I can ask you to lie beside me and help me forget.”

She didn’t know what to do, so she stayed silent and let him pull her down beside him on the bed.

He looked at her carefully, although his eyes were glassy with fever.

“No,” he said, “You’re not Morgan. My very proper Morgan would never lie beside me like this in a bed. She’d need to know my intentions were honorable. But how can they be when I’m not?”

He moved suddenly and groaned, wrapping her in his arms, holding her so tightly she couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. Lying in Lance’s arms felt as if it were the natural place to be. She held very still so she would not alert him to the fact she was Morgan.

His fingers moved to her blouse, unbuttoning it with a rapidity that astonished her. Evidently Lord Lance was quite experienced with women’s clothing. Although she’d always known that. Right now her whole body felt alive in a way she’d never known. She hoped, fervently hoped, he didn’t come to his senses for a long while. She literally held her breath as his clever fingers moved to caress her breasts.

“You are so sweet and soft,” he said. Then his fingers moved to her nipples and began to caress them with the same expertise he’d already demonstrated.

Morgan knew she should stop him. Partly for his sake, since he could not know what he was doing. And partly for her own, for the very same reason. If Lance Dellafield ever took her to bed she wanted him to know exactly whose body he was thrilling with his knowledgeable caresses.

But she didn’t try to make him pause. His hands on her bare breasts were unbelievably enchanting. Her minor ability to work spells was nothing to his! She lay still, memorizing every delicious sensation, as he raised himself a little and put his lips where his fingers lingered a second ago, kissing her everyplace his hands wandered. She gasped as he finally placed one kiss on each nipple.

Her whole body throbbed to life with fervid sensation. She couldn’t summon the willpower to stop him, no matter where these delights led. Please let him show her more of the enchantments she found only in his arms.

Then suddenly he fell back flat on the bed.

“Forgive me, lovely one. I can’t pleasure you as you deserve. Forgive me.”

He flopped back and threw one arm over his face. Morgan lay still, mortification flooding her as she cautiously sat up. She did not want him ever to know how she ached for more.

Lance was muttering again, but all she could catch this time were the words “Justin” and “sorry”. She moved his arm from her body, noting its limpness as it fell to his side. His skin felt much too hot. He was burning up again.

Going to the door she called for Jackson and more ice and water.

“I think we’d better sponge his whole body, Jackson. He’s getting hotter by the minute and just doing his forehead doesn’t last long enough. I’ll need your help.”

Between them they readied fresh clothes and sponged his chest. A broad chest covered with dark hairs that tapered to his waistline and seemed to keep on going. Morgan longed to know where they stopped, but turned away and resumed changing the cloths for colder ones. Were Jackson not there would she have given in to temptation to peek a little lower? She flushed at the thought and decided to go herself for the next bowl of iced water.

“No, let me,” she insisted when Jackson protested. “I need to stretch different muscles.”

She’d have herself under control when she came back.

Light was sending searching fingers into the sky when they agreed they could quit. As she sank into a chair, Morgan felt she’d never been so tired. Lance now slept normally. She didn’t have to feel his forehead to know. His aura was a steady blue-gray, far different from that of the nighttime when it had been streaked with jagged orange lines. He was on the way to recovery, barring an onset of infection. But her mother could deal with that.

For the first time, she resolved to study under her mother and learn as much as she could of her incredible knowledge. Viviane had offered to teach her many times, but Morgan’s lack of confidence had held her back. Now that she knew she was a true daughter to her Druid mother, she wanted to learn everything available. If she could cast spells she could do anything.

His caretakers disturbed Lance as little as possible as they sponged him with one last round of cooling cloths. Morgan pulled the covers over him and turned to Jackson with a sigh.

“Jackson, could you rest in the chair while I get an hour or so of sleep? Then I’ll send you to bed for the rest of the day. Right now I’m no good to anybody for anything.”

“Of course, Miss Morgan, you should have let me do more. Don’t hurry back. I promise to call you if there is any change.”

She dragged herself off to bed, but sleep didn’t come as easily as she expected. Why was Lance so ashamed? And why was she not even more ashamed of allowing him such liberties?

Remembering those few moments as he’d caressed her with his lips and clever hands brought a smile to her relaxing face. She finally drifted off. No, she felt only glory, no shame. How could she be ashamed of something as wonderful as Lance’s fervent mouth on her breast?

Chapter Thirteen

A glowing Viviane came to the townhouse the next day. Morgan gave one look at her mother and knew something wonderful had happened. She waited with a smile for her mother to confide in her. She would no more invade her mother’s privacy than her mother would hers.

Viviane kissed her daughter, an even more loving kiss than usual. Morgan now was sure what happened was momentous, but still she waited, crossing her fingers as they both ascended the stairs. She wanted nothing but happiness for her wonderful mother.

Viviane found Lance conscious and in pain.

He grinned at Viviane, however weakly. “No more mandrake, madam. I dreamed the most amazing dreams all night. They quite unsettled me.”

Viviane’s eyebrows raised. “I must say I’m surprised, Lord Lance. That’s not a general effect of mandrake. Your fever was probably more responsible. However, let’s see your wound.”

She took off the bandages and poked all around the gash. Lance was obviously trying not to wince and Viviane smiled.

“I won’t torture you anymore, my lord. There is no suspicious puffiness. Morgan, have Jackson bring ice. Keeping it directly on his wound will greatly cut the pain. The wound doesn’t seem infected but you’re too hot, Lord Lance. I’m going to ask you to swallow a little potion of a few harmless herbs. I brew it to keep fever away, although I hope it will also dim the pain just a little. I certainly don’t want you thrashing around the bed.”

Lance sat straight up. “Bed? I don’t intend to stay in bed, madam. I’m quite well enough to be up and about.”

“You certainly are not.” Viviane pushed him flat with one hand and he lay glaring at her until his glance turned into a reluctant laugh.

“You win for now, Madam Viviane.”

“I also have a bribe to hold out to you.” She turned and gathered her daughter into her arms. “Devon and I are being married tomorrow. He wants you there and if you rest quietly today you can do it. Actually he wanted to marry today, but I told him you needed another day. As I do. I need something special for my bride’s clothes and as my attendant Morgan does too.”

She hugged Morgan with a loving grip as she talked. Morgan stared at her mother, surprise her most prominent emotion.

“I can scarcely believe it. Tomorrow! And you swore never to marry.”

“I did indeed,” her mother said lightly, kissing her daughter’s forehead.

“I think it’s wonderful. Mama, simply wonderful! Just think, I’ll be Jamie’s sister!”

Everyone beamed, even Jackson who’d just come to the doorway with more cold water.

Morgan looked doubtfully at Lance, wondering if she could safely leave him.

Viviane smiled and patted his hand.

“He’ll behave. He wants to be present as much as Devon and I want him to be there. Bring him something to read, Jackson and some ice. Come, my daughter. Let’s go shopping.”

* * * * *

Viviane was a spectacularly beautiful bride, dressed in cream-colored silk and matching gloves and shoes. The delicate shade emphasized her glorious hair and Devon beamed foolishly at everyone in his joy and pride. Morgan did not realize it but she was just as lovely. Her pale green dress floated around her and brought out the sparkling depths of her eyes. Jamie, his golden curls carefully brushed and a big smile on his face, stood between Viviane and Devon as they were married. Each of them held one small hand.

Devon brought tears to his bride’s eyes when he presented her with a bridal bouquet of white asters and red carnations, with ivy spilling down the sides.

“True love, fidelity and wedded love,” she whispered. “Thank you, my heart.”

Lance looked surprised, but Morgan knew that to provide this particular bouquet Devon must have not only researched the language of flowers but found the perfect ones he wanted for his bride. What a truly wonderful gift.

Her own heart was torn between a mixture of joy and sorrow. Her mother deserved perfect happiness, or as near as anyone could get to that elusive state. The newlyweds were going on a month’s honeymoon to France and Morgan would care for Jamie. The bride and groom planned to spend their first night at the Oaks, with Morgan and Jamie coming down the next day.

Morgan didn’t know quite what to do with the rest of her life. By the time the bridal pair returned from their honeymoon she needed to have a definite plan in mind. She would be welcome for as long as she wanted to stay, she well knew that. But they deserved some privacy for at least the first few months.

She thought probably she would return to London. She’d concentrate on studying her mother’s notes on medicine. She intended to develop her own skills with herbs and perhaps with magic spells. Maybe she could learn enough to do as much good with her life as her mother.

She’d smiled at Lance when he came into Devon’s parlor for the wedding ceremony. The radiance of her smile glowed with delight in his recovery. He held himself stiffly and with care, but he looked devastatingly handsome in the black trousers, a wing-collared white shirt with a black silk cravat and black velvet smoking jacket. He’d been advised by Viviane to not struggle into anything tight for about a week or she’d not be responsible for his stitches. Morgan thought the jacket suited him perfectly. Casual, yet sleek and elegant.

He nodded to her curtly, without a smile.

She turned away, tears springing to her eyes, devastated by his cold formality. What was he thinking to treat her so? Her initial distress gave way to anger and incomprehension. Was he resentful for her taking care of him? Or did he fear what he might have said and think she’d take advantage of information he possibly let slip? No matter, his iciness was inexcusable.

Fortunately her mother was admiring her wedding bouquet at the moment. Morgan lowered her head for a few minutes to regain control before facing her mother’s sharp eyes.

She pasted a smile on her face and never let it slip. Indeed, she became engrossed in the wedding ceremony. Once she thought she felt Lance’s eyes on her, but when she glanced up he looked away. What under heaven was the matter with him? Perhaps she’d get a chance to talk to him after the ceremony. Jackson had prepared a light lunch for them all.

She got no chance. As soon as the ceremony was over Lance excused himself with his usual impeccable manners, saying he needed to return to his own apartments and rest a little more. He kissed the bride and shook hands with Devon, all the while mouthing the correct congratulations to them both. He also shook hands with Jamie and hugged him. Then he came to Morgan.

“I owe you my deepest thanks for your care of me, Miss Morgan. If you need anything, anything at all, ever, please call on me. I will never refuse you.” He kissed the air over her glove and left.

Morgan still kept her smile. Miss Morgan! The blasted man wasn’t going to make her cry in front of her mother. She wanted Viviane to go off without a care. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite work. Viviane took her aside for a moment.

“What’s wrong with Lance, love?”

“I simply don’t have an idea, Mama. Don’t worry. Have a wonderful time. Nobody deserves it as much as you two. I’m so very happy for you both.”

“I know you too well to be fooled, love, but this time I can’t help you. You are so special in your own right. Remember that, no matter what.”

Her mother kissed her, as did a euphoric Devon.

And then they were gone.

Morgan went slowly up the stairs. She and Jamie were leaving in the morning for the Oaks. She would occupy herself with packing and not think at all about the regrettable Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield.

How could he be so cold and distant? After holding her so hotly in his arms, how could he?

* * * * *

Morgan cherished the fresh air, loving the country home where she’d spent the last few happy years. The rolling countryside stretched in every direction from the knoll where the manor sat. She found a measure of peace here at the Oaks, walking the beloved lanes and fields, taking Jamie by the hand and teaching him about herbs and flowers.

Jamie loved being in the country and was a happy little boy. She made him even happier by starting him on riding lessons. He was inordinately proud of his progress, asking three times a day when his papa and new mama would be home so he could show them how good he was. Other than when he was on his pony, Jamie and Ambrose were inseparable. If the child was riding, Ambrose sat on his big haunches and waited for him.

Morgan rode every day. Long, hard rides on Lily, her favorite mare, named for the Eucharis lily, meaning “charming maiden”.

“I’m not good enough to ride Lily, but can’t I go with you sometime? Foxfire can keep up, I know he can.” Jamie looked so hopeful Morgan didn’t even think of refusing him.

Luckily Jamie’s pony had been named before Jamie got him. A good thing, since the Dictionary of the Language of Flowers had few names suitable for little ponies.

“You can go starting tomorrow,” Morgan said and laughed as delight spread over Jamie’s face. It would slow her down for a while, but those pleading brown eyes were beyond her refusing.

“As long as you promise to turn back when I say so,” she added as sternly as she could.

Jamie was fairly dancing in place. “Oh yes, Miss Morgan. Thank you, Miss Morgan. I love you, Miss Morgan.”

He ran over and knelt down to tell Ambrose the good news.

Jamie stuck to his promise and turned back dutifully with the groom when Morgan judged the child had had enough. Then she struck out flying across the fields and down the lanes, trying to work the sorrow out of her heart.

In addition, she spent fascinated hours with Viviane’s notebooks. She started making a list of questions to ask her mother on her return, but mostly she soaked up knowledge. Why hadn’t she tackled this captivating lore long ago? She knew the answer, she once felt hesitant because of her lack of magical skills. Now she knew she could work spells and practiced almost daily. Her confidence grew and so did her wisdom.

She began by trying to think up little things that would help someone.

First she went to the housekeeper.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs. Hodges? I know with Jamie and me here you have too much to do and I don’t have enough.”

Mrs. Hodges protested at first and then gave a little sigh. “My back’s getting old along with me, I’m afraid. If you could see if Mary is properly dusting the lower rungs of the chairs. Just check on her now and then.”

“I’d be grateful for the chance to help, Mrs. Hodges.”

She shut her eyes and wished all the dust would disappear on the instant. When she opened her eyes to no dust she was jubilant. Mrs. Hodges wrinkled her brow with puzzlement when she found the house spotless, but said nothing.

Next Morgan tried something harder. The stable master’s hands were becoming gnarled and would not easily do his bidding. Morgan cast a spell that all the leather in the tack room would be clean and shining with polish. She knew old Masterson was completely baffled, but it seemed well worth it when she saw him rub the leather with glee.

She did wonder once why her very first spell had worked so well. Surely it was not to the chestnut’s good to have its leaves fall prematurely. Then she smiled to herself as she thought of how much it was to her own good! And to her mother’s and all who cherished her. The chestnut helped them all.

Next she began to utilize her new knowledge of herbs and their benefits. She tackled the problems she constantly found on her walks and rides around the estate. She helped an old woman’s eyesight, an old man’s dreaded headaches, a young baby’s colic. She concocted a salve that relieved the pain and helped straighten the stable master’s hands. She never dreamed the country folk were beginning to compare her to her mother and blessing her.

There was so much to learn. The strong link between body and mind became apparent as she pored over the books. Many times she’d suspected illness was possibly caused and certainly exacerbated, by anxiety and pain. Her mother’s notes plainly stated this to be the case. She loved gaining knowledge and keeping herself productively busy. Her days were full and she could mostly brush aside the thoughts of Lance picking at her mind.

Nights were the worst and she began to dread bedtime. Every remembered kiss and caress came rushing back in the dark hours as she reviewed his brief lovemaking. Try as she would, she couldn’t banish the images of his beloved face and his skilled hands caressing her eager body.

She’d not heard from Lance. Now she didn’t expect to. She was sure she could someday learn to keep him from her thoughts, or limit her memories to at least only once an hour. In the meantime she lay awake at night trying not to let sorrow overrule the remembered joy.

When her parents returned she would go back to London. Although she preferred the country she was determined to allow the newlyweds their privacy. She’d take Lily with her since she planned a longer stay. Maybe for a long time indeed.

She was close to learning how to be of true value to those in pain. The image of the old man’s hands lived on in her mind. She wanted to actually cure him and felt she soon could.

She would continue her studies at London’s great libraries. She was quite interested in the ancient Chinese herbal remedies, an area her mother’s notes treated lightly. Her life could prove of benefit to others and surely she would find peace, someday, for herself.

A knock on the study door interrupted her musings.

It was Mrs. Hodges, worrying again.

“Miss Morgan, is there anything I can do for you? You get so little sleep. Some hot milk, maybe. With a fresh scone?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hodges. Thank you for the kind thought, but I’ll be going up now.”

Morgan sighed as she looked at the clock and knew she’d worry the servants if she stayed up any later. Climbing the stairs slowly, she wondered if she would ever find a way to banish Lance from her nightly dreams.

What a shame she couldn’t work a spell on herself. A spell keeping the precious memories, but allowing her peace.

* * * * *

Morgan was satisfied as she twirled in front of her mirror. Her long dress of aqua chiffon hugged her hips closely and flared in the back to a small train. Her hair was pulled on top of her head and fell in curls around her face. Some chestnut ringlets swooped down to her neck. She peered but couldn’t see the red highlights her new escort enthused about. She was going out with Lt. Col. Wesley Thorndike, an officer in Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards. A handsome blond man, he’d called on her at her new stepfather’s suggestion and since then escorted her to several dinners and evenings at the theatre. He was pleasant, courteous and easy to talk to. She wanted no more.

She’d been back in London three months. Lance did not call and she gave up expecting to ever see him again. Why her heart lurched if she spotted a tall dark man in the distance, she didn’t want to consider. The Goddess knew she’d struggled to bury the memory of the haunting Lord Lance.

Col. Thorndike was escorting her to the opera tonight to see a new production of Aida. If her mind kept demanding she reach back to the night Lance took her to La Traviata, she refused to let the memories in.

The good-looking Col. Thorndike saw her coming down the stairs and pretended he had to sit down. Holding his head in a mock swoon, he staggered back against the wall.

“You’re too beautiful to be real. Are you some kind of fairy, or an angel sent from heaven?”

She laughed at his antics, as she slowly advanced to the foyer.

“You’re a charming idiot, Colonel. But I love it.”

He draped her opera cape around her shoulders and escorted her to the carriage. She smiled up at him, but worried she’d soon have to discourage him. She didn’t want him falling in love with her. It would be unfair to him.

Their seats were as well-placed as those she and Lance once had enjoyed. No, she wouldn’t remember that. The seats must have cost the colonel a good deal, for they were excellent. At intermission she couldn’t stop her traitorous eyes from looking up at the Dellafield box. To her horror, it was occupied. The Duke and Duchess of Lambden, a haughty-looking blond woman and Lance.

Morgan quickly averted her eyes, although she felt her whole body blush with embarrassment as blood thudded in her ears. She scarcely heard a note of the last act, although her attention swung back to the stage at the magnificent Triumphal March. As the horses and chariots proceeded across the stage in victorious array, she succeeded in concentrating once again on the opera. She saw Wesley looking at her in puzzlement and as the final scene began he reached over and took her hand. His grip was warm and comforting and she smiled at him sincerely. He was a thoroughly nice man.

When she and Wesley left their seats she let him guide her out of the auditorium with no premonition of disaster. Surely such a prestigious party as the Duke and Duchess would have a secluded passage to and from their box. She was not likely to encounter Lance.

She laid her hand lightly on her escort’s arm and chattered about the dramatic triumphal march.

“I tend to think this March was a trifle overdone. I suppose they have to be impressive, but it seemed a little ostentatious tonight.”

Wesley smiled down at her and started to speak when Morgan heard a cultured, sweet, feminine voice.

“My dear Miss McAfee. I was so glad to see you in the audience tonight. I wanted especially to talk to you.”

She looked up, directly at the face of the Duchess of Lambden.

She dropped into a hasty curtsey, not realizing that every move she made was more than graceful. She felt Lance’s eyes fastened upon her and she rose from her curtsey with, she feared, a well-developed blush.

“Your Grace,” she said. “I thank you for the honor. May I present Lt. Col. Thorndike to you? He’s currently in Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards.”

The Duchess extended her hand to Thorndike, who bowed and kissed the air above her glove.

“You don’t know my husband, I believe, although you do know my son.” The Duchess was still smiling warmly. “And this is Lady Belinda Cartwright.”

The Duke nodded warmly as Morgan dipped in another curtsey and he gave her his hand to help her rise. Lance nodded stiffly and Lady Belinda not at all.

Morgan glanced at Lady Belinda’s frozen face and wondered if she ever smiled at another woman. Maybe it was just Morgan she snubbed. She’d wager the blonde beauty smiled at Lance often enough. Belinda was tall and stately, her copious hair drawn sleekly back, formed into a impressive coil at the base of her swan-like neck. Morgan hated her on sight. In fact, she’d hated her at that hasty glimpse to the Lambden box.

The Duchess took Morgan’s hand in a startling gesture of friendship, although it did not seem to surprise the Duke.

“We wanted you to convey our most sincere congratulations to Commissioner Randall on his marriage to your beautiful mother. Will you please extend our best wishes to them both?”

Morgan was touched they’d evidence such goodwill to her and in such public surroundings. She glanced at Lance, who gave a slight smile and murmured something about hoping her parents were well. Belinda the Beauty still didn’t smile. She did, however, give a possessive tug to Lance’s sleeve.

“Shall we go, Lance? I’d like to introduce you to a few of my friends tonight. You have such a wonderful reputation. Too, too impressive and they’re dying to meet you.”

She smiled up at him, patted his arm and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. Lance stiffened, chagrin at her lack of manners evident to anyone who knew him well.

Morgan had had enough. If the beauty had nodded even once she might not be quite so enraged. She consulted furiously with her inner self and decided a slight spell might teach the blonde beauty compassion for others and therefore be good for her. She muttered a few words under her breath.

Suddenly every blonde hair seemed to loosen at once from Lady Belinda’s impressively smooth chignon. Each sleek hair was now kinky and curled impossibly tight. Each hair seemed to stand by itself, reaching out in a wild halo from her head.

She was an amazing sight. Even Morgan was surprised, mostly at how successful she’d been. The Duke and Duchess covered their faces to try to stifle their laughter, although Lance didn’t even try.

Lady Belinda shrieked, put her hands to her head and shrieked again. She turned around and saw Morgan standing there, her hands to her lips, her eyes startled.

“You did this to me,” Lady Belinda shrieked. “It had to be you. You’re a witch!”

Morgan replied with perfect condescension. “As a matter of fact, I think I am. However, I’m a good witch. Good people have nothing to fear from me.”

She turned elegantly to the still amused ducal pair.

“Your graces, it’s a true honor to meet you. You are the perfect gentlepeople I expected you to be. I’ll be most happy to convey your greetings to my parents.”

With a curt nod to Lance, who was now snorting into his handkerchief, she took the Colonel’s arm and swept out.

The Colonel was looking at her with what she thought was a blend of amusement, much awe and approval.

As they went down the steps outside Covent Garden he asked her only one question.

“Did you really do that?”

“Yes, I did. And I’m not ashamed yet. Maybe I will be tomorrow, but not tonight.”

“You shouldn’t be tomorrow either. How you did it, I don’t know, but she’s an obnoxious woman.”

Morgan gave in to a few giggles and then smiled her glorious smile at him. A very nice man indeed.

What a shame he wasn’t Lance.

* * * * *

Try as she might, Morgan couldn’t summon up anything but pleased amusement at her impulsive actions of the night before. She knew she’d put on a display that would doubtless revolt the Duke and Duchess when they had time to think about it. But they would never have accepted her as Lance’s wife in any case. She knew in the deepest part of her soul she wanted marriage to him and only him. But that was now completely hopeless. As it had always been.

Perhaps she should quit seeing the nice Colonel. His amazing acceptance of her actions alerted her to the possibility his affections might be engaged. He’d stood there with an amused smile on his face and never mentioned the incident after the one question at Covent Garden. He was interesting to talk to and a dear man, but she did not want him.

She was still at breakfast when the knock sounded and she heard a deep voice. She paled as Jackson ushered Lance into the morning room.

“Jackson, will you please bring more coffee and scones? Would you have a seat, Lord Laniston? From my limited experience I find men can always enjoy a second breakfast.”

She smiled sweetly at him, a little alarmed at his serious expression.

“I did not have a first breakfast, so thank you, Morgan. I would like something light.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down.

“If you are about to chide me for my actions last night it’s not necessary. I can’t say I’m sorry, but it was rather childish of me.”

“I’ve not come to chide you, Morgan. You responded rather magnificently to undue provocation. I’ve come to do some explaining of my own. I must find peace. I can’t work properly, I’m not eating or sleeping well, I’m not even a good Chief Inspector.”

Morgan knew her astonishment was evident. Lord Laniston Dellafield, talking to her in such a manner! She felt as if somebody had put her head in a paper bag and shaken it ’til the contents were muddled and floating around.

“I find this hard to believe, Lord Laniston.”

He looked at her in semi-despair. “Please call me Lance again. I don’t think I’ll get through this if you don’t at least pretend to be my friend.”

She took one of his large hands in her two small ones.

“I’ll always be your friend, Lance.”

His half-smile came and faded quickly.

“I want to confess to you why I disappeared with scarcely a word after your caring for me so sweetly when I was injured. I’m not at all proud of myself.”

She withdrew her hand and raised her head in her newly won pride. She’d found she was a good Druid, a good witch and a good healer. She did not need to hear his confession to be sure of herself.

He smiled at her uplifted nose. “Please, Morgan, hear me out. I feel I must tell you to gain my own peace. Why it’s so essential I don’t know, but it is. Then I’ll leave you alone. You’ll want nothing to do with me afterwards, anyway.”

This astonished her so she looked at him closely. Yes, he’d actually said what she’d heard. She couldn’t imagine anything he could say would turn her against him. She motioned for him to proceed.

“Have you ever heard me say the name ‘Justin’?” he asked. His eyes were cast down when he started talking, but now he raised them. His blue, blue eyes were clouded with misery.

She saw no point in prevarication. “When you were injured and feverish you mentioned him.”

“I thought I had,” he said grimly. “I also fear I took ungentlemanly advantage of you the night you cared for me. I don’t remember exactly, but the pleasure of my dreams haunts me. But let me have my say. Justin Ashcraft was with me at Eton. He was two years younger and of much slighter build. I did not know him until several months after he’d arrived at school.”

He stopped and put his head briefly in his hands. “This is horror story, incidentally, so be prepared.”

When he looked up again Morgan felt as if she were looking into his very soul. His cobalt eyes were clouded with misery and his hair was thoroughly disarranged, even to the white streaks at his temples. He was making no attempt to hide his feelings, painful as they obviously were to him.

Morgan put both her hands on his to try to stop him, but he shook his head, although he grabbed her hands with a painful grip.

“Justin was assigned to fag for one of the biggest bullies in the school. This scoundrel had two bosom friends, as mean and degenerate as he. I did not know how Justin was being treated until I found him one day huddled in a corner of the hall of my dormitory trying to get up courage to speak to me. He’d heard I was fair-minded.”

His pain roughened his lowered voice. He was silent for a long moment.

“The trio were mistreating him miserably. Almost nightly beatings, forcing him to eat garbage, all sorts of cruel abominations I won’t distress you by listing. Justin told me he’d tried and tried to be a good sport, but everything got too much for him. He was going to run away and hope his parents forgave him. He wanted someone to know the truth in case he didn’t make his way home. He swore he’d commit suicide if he were forced to put up with any more. I believed him.”

Lance took a long drink of his coffee and Morgan poured him more. He’d not touched his scones.

“I promised to protect him. I called on each of the trio and did my best to put some fear into their wicked souls. I thought I had, Morgan, I truly did. One day when I was playing a cricket match they took revenge on Justin.”

His voice hardened, as did his expression. He was no longer looking at Morgan, but watching his hands.

“They lay him face down over a windowsill and two of the bullies thrust the window pane down on the middle of his back to hold him still. Then they beat him bloody. When they let him up he threw open the window and jumped out.”

Lance again buried his face in his hands. “I’ve never told anyone this, Morgan, not even my parents. They know Justin is a cripple, but not why. This is very hard to tell even to you.”

Morgan patted his knee, but couldn’t say a word.

He waited a few minutes and then continued. “They were on the second story. Justin broke both legs and dislocated his spine, among other lesser injuries. One leg never healed properly.”

The silence time stretched on ’til Morgan found her voice.

“What’s happened to him, Lance?”

His attempt to speak calmly twisted her heart. “He manages my country estate. He’ll never walk properly and he has a good deal of pain, but he’s an excellent manager. My wonderful parents gifted each of my brothers and me at birth with our own estate. Mine is in Kent, actually not too far from your mother’s, although I’ve spent little time there.”

His face twisted. “I can hardly face Justin, even now.”

They were both silent for quite a while. Morgan was content to wait. She knew he needed time to regain his usual detached equilibrium and she needed to digest all this. To her these gruesome facts explained a great deal. No wonder Lord Laniston Dellafield cast his lot into punishing the cruel and the wicked. No wonder he was such an excellent policeman and leader of men.

She wanted desperately to comfort him, but didn’t know where to start. Even more surprising than the story was his admission he’d not told his parents all of the horrifying details. She thought his parents could not be more tolerant. Lance’s shame must run very deep and had haunted him far too long. But why was he telling her all this and at this time?

Lance sat staring straight ahead and Morgan was sure he saw nothing in front of him. Still she was silent, desperate to say the right words and afraid of the wrong ones. The recitation must have brought back every horrifying feeling as his face was etched with pain and regret.

“Thank you for listening, Morgan. I don’t blame you for being revolted. I’ll let myself out.”

He took a very shaky breath, raising his eyes to her and then dropping them as she still said not a word.

As he got slowly to his feet, the suffering on his ravaged face broke her silence. She ran to him, turning him toward her and grabbing his hands, willing him to stay with her until she could help him.

“Lance, I wish I could ease your pain as I do some of my patients. I truly think you have no blame. You couldn’t watch over Justin every minute of the night and day. Those horribly wicked boys would have found him sometime, someplace. Wicked people are intent on finding their victims, as you and I well know.”

He looked up at her with a flash of hope in his distressed eyes, which soon died out. “No, Morgan. I gave my word and did not keep it. No matter the circumstances, I let Justin down and he paid the price I should have paid.”

“Lance, you’re wrong. Terribly wrong. I think you’re not only wrong but overly hard on yourself. Lance, sometimes circumstances break our word for us.”

“That’s my Morgan,” he said, his twisted grin breaking her heart.

“Lance, I’m honored you told me this, but why did you? I haven’t heard from you for some time and I’m puzzled. Do you mind my asking you?”

He stood stiffly in place. “No, I don’t mind anything from you. It’s simple. Your honesty last night when you faced down Belinda put me to shame. You held your head high, used your unusual powers and then frankly admitted them. In a public place. No matter you were facing my parents, a Duke and a Duchess, as well as me. I, on the other hand, have been too cowardly to be honest with you or anyone.”

She refused to let go of his hands and he finally looked directly at her. The suffering in his eyes held her speechless again. Why could she not think of the right words to ease his pain?

“I’ve withdrawn and neglected you with no explanation, Morgan. That is the height of cowardice. I feel you deserve to know why I cut off our relationship. You were getting too close to me. I didn’t want you to know my secrets. Surely you now see I’m not honorable and not worthy of you.”

He started toward the door again and then turned around.

“I suppose I must marry someday, but I’ll put it off as long as I can. Your image is always with me now. Every minute of every day. After a while I’ll probably marry another Belinda.”

His voice was low and bitter. Then he looked straight at her with his beautiful cobalt eyes and shattered her senses.

“I want you to know I love you, even though I hope to never see you again.”

He strode out the door.

“Lance, wait.” Morgan ran after him but he did not turn around again. She knew she couldn’t catch him and she went slowly back into the house.

What should she do now, in the face of those last bitter words? How strange to know he thought her witching ways were honest and brave. But how to handle such a reluctant and wonderful declaration of love?

Dear Goddess, she needed all the guidance she could call on to persuade Lance his guilt was as excessive as she’d once thought his pride.

Chapter Fourteen

Morgan felt as if the Earth had turned over under her feet and was still shaking. She’d never been as bewildered and astonished as when Lance bared his heart to her. She spent the night trying to determine what to do, but came up without an answer. Although her heart was singing with the joy of his now-acknowledged love, she knew he never intended to see her again. He wouldn’t want to see the one person who knew the secret he thought so shameful.

All through an early breakfast, she debated with herself. What on earth was he thinking? That he was not worthy of her? She’d never heard anything any more ridiculous. Yet he’d seemed so convinced and so unwavering in his resolve to cut her out of his life.

She needed time to think this through. One thing she knew for sure. She would not let Lord Lance Dellafield get away with such a ridiculous assertion as saying he was unworthy of her. How could he be convinced she would hate him now that she knew his deepest secret? That he couldn’t face her again after that heart-rending recital of what had so marked him at Eton? Lance, her strong, straight-thinking Lance, was far askew in his thinking on this one matter. Of course his honor was important, but he could not lose that vital element by an incident over which he had no control.

She knew she’d force him to see her as soon as she could, but she was far from ready for a confrontation. She must be completely prepared when she saw him again.

Could he really love her? He must, to come and speak from his heart in such a despairing way. Was he prepared then to go through the rest of his life, shoving his emotions to the bottom of his true self? Evidently he felt that less painful than living with love in a mutually trusting relationship.

He was wrong. She would not permit it. No, one essential point held the key. He honestly didn’t think himself worthy of her. He did not have qualms about their difference in social station, but as he saw it, she was proud of the person she’d become and he was not. He honestly felt inferior. A truly astonishing reversal of what she’d believed to be his feelings.

She would have to contrive to see him alone and attempt to straighten out this whole blasted mess. Who ever heard of a man avowing he’d loved a woman and throwing it off as a kind of unimportant aside? Especially if he wanted to sever their relationship because of a long ago incident outside his power.

The more she thought about it, the more indignant her feelings glowed. Lance Dellafield was not going to have his way this time!

She put on her riding outfit, collected Lily from the stable and set out for Hyde Park. One couldn’t really do serious galloping there, but hopefully the lanes would be free enough so she could canter.

The Park was not teeming as usual, but still more crowded than she preferred. She needed an exhilarating ride, but could only manage one that was halfway satisfying. She turned back, intending to go home. At the last minute, just as she was about to leave the track, a small boy chased a ball directly in front of her.

She pulled the reins tight and jerked them to rear her horse, as the youngster scooted to safety. Lily stopped abruptly, bucking slightly in protest. She could have easily maintained her seat had she not looked up and caught sight of Lance. His carriage was just entering the Park and with him was another beautiful blonde. That perfidious scoundrel! The very day after he’d said other women paled beside his thoughts of her!

Her hold on her reins loosened as she gradually lost balance, slipping slowly to one side and then to the ground. Luckily the mare was well-trained and stopped the moment she felt the weight go off her back.

Lance looked up just in time to see her fall. He immediately pulled up his team, throwing the reins to his companion.

He ran to Morgan, frantically patting her over as much of her as he could reach. She chuffed at his ridiculous pawing. She’d not fallen hard, for heaven’s sakes, why check her whole body for injuries?

She was also completely mortified.

“Morgan, my love, are you hurt? Shall I summon a doctor? Can I take you home?” Lance looked as anxious as if she’d been mortally wounded by a gunshot.

“Get your hands off me, you big oaf! I’m fine. I like taking falls. I do it most times I go riding just for practice in falling gracefully. Go back to your companion, my lord. Another blonde, I see. You must really have a fixation on such light hair. Too bad mine is so much darker.”

She stood and dusted off her riding habit, keeping her eyes down. She would not, she absolutely would not let him see the tears of chagrin in her eyes.

He took a step toward her and she yelled at him, “Leave me alone.”

Leading Lily next to a fallen log, she quickly mounted. She didn’t even glance at him as she rode away, her head as high as she could manage and still ride safely.

If she’d taken a moment she would have seen him grin as his eyes followed her out of sight. She might even have heard him speak quietly to himself before he went back to his carriage.

“Never again, my dear. I’ll not leave you alone ever again.”

* * * * *

The more Lance thought about Morgan’s fall the more bewildered he became. Why had Morgan ranted so at him? He was merely trying to check her for injuries! Surely she didn’t expect him to go riding blithely by when she fell? At the remembrance of exactly why she’d lost her seat, his lips twisted up a little. She’d been protecting the threatened child, of course. Yet her pride wouldn’t allow her to be happy that anyone, especially him, had seen her unwilling descent. Even though she fell as gracefully as she did everything else.

His love was a maddening, unpredictable, strictly adorable girl. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she confounded him. He loved her for her every vagary. The life he now was determined to share with her would not be dull.

The fall merely reinforced the feeling constantly clamoring at his mind, refusing to stay buried. He’d tried without success to hide his love for her deep in his soul. He now knew his battle with his emotions was well and truly lost. The shock of seeing her plummet to the ground made him realize without any doubt that he had to have and protect her. All his misgivings had fallen away as he’d watched her pitch off her horse. He’d almost panicked with fear. No matter she wasn’t hurt. The very fact she could have been crystallized his thinking in one powerful moment.

If she didn’t love him surely she wouldn’t mind so much that he witnessed her fall.

One amazing fact he’d been trying desperately to believe also surfaced and was now a sure remembrance.

His love had heard his confession and not turned away. In fact she’d run after him as he left. She did not despise him for his sins. If she, the soul of honor and honesty, did not scorn him, then perhaps he was not so bad.

She valued him for the person he was. Not his title, not his riches, not his high place in society. If anything, the advantages any other girl would prize meant less than nothing to her. They might even be detriments in her straightforward way of thinking.

She was one in a million. No, the odds were longer than that. Even his parents had agreed on her worth. After the opera, the ducal carriage had dropped off a still ranting Belinda. He’d escorted her to her door, bid her a terse goodnight and returned to the carriage. The Duke and Duchess had spoken almost in unison.

“Morgan is a lovely, lovely girl, Lance. No, a lovely person. I like her so much. Her honesty is unusual and admirable. She is very much herself.”

This from his mother. From his father, a paternal grunt and the comment that Morgan was exceptional. He’d been so astounded he didn’t say a word. Thinking back now, he could see that Morgan’s characteristics and independence were exactly those of his mother’s, although the Duchess had learned to mask her unconventionality. Perhaps his unhappiness also influenced their clear approval of Morgan.

Could Morgan learn to accept the life of society? It didn’t really matter. He already chose to avoid most social functions and her beauty and character would embellish the few they favored with their attendance.

Nothing else counted but the unadorned truth that he needed her for his own. Much more than need. He had to have her.

He’d really made a mess of courting her. In fact he’d tried for weeks to drive her away from him. Now he would have to put all his mental abilities into convincing her he’d changed his mind. No, that was the wrong way to think. He’d come into his right mind.

The best place to start was to call on her just as soon as he could get to her house and try to convince her of his love.

Everything else could wait.

* * * * *

Morgan took Lily back to the stables and jumped to the ground.

A boy came running up to her to take the reins, but she shook her head.

“I want to rub Lily down myself today.”

She managed a smile for the worried boy. “No, you’ve been doing a good job, Stanley, it’s just that I need the added exercise. Please lead Lily to her stall and I’ll see to her.”

She spent more time than usual on grooming Lily, loving the horsey smell and familiar feel of the slick and glowing coat. When she finally entered her room, she looked at her riding habit in dismay. She brushed off much of the dirt from the park as well as Lily’s hair and then threw the garment down. It would have to be thoroughly cleaned by an expert.

All her physical effort hadn’t squelched her mortification. She pulled on her gardening outfit, a pair of men’s trousers she’d bought for freedom of movement and a loose shirtwaist. She needed, really needed, to dig in the earth. Getting her hands deep in the soil and reaffirming her Druid connection with nature was always her best comfort. She’d often wished everyone had a small portion of dirt to run between their fingers when they needed peace.

Maybe she’d been unduly upset that Lance had seen her fall. But out riding with a new blonde! After telling her the day before he loved her. Of course he had said he’d someday marry and not her, but she thought he could have waited just a little before beginning his search. The deceitful lout!

She calmed a little with each step she took toward her herb garden. Her plants seemed to be thriving and she’d decided to plant a holly in one corner. The holly, also revered by the Druids, was needed to make her garden complete. Soon she would have the most sacred Druidic spot in London.

With a hoe, she marked off the area where she wanted the holly. That meant moving a few herbs to make space. On her knees, she began to dig at the rosemary she decided to transplant. Next she’d use a small spade to turn over the soil.

She had no warning. Why wasn’t her alarm antenna working? Did anger block her perceptions? Absorbed in her digging, she suspected nothing until she heard a grating voice.

“Stand up, you bitch. Now!”

She did so, slowly, trying to orient herself. A disheveled older woman stood before her, pointing a gun directly at her heart. A blood red aura surrounded the unknown foe. A relentless and frightening scarlet.

The woman was poorly dressed, her clothes not only shabby but dirty. Her gray hair was loosely pushed behind her ears, straggling and uncombed. She had a wild look in her eyes as she darted them around the garden and then focused on Morgan.

“You’re the bitch who led the police to my son. He told me all about how you tricked him with your evil witchcraft. Did you know they hanged him this morning? Would you like me to tell you how his heels kicked in the air and his body jerked? Would you?” Her voice was shaking and vicious. “Do you know I can’t even retrieve his body for burial? That I don’t have enough money to give him a decent grave? He was still hanging there when I left.”

Even the hand holding the gun shook, but not enough. At this range even a shaking hand could hardly avoid hitting Morgan.

Everything came together in Morgan’s mind. Tomlinson’s mother and as demented as he was, although perhaps she had more reason. The same frenzied air. The same manic edge to her voice. Morgan tried to batten down her fear. Guns frightened her even more than knives.

“What do you mean to do, Mrs. Tomlinson? I assume that’s your name, ma’am?”

Mrs. Tomlinson laughed, not pleasantly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve sent more than one man to the gallows. Can’t be sure who I am? No wonder he called you a bitch. You’re a whore, too. Look at you, dressed in men’s trousers.”

Morgan tried to think how to defuse the situation. “I only assist the police occasionally, ma’am. Your son was taken into custody when he tried to kill me in this very garden. I would hate to have you suffer the same fate. My staff check on me often when I’m out here.”

“You’re lying, you bitch. They think you’re safe now my son’s been hanged and will let you grub away in peace. You’re usually out here for an hour or more. Lucky for me you make it quite a habit.”

The thought that this madwoman had been spying on her shocked Morgan to the point that she felt herself begin to quiver. Had her longing for Lance so blunted her cautionary instincts she’d not felt this vicious woman nearby?

“Do you mean to shoot me here? You know you won’t get away.”

The rictus that twisted her face could hardly be called a smile.

“Do you think I care? Got nothin’ left to live for anyway. But my Tommy will be laughing loud and hearty-like. I can hear him now, he’ll be so pleased.”

She didn’t know what to say that might possibly calm the woman a little. Nothing she could think of even made sense. She couldn’t remember a single thing about her murderous son that was complimentary.

She thought of screaming but knew that would be her death knell.

Then once again and unbelievably, she heard the deep voice she loved. Trying to save her from danger yet once more. Lance must be more receptive to warning signals than she to be here when she needed him. Needed him to save her from a second Tomlinson.

“I see I’m a little late,” he drawled. Throwing a bunch of flowers down, he stood, unmoving now, at the edge of the house.

Mrs. Tomlinson cackled. “My God! The dreaded Lord Lance! Not so lucky, this time. Maybe I can get both of you before I’m caught.”

“Why don’t you just settle for me?” Lance moved a little closer, but still in a position where she would have to swing her gun around to get him in range. “I’m the one who testified in court against your murderous son.”

She gave a shriek of rage but never moved the gun from Morgan. “I know that, you bastard, but you’ll suffer more if I shoot her first. Neither one of you will get away this time.”

Morgan kept quiet. Lance was deliberately pushing the woman to her limit. Why? Did he have a reason besides trying to divert the rage onto himself? Was there any way she could help him?

Lance’s eyes glanced just for a second at the ground at Morgan’s feet and then faced the insane woman with a smile.

“If you’d like to know more I can tell you all about the women your son murdered. Exactly how he savaged them and wrote messages with their blood.”

Another cry of rage, a more guttural sound than the last screech. Mrs. Tomlinson started to swing the gun and Morgan’s brain started working. She snatched the hoe at her feet and hurled it at her. The hoe caught Mrs. Tomlinson in the arm, exactly where Morgan had prayed it would.

As the gun fell to the ground Lance swept it up. The woman was now raving and grappling with Lance for the gun. Morgan picked up the hoe again and using the wooden handle, brought it down hard on the woman’s head. Mrs. Tomlinson didn’t crumple, but she did jerk and pause long enough for Lance to grab her in a headlock. He quickly wrestled her into submission.

Lance looked at Morgan as he clutched the insane woman, his relieved glance like a kiss on Morgan’s face.

“Bring me something to bind her hands, Morgan.”

She removed an oversized handkerchief from her pocket, one she used to wipe off sweat if she worked too long. Now she effectively immobilized the woman’s hands as Lance held them, although she was trying to kick Lance anyplace she could reach. Her rage gave her undue strength and Lance, with a sigh, finally rendered her unconscious with the same pressure point he’d used on her son. He stripped off his cravat and secured her ankles.

He straightened with a twisted smile. “I wonder if any more members of this hellish family are alive. I’ll check it out immediately. I don’t want to meet any more of them in your garden.”

He stood still for a moment, looking at her with undisguised love and relief.

Tears ran down Morgan’s cheeks. “I can’t stand it, Lance. You’re in constant danger. I can’t stand it.”

He gathered her into his arms. “Still thinking of others, my love?”

He kissed her hair, holding her tight against his body. Then he held her aside while he ran his hands over her to be sure she hadn’t somehow been hurt. She clung to him as much as he’d let her until he finished with a relieved sigh.

Then he answered her last remark.

“As a policeman’s wife you’ll have to learn to stand it. Although I think since we’ll want a family I’ll follow Devon’s urging and accept the rank of Commander. That way I can supervise all the other lucky devils doing the actual hunting. Will that be better for you, my dearest love?”

Before she could say a word he buried his hungry mouth, briefly in her hair and then on her lips. She tried to remember what she’d been angry about, but gave up as his kisses grew bolder and moved to the vee in the neck of her shirt.

“I like your outfit, my love. Those trousers fit delightfully over your trim little behind.”

They were both breathing heavily and Morgan thought Lance might be talking to give them each a time to regain a little composure. They’d been so close to death. Again. She reared back in his arms.

“What, my hair is suddenly pleasing in your sight? Are you sure I’m blonde enough to be your love?”

He groaned. “You’re a minx. The lady you saw me with this morning is a friend of my mother’s and staying with my parents. She’s also known me since I was born and thinks I’m a scoundrel for not marrying sooner. Are you going to help me get back in her good opinion, love?”

Morgan humphed. “If you call that mixed-up bunch of sentences a proposal, I don’t.”

Lance pushed her out of his arms and ran to the spot where he’d dropped the flowers. He brought them back and held them out to her.

“This is supposed to go with my proposal. Devon left me his dictionary of The Language of Flowers. I think he suspected I might be needing it.”

He dropped on one knee and presented them to her with a flourish and a beseeching grin.

“Will you please marry me, my darling Morgan?”

She took the flowers from him, tears flooding her eyes so she could scarcely identify them. “Camellias for ‘adoration’, orange blossoms for ‘eternal love and marriage’ and red tulips for ‘please believe me’. Oh, Lance.”

He caught her to him in alarm. “Dear one, they are to please you, not make you weep!”

She sniffed into his handkerchief. “But you don’t want to marry yet. And not me, remember.”

He groaned. “You little tyrant. I knew it wouldn’t be easy convincing you, that’s why I brought the flowers. I guess I should have bought more tulips. Morgan, the simple truth is I can’t live without you. Please say yes.”

She didn’t even try to make him more anxious. She threw her arms around his neck as his eyes ignited with hope.

“I adore you, Lance. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Her heart turned over at the look on his face as he grabbed her to him. He kissed her until they were both breathless again.

When they paused Lance bent to check Mrs. Tomlinson.

“She’ll come around shortly. Poor Shriver, he’s always picking up the bodies I strew around. I’m glad I brought him, though, or I’d have to deliver her to jail myself.”

He rubbed his chin over her hair. “Let’s go in the house, Morgan. Incidentally, I’m not leaving you until we’re married. Not for a minute.”

She stared at him, half-thrilled and half-aghast. “Lance, I appreciate your concern, but you can’t do that. We might not be married for weeks.”

He grinned at her, his confidence restored now that she’d accepted him.

“We’ll be married within a day or two. Being a Duke’s son has some privileges. No waiting for banns for us, although we’ll want to get your mother and Devon in from the country. And Jamie, of course.”

Was the man crazy? Completely daft? First he was marrying anybody but her, now he couldn’t wait. She raised on her toes and kissed his lips.

As soon as he let her draw a breath she spoke, leaning back in his arms and letting her eyes tell him of her love.

“Anything you say, Lance.”

Chapter Fifteen

After Shriver had taken Mrs. Tomlinson away Lance walked Morgan into the house, his arm fast around her shoulders.

“Shriver has orders to bring back my night things, my love. I intend to be with you every moment, just as I mentioned. Well, maybe not when you visit your bathroom.”

His expression told her he was not joking at all.

Morgan looked at him in shock. Through the night or two before they married? She didn’t care about her own reputation, but as a high-ranking police officer he should be worried about his own. Although men could get away with most anything. But his parents! What would they think of her when they found out?

“Lance! What about your reputation?”

He hooted with laughter as he stopped walking and wrapped her in his arms.

“No wonder I love you so much! Do you ever think about yourself? My reputation will be just fine since you’ll soon be making an honest man out of me.”

She thought he was hinting hers would too. She watched in fascination as his magnificent chest heaved with his laughter. He was such a beautiful man. He continued talking while she stared at the muscle display so close to her nose.

“Morgan, don’t look at me like that or I’ll throw you down right here in your own hallway.” His voice was delightfully husky. “I don’t intend to leave you for a moment. My men are now checking to find if there are any other of Tomlinson’s relatives alive and exactly where they are. I won’t take a chance on another crazy coming after you. Now or ever.”

He kissed the tip of her nose and led her to the sofa. “Now, Miss McAfee, do you think you can give me your undivided attention for a while?”

“Yes, Lance.” Her voice and eyes were suddenly serious. Too serious for the occasion. He looked toward the ceiling in supplication.

“I’ve done something, I just know it. What have I done, Morgan?”

She looked down at her hands twisting in her lap. “You haven’t done it yet, Lance, but I don’t want you to have any more mistresses, Lance. Not ever.”

He hooted again and she glared.

He kissed her chin, his laughter still rumbling in his chest. “No, I’m not making fun of you, sweetheart, I just can’t imagine such a thing. I intend to be far too busy making love with you, for one thing and for another, my father has always been faithful and my married brother also. I guess fidelity runs in the family, especially when you’re blessed with the woman you love as your wife.”

He leered at her so that she had to laugh. “All right, Chief Inspector. But be careful! I’d hate to have to lay a wicked spell on you.”

He took her seriously and started to look a little offended at her lack of confidence in him and then he grinned and grabbed her to him again.

“Let me show you why you don’t have to worry, my little witch. Then we’ll make some definite plans.”

* * * * *

Far too soon a smiling Jackson came in to announce dinner. Lance had been very busy. Messages had gone to his parents, requesting his father’s help in obtaining a special license and asking them to please be present at his wedding on the day after the next at the McAfee town house. Another message had gone to Devon and Viviane, inviting them and, of course, Jamie. Morgan intended to buy her own wedding clothes the next day and order flowers to blanket the townhouse. Lance was finally persuaded to let Shriver drive her and guard her for a few hours.

Morgan sat staring at him at dinner, reveling once more in his devastating appeal and finding it hard to believe she’d be married to him in two days’ time. This man of hers was as wonderful in his intellect and character as in his body. She blushed thinking she’d soon know just how beautiful that body was. She ate little and Lance ate a great deal. Doubtless that big frame of his needed a lot of food.

Did he really intend to be with her every minute? All night? She doubted if she could keep her hands off him if he insisted on being in her room. He wouldn’t do that, would he?

He would. After dinner and an hour of real or pretended reading he suggested they go upstairs to her room.

“Don’t worry,” he said, holding her hand as they walked toward the stairs. Actually she’d done more worrying than reading in the last hour, although she had remembered to turn a page or two. “I expect to sleep on the floor unless you have a very large sofa in there.”

“Lance, you can’t.” It wasn’t lack of trust in him worrying her. Even if he were at the end of the hall with his door locked she’d be tempted to somehow get to him.

“I can.” He looked as superior as only a male determined to have his own way could look. He was taking shameless advantage of every inch of his commanding height. “You doubtless have at least two windows in your room, don’t you? Do know how agile some criminals are?”

Then he simply asked Jackson where his clothes had been put, gathered up what he needed and followed her to her room. On the way he explained to Jackson what he was doing and why and Jackson nodded vigorous assent.

She was being compromised by a pair of male coconspirators. She flounced in her room, trying to shut the door after her, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t succeed. He merely stuck one large boot out to keep the door open until he walked inside. She opened it again and called for Jackson.

“Bring the Chief Inspector several blankets to make the floor a little softer, Jackson. But not too many.”

She slammed the door again and then threw a pillow at Lance.

He caught it with ease. His knowledgeable grin made her want to throw something more solid at the big lummox. After looking longingly at a small lamp she decided she didn’t want Lance’s masculine beauty marred on their wedding day. She might accidently hit him with it.

Snatching up her nightgown and robe, she disappeared into her dressing room. When ready she started to walk out and looked down at herself. My God, she might as well be naked. She’d had no idea her robe was so see-through. It was positively indecent.

She walked rapidly to the bed, flung off her robe and jumped in, pulling the covers up around her neck. He’d evidently seen more than she wanted him to, as his eyes were undeniably smoking.

She steadied herself. “Your turn, my Lord Lance.”

He merely grinned at her formality and reappeared shortly in a nightshirt and nothing else. He strode to her bed, pulled her up halfway out of it and wrapping her in his arms, proceeded to kiss her until she almost begged him to crawl in with her.

He gently placed her back against her pillows and stood over her.

“If you get lonely let me know.”

His low, seductive voice so mesmerized her she was incapable of answering him. She nodded and turned her face away, not wanting to watch him lower himself to the hard floor and attempt to be comfortable. His aura glowed around him like a halo, the beautiful blue shot through with a deep rose of passion. Even when she shut her eyes she could see it, glowing in mesmerizing glory.

Radiant and beckoning.

Damn the man.

She couldn’t sleep. She heard Lance shifting and shuffling, doubtless trying to find a comfortable spot. Not that he’d find any on the hard floor.

Whatever possessed her to be so mean-spirited? He deserved better than this from her. He’d saved her life twice, to say nothing of the fact he loved her.

As she loved him.

She called to him softly. “Lance.”

“Yes, my love?” he answered instantly. Drat him, there was a definite sound of hope in his low, gravelly voice.

“I give up. I can’t sleep. I doubt if I ever will again unless you’re beside me. Please come to bed with me.”

There was a pause. Had she been wrong? Didn’t he want to join her? Did he think she was too bold?

He bounded from the floor and leaned over her, kissing her wildly before sitting on the bed beside her and continuing his assault on her senses.

“I thought I was going to die right there on the floor. Oh, Morgan.”

His strong arms gathered her to him and then he stopped, naked desire in his eyes.

“You know I won’t be able to hold back, don’t you?”

“I don’t want you to,” she confessed, wriggling even closer to him.

She knew making love with Lance would be more than she’d ever dreamed. He stroked his big hands over her soft, slithery gown and then gently lifted it from her. Throwing back the covers he looked her over for a long moment, admiring her every curve, his eyes glowing.

“You are more beautiful than any flower and smell just like one. I adore you, Morgan.”

She felt no false modesty at all. His devoted gaze stripped away any lingering doubts this was what she wanted to do.

“This isn’t fair, Lance. You’re not bare yet. I want to see you too.”

His laugh was a little ragged as he began kissing her all over her face. After stripping his nightshirt off he moved quickly to claim her lips again. Without pause he tumbled into the bed and wrapped her in his arms. Darn him, he’d moved so fast she hadn’t been able to see more than a glimpse of something huge. But she could feel! The hardness and pulsing power of his erection was a solid shaft against her legs. She guessed he’d been wise not to let her see this part of him just yet. No wonder he’d jumped into bed so quickly. If he was as big as she suspected she might jump out just as fast and she didn’t really want to do that. Lance would take care of her. She sighed and willed her rigid body to relax.

His lips now moved to hers and his clever tongue urged her to part her lips and let him in. His mouth on hers was open and hot. She put all her love for him, all her devotion, into her kiss. He responded almost wildly at first, swooping his tongue into every crevice and groaning as he relished every recess.

Then he seemed to gain control as he slowed as if in deliberation, suddenly acting as if he had all the time in the world. He caressed her breasts and then her hips and stomach, kissing her every place his hands glided. He moved his lips to her breasts, giving them equally committed attention. His kisses were hot and followed his lips as he suckled each breast and then withdrawing a little, nipped the tip of each breast with the bare edges of his teeth until they peaked as hard as jewels.

He was concentrating on driving her insane. She knew it. He was coming very close to succeeding. She was aware he realized exactly what he was doing to her and his eyes flared as she thrust her hips against him.

This was the strangest thing. She felt as hot as if she were running a temperature. Yet she didn’t intend to be passive, even if receiving his passion was almost magic. She didn’t know quite what to do, but imagined if she returned his caresses it would be a good start.

She felt for his nipples. She could barely see them by the moonlight streaming in the windows, but they resembled copper buds and under her fingers soon felt as hard. Like little stone pebbles. But she meant to taunt him even more. She moved her hands lower. His chest was so solid and massive and she let her hands explore, lingering on his contoured planes and muscles. Her hands made a sensuous whisper as they glided over his body. She loved every inch of his powerfully masculine body and tried to show her adoration in her increasingly ardent caresses. It was not enough. She gave a strangled moan and pressed her soft breasts against his hard strength and wiggled a little.

“Leave off, love, if you expect me to last the course.”

The words made no sense to her. His voice was so low she could barely recognize it as that of her lover. Her lover Lance. The very words in her mind thrilled her as she moved her lips to his nipples, tasting and teasing him as he’d tasted her.

“Morgan, my dear love. Take care. I want to give you pleasure, not take you so rapidly you’d miss much of the delight.”

He pulled away from her and lay back on the bed, one arm over his eyes and his breath rasping in his throat.

She thought what they were doing was perfectly lovely and she didn’t want to stop. She could go on kissing and caressing his body forever. Evidently he had other ideas, as when she reached for him again he chuckled and grabbed her hands.

“You’re a treasure, Morgan. My God, how do I slow you down?”

He began his caresses anew as he held her hands in one of his as he suckled her breasts again, slowly at first, while his other clever hand found her body’s most sensitive points. His lips became hungry and evocative as he raised emotions in her body she’d never imagined. She threw back her head, moaning in delight and he released her hands with a knowing smile.

Using both of his own to once more celebrate the contours of her body, he glided over her hips until his fingers found the thatch of curls between her legs. She reached down in automatic reaction to stop him, but he refused to allow it, caressing her mound even as he slipped a finger inside her. Now he used his fingers to part her folds, almost immediately finding the nubbin she hadn’t even known she possessed. As he caressed the damp bud, she swiveled her hips and tried to push even closer to him. Still he held her off and kept up his escalating torment, enticing her passion until her whole body began to vibrate.

He rapidly reared over her, parting her legs with his knee and placed the tip of his member against her entrance. Then he reached down and pulled her thighs wider.

“Lance,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Think, darling,” he gasped, entering her slowly and then pausing. She felt her body expand to take him in and raised her hips involuntarily to give him access. He threw back his head and stopped still for an instant as if he were again trying to slow himself. Then he thrust deeper with one powerful stroke. She cried out and he froze, holding his body still while he comforted her with small kisses. The pain passed quickly and she pulled at him to continue. He smiled down at her and kissed her once more before he started his movements again, his member thrusting deep and deeper in her body.

He filled her completely, a sensation she found amazing, beautiful and satisfying beyond any expectation. She clutched him with her arms as tightly as she could, feeling her inner folds grasp him tightly. His strokes became vigorous as he began to enter, withdraw and then enter again. She had a fleeting memory of a stallion mating and wondering how the mare felt. Surely not this overpowering desire to have him thrust ever deeper and stronger and never stop. Soon she couldn’t think of anything at all. Nothing at all but Lance and the burning pleasure he was giving her.

Lance’s virile stroking submerged any sensation except the knowledge he was in her. Nothing existed except the wish to have him help her reach some wonderful summit before she exploded. His breathing was shallow and his jaw clenched as if he were trying to hold off a powerful force.

She didn’t know what she craved but she longed for that mysterious something with every hot fiber in her straining body. She began to match his thrusts with her own, praying he’d gift her with whatever she was seeking.

She knew he held the answer, if he would just share it with her. She found herself surging into a realm of passion she had never imagined, on the edge of a wonderful sensation she couldn’t comprehend. Then in one vigorous stroke he drove himself deep into her as she gasped and screamed.

“Let go, darling.” She could barely recognize his hoarse words. “Fall with me. I’ll hold you safely.”

She felt her inner muscles tighten around him as he shouted her name. He joined her as they fell together into the heavenly oblivion that only true lovers know.

* * * * *

For a long time afterward he held her, their bodies still joined. When he finally began to pull away from her she clutched him again, reluctant to let him go. His big body was heavy on hers but she didn’t want him to move. She was aware the rapid thudding of his heart was slowing as he gently pulled himself from her body and wrapped her in his arms.

“I feel so ignorant,” she chided herself. “I think I felt this would never happen to me and so refused to think about how wonderful it might be. I thought fireworks were going off right in the bedroom.”

Lance chuckled. “An apt description, my love.” Lance brushed the hair off her brow and kissed her forehead. “I only hope I didn’t go too fast for you. You made it hard to slow down, although I did try. I so wanted your first experience to be good for you.”

She turned her face and kissed him. Sweetly and without the hot passion that had so inflamed them both such a short time ago.

“It was very good, my lord Lance. But I think you know that quite well and just want to be complimented on your expert lovemaking.”

She could feel him smiling against her face. “Thank you, Lady Laniston. I rather thought you liked it.” His voice lost its faint touch of smugness and lowered to an intense sincerity. “For me, my love, it was quite simply heaven.” His voice deepened even more. “A rare heaven most mortals never reach.”

Thrilled to tears by his emotional words, she kissed him with all her heart. Suddenly all of his words got through to her and she started with surprise. She would be Lady Laniston! What an amazing thought.

He nuzzled her neck. “If you’re through with me shall I go back on the floor?”

“You wretch.” She reached for her pillow to throw at him again, but he chuckled and held her hands.

“If you’re not going to evict me from your bed perhaps you’d like to talk a little and then possibly have a repeat performance? Just a thought. In case you’d like it. I only live to please.”

He sounded as hopeful as a child at Christmas and she laughed out loud. Then she sobered. “Can we really do it again?”

The glimmering moonlight revealed his face once more sparking with passion. His chiseled features were shining with the deep desire of his love. He leaned over and kissed her with his beautiful, demanding mouth. He didn’t seem at all ready to talk. He looked down at her, his grin that of a confident caveman about to pleasure his mate.

“I assure you we can. Tonight and every night of our marriage, my darling wife. Only this time we’ll go more slowly. Knowing what wonders are coming and anticipating them makes for even more wonder.”

He rolled her under him and his splendid body rose over her once again. She realized what he meant as he began his assured assault on her senses and she eagerly responded to every kiss and sensuous caress. Her passion mounted faster than she thought possible and she shivered with delicious expectation as she lifted her hips to meet him.

He covered her, his eyes locking on hers with the silent promise of lasting love. She knew in her soul his love was absolute and unconditional, surrounding her with even more magic than her Druid ancestors could conjure.

Her Druid soul exulted in the certainty they would be lovers in this time and in all their lives beyond.

Epilogue

Four years later:

Lance and Morgan were at their country manor engrossed in their plans to add another wing. Life was full and wonderful. Lance was about to run for the House of Commons from their district in Kent and it looked to be a sure thing. Lance could add Morgan’s popularity to his own, since his wife had won great devotion with her healing skills. In fact he doubted anyone would dare vote against Lady Lance’s husband! Naturally Morgan was delighted he’d be leaving police work behind and putting his impressive talents into bettering their country.

They stood in the doorway of their girls’ room, watching the three-year-old twins. They were such darling girls, beautiful miniatures of Morgan. Although they had Morgan’s green eyes, their curls were the brighter red of Viviane’s. Lance was balancing their year-old son, Devon, on one hip. Devon had inherited his father’s dark looks and evidently his size.

The girls were in front of their blackboard and drawing.

“Look, Vivie,” said Kate. “I can draw a tree really well.”

Morgan put her hands to her lips and gasped. Lance stared and paled. He clutched his son, stopped admiring his wife and concentrated on his daughters. The chalk glided, unaided, over the blackboard, drawing first a tree and then a house.

“Let me try,” said Viviane as a new piece of chalk appeared by itself and sketched a sun and birds in the sky. The artistry wasn’t exceptional, but the method was. Each of the twins squealed with admiration of their drawing. All the while they sat solidly on their hands.

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Lance. “My God!”

Morgan covered her face with her fingers and led him away from the nursery door as she struggled with her hilarity. Then she gave in and bent at the waist, clutching her stomach as she laughed. Lance cast her a wary look and then strode away with Devon.

“Pay no attention, Devon. You see why we men must stick together. Come to think of it, we’re slightly outnumbered here. I think I’d better take care of this problem, starting tonight. We’ll just have to even the score.”

Lance continued to talk to Devon, who solemnly patted his father’s face as if in agreement. As Lance stalked away from a still smiling Morgan, she agreed with an inner shiver of delight on her fullest cooperation. It would be a distinct pleasure to help Lance with his solution.

She owed it to him to be obliging. After all, as chief male he deserved another son or two to help him cope with his decidedly Druid daughters.

About the Author

Jean was born in Ohio but has lived most of her life in southern California. Her insatiable love of reading started at age seven, when her widowed mother accepted a teaching job. For many of her formative years Jean was housebound in the afternoons until her mother returned from work. She happily spent untold hours reading everything and anything. This joy of reading has influenced her whole life, and is still one of her chief pleasures. Writing is equally enjoyable, and now takes top place in her favorite activities.

Her journalism degree was used only infrequently until recently. Marriage, two children and two grandchildren took priority. After some twenty years of being a real estate broker and having her own firm, Jean returned to her always beloved writing. Through the years she and her husband have enjoyed collecting art and minerals. Her husband now is of great assistance as an enthusiastic editor and a valuable critic.

She’s a dedicated member of RWA and has won several awards in national contests. The Druid series are presently her main focus of literary interest, although she’s also written four other historical romances. Romance has proven most satisfying to write, since her hero and heroine always manage to struggle through to a happy ending. Sometimes a secondary character takes over though and demands his own book!

And then we literally have another story!

Jean welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

Tell Us What You Think

We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at Comments@EllorasCave.com.

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer ebooks or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

www.ellorascave.com