Emerald Garden (9 page)

“Immensely.” Brows drawn together, he tapped his fore-finger to his lips. “Do you know, I believe that gown is a lost cause? I suggest you abandon all attempts at reviving it.”

“I agree.” With a last scornful glance at the offending garment, Brandi turned her attention to her hair. Purposefully, she tugged at the soaked ribbon, intending to shake out her tresses and coax them to dry. The ribbon caught on one tangled curl.

“Here, let me help you.” Unable to stifle his grin, Quentin reached forward, carefully working the strands free of their velvet prison. “Mission accomplished.” He feathered her hair about her shoulders in a shimmering cinnamon curtain. “The sun will help it dry.”

Brandi tipped her head back, her mock reproachfulness supplanted by a radiant smile. “Thank you.” With uninhibited exuberance, she stretched her arms overhead, laughing at the way the muslin sleeves adhered to her skin. “Muslin does not tolerate water well, does it?”

Quentin didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Amusement vanished and time froze as in one lightning second the world shifted, and life as he’d known it was forever changed. Why here, why now, he hadn’t a clue. All he knew was that the shutters shielding his eyes from reality abruptly lifted, jolting him into an inconceivable truth.

Brandi.

Of its own accord, Quentin’s astonished gaze drifted down from her upswept arms, roving her petite form from head to toe. Transfixed, he absorbed all the evidence that, for some unfathomable reason, had eluded him, choosing this particular moment to permeate his consciousness: the flawless curves revealed by her wet, clinging gown, the golden skin exposed at her neck and throat, the high cheekbones and sculpted features crowned by the glorious mane of burnished hair. Blood pounded through his temples as the actuality struck him—hard, unexpected, staggeringly intense—along with a blaze of sensual awareness that exploded throughout him like gunfire.

Gone was his tousled hoyden, the child-woman he’d known since babyhood, his one and only Sunbeam. Before him was a beautiful, intoxicating woman whose laughter faded as she watched his expression change, felt the magnetic charges running between them.

“Quentin?” Brandi lowered her arms, her dark eyes wide with questioning wonder.

“What?” he heard himself vaguely reply. His fingers threaded through her damp hair, discovering its familiar texture for the first time, his entire frame of reference shattering and reshaping all at once. Nothing was as it had been, or perhaps it always had been and he’d just never seen it. “Brandi.” He breathed her name in hushed amazement, still reeling from the impact of startling realization.

His gaze fell to her lips, the urge to kiss her suddenly so overpowering he couldn’t breathe, much less speak.

“Quentin.” This time it was an acknowledgment rather than a query. She stepped closer, her palms sliding up the front of his coat, gliding through the soft strands of hair at his nape.

His mouth found hers before he could think, before he could discern the madness and resist it. Warm, wet, agonizingly sweet, Brandi’s lips yielded to his, melding in a kiss so poignantly significant it nearly brought Quentin to his knees.

As had the realization preceding it, desire erupted in a blaze of fireworks, thundering through his veins, shimmering along every nerve ending in his body. His hands clenched in her hair, drawing her closer, pressing her drenched body against his. Cold water saturated his clothing, but Quentin barely felt it, let alone gave a damn.

“Sunbeam …” His voice was hoarse, drugged with an incomprehensible yearning, and he slanted his mouth across hers again and again, drinking his fill before fate intervened to deem his sustenance be snatched away.

Brandi wouldn’t recoil. Somehow he knew that. Still, he didn’t expect the glorious, innocent ardor with which she met—and returned—his kisses. Her trembling mouth opened under his, and she welcomed his tongue with a bone-melting sigh, responding to his penetration by melding their tongues with an exhilarated, wholehearted joy that stunned and enthralled him all at once.

A hard shudder wracked Quentin’s body, a warning that his control was about to snap. He battled his way to sanity, forcing himself to think about what was happening, to emerge from this staggering, mind-numbing inferno—before it was too late.

“No … don’t.” Feeling Quentin’s withdrawal, Brandi’s arms tightened, and she shook her head, refusing to release him. “Don’t pull away. You can’t.” Her words were breathy, a reverent whisper against his lips. “I think I’ve waited for this all my life,” she confessed, flushed and dreamy with discovery. “I never knew it until this instant, but I have. All my life.”

“Ah, Sunbeam.” Her confession pierced his heart—and resurrected his conscience. He wasn’t sure what was happening between them, but he was damned sure he couldn’t permit it to happen. Wasn’t she vulnerable enough without his adding yet another facet of change to her life?

Deliberately, Quentin raised his head, creating a narrow but purposeful distance between them. Dazed as he was, he was nonetheless assailed by the knowledge of what lay ahead, the heinous news he had yet to impart—news that promised to rend Brandi’s already fragmented life into bits.

And that wasn’t his only deterrent.

In a rush, Desmond’s warning resounded in his mind:
Your presence in the Cotswolds will always be temporary, Quentin. How much security will that offer Brandice? Don’t let her rely upon you, then desert her
…
don’t.

Despite the self-serving nature of his brother’s admonition, wasn’t he correct? Wasn’t Quentin’s presence in England transient? Couldn’t he—wouldn’t he—rejoin the military whenever he was needed?

The answer was an unequivocal yes.

Armed with that knowledge, could he truly give in to this exquisite madness with Brandi? If their involvement—and their dependency—deepened with anew dimension, could he bear to walk away? More important, could he subject Brandi to his walking away?

A knife wrenched in his gut.

“What is it?” Brandi reached up with trembling fingers, stroked the hard line of Quentin’s jaw. “Are you angry with me?”

“No, sweetheart, I could never be angry with you.” Tenderly, he ruffled her hair. “I’m just sorry this happened.”

“Why? I’m not.”

“Brandi, you’re still grieving. You’ve endured a devastating loss. The same is true of me. ’Tis only natural, given the special rapport you and I have always shared, for us to turn to each other for comfort.”

Her dark eyes searched his face. “Is that all this was for you? Comfort? For me it was so much more.”

“No, Sunbeam.” It mattered not that his motivation was sound. He simply could not bring himself to belittle the enchantment that had just occurred between them, not for her sake, nor his own. “It felt like far more than mere comfort. But we cannot …”

“Shall I tell you what it felt like to me?” she interrupted softly. “Like nothing I’ve ever known or ever could know—with anyone but you.” Her fingers brushed her lips as if to recapture the magic of his touch. “I should have guessed my first kiss could be shared with no one else.”

Quentin sucked in his breath. Inherently, he’d known it was her first time in a man’s arms; and yet, hearing her say the words made them all the more real—and all the more poignant. “Thank you, Sunbeam. That’s the loveliest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. I meant it as a truth.” Brandi paused, her fingers gripping the edge of Quentin’s coat. “Did you enjoy kissing me?” she blurted at last.

“You must know I did.”

“Then why did you pull away?”

This was the part he’d dreaded. “Brandi, I care so bloody much about you. I can’t let you count on something that can never be.”

“Why?” she whispered. “Why can it never be?”

“Sunbeam, do you remember what you said just before you ran from me the other night?”

“Yes.” Her lashes drifted downward. “I asked you never to go away again.”

“I can’t give you that promise, Brandi. Not now. Maybe never. I could be recalled by the army at any time—to be sent anywhere. You’re very precious—and very vulnerable. You need someone you can rely upon, someone who will never leave you. I’m not that man, Brandi.”

Two tears slid down her cheeks, and Quentin felt as if he’d been punched.

“Please, sweetheart, don’t cry.” His thumbs absorbed her tears. “Nothing’s changed. We’ll go on as we always have.” The vow sounded implausible even to his own ears, yet he had no choice but to enact it.

“Very well.” Her voice was tiny, filled with bewilderment and sadness.

And the worst was yet to come.

“Brandi.” He had forestalled the inevitable as long as he could. He had to tell her—now.

She was gazing at him quizzically, and Quentin framed her face between his palms, steeling himself for the heinous blow he was about to inflict. “There’s something else. Something you don’t know. Something I must tell you before I leave Emerald Manor today, and … damn it.” He broke off, willing himself to absorb her pain. “I wish to God I could soften this. But I can’t.”

The gravity of his tone struck home, and she paled. “What is it?”

Gently, his forefingers caressed her cheeks. “A gentleman named Glovers visited Colverton last night. He’s with Bow Street. He brought us new developments on the carriage disaster.”

“Goon.”

“The accident wasn’t an accident at all, Brandi. One of the wheels was tampered with. The crash was intentional,”

Brandi’s pupils dilated as noncomprehension transformed into shock. “Intentional?” she whispered. “Are you saying someone murdered our parents?”

“Yes, Sunbeam. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Oh my God.” She began to tremble violently, that vague, faraway look reinvading her eyes. “Oh my God.”

He pulled her against him, pressing her head to his waistcoat and stroking her hair. “I have no further details, other than the fact that one of the axles was cut. Bow Street has no suspect, no motive, and no idea which of our parents was the intended victim.”

“Maybe they’re wrong.” Brandi jerked away. “Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe the wheels broke free when the carriage struck the jutting rocks. Maybe …”

“Brandi—stop.” Quentin gripped her shoulders, firmly shaking his head. “There are no maybes. The wheels didn’t break free; their support was severed. Painful as it is, it’s true. We must accept it.”

“I can’t,” she said in a broken voice.

“You can.” He held her gaze. “You’re stronger than you realize, Sunbeam. And you’re not alone. You have me—and you have Desmond. We’ll see this through together.”

“Desmond …” Compassion flashed across Brandi’s face, temporarily eclipsing the shock. “He was so close to your father. He must be devastated.”

“Desmond is holding up quite well.” Quentin was stunned by the surge of jealousy that rushed through him. “He went to London to alert Hendrick to the situation.” Abruptly, Brandi’s statement registered. “Did you say Desmond and Father were close?”

“What?” Brandi massaged her temples, struggling to focus on Quentin’s question. “Oh, Desmond and Kenton. Yes, Desmond was so proud of the new-found respect he’d established with his father. He’d worked hard to earn it. And Kenton, well, I don’t have to tell you what a wonderful man your father is—was,” she amended quickly. “He must have recognized how hard Desmond was trying. Toward the end, their relationship—business and personal—was apparently thriving.”

“I see.”

“Who would want to hurt Kenton, Pamela, or Papa?” Brandi whispered incredulously. “ ’Tis incomprehensible.” She turned away, wrapped her arms about herself. “Quentin, this whole thing is like a heinous nightmare. Every time I think it’s over, it begins anew.”

“It
will
be over, Sunbeam,” Quentin pledged quietly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

For a long moment, Brandi was silent. Then she pivoted slowly to face Quentin, a haunted look on her face. “As will I.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means that if the authorities cannot uncover the truth, then you and I shall.”

Chapter 5

B
ENTLEY RAPPED LIGHTLY ON
the study door as he entered.

Slamming his half-filled drink onto the sideboard, Desmond whirled about to glare at the butler.

“Bentley, would you kindly learn the art of knocking
prior
to entering a room?”

“I’ll make every attempt to, sir.” Bentley stood stiffly at attention. “In the interim, however, I do need to speak with you.”

“I’m not in a conversational mood.” Desmond turned his back and tossed off the remainder of his brandy in two gulps.

“Evidently not, Your Grace,” Bentley returned dryly. “Which is comforting, since you will shortly be unable not only to converse but to utter an intelligible sound. In fact,” he added, as Desmond swiftly refilled his glass, “should you continue at this rate, you will not only be unable to talk, you will need assistance to remain upright.”

“Thank you for your unwanted assessment of my inebriated state,” Desmond snapped. “Now if you’ll excuse me …”

“I’d be happy to, Your Grace. But, as I said, I need a word with you first.”

“Very well, what is it?” Desmond pivoted to face Bentley, weaving a bit in the process.

“I assume you’ll wish to move from your current quarters to the master bedchamber?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“With that in mind, I’ve taken the liberty of amassing your father’s belongings and preparing them for storage.”

Desmond’s scowl softened. “That was very considerate of you, Bentley.”

“I did it for the late duke, sir.” A pregnant pause, during which Desmond downed the entire contents of his glass. “Nevertheless, in collecting His Grace’s personal items, I noticed that his engraved strongbox is nowhere to be found.”

“Engraved strongbox?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The one that was identical to his duchess’s.”

“Didn’t Pamela bequeath it to Brandi?”

“I believe she did, yes. But that was the one belonging to Her Grace. ’Tis the duke’s I cannot locate.”

“Well, I can’t help you, Bentley.” Desmond blinked, trying ineffectually to focus. “I don’t know what Father did with his strongbox. Nor, to be honest, do I care. I have far more pressing matters on my mind. Why don’t you ask the other servants? Maybe one of them misplaced it.” With a dismissive wave, Desmond turned back to his drink, frowning when he saw it was empty. “Close the door behind you, Bentley,” he slurred, splashing another healthy portion of brandy into the goblet.