* * *
Home at last after a hot, jolting ride through streets that smelled of flowers and open sewers, I shed my heavy dress and its uncomfortable frame in favor of a silk dressing gown.
I found Jamie sitting by the empty hearth, eyes closed, hands on his knees as though thinking. He was pale as his linen shirt, glimmering in the shadow of the mantelpiece like a ghost.
“Holy Mother,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Dear God and saints, so close. I came within a hairsbreadth of murdering that man. Do ye realize, Claire, if ye hadna fainted…Jesus, I meant to kill him, with every last morsel of will I had.” He broke off, shuddering again with reaction.
“Here, you’d better put your feet up,” I urged, tugging at a heavy carved footstool.
“No, I’m all right now,” he said, waving it away. “He’s…Jack Randall’s brother, then?”
“I should think it likely in the extreme,” I said dryly. “He could scarcely be anyone else, after all.”
“Mm. Did ye know he worked for Sandringham?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t—don’t—know anything about him other than his name and the fact that he’s a curate. F-Frank wasn’t particularly interested in him, as he wasn’t a direct ancestor of his.” The slight quaver of my voice as I spoke Frank’s name gave me away.
Jamie put down the flask and came toward me. Stooping purposefully, he picked me up and cradled me against his chest. The smell of the gardens of Versailles rose sharp and fresh from the folds of his shirt. He kissed the top of my head and turned toward the bed.
“Come lay your head, Claire,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long day for us both.”