Stranger in My Arms(25)

“Of course,” Lonsdale jeered. Hunter laughed with him, and their hearty amusement made Lara tense with resentment.

However, when she witnessed Hunter looking at Lonsdale in an unguarded moment, it seemed that he was none too fond of the man. What in heaven’s name was going on?

Bewildered, Lara remained at the breakfast table and toyed with the remains of her meal while the men took their leave. Hunter would surely drive her mad. Was she to trust the evidence before her eyes, or her constantly shifting feelings? All of it was contradictory.

She reached to his empty place and picked up his cup, touching where his hands had touched, her fingers curving around the delicate china.

Who is he? she thought, filled with frustration.

As he had indicated, Hunter left early the next day.

He came to Lara’s room just as she began to awaken, the morning sun slipping through a space between the closed drapes and stealing across her pillOW. She started as she realized that she wasn’t alone in the room, and jerked the covers high under her chin.

“Hunter,” she said, her voice raspy from sleep. She shrank deep into her pillow as he sat on the edge of the bed.

A smile touched his dark face. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you one last time.”

“How long will you be gone?” She blinked uneasily, not daring to move as Hunter reached for the sable length of her braid.

“No more than a week, I expect.” He pulled the braid across his palm as if enjoying the texture against his skin, and laid it back on the pillow with care. “You look so snug and warm,” he murmured.

“I wish I could join you.”

The thought of him climbing under the covers with her made her heart contract in alarm. “I wish you a safe trip,” she said breathlessly.

“Good-bye.”

Hunter grinned at her eagerness for him to leave.

“Aren’t you going to give me a farewell kiss?” He leaned over her, smiling into her startled face, and waited for a reply. When she remained silent, he laughed softly, his coffee-scented breath fanning over her chin. “All right. We’ll put it on account. Goodbye, sweet.”

Lara felt his weight leave the bed, and she continued to bunch the covers tightly under her chin until the door had closed behind him. In a few minutes she sprang from bed and hurried to the window. The Hawksworth equipage with its perfectly matched team of four and distinctive green and gold coachwork rolled away along the tree-lined drive.

There was a strange mixture of feelings inside her: relief at his departure but also a touch of sadness.

The last time Hunter had left her, she had somehow known that she would never see him again. How was it that he could have made his way back home?

Chapter 7

A STONE’S THROW away from the prosperous shopping area of the Strand, there was a series of alleys and courts that led to the slums of the London underworld. It was densely populated by a class of people with no homes, no regular means of supporting themselves, no recognition of marriage or family life or anything close to morality. The streets were sour with dung and littered with rats, their dark shapes slipping in and out of buildings with ease.

Night was falling fast, the last feeble rays of the sun disappearing behind the ramshackle structures.

Grimly Hunter shouldered his way past prostitutes, thieves, and beggars, until the winding street led him to the marketplace he sought.

It was a bustling place, featuring stolen carcass meat and other purloined goods. Costermongers hawked shrunken fruits and vegetables from barrows or primitive stalls.

A brief memory assailed him-wandering through an Indian market every bit as squalid, except the smells were different: the scents of peppery grain and spices, the fecund odor of rotting mangoes, the sweet whiff of poppy and opium, all underlaid with the peculiar pungency that belonged to the East. He didn’t miss Calcutta, but he did miss the Indian countryside, the wide earth roads lined with swaths of elephant grass, the tangled forests and quiet temples, the sense of languid ease that permeated every aspect of life.

The Indians thought that the English were an unclean race, beef eaters, ale drinkers, filled with lust and materialistic desires. Casting a sardonic glance at the scene around him, Hunter couldn’t suppress a quick grin. The Indians were right.

A drunken hag plucked at Hunter’s sleeve, imploring him for a spare coin. He shrugged her away impatiently, knowing that if he showed any sign of mercy, all the beggars in the vicinity would throw themselves at him. Not to mention pickpockets, who were forming in groups and staring at him like jackals.

By necessity the market was opened under cover of night, though any police would have been insane to venture there. The area was lit with gas flares and smoking grease lamps, making the air thick and pungent.

Hunter narrowed his eyes against the irritating haze and paused by an oddly dressed man seated on a rickety stool. The dark-skinned man, French-Polynesian in appearance, was dressed in a long blue velveteen coat with carved bone buttons. A strange design had been inked on his cheek, an exotic bird in flight.

Their gazes met, and Hunter indicated the mark on the man’s face. “Can you do that?” he asked, and the man nodded.

“It is called tatouage,” he replied in a liquid French accent.

Hunter reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper…

the last remaining trace of the journals. “Are you able to copy this?” he asked brusquely.