My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(25)
The museum flourishes under your careful eye, and your legacy is continued in the capable hands of your many adorably studious children. The museum stands to this day in the heart of Cairo, a wonder for all to see. The names of you and Kamal are inscribed in the entranceway of its grand facade.
The End
“What do you mean?!” you ask.
“It had to come from the order of command in MacTaggart’s regiment,” Ollie says, his face a mask of pure hatred.
“That could have been anyone. You don’t know that it was Mac!”
“Oh, but I do,” says Ollie. “You see, apart from you there is only one woman I have ever loved…whom I dared ever love. Constantina. She was also a spy, and the bravest woman I have ever met. Captain MacTaggart killed her with his bare hands.”
Your stomach drops as the pieces of this horrific puzzle fall into place. The fear in Mac’s eyes when you said her name. His harrowing confession.
“Oh, Ollie…,” you whisper, with voice and hands shaking. Suddenly, the barn door bursts open again. There, like an avenging ginger angel, stands Mac.
“Unhand her, you absolute dobber!” he cries. Then he turns to you, his voice softening. “Did he hurt ye, lass?” He speaks with such gentleness that your very soul sings. But before you can answer, you hear a chilling click.
To your horror, Ollie has aimed his pistol squarely at Mac. “Not so fast, you bastard.” The weapon glints wickedly in the early evening light.
You panic. Mac may be grumpy, he may be damaged, he may even be a murderer, but you know, somehow, that his heart is pure. You cannot stand by and watch him be killed.
Desperately, you throw yourself between the two men. Ollie glares at you.
“What is wrong with you? After all I’ve told you?!”
“What you’ve told me is not enough. I need to know everything.” You walk over to Mac. Placing your hand on his ruggedly handsome face, you stare deeply into his eyes. “I need to hear it from you.”
Mac sighs. “I tried to explain before ye ran off, lass. Constantina was Abercrombie’s bit o’ fluff when we were stationed at Salamanca.”
“No!” cries Ollie. “That is a lie! It’s a filthy lie!”
Mac sets his already extremely firm jaw. “No, ye bampot! It’s the God’s honest truth! I saw her around him often, but what commander didn’t take comfort in a sweet young woman in such dark times?”
Ollie starts to protest, but now you walk over to him. With a gentle hand, you still him and take the gun. He grits his teeth.
“What happened, Mac?” you ask gently. “How did Constantina die?”
“Och, lass.” He hangs his handsome head. “I may have been a soldier, but ye must understand I dinnae hold with killing women. I have never forgiven myself for that night.”
Ollie stares silently at Mac, his face twisted in pure hatred.
“I saw her late one night crossing a bridge,” Mac continues. “She was walking…toward the French! I assumed the lass was possibly a wee bit tipsy.”
“And then what happened?” you whisper.
“I went to stop her, of course! I went to warn her! But then—” Mac pauses, his hazel eyes clouded by ghosts from the past. “Then she turned on me with a knife. The fury she fought with! I could scarcely believe it of such a wee lassie, nor could I understand why. I tried to stop her but…we struggled. It was an accident, I swear on all that I hold dear, but in that struggle she fell off the bridge…to her death.” He looks up, shame and fear shading his face.
“So there’s the truth,” he says. “Do ye hate me now, lass?”
“Oh, Mac,” you sigh. “Of course not—”
“No! NO! EAAAARGH!!” Ollie screams and launches himself at Mac.
The two men begin to pummel each other.
So, now that you have two handsome men in hand-to-hand combat before you, how do you proceed?
If you fear for their safety and want to stop this madness at once, turn to this page.
If you are enjoying the show and want to continue watching the pair whale on each other with homoerotic vigor, turn to this page.
The evening’s festivities have finally started in earnest, though the room still throbs from the delicious gossip that has just come to pass. You bear the whispers no mind. You and Lady Evangeline take another swig of brandy and have a giggle at the expense of poor Nigel Frickley, who is asking a sobbing Henrietta to dance and only getting fiercely wept upon for his trouble.
And yet, despite your triumphant mood, you find yourself pausing for a moment when you spot a familiar dark head of hair—and handsomely brooding face underneath it—over at the card table. Remembering Benedict’s harsh words earlier when you tried to offer comfort, you chide yourself for your overly tender heart. He deserves neither your comfort nor your pity.
You excuse yourself from Lady Evangeline, for the devil is in you tonight and you cannot resist strutting over to tell Benedict of your clever plan. Not that you care a jot what he thinks.
“What’s trump, boys?” With all the confidence of a fellow fellow, you saunter up to the fellows playing whist in the game room. The handsome, stylish-to-the-hilt men form a rather pretty collection of well-born, possibly quite unmotivated knights errant. Benedict, their fallen King Arthur, slouches at his card table. His immoveable expression fades the moment you address the room.