My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(77)
Alone, with no choices left, you continue your escape, leaping over a stall filled with dates through to a narrow entryway in a crumbling wall.
The crowds thin out and you race past the curious eyes of Cairo’s citizens. After a left turn toward what you think is the museum, you spy one of the henchmen careening toward you. He viciously pushes a little girl out of the way as her parents cry out.
You turn and flee in the opposite direction but find yourself caught suddenly in a vicelike grasp. Before you can scream, a heavy hand presses over your mouth while your arms are pinned down by an arm so solid it feels like it must be made of granite.
“Where do you think you are going, chérie?” Fabien whispers into your ear. You attempt in vain to wrench yourself free. “You have an appointment with Madame Delphine St. Croix, and I would hate to disappoint her.”
And with that he hauls you unceremoniously onto a camel, wraps his powerful hand around your mouth, and steers you both away. You continue to fight desperately to free yourself…to no avail.
Turn to this page.
You run your hands down Mac’s strong arms and search his clear eyes with your own. This is a man you trust, by look and feel and heart. He is also, not coincidentally, a man you want to spend many naked, adventurous hours with. Your trust is not informed by your desire, but your desire is heightened by your trust.
“Mac, impossible things have happened this night. A lost love of mine returned and tried to steal me away. He thinks you sold out his fellow spies by revealing their location to Bonapartists, and that you were directly responsible for the death of his love, Constantina.” You take a steadying breath. “Were you ever a spy? Were you ever a mole?”
“Nae, I wasn’t, lass.” Mac’s eyes are wide. You believe him.
“Mac,” you whisper, “I trust you.”
“Aye, lass. And I you.” Mac kisses you full on the mouth. Oh, how you are tempted to lose yourself in this moment forever. But many other moments, and likely your safety and the safety of Mac, the children, Dodger the dog, and a great many others, depend on you quashing your desire like an errant bedbug. At least for now.
“Oooooooh!”
You jump back. There is nothing like a chorus of prying orphans to interrupt the burgeoning bagpipe serenade of two lusty bodies.
“You have ta get married now!” Sallie yells. “Also, someone left you a letter on the doorstep, miss! Prob’ly a lover out to ruin it all. I will have him in a fight if I need to, miss! I will kick his bits to smithereens!”
“A letter?” Mac says, his manly brow furrowing. “Let’s see it then.” Together, you read the hastily scrawled note.
You must meet me tonight, by the loch. Alone. I have new information we have to discuss. —O
You and Mac share a look. This impossible letter will no doubt lead to impossible things.
Ooh…turn to this page!
“The woman was lovely, but did she need two score mirrors and portraits to prove it?”
You stalk the halls of the great house with the stealthiness of a very intelligent, confident, uniquely beautiful cat. You creep up the stairs, around the bend, down the hall, around the other bend, and up the other stairs and down the other hall and around the other bend until you reach the Forbidden Room, where you once fenced with Master Alexander. Moonlight and terror are your only companions, and an eerie glow is cast upon your decision: to turn the knob on Blanche’s bedroom door, or to run?
You are no ninny. You turn the knob.
You are surprised to be greeted by a whisper of wind, wild and cool, reaching out to loosen a few disobedient strands from your demure coiffure. Someone has recently been in this room. The source of the gust is a mysteriously open window. The room is flooded with moonlight, and the rustle of the sheer curtains resemble a sad woman dancing for her lost love.
You will have no more of this senseless poetry. As you draw the sash of the window, you cast your eye about the room, taking an inventory of potential clues. A sumptuously appointed bed, a handsome wardrobe, more portraits of Blanche. You cannot help but roll your eyes. The woman was lovely, but did she need two score mirrors and portraits to prove it? Your gaze catches on a fine writing desk, boasting many drawers and cubbies.
Drawing near, you notice that one drawer is partially obscured by a lady’s handkerchief. The initials BvB wink at you from a delicate corner. Is this a signal? A clue? A message from Blanche from beyond the grave that this drawer, hidden by the flimsy fabric, contains the truth of her very soul and the nature of her relationship with Craven?
You yank hard on the drawer and reveal…nothing but laundry receipts and used hairbrushes. Damn.
You shut the drawer and cast another look around the room. Fireplace, hearth rug. Bed, wardrobe. You open the topmost drawer of the wardrobe and feel around for clues. Your fingers swim in a sea of silk and retrieve nothing but negligee after negligee. Some are so thin, you can see your hand through the fabric! You curse yourself for blushing and feel the heat of imagined eyes burn a hole in your neck.
Just as you are about to open the next drawer, a little voice, clear and frightening as a funeral bell, calls to you. You spin wildly on your heel to find Alexander in the doorway, staring with saucer-wide eyes and clutching a stuffed toy.