Chapter 11

Eleven

Our escape was simply done. There was no one home in the apartment with that balcony.

Brodie handily picked the lock on the glass doors. We let ourselves in, then let ourselves out on the street below in front of a tobacconist's shop. Then we walked several streets past until we found a driver of one of hundreds of fiacres that provided transportation across the city.

We left the district at the river, however, the driver explained that his license did not allow him to cross into other areas.

The promise of a hundred francs to take us across, then to the Westminster convinced him. Not surprisingly, he hung a cloth with another number on it over the one painted on the side of his carriage, and we continued across the river.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at the Westminster, the sun a fiery orange glow below the bank of clouds that had pulled back from the river.

I was tired with at least a half dozen bruises that I could feel from climbing down from rooftops. Our clothes were somewhat disheveled although I had attempted to restore some order to my hair, while Brodie looked much the same as I had often seen him when on a case about London. I thought of the trousers I had borrowed in our previous case.

It was a reminder that I did need to consider having some made that fit better than a man's trousers. That thought had momentarily stopped all others—that I considered I might have a need for them.

Which of course then led to the next thought about my relationship with the man beside me in that carriage.

Our driver was well paid when we arrived at the Westminster.

"Go to the room," Brodie told me as we entered the hotel. "I need to send a message to London."

I nodded. I was too tired to argue.

"Excalibur," I reminded him of the code-name Alex Sinclair said we were to use before we left London.

It did all seem quite nefarious, I thought.

A member of the Admiralty brutally murdered, a name scribbled on that message found in Sir Collingwood's fireplace, a struggling artist murdered at the apartment at Number Thirteen Rue Miron, those travel papers and the handbill for that exhibition at the museum in Brussels, along with a code name we were supposed to use?

What did all of it mean? What had we stumbled into?

I had visited the Westminster when our great-aunt visited my sister and me at school in Paris, and I was familiar with the hotel. While Brodie went to send off that telegram, I passed by the men's sitting room, an elegant recreation of a gentlemen's club.

I entered the room and was immediately informed by an attendant that the club was for gentlemen only. I thanked him and continued to the mahogany bar where I requested not wine but whisky, preferably Old Lodge whisky imported from Scotland.

To my surprise they carried a bottle of my great-aunt's whisky. Bless Munro who handled that enterprise, I thought, then inquired about supper.

The man behind the bar informed me with a familiar English accent that there were a variety of entrees provided for the guests of the men's sitting room.

I placed an order for supper and a bottle of whisky, gave the man the room number for the meal to be delivered, then tucked that bottle into my bag and ignored the stares of the gentlemen who were present as I left.

In spite of the fact that we had one of the smaller rooms in the hotel, it did have a gas fireplace. I soon had a fire going, opened that bottle of whisky, poured two glasses, and then took out my notebook.

Brodie arrived soon after. He looked tired with faint lines around those dark eyes and his mouth. He pulled his revolver from his pocket and set it on the table. I handed him that other glass of whisky.

"I suppose ye pulled this from yer bag," he commented after taking a very long taste.

"It seems that Munro has invaded the Continent with my aunt's whisky," I replied.

"A good man," he replied, as he went to one of those fine satin brocade-covered chairs before the fire, sat, drained the tumbler, and then held it out for another dram. He immediately took another long drink as I handed it back to him.

"I explained wot we found as best I could in a brief message." He leaned his head on the chair back, eyes closed as he let the whisky have its way.

"Ye can send the next message. I have no idea if I spelled those French words or that damned code word correctly."

It was a small thing, but it was a reminder that we worked very well together, all things considered, including spelling.

Was that all that was left?

I had made my notes regarding our discoveries of the day and set my pen aside. I then went into the adjacent bathroom and turned on the tap to fill the bathtub with hot water.

I slowly undressed, stepped out of my clothes, and discovered those bruises. They were quite vivid in shades of blue. I stepped into the tub and slowly sank down into the hot water.

Not usually one for extravagance—after all I had bathed in rivers and from a bucket when on my travels—there was still something I very much appreciated about the fragrant milled soap, the creamy lather it provided, and that extra dram of my aunt's very fine whisky.

I had woven my hair into a single braid after I'd lost the pins while climbing out of that apartment building. I leaned back and closed my eyes, hot water and that soap working another bit of magic.

I drifted in a sea of soap, warm water, steam, and whisky, my muscles slowly loosening. The thought occurred to me that I might have drowned, and didn't care.

Except that I was still breathing, there was a murder case to be solved, and there was a very dark gaze watching me through that steamy, whisky-laden haze.

Brodie leaned over the tub. With anyone else I would have been embarrassed at the least, angry at best. But this was Brodie and I did suppose that we were past embarrassment in consideration of the fact that we were husband and wife, as he had clearly informed the man at the inn in Calais.

"A man has arrived with what appears to be supper, unless ye've a mind to remain until the water is cold or ye begin to take on the look of a prune."

There were few things that would have pulled me from a warm bath after escaping buildings in Paris. Food was one of them—I was starving. The other thing…

When I would have reached for the towel, an enormous, soft extravagant thing with a large ‘W' stitched into one corner, Brodie grabbed it then wrapped it around me.

"Ye'll catch yer death." He then began to dry me off from head to foot.

"Ye've some fine bruises there," he said as his ministrations traveled down one leg then the other.

"A caution regarding climbing out of three-story windows," I replied, not at all put off by his attention as he proceeded to dry off my other leg, his mouth curving down in a frown.

He stood and wrapped the towel, that reached from neck to foot like a blanket, around me.

"I suppose that will do."

It would have to, I thought, as I returned to the bedroom. The attendant who brought the food had set out silverware, damask napkins, and included two covered plates. The aroma that filled the room was quite wonderful.

"Escargot!" I exclaimed as I uncovered one of the serving dishes. "I was quite famished."

"Snails," Brodie added with disgust.

"I ordered them for myself," I informed him as he poured more whisky.

In deference to his simpler tastes, in addition to the escargot for myself, I had ordered beef Bourguignon, or as he preferred to call it, beef stew, with fresh croissants.

We ate in silence until the food had started to warm my stomach. Or it might have been the whisky.

"Was there any trouble sending the telegram?" I buttered another croissant and took a bite.

"I waited to see if there would be a response. It seems there has been development regarding Sir Collingwood and perhaps the reason he was murdered."

"Did he say what that was?"

He shook his head. "His reply was very cryptic. He mentioned only that there was a development. Based on what we discovered, he wants us to continue to Brussels to attend that exhibition. He'll be sending more instructions at that time. He didn't want to explain in a telegram."

Most interesting. However, while there were instructions, there was obviously a great deal that had been left unspoken. Even in my somewhat hazy condition, it was obvious that Sir Avery was taking additional precautions regarding information that was sent back and forth.

"Are ye still hungry, lass?"

I caught that last part, even in the glow of my aunt's whisky. Then there was the way his voice softened and the sound of a faint smile when he asked if I was still hungry.

"Ye have an appetite like no other," he teased.

"It's due to climbing out of buildings."

"Which ye are quite good at," he added. "Except, perhaps, for the bruises."

I held out my empty glass. "More, please."

He poured more for both of us, with a critical glance at the bottle that now contained substantially less than before supper, then handed my glass back to me. I gathered my towel about me and went to the fireplace where it was warmer. And he was there.

He lifted my hair from my shoulder as he had dozens of times in the past before...

"Yer hair is still damp from yer bath." He removed the tie from the end.

When I didn't protest, he slowly began to unwind the braid, and I watched as those fingers gently tugged, until my hair was loose about my shoulders and he fanned it before the heat of the fire.

I blamed it on the whisky, of course, or it might have been the escargot. Or quite simply it could have been the man whose hands rested gently on my shoulders as he turned me toward him.

His hands skimmed my throat, then his mouth found mine. The taste of whisky was there, along with that faint scent of cinnamon and orange as he kissed me on one corner of my mouth then the other.

Inexplicably, I thought of my great-aunt and a conversation when we were on safari, a night with the restless sounds of a pride of lions beyond the compound where we stayed.

"The females hunt and the males...do what males do, and protect the pride," Sir Ellery, our host, had explained, as we sat before our tent, the sun slowly going down in a spectacular way.

"All that roaring about," my great-aunt replied over a glass of her whisky that she had sent on ahead of our trip there, and a look over at me.

" Not unlike the human male. They bicker and quarrel, and somehow continue on…"

I had said nothing to her about the reason for my last-minute decision to accompany her and Lily to Africa. Even so, there it was. Greater wisdom over a bit of the drink?

It was the whisky, I told myself as I struggled to breathe and he whispered in Gaelic. Words I had no idea the meaning of that slipped through the haze as his mouth found mine once more. And in spite of everything, that lion roar and harsh words that had pushed me away...I wanted more.

His beard tickled my neck as he tugged my head back, and his lips followed, teeth nipping, demanding, then giving, and I was certain that the French in this regard were highly overrated.

The kiss ended and we were both breathless, and the look in that dark gaze...as he took my hand and kissed the back of my fingers, just there at the ring I still wore.

"Will ye come to bed with me?" he whispered.

I knew what that meant after what had just passed between us.

The answer was there, I suppose where it began on a beach on the Isle of Crete with the hot sun beating down, in the north of Scotland with those simple words spoken before a magistrate, and even with the anger that had driven us apart.

He pushed the towel back from my shoulders. It dropped to the floor, and for just a moment I thought of that painting in Dornay's atelier, the woman naked, reclined back against that chaise.

He picked me up and carried me to the bed.

It was the whisky, I told myself as my toes curled.

Sometime later, he retrieved the satin brocade quilt that had somehow ended up on the floor and pulled it over us, then wrapped his arm around me and pulled me against him. His hand moved over mine, his fingers brushing the ring on my hand. And there in the darkness, the ‘lion's roar' was gone.

"I know that I hurt ye. It was never my intent."

I felt the deep breath he took against my back.

"When I told ye that I didna want ye to be part of the case, after what Abberline did and knowin' the man, what he was capable of," his voice trailed off, but when I would have said something, his fingers gently closed around mine, stopping me.

"Let me say it," he whispered, and then was quiet for several moments. Gathering his thoughts?

"Ye were like a gift in my life, something good and true, something a man like me...and what happened all those years before…"

I heard that sudden huskiness in his throat and knew he remembered that loss when he was no older than Rory.

"My worst fear…" he whispered, "was that I might lose ye. There are things I've done, things I can bear," he added. "But never that."

He spoke of Rory then. "I thought, too, of him. And Lily, as well, in that dark cell. The commitment the both of us made, to be a family. If something was to happen to ye and with me facing the hangman's rope, what would happen to them?"

It was the first time we had spoken of it after that horrible argument, and something quite extraordinary in a man, particularly a Scot, who was not accustomed to such things.

I fell the brush of his beard against the back of my shoulder as he pressed a kiss there.

"Ye are the strongest, bravest person, man or woman, I've ever known. Ye have a strength inside ye that few men have. With what Abberline had already done, I couldna bear the thought that he might hurt ye...Or worse, and there would be nothing I could do to stop him."

I turned and laid my hand against his cheek, my fingers stroking through the soft beard there.

"You should have trusted me."

"Aye."

We were both quiet for a long time, but neither of us slept as I thought of what he'd said.

I took a deep breath. "When I was nine years old, my father took his own life and I saw it afterward."

He knew that much. But I had never spoken of what I felt, finding him in the stables, and all that blood.

"He was quite handsome and strong, and the center of our world after our mother's illnesses. And then he wasn't. He was always gone with his friends, often for days at a time.

"It was only afterward...that I heard the whispers about the women and the gambling debts that eventually took everything we had. His excesses would have put us on the street if not for our great-aunt.

"All I remembered of that time were his absences, the arguments that I didn't understand. But I understood the pain he caused my mother as he kept things from her. I always suspected that she heard the rumors and the gossip as well. Then, she was so very ill, and then she was gone."

I took a deep breath as I shared what I had never shared with anyone, not my sister nor our great-aunt, as much as loved them both. Perhaps because I loved them.

"When you told me you didn't want me to be part of case, and you were so very angry, I was terrified what Abberline would do, and determined that I had to find Ellie Sutton's murderer to prove you were innocent. All I wanted was for you to be safe."

"And I pushed ye away." He took my hand and kissed my fingers. "Strong, stubborn, someone to trust with my life." Then, "Are ye certain there is no Scot's blood in ye?"

It was an attempt, I knew, to ease the moment between us. To say what needed to be said and then, as my great-aunt would say, ‘ get on with it . '

"There might be a smuggler or a highwayman or two," I replied and wiped away a tear.

"Aye, criminals to be certain." He paused.

I sensed there was more that needed to be said.

"Ye tore my heart out when ye left, with just that note, and I knew that I had hurt ye in a way that ye might not forgive." He held my hand in his and kissed it.

"My greatest fear was losing ye, and I'd done it to myself."

I turned so that I lay facing him. I curved my hand against his cheek, my fingers stroking through that dark beard, that dark gaze finding mine.

"There are those who canna be trusted," he continued, his hand over mine. "They dinna try to hide who and what they are. Then, there are others who hide behind words, but ye learn who they really are, sometimes the hard way.

I knew he spoke of Abberline once again.

"I do trust ye, lass. It's others that canna be trusted. And if they were to harm ye...I will always protect ye. I canna change that."

The rest of it went unspoken, but I knew what he meant and I shivered at the thought of what he was saying.

"Ye are a part of me." He tipped my chin up. "I love ye. God knows, ye are a troublesome baggage, but I do and that's the way of it, Mikaela Forsythe Brodie."