The compress, blissfully chilled from the morning air, eased the pulsing heat at her temples. Her body answered with a surge of excitement. “Don’t you see? The longer we put off the wedding, the more time we give the killer to succeed. The union will bind you to the money, forever putting at rest any futher claims to it.”
“You can barely stand up.”
“But I’m of sound mind. Any clergy will see that.”
“That remains to be seen,” Bracken muttered, the faintest smile playing at his lips. “No one can know about this, then.”
“You’re wrong. Everyone must know. We’ll shout it from the nearest spire. The gardens will be perfect.”
“For God’s sake, Poppy, isn’t two attempts on your life enough for one day?”
“Three. Don’t forget the near-drowning.” The cloth slipped in the wake of her animated gestures. She swiped it from her eyes. “We’ll set the stage and be ready.”
“It’s far too dangerous. An assassin could hide anywhere in those gardens.”
“Then I shall wear the chainmail from your study beneath my gown.”
His gaze detoured south and snagged somewhere between the hostile territory of her corset and the Valley of the Absurd. “I doubt much more shall fit between you and that dress.”
“We’ll think of something. Leave the wedding arrangements to me.” Tasha lifted the bell from her bedside table and shook it.
“We’ll need a sketch of the grounds and a handful of men you’d trust with your own life,” she whispered.
“I don’t know about this.”
“It’ll work. You’ll see. It’s the only way to stop this. The only way to ensure you’ll be—”
“A widow?”
“Protected.”
The light in his expression sobered, as if he’d come to an impasse only he could see. “Poppy, there’s something I have to tell—”
The maid who’d helped her dress earlier entered. “Yes, Miss?”
“Send for Nattie. Notify Lord and Lady Devonshire and everyone else you can think of. We have twelve hours to plan a wedding.”
The girl hurried from the room, her quicksteps as infectious as the prospect of snaring the killer and leaving Poppy’s insane world. But she remembered the damp cloth in her hand. The way Bracken held it to her skin as if he had the capacity to look past Poppy’s insanity to what lay underneath. The line between her and the insane girl she’d shared a body with was no longer clear. Had she given him back his fiancé or introduced him to a part of herself he’d never find again once the real Poppy returned?
“I’m sorry,” said Tasha. “You wanted to say something?”
Bracken cleared his throat and found an inordinate interest in studying his clenched hands. “I just wanted to tell you…”
3 comments:
Mmm, mmm, mmm. Nicely done, LA. Such a well put-together and seamleass read. Loved the way you ratcheted up the sexual tension, too. I could just see him languising over her exposed cleavage. (Is it hot in here?)You're so evil to leave the last sentence unfinished. Hmmm.
What to do, what to do ...
I'm with Sherry, what a way to leave us hanging! okay whoever is next get with it! I can't wait to see how this plays out!
You are so devious.
I love that you pulled her back to her 20th century roots. She would be a take charge sort of gal -- she's done this, what did Sherry call it -- jumpfrogging?, enough times to know how to get the ball moving and find a killer. That is the real Tasha.
However, I do so like that you've blurred the line between Poppy and Tasha. Who'd want to leave a man like Bracken? And now, we can feel her real desire, the one to stay and be a part of his world.
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