Masquerading The Marquess

Chapter 14

Calliope grasped air as she was flung toward the coach’s floor. She girded herself for the bruising impact but was caught roughly by James. He pulled her against him and braced them both against the sides of the coach.

He swore fluently and Calliope clutched his arm as they rocketed pell-mell around a corner. It was apparent the animals were running unchecked. Buildings streaked past and shouts echoed in the night. Calliope prayed Jenkins would regain control of the frightened beasts before they neared the theater district.

Her prayers went unanswered. They raced down the Strand and past the Opera House.

A woman’s shrill scream pierced the night. Angry shouts followed.

James tried to open the trapdoor but something was blocking it. Cold ran through Calliope as she realized that Jenkins’s heavy form was probably the culprit.

James opened a box hidden in the squabs and thrust a small gun in her hand, then placed two other pistols on the seat. He yelled over the noise from the wheels and the shouts from pedestrians outside, "They’re loaded. Use the smaller one only if they get close."

Not waiting for a reply, he threw the coach window open and crawled through. She gaped at his retreating backside as the coach lurched precariously.

Calliope held her breath until she knew he had safely reached the driver’s box. Snapping to attention, she repositioned herself, propping her legs against the seat across from her. Calliope heard the horses’ angry snorts as James attempted to get the frightened creatures under control.

She stuck her head out the window to call to him. A pole whirled past and she pulled her head in so fast that she bumped it against the top of the window frame.

How had he climbed out without getting hit?

Being more circumspect, she again peered upward out the window. She detected the slumped-over form of Jenkins. She prayed fervently that he was only slightly injured. Straining a glance behind the coach, Calliope spotted two riders approaching at a fast clip.

Shots rang out again and she whipped her head inside. How many guns did the assailants have?

She tucked the smaller gun in her breeches and picked up one of the other pistols. Keeping a tight grip, she leaned out the window, cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger. One of the riders ducked but continued to give chase. She fired the other, with the same result. Her ears rang from the report.

Her hands shook as she tried to reload the gun. Under the best of circumstances it required a steady hand to pour the powder down the barrel, but in a wildly swaying vehicle, it was nearly impossible.

The contents jiggled as the carriage tossed on the rutted road. She shoved the powder case toward the muzzle. Powder spilled onto the carriage floor. Muttering in frustration, she tried again. The coach lurched. She pinched her fingers together around the case in a bone-crushing grip. Another carriage jerk caused her cap to slip over her left eye. Hair loosened from its constraints, chunks of curls came tumbling out, further obscuring her view. Calliope elbowed the offending hair back.

A violent pitch caused her bad leg to give out and, losing her precarious balance, she fell against the left side of the coach. Still concentrating on the powder, so close to the hole, she poured it in. Finally. She grabbed a paper wad and a ball and pounded them down the shaft.

Meanwhile, it seemed James had managed to get the old town coach and four horses under some semblance of control and the seat wasn’t wobbling as much. The team continued moving at a breakneck pace, weaving around obstacles and taking sharp turns. She stuck her head out the window, took aim and blindly fired.

The two riders slowed and moved to either side of the street. James circled Trafalgar Square and the coach headed back down Whitehall.

She ducked back into the carriage as they hit a bump in the road. It tossed her to the side and her valuable bag of powder poured uselessly to the floor. Damn, and damn again.

Her only alternative was to join James and see if she could be of assistance. Checking that the small gun was secure in her breeches, she grasped both sides of the window frame and hauled herself halfway out on her backside as she had seen him do. Sitting in the frame, she reached for the top of the carriage and was nearly tossed out as they hit a furrow in the road.

She felt the gun slip from her waistband and grabbed it just in time to keep it from falling to the ground. She sent silent thanks that she had worn breeches, James cursed loudly as Calliope stretched toward the driver’s seat. He reached around to pull her up and over Jenkins like a sack of flour. The horses balked at the loosened reins and Calliope could do nothing but hold on for dear life as James hauled her into the seat.

"What are you doing, woman? Are you trying to kill yourself? Come to think of it, I could kill you myself." He didn’t look her way, but his face was drawn in harsh, intense lines.

"I thought I might help. I know you’re trying to outrun those riders."

"Well, you could have shot them. That would have helped."

"I tried. Three times."

"More times would’ve been helpful. From inside the carriage. I can’t see any way for you to reload up here."

"Uh, yes. You see, that was the crux of the problem-"

A shot rang out over their heads.

"Damn it, get down."

He pushed her to the floor and hunched over the reins as they sped past the Admiralty.

Coming up here hadn’t been her brightest idea.

More shots rang out and she heard a hiss from James. It was lucky the horses were back under control, because he was now holding them with only his right hand. For the second time that night he was covered in red.

Calliope gasped and rose to assist, but he pushed her down with his injured left arm and urged the horses on.

"It’s fine. I need to find a distraction and I don’t need it to be you."

The sticky smell of blood overpowered the London air.

She looked at Jenkins’s head, bouncing near her. A bullet had nicked him on the side of his skull. Blood was flowing from the wound. She tore two pieces off her shirt and held one tightly against the wound while binding the other to hold it in place. Looking up at James, she ignored his command and reached up and unfurled his neckcloth in one swift tug. She was very glad he favored simple styles. Calliope knew her head was in the line of fire but she pushed her fear aside. She tried to open his shirt but he shook his head.

"If you aren’t going to listen to me, then just bind the wound and get back down."

She quickly complied and he shoved her to the floor. "Grab Jenkins and hold tight."

They were close to the Government Offices and nearing the Houses of Parliament. Before hitting the floor, she had seen the rows of empty vendor stalls by the square. He was going to ram them. Calliope held on to Jenkins and prayed.

The horses were balking, but a second before they reached the stalls, James gave a sharp left jerk on the reins and urged them on. The tired beasts responded and turned. The rear of the carriage skidded outward, hitting the stalls and sending wood and materials into the air. Calliope managed to hold on to both Jenkins and herself. Terrified that James had slipped off the side, she glanced up, but he was confidently spurring the horses forward. Blood pounded in her ears.

She looked back at the carnage. Stalls and beams were strewn across the street. The riders couldn’t pass. She breathed an audible sigh of relief.

He gave her a sharp look. "We aren’t home yet."

She grabbed the small gun and looked around, but the tired horses carried them the short distance to James’s townhouse without further incident.

A small army of servants appeared and carried off Jenkins. Finn mumbled under his breath about his employer taking off without him.

"Finn, take care of Jenkins, post guards and get someone to rub down the horses." He pointed at Calliope. "Follow me."

Calliope shadowed him to the study. "What about your wound?"

"It’s merely a nick. Bullet passed through."

Templeton appeared in the doorway, anxiety on his usually calm face.

Calliope inspected James’s blood-soaked shirt for the second time that day. "Templeton, please get us hot water, towels and bandages."

Templeton, who was staring at his master’s shirt, didn’t question her right to attend his master or give directives. He ran from the room.

"Damn it, I said it’s just a nick. And give me that gun before you shoot yourself."

"I know what you said," she said soothingly, and placed the gun on the table. "Now please remove your shirt so I can attend to the scratch."

His brows drew together in a fierce scowl but he said nothing.

Templeton returned so quickly that Calliope wondered where he hid the bandages. She took the supplies from the butler and thanked him.

James sat, eyes closed. He crossed his arms and pain flashed across his brow. She put her hands on her hips. "Honestly, you’re acting like a child. Now take off your shirt."

He glared at her as she moved toward him. If he wasn’t going to take it off, then she would.

Calliope could have sworn he growled at her, but he acceded to her command and removed the blood-soaked shirt. She carefully checked his torso for other wounds, even peering under the patch covering the stab wound. She had seen his chest earlier in the day, but the intimacy of the act still moved her.

She snapped to attention, concentrating on the task at hand. Dipping a towel in water, she cleansed the colorful mess on his arm. The bullet had taken a fair chunk out of the side. A nick indeed!

After she bandaged the wound, she sat back on her heels.

Templeton, who had been anxiously hovering during the entire ordeal, relaxed. "I will be in the kitchen, ma’am. Please pull the cord if you or my lord require anything." He exited the study and closed the door behind him.

Calliope studied James as he stared at the ceiling. His eyes were dark and remote. What was he thinking? She had prodded the wound and knew it had hurt, but as earlier, he remained detached and distant.

"Are you all right?"

He refocused on her, an intense look on his face. "What the bloody hell did you think you were doing, climbing out of the coach?"

"I-I-I thought I could help." His stormy look had reduced her to stammering.

"It would have helped if you had stayed inside the carriage."

Her chin went up a notch. "Jenkins might’ve died."

"Yes, and so might’ve you." He heaved a breath and leaned back against the sofa. "As it so happens I would not have pulled that maneuver had you been inside the carriage."

She brightened perceptibly.

"But don’t ever do it again." His aristocratic mien was back in place and she wanted to smack him. She balled her hands into fists instead.

"You can’t return home tonight," he said.

"I know."

He nodded and closed his eyes.

A wave of pent-up emotion washed through Calliope and she fought a hysterical giggle. She lost. One eye peeked open and he looked at her. He repeated her earlier question. "Are you all right?"

Another shrill giggle bubbled out and this time his other eye snapped open.

Hysteria whipped through her and it must have shown, because he swept her onto his lap, disregarding any pain in his left arm.

"You’re safe. Let it go."

His gentle words were her undoing. She buried her head against his neck and let the tremors sweep through her. The fear uncoiled within and she held on to him tightly, tears running down her cheeks unheeded. The stress that had been building since the beginning of the masquerade burst forth, as if waiting for just this moment to be released.

James ran his fingers down her back and stroked her hair with his left hand, comforting her as if she were a child, and whispering soft, incoherent words against her hair. He was using his injured arm to comfort her and that made her cry even harder.

Calliope couldn’t seem to stop. James was murmuring about stressful campaigns, battle-hardened men reduced to tears, her needing this release.

Calliope finally reached the sniffling stage, feeling infinitely better than she had in a long time. And safe. Nothing harmful could happen as long as he continued to hold her this way. James pulled her head back and smoothed her hair away from her face. She knew her eyes were bloodshot and her face was mottled, but James’s eyes were the same mesmerizing black velvet as the night of the Killroys’ and Pettigrew’s balls. Energy sparked between them and it sent a shiver down her spine.

James twirled a ringlet of her hair around his finger, then curved his hand gently around the back of her head, slowly drawing her toward him, allowing her time to settle back against his shoulder or pull away. The gentle caress and the intensity in his eyes were her undoing. She lifted her left hand and traced a path from his cheek to his silk collar. She heard his sudden intake of breath and her eyes searched and held his for a long moment. This man had somehow lodged himself into her being. His eyes mirrored her own need and a rush of excitement pulsed through her veins.

His lips touched hers like a feather. Then another mere brush. The gentle pressure on her head ceased and he looked into her eyes once more. He was allowing her time to make her decision, and once made, there would be no interruptions. Her heart made the choice. She relinquished her rigid control, shed all guises and gave in to the dream.

"Make me whole, James."

Her words loosened a dam within him, as he stroked the back of her neck and claimed her lips in a searing kiss. Calliope felt a sunburst in her stomach and she kissed him back with a longing she didn’t know she possessed.

It was heavenly, his spicy cologne, the feel of his lips against hers. He leaned into her and laid her against the sofa’s armrest.

He kissed her over and over like a starving man who hadn’t eaten a meal in days. Calliope felt the same way. Her hands delved beneath the edges of his white broadcloth, stroking the heated skin and exploring the hard-muscled planes she had observed earlier. He groaned.

Suddenly her shirt was unbuttoned and his hands slipped inside her chemise. He didn’t stop kissing her as he lightly rubbed his thumb over her left nipple. Everything blurred and little red and gold lights burst in her vision. She leaned her head back as he trailed kisses down her neck, over her breasts to her stomach. Her breeches had somehow come undone. Then they were gone. His hands and mouth were everywhere. Dear lord, his mouth was everywhere.

She gave in to the pleasure and arched on the sofa as her body reveled in the new sensations he stirred. He quickly removed the rest of her clothes and his. She gasped when she looked at him naked before her, all hard muscles and strong taut planes. Gone was the aristocrat, and in his place was her fantasy. And for one night he was hers.

His eyes seared her as he touched her with his hands. The inferno raged as he stroked her again and again, reaching his head down to pull first one nipple and then the other between his lips. Half the staff could have appeared beside the couch and she wouldn’t have cared. The pleasure was so intense she thought she might explode.

His eyes were molten and she wondered how she could have ever thought him cold. He continued the assault on her senses until she was damp and aching. She needed him to fill the missing piece.

"You’re beautiful. Beyond my wildest imaginings." He suddenly changed course and kissed her lips again, deeply, at the same time lifting her hips. She gripped the back of his head and kissed him hard, whispering against his mouth for him to hurry. She couldn’t remember ever needing anything so badly. He eased inside her and discomfort overrode the pleasure as she tried to adjust to the foreign sensation. He looked into her eyes, a question appearing in their depths, but she gave a tentative wiggle and they darkened. He continued to gaze at her, stroking her between their bodies until her wiggles became frenzied and the discomfort was forgotten.

Then he began to move. She lost all rational thought as the room lit on fire. A crescendo was building inside her unlike anything she’d experienced. Her body moved with a will of its own, pulling James closer, and matching him eagerly stroke for stroke. She cried out his name and heard hers echoed before losing all thought to the overwhelming waves of passion.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck three. He had been stabbed and shot, and he was feeling better than he could remember. James almost smiled.

What was it about her that made him feel? Feel everything: anger, passion, tenderness, jealousy. Vulnerability.

She was lying on top of him, long legs akimbo. James lifted a lock of honeyed hair off his chest and rubbed it beneath his nose and over his lips. The silky strands were a pleasant tickle. Lilacs. She always smelled so good. He replaced the lock and smoothed her hair from her face. Calliope sighed and snuggled closer. An overwhelming protectiveness stirred within him. It wasn’t the first time he had felt this way around her, but the enormity of it rocked him.

They had much to discuss. She had a number of questions to answer. But the pleasant lethargy was too nice to spoil, so he lay staring at the ceiling, allowing his mind to connect the pieces of the puzzle. Calliope wiggled into a more comfortable position and settled in for a lengthy doze.

No woman had spent the night in the townhouse since his father’s death. But Calliope looked right. There was no place he would rather have her be.

There would be plenty of time to talk in the morning.

Calliope woke feeling better than she could remember. She was more than a little tired. James had awakened her twice during the night. Once to carry her up to bed and the other time to… She couldn’t stop the blush staining her cheeks. The heavy red and navy curtains above her were plush and exotic. Like something brought back from the Crusades long ago. Calliope looked around at the mahogany furniture and rich dark colors. They suited their owner. The pillow next to hers carried a deep indentation that indicated it hadn’t been abandoned much earlier. However, James was nowhere to be seen.

She rose and searched for her clothes. Spotting only a deep violet gown lying across an armchair, she picked it up, running her lingers down the silk. A surge of jealousy swept through her. Whose gown was it? It was designed in an older, classic style.

Having no desire to walk unclothed through his household, she reluctantly put it on. Thankfully it was an easy gown to fasten, and she was able to do it without assistance.

On the dresser lay a beautiful silver brush set, which she used to comb her hair into some semblance of order. A matching violet ribbon lay next to the brush.

Negotiating the hallway, she found a staircase leading to the first floor. She headed for the study, made a wrong turn into the drawing room and then backtracked to find Templeton standing in the hall.

"I heard you come down, miss. His lordship is in his study. Please follow me, it’s right this way."

There was a deferential note in Templeton’s voice. And if she didn’t know better, she would say there was a more engaging manner in the way he addressed her.

He led her to the study, bowed and took his leave. She could have sworn there was a lighter hitch to his step.

Calliope entered the firelit room and found James staring at a ledger on his desk, his glasses perched on his nose. He stood when he heard her enter and removed the glasses. The heated look in his eyes warmed her to her toes as he approached.

"I hope you don’t mind wearing my mother’s old gown. Even though it is a bit outdated, I thought it might be a bit more fashionable and comfortable than your breeches."

His mother’s gown? Calliope felt her cheeks heat and cast her eyes downward. "Thank you." She suddenly felt shy.

He led her to the sofa and chairs that were grouped near the blazing fire. The same sofa that…

"Would you care for some tea? Biscuits? Something more substantial?"

Calliope shook her head and sat next to him on the sofa. He waved off Templeton, who shut the door behind him.

"Well, then, I have a question for you. How did a virgin become a courtesan and manage to remain a virgin?"

Panic flowed through her and she looked to the door for escape.

"What game were you and Stephen playing?"

Calliope pulled herself together and stammered an answer. "W-we were just waiting. He was giving me time to adjust."

James looked unconvinced.

She tried again. "You know what a gentleman Stephen is."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Can’t say that I do."

"Well, he is. He was allowing me to adjust to my new role." Calliope panicked and forced herself to continue the charade. It wasn’t time to tell him. Not yet, not when he was looking at her with such heat.

"Well, I’m not Stephen. And I want you."

"I, uh, that is-"

"Money, protection, security for life. I can give you all you desire."

The look he gave her promised just that. It made her sizzle, but visions of her mother anxiously waiting for Salisbury to appear each night danced through her head. There had always been the uncertainty and sometimes the disappointment.

"I am quite sure you don’t know what I desire."

"I know enough." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and let his hand trail down the back of her neck.

The room was getting warmer by the minute and if she wasn’t careful she’d find herself blissfully entwined and begging for all he offered. Time to change the subject. "How shall we proceed today, my lord? Do you know who was chasing us last night?"

"Back to ‘my lord’ and business, are we? Pity. I could think of plenty of stimulating things we could do with the day. I suppose what I have in mind will have to wait until this evening."

Calliope tried to breathe normally and ignore his comments, even as her traitorous body responded to the look in his eyes.

"My men have been out all night making inquiries. We’ll have an answer soon. Meanwhile, we’ll stop by your townhouse so you can change."

His eyes turned mischievous. "Then we can take some air. You are looking a trifle overset."

James bundled her into his coach and they set off for Stephen’s townhouse. She hid beneath a large bonnet, another piece from his mother’s closet, in case they encountered anyone while entering or exiting the coach. They reached the residence and James talked to his two men while she changed.

The violet dress winked at her as she set it down. It was only then that she remembered her forgotten breeches and shirt. Throwing on a light tan day dress, her wig and makeup, she rushed downstairs as quickly as possible. She could hear the men talking.

"Two blokes tried entering last night. One man stood in the shadows watching the whole time. Couldn’t make out any features but he set my teeth on edge. We got the two lackwits but weren’t able to nab the third man."

"Good work. I’ll talk to them later. Stay here just in case."

"Right-o."

James caught sight of Calliope and walked toward her. The two men bowed awkwardly and left the room.

"Are you ready? I thought we might drive by Holt’s and then walk down the Strand, since we didn’t bring the curricle."

Calliope nodded. A walk sounded good. Brisk fresh air, lots of people, limited personal conversation.

They got into the coach and drove briskly until Holt’s house came into view. It looked empty. Oddly, there appeared to be no activity inside or out.

"Let’s continue. I’ll make a social call later and see what he’s about. I sent Finn to Ternberry’s to talk to the servants. Hopefully we can piece this mess together."

They reached the Strand, parked and exited the coach. The driver would rendezvous with them on the other side.

"It’s a beautiful day to be out. I have frequently wondered how the pasty ladies get by without being in the sun."

She relaxed into his small talk and soon found herself enjoying the gorgeous day and being with him.

A man sullenly walked by and Calliope instantly recognized him as George Cruikshank, Robert’s brother. George was also a caricaturist. He was a staunch moralist, the opposite of Robert in personality and decorum. George knew nothing of Thomas Landes’s identity, of whom he would disapprove mightily. The two brothers were as different as night and day.

A small crowd was gathered outside a shop. The ladies were tittering. As James and Calliope neared the window, one of the ladies caught sight of them and giggled behind her hand. The group looked their way and hurried off in the other direction.

James frowned. Calliope was bemused. She glanced down at her gown and touched her wig, trying to figure out what was amiss.

James’s frown turned to a scowl as they neared the shop. "I should have known."

Calliope looked up at his stormy visage and then to the area that had been vacated. Large windows lined the shop and prints were hanging in the windows. They had reached Ackermanns.

Calliope gasped, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Since teaming with James she had been too involved to keep track of the caricatures she had given Robert. Her vendetta with the marquess had slipped by the wayside. James had charmed her with his intelligence, friendship and caring.

Calliope did some quick arithmetic.

Why today? Why today of all days?

Calliope instinctively placed a restraining hand on James’s arm. He gripped it and pulled her along with him.

Her last drawing of James adorned the center window.

"Damn and blast it, I’d like to get my hands around that malicious artist’s neck."

Calliope swallowed, trying to keep her throat from closing.

James was furious, and for good reason. This illustration was her coup de grace, the one that had spoken from her hurt feelings. The moment at the Killroys’ ball when she had thought he was poking fun at her by offering the beautiful flower. Of course, with a new perspective that moment seemed different. She had found it convenient to place the blame for the entire night at his feet. But it was far too late. The damage was done. The illustration was visible for all Londoners to see.

"Maybe the artist made a mistake."

"Right. And the other drawings of me showed that the artist had fallen hopelessly in love," he drawled.

Not a good sign. A tightening sense of dismay enveloped her. "Possibly."

James shook his head. "Do not defend the man, Cal. He is vindictive."

Had he just called her Cal? She was finding it hard to breathe.

"I mean, look at the position he has placed me in. I am offering a flower to that governess in mockery while a crowd of my peers dances and laughs. And look at what I am doing with my hands. I will kill him, I promise."

Calliope swallowed, but there was no moisture in her throat.

He continued his tirade without response from her, still examining the picture with an odd contemplative quality to his voice. "It’s odd where Landes gets his ideas. I’ve never been one to frequent parties. In fact, I only started going because of- Oh, never mind." James smoothed over whatever he was going to say. "Besides, I’d never offer anything pretty to a lady of the ton. It would be quite out of character-"

He stopped abruptly and frowned.

The frown deepened and Calliope felt moisture gather down her back, just as it had the night of the Killroys’ ball.

"Should we keep walking, my lord?"

"My lord?" His look was penetrating and Calliope’s legs readied for flight.

"I think it’s time we get back. After all, you are going to Holt’s and I need to get ready for the Ordines’ ball and there are so many things to do between now and then. I should really stop by and tell my family that I’m well. Do you think we might stop there on the way back?" Calliope knew she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop. Especially when she saw the cold light appear in his eyes.

"You are the only woman I have ever offered a flower to. And no one was there to witness it."

"Oh, really, my lord. There must be dozens of women for whom you buy flowers."

He shook his head, anger replacing the shock. "Not a single one."

"Well, I do believe I might have mentioned it to Lady Simpson, and you know how she has the tendency to talk." Calliope couldn’t stop herself. One part of her had stepped away and was looking at the remaining part in horror.

"No, I don’t believe you ever saw Lady Simpson again. But soon afterward there was quite an unflattering rendition of your confrontation with her done by this same artist. I started following his work after it appeared I had become his primary target."

"Then he must have been at the Killroys’ party."

"Yes, I do believe you are right. "

Calliope fought the tears and desire to flee as she stared at him mutely, pain in her heart.

"Why, Calliope? What did I do to earn your scorn?"

A tear slipped down her cheek. "You were the epitome of a haughty aristocrat. And I was just another piece of dirt on your way to the ball."

His face was still angry but he wiped the tear away with his thumb. "Didn’t you run into that with others? The ton is full of such people. Why me?"

Her voice cracked. "Because you were such an arrogant ass. You always riled me. Lady Simpson fired me because of our final interchange." And the reactions he always caused had unnerved her.

"What if I told you that you were the reason I went to all those dull parties?" His face softened a notch.

Calliope shook her head. "No, you thought I was dowdy and beneath your notice. You only took interest in me after you thought I was flashy and loose."

James’s face tightened back in anger. "You have a real cruel streak, Calliope Minton. Thomas Landes is one of the more vicious caricaturists. Let’s go. You will remain in your townhouse while I seek out Holt."

Calliope was drained, her emotions too raw to argue, so she allowed him to lead her to the carriage waiting at the end of the street.

The ride home was tense and silent. She couldn’t remember ever feeling as miserable.

They walked to the door.

"I don’t want you stepping a foot outside this house. Understood?" James said it as he was turning around to go back to the carriage.

"My lord. You must come inside." One of the footmen made an urgent motion toward the hall.

James frowned, but the uncharacteristic, jerky motions of the footman must have convinced him because he followed.

"Upstairs, quickly. "

Something was wrong. Calliope ran to keep pace with the two men as they vaulted up the stairs.

They reached her room and the footman opened the door. Suddenly Calliope didn’t want to look in, afraid that a loved one’s still body might be inside.

The sharp intake of breath from James caused her to look around him.

Stephen was lying prone on her bed, white as death.