Page 146 of When We Touch

Or more frightening still, just another of his ilk?

So Jamie’s days with the authorities, inundated with meeting after meeting, detail after detail, went on and on. I could bear it. I could wait.

But then the next thing I knew . . .

The officer had come from Scotland Yard, and I had been informed that Lord James Langdon would be coming for me, and I would be taken to the Queen. So, here I was—held at Scotland Yard! All I could think was, that book! That awful book! People have read it, and believed it! Because they are looking for monsters now, they must have a monster, or a witch, as in my case!

I heard a noise behind me, and I spun around. Rather quickly. I still jump at the least sound.

Jamie had come.

Oh, he was imposing as he stood there! A tall hat upon his ink-dark hair, handsome fawn breeches accenting the length of his legs and the power within them. His waistcoat was a brocade crimson, and his overcoat was black, as was his cravat. He looked so respectable, every inch the lord. And stern, as I had seen him as well. For a moment, my heart fluttered. He could not have changed! He had been there the night of the séance, and the night the crazed killer had come to the cottage in the woods. He had spoken with Arianna, he . . .

Could he still wonder if I had killed Charles?

Then he smiled. “Maggie . . . are you quite all right?”

I frowned, afraid suddenly, keeping my distance. “Let’s see . . . I was twice accosted by a killer, and now I am under arrest! Am I all right? Quite frankly, no!”

And then he laughed, sweeping the hat from his head as he stepped into the room. “You’re not under arrest!”

My eyes widened. “I was escorted here by a burly police fellow I’ve never met. I was told you were coming for me—that I was to see the Queen.”

“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!”

“Jamie, Jamie, Jamie!”

He shook his head, stepped forward, and his eyes were pure silver and mist as they stared down into mine. “The Queen is outraged for you. She wants to assure you that you have done her a tremendous service. And—”

“What?” I breathed. And as I did so, I thought that I would never fall out of love with his smile. With his eyes. With just the sound of his voice.

“She found out who wrote the book. The published book.”

“Who?” I asked cautiously.

“One of the misguided ‘dwarfs’—you know, one of Adrian’s young fellows, who is now rotting away in prison. Says he really does want to turn a new leaf, and the story is made up with names and notions he got from the papers.”

“Really?”

“The Queen intends to see that Mireau’s version finds an excellent publisher immediately.”

“Thank God,” I said, and yet remained a bit uneasy, for even in Mireau’s version, some things were a bit too personal.

“Are you ready?” he asked me softly.

“For . . .?” I breathed.

“Tea. With the Queen.”

“Oh! I . . . I, of course.”

He took my arm. “She sends her congratulations, as well.”

“Her congratulations?”

He nodded. “On our marriage.”

This time, I caught my breath, went dead still, and stared straight at him. I was still in widow’s weeds.