Midsummer Night. Deanna Raybourn

him. “I didn’t even know where you were.”

      “Paris,” he said promptly. “Wrapping up a counterfeiting case.”

      “To your satisfaction?”

      “Entirely, although it is not half as satisfying as this,” he added, applying himself to a demonstration of his affections.

      We broke apart, breathless and disheveled after a moment. “God, I have missed you,” he said, his voice rough in my ear.

      I kept my arms about his neck, stretching myself gently on tiptoe. “After Midsummer Day, you needn’t miss me ever again. I can go with you wherever your work takes you.”

      His expression darkened a little, but he did not allow his smile to falter. Whatever his intentions for our marriage, it was apparent he would have to adjust them, I decided.

      He changed the subject smoothly.

      “Speaking of my work, I had a look in on the unfortunate author of last winter’s crime,” he said, nodding almost unconsciously towards the Abbey. Our Christmas visit had been fouled by a gruesome murder, and Brisbane had been responsible for removing the villain to official custody.2

      “How is he?” I asked. I had spent time alone with the fellow, and while he was a murderer, to be sure, as killers went, I found him rather kindly.

      “Mad as the proverbial hatter,” he told me. “He has been sent to Broadmoor. I would not expect to hear of him again.”

      “Rather sad, really,” I mused aloud. Brisbane’s expression was frankly astonished.

      “Julia, he was a murderer. You cannot come over all sympathetic to people who take other people’s lives. There must be justice in the world.”

      “He only did so at another’s instigation,” I argued, but before I could work up a full head of steam, he silenced me with another demonstration of his feelings.

      “You will not always be able to quiet me with a kiss,” I warned him.

      “Oh, I have much more thorough ways of stilling your tongue,” he promised, his black eyes gleaming.

      I swallowed hard. “Really, Brisbane, that isn’t at all what I meant.”

      He grinned. “I know exactly what you meant. You intend to bedevil me until you are a full partner in my work. And I will never let that happen, so let us understand one another entirely from the beginning.”

      Before I could rouse a protest, he silenced me, this time with a finger laid over my lips. “I know what you want of me, Julia. Believe me when I tell you I will always struggle to give you that. My work is dangerous, more so than I have ever permitted you to know. And the whole of my life must be devoted to protecting you. You are too precious to me to allow any peril to come to you.”

      I looked briefly away. “If you keep talking like that, I shall entirely lose my will and next thing I know, I will be darning your socks as you gallivant about the Continent, apprehending murderers and jewel thieves.”

      He pressed a quick kiss to my brow. “Speaking of jewel thieves, you will be interested to know Charlotte King is abroad. She has been released for lack of proof.”

      Charlotte King was a name I had not thought to hear again. A jewel thief of graceful, golden beauty and some renown, she had been brought to justice by Brisbane the previous winter, although not without incident. I had nearly cost him the apprehension with my impulsive actions, and I did not look upon the incident with any fondness.

      Brisbane went on. “And I have had a letter from Miss Allenby. She has begun teaching her first term and finds she is entirely happy in her new life. She sends her regards and congratulations on our marriage.”

      This was news I could appreciate with no regrets. Miss Allenby had become something of an ally during our last investigation, and I was pleased she had settled so swiftly into a new life, putting murder and mayhem behind her.

      “We shall have to send her a piece of the wedding cake,” I told him. “She can sleep with it under her pillow and dream of the man she will wed.”

      “Speaking of prospective husbands,” Brisbane murmured, “this one can think of something better to do than talk about old cases.”

      “Show me,” I commanded.

      He did, and in the middle of a highly instructive interlude, he broke off, lifting his head with a smothered oath.

      “What?” I demanded. “What on earth could drag your attention away from caressing my—” I broke off.

      “As diverting as this is,” Brisbane said, pressing a kiss to my palm, “I believe that is the vicar.” He nodded over my shoulder and I turned to find Uncle Fly wheezing towards us, his colour high and his long white hair dancing madly in the breeze.

      “Here now! We’ll have none of that,” he called, wagging a finger in mock severity as he panted up.

      “Uncle Fly, are you quite well? You look ready for an apoplexy,” I said, flapping a handkerchief in front of his face.

      He pressed one hand to his side and waved me off with the other. “Nothing wrong with me except too heavy a midday meal. Cook never will learn that pork is too rich for luncheon.” He took my handkerchief and mopped his brow. “That’s better, that is. Now, let’s have no more fornicating in the hedgerows, shall we? Sets a bad example.”

      “Considering the fact that only you and one rather bored cow witnessed the exchange, I hardly think we are in danger of corrupting the morals of the Blessingstoke peasantry,” I returned tartly.

      But although Uncle Fly’s expression was stern, his eyes were twinkling. “What about corrupting me? I am entirely too old to suffer many more such shocks.” He turned to Brisbane. “Come along, lad. My housekeeper has made up your room and you will see Julia soon enough.”“Of course, vicar,” Brisbane replied blandly, following Uncle Fly without so much as a backward glance at me, much less a kiss goodbye. I stalked off, annoyed with the pair of them. Brisbane was forty, and I was a decade younger, and yet Uncle Fly had treated us as if we were no better than children. And Brisbane had complied so easily!

      I stamped down the road, taking my irritation out on a handful of wildflowers I plucked from the wayside. There were foxgloves and poppies and mignonettes in flower, a riot of colour in my hands. I picked the petals from the ox-eye daisies, scattering them behind me like so much confetti as I climbed over a stile. I crossed the river meadow until I came to the edge of the stream itself and removed my slippers. I pulled off my stockings and dabbled my toes in the water, disturbing a damselfly in a flutter of iridescent wings. The rush of cool green river was glorious against my heated skin, and I paddled my feet back and forth, scattering the rest of the petals to the wind.

      “If you’re looking to tell if a man loves you, you’ve made a pig’s breakfast of it,” said a voice at my elbow.

      I jumped, scattering the stems from my lap as I half turned. A Gypsy woman stood there, arms folded under her breasts as she regarded me coolly. She wore the usual layers of ruffled skirts in spite of the heat, and a scarf of flowered scarlet had been tied around her head. She followed the Gypsy custom of wearing one’s wealth, for her neck and arms were heavy with coins dangling from chains and bangles, and I wondered how I had not heard her approach.

      “A Romany woman is as quiet as she wants to be,” she told me before I asked. She nodded sharply to the torn flowers in my hands. “You want your fortune told? I can do better than flowers.”

      I thought of my previous experiences with tasseomancy and Tarot cards and suppressed a shudder. “Thank you, no. I’m afraid I have no silver with which to cross your palm.”

      She shrugged. “No matter. I will tell yours for free.” Before I could speak, she knelt and took my hand in hers. Her palms were warm and her flesh exuded an earthy smell like newly tilled soil or coming rain.

      She stroked my palm gently, following