The whisper stroked along her skin. He said no more as he continued to play with her hair. They sat as such for a long moment, until her side hurt from the pinch of her corset and she made to rise.

He stopped her with a touch to her cheek. Ensnared, she blinked down at him, aware that her mouth parted with her quickening breath, and that her skin suddenly felt too hot. The thumb at her cheek moved in a halting stroke that had her trembling.

"I didn't let you go," she blurted out inanely.

He stilled. "No," he said. "No, you didn't."

A smile wavered at the corners of his mouth as his gaze grew unguarded. The heat and yearning there took her breath. Suddenly, he wasn't smiling anymore. His voice cracked between them. "Daisy, let me..."

He pulled her down as he rose up.

They met in a melding of lips and tongues, slow and decadent, and it sent a sigh of sweet relief through her.

On a breath, he lifted her up and beside him to lay her down upon her back. His lips never left hers as he slid against her, holding her close before cupping her neck with a strong hand. Her legs were in a hopeless tangle with her skirts, her arm trapped against the wall of his chest, but her lips were in perfect accord with his. She licked inside his mouth, a warm wet glide that uncoiled something hot and thick within her. Ian made a sound of contentment within his throat as he kissed her and then pulled away to look at her beneath sleepy lids.

"This," he whispered thickly, "this is what I thought of when they had me. Touching you." He kissed her again, again. "Tasting you." He touched her cheek, his mouth brushing over hers. "You were my safe harbor."

She traced the silken path of his brow with a shaking finger, then pulled him close. He was so very strong, warm, present. Holding him close, she could acknowledge how afraid she had been for him. How much she wanted him.

They explored each other slowly, deeply, nipping and sucking, their hands b.u.mping as they reached for each other and held each other steady. The languid sensation made her head spin, and her body grow heavy. His hand glided up her ribs to cup her breast. She arched into the touch, her belly pressing against the hard length of his c.o.c.k bunting up between them. They both whimpered at the contact, their kiss shifting its intensity.

"I love this gown," he murmured, licking a path across the low line of the bodice. The touch was fire along her skin.

"A strumpet's gown," she answered breathlessly.

"Precisely." He kissed the swell of her left breast. "You should have one in every color."

Suckling the tender skin at the base of her throat, Ian rolled onto her, his hands at her waist, hips, rubbing, urging her on. The hard press of his body, the smooth shift of his muscles against her palm felt so good that she shook with the need for more, to rub skin to skin, to lick a path down his chest and take him in her mouth.

His shoulders were granite under silk. She could write a sonnet on the beauty of his shoulders, a symphony about the bulge of his biceps. She sank her teeth into one, testing its hardness, and he groaned.

"Ian." She took his lips in a greedy kiss that explored his taste.

He broke off with a smile. "Ian," he repeated, nipping her lower lip. "Finally, you call me Ian." Their eyes met, and a bolt of tenderness. .h.i.t her with unexpected intensity. "Took you long enough," he whispered, his hand smoothing back a curl at her cheek.

He was alive, and whole, and looking down at her with heat and affection in his eyes. When had he become so necessary? She could not afford necessary. Suddenly she couldn't draw a proper breath. A spike of pain shot down the side of her skull with enough force to make her gasp.

Ian's brows knitted. "Daisy?" He touched the curve of her temple with a finger.

She blinked, trying to ease the feeling away, but a film settled over her eyes, all at once too bright yet wavering. She closed her eyes against it. "I..." A sharp breath left her as another bolt of pain attacked her head. "My eyes."

He eased off of her. "Your eyes?" Another gentle touch. "What, love? Where does it hurt?"

Daisy let out a frustrated breath and flung her legs over the side of the bed, an altogether undignified move as she was too far away and had to slide along the mattress. "I'm sorry. I can't... I cannot do this."

Ian held her shoulder as she made to leave the bed. "Daisy, calm yourself." His hand lay warm and heavy, a comfort. She tried to ease it off but he wouldn't be budged. "Tell me what is the matter."

Fighting tears, she pressed a shaking hand hard against her eyes. "I can't see properly. There is this blur and"-she waved a helpless hand**"lights..."

"A migraine?" he said softly. At times she forgot that he was a physician. He was very near, his arm steadying her shoulder, and she let herself rest her head on his bare shoulder. The action made her brain slosh within its bed of pain, and she hissed.

"Yes," she said on a breath. "They come when I'm..." She didn't want to talk. The pain behind her skull made her feel brittle, capable of shattering with one wrong move.

Ian's arms came around her, and he pulled her close, holding her as if she were a hollow eggsh.e.l.l. "When you are under great stress." He cupped the back of her head with his palm. "Christ, you should not have seen what occurred this night. It is my fault."

Tension rode over her shoulders, building with force until she found herself pushing at his chest with clenched fists. "It is!" she cried in a low voice. "Of course it is, you..." Her fists rubbed over his chest, half a caress, half grinding into his flesh as if to imprint herself there. "Don't you ever-" She broke off when he gathered her nearer, his lips grazing her temple.

She gave his shoulder a light punch. "No. Don't kiss me! Don't you ever do that again."

"Kiss you?" he teased softly, and doing just that.

She turned away, tears leaking out of her eyes like little traitors to her will. "Let them hurt you like that." She glared up at him but could see only a sparkling blur of his face as if viewing him through thick bottle gla.s.s. "You fight, d.a.m.n you! d.a.m.n me too, if it comes to that." And then she was sobbing, burrowing her head in the shelter of his chest. "They tore you apart."

"Och now." His callused palm cupped her cheek. "Did ye fear I'd lose me pretty face?" he said, drawing out his brogue as though he knew she liked to hear it.

"Of course." She nudged his ribs with her fist. "What else is there to admire about you?" When he bent his head down to peer at her, she rested her forehead against his. "Certainly n-not your inane conversations." Her fingers curled about his shoulders as he peppered her face with soft kisses. "Or your r-ridiculous jests."

He gathered her tightly once more and soothed her with gentle strokes as she cried. His chest was a fortress, his arms battlements. Her cheek pressed against the warmth of his pectoral muscle and she heard the steady drum of his heart.

"Come." A tug on her bodice made her stiffen, and he uttered a short laugh. "If you think I intend to offer you anything more than comfort at this moment, I fear ye've greatly underestimated my sense of honor, la.s.s."

The sound of his Scottish coming out unfettered had her crying all over again, and he tsked as he turned down the light and quietly undressed her in the dark as efficient as any maid.

The sheets were smooth and cool as she slid between them in nothing but her chemise and drawers. Ian followed her in and then spooned her against him. The feel of his hard body so warm and solid against her back steadied her.

"Be at ease now," he said on a breath as his strong fingers tunneled into her hair and dug into the tender spots along her scalp, scattering blessed relief in their wake. His dark voice drew her into dreams on a promise. "I will not let you go either."

In the thin hours of the night, Ian left a sleeping Daisy under Talent's guard and headed for The Clock Tower at Westminster. Big Ben, some called it. He remembered it being built. He sprinted toward the looming tower and nearly threw himself at its limestone walls. Up he climbed, hand over foot, scaling the intricately carved edifice with ease.

The wind howled in his ears as he neared the top, moving past the gilt letters along the base of the large clock face: DOMINE SALVAM FAC REGINAM NOSTRAM VICTORIAM P RIMAM-O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First. He was in no mood to think of the queen. The thought of gaining her attention caused a fine shudder to work through him. He had turned his back on her when he'd turned his back on the clan and he had no wish to return to that life.

Only when he'd pa.s.sed the bellhouse and reached the iron-clad spire did he slow down. He vaulted over the gilt- and-cast-iron railing on the topmost steeple and sucked in a deep breath of London air, a witch's brew of scents and tastes. Nothing of the werewolf. It was if it had been plucked from this earth. But Ian d.a.m.n well knew it hadn't been.

Below, the black surface of the Thames rippled like snakeskin in the moonlight. Tiny pinp.r.i.c.ks of light marked the windows and lamps of London, a glittering web of stars in the dark. Though he was not afraid of heights, his stomach turned, for the temptation was there, to jump. From this great height, it must be nearly like flying. His fingers curled into his palms until he felt the bite of his nails. A breeze lifted his hair as he gazed down at the river, undulating and black. To fly free. He could do it. Only he'd land, his head smashed open but still alive, unable even then to die. A choked laugh escaped him as he pictured himself lying upon the pavers like a broken marionette, forced to wait while his body slowly healed.

Had it felt like flying to Maccon?

Maccon. Blackness danced at the edge of Ian's sight before he brutally shoved the name and the feelings that came with it back into the deep, dark hole in his heart. He would not think about that. Not ever again.

Ian had much practice ignoring that particular pain so the darkness quickly pa.s.sed. Ironic because it was that adaptability that had dragged him down into a half-life of apathy. On a sigh, he moved to the edge of the tower and took a calming breath.

But calm was hard to keep tonight. Restlessness had pulled Ian from Daisy's bed and out here where he could think.

Inside his pocket, the moonstone stickpin lay like a ballast, weighing him down. He didn't want to look at it, or touch it, unnerved as he was by the very sight of it. The last time he'd seen his own pin, he'd been burying it with Maccon. Conall had one. But he wouldn't willingly part with the piece. Why then was it pinned to a woman's corpse? Had Conall meant for it to be found? Was it a taunt? And if so, why?

It didn't matter. Whatever Conall was playing at, he was involved in this madness. And it was a kick to Ian's solar plexus.

Resignation settled in his bones. He knew what must be done. And if it cost him his soul, so be it, for he could not live this half-life any longer. But he needed a plan. He needed allies, and not the b.l.o.o.d.y SOS, who would want to control him. Only one thing was certain: Daisy was his to protect until it was done. With a sharp inhale, Ian sat up straight. For the first time in years, someone needed him. The sense of purpose stirred him. He felt alive, not merely moving through each day but alive in a way that made his blood sing.

Tilting his head back, he gazed up at the moon and the lace-thin clouds that drifted in front of her glowing face. The sky behind it was so deep and close that he fancied he could sink his hand into it and pull back with inky fingertips. Alive. The wolf inside of him felt it too. Emotion, antic.i.p.ation, and surprising joy welled up within with a sudden force that had him panting. He let the feeling crest and held it until his chest vibrated.

As a lone wolf, he was forbidden to do it. In so doing, he would be stating his intentions to the lycan world. But centuries of instinct could not be denied. A howl tore free, rising and falling in a long wave that spoke of his return and his promise to the woman.

Chapter Twenty-five.

The sign on The Book Shop door said CLOSED. Daisy did not bother knocking. She was expected so the door was unlocked. The Book Shop. Ha! Leave it to practical Poppy to pick a name for her bookshop that was utterly lacking in any lyricism and so very... literal. As much as Daisy loved her older sister, she sometimes yearned to crack through her indomitable and proper facade.

Daisy's heels clicked as she strode along the narrow hall, past the shop entrance, and toward the private areas at the back of the building. She left Tuttle and Seamus waiting in the carriage, though not without a bit of fuss, for they both feared for her. They needn't. Not here.

The familiar scent of wood polish mingling with book mold and linen paper touched her nose. Light slanted in from the backdoor window, landing in a square block of gold upon the dark, wood floor. She moved through it and yanked the door wide open before slamming it behind her.

Before her spread a little green square of a garden enclosed by the walls of surrounding buildings. A quiet oasis in the midst of the bustling city.

Blinking in the brightness of the sun, Daisy lifted a hand for shade and found two sets of eyes upon her: one set gleaming green and curious, the other shrewd and brown.

"You look as though the very devil were on your heels," said her eldest sister, Poppy.

Daisy opened her white parasol, lined with copper satin to keep the sunlight out, and walked toward her sisters, who sat at the little table nestled beneath the lacy shade of a budding willow.

"Perhaps he is." She took her seat as Miranda set out a gla.s.s of iced tea and a plate before her. "Or perhaps the devil is a woman, and I am she."

At that statement, she put away her parasol, helped herself to a ham sandwich, and took a hearty bite.

Miranda's brow arched delicately. "Care to explain?"

Thoughtfully, Daisy chewed and let her sisters wait, but her eyes went to Poppy, who looked somewhat... hesitant. Interesting. Her eyes narrowed, and Poppy's did in return. Daisy took a careful drink of deliciously cold tea, thankful for the way it soothed her sore throat, before addressing Miranda. "Well, dearest, it seems strangeness runs through our family after all."

"No!" Miranda went pale but a smile tugged at her lips. "You didn't!" She leaned forward in excitement. "You started a fire?"

"No." Daisy shot a look at Poppy, who'd remained surprisingly quiet. "Nothing quite so... exotic... Dirt!" she shouted, no longer able to contain her ire. "Of all the gifts I could have received, I am left with dirt."

She shoved back from the table and leaped up to pace in front of her shocked sisters. "Panda gets to play with fire, and I get filth. How very disgusting. Have you any idea what lives in dirt? Bugs! Worms!" She flung her arms up in disgust.

"Daisy, dearest," Miranda pleaded, "calm yourself and explain."

"Yes," Daisy whirled about, "of course." She stopped and clasped her shaking hands. "It appears, love, that when my ire is stretched to the limit, I can make the earth move. And... tree roots appear." She flung her hands once more. "Honest to goodness tree roots shot from the earth and speared people!"

At this, both sisters went white.

"Tree roots?" Miranda intoned. She got up and caught hold of Daisy's arm. "Sit and tell us what happened."

Daisy let herself be led back to her seat. She took another sip of tea before recounting what had occurred the night before. Well, not all of it. She left out her kiss with Northrup. Miranda certainly wouldn't approve. Despite not wanting Northrup when he wanted her, Miranda fervently objected to the idea that Daisy might get involved with him. Which both irked Daisy and made her love her sister for her protectiveness.

"It was my doing," Daisy said to them. "I felt it in my bones. I caused the earth to heave and crumble. I caused those roots to burst free. It felt like want and power."

She frowned, trying to explain, but Miranda nodded and clasped her hand. "Like a need trying to break free. And then a shiver of pleasure when it does."

Daisy squeezed her fingers. "Yes, exactly."

They shared a look in which they both grew distressingly misty-eyed before blinking their tears away and taking a bracing breath.

"I thought it only me," Miranda said, after taking a moment to collect herself.

"Indeed." Daisy turned her gaze on a silent Poppy. "I thought so as well. And yet one of us appears to be not the least bit surprised... Poppy Ann Ellis Lane!" She lurched forward in her seat, her fists rattling the plates upon the table as she glared at her sister. "You knew this might happen. Do not try to pretend you didn't. You are the smartest of all of us. And the oldest. You knew, didn't you?"

Silence filled the garden as the younger Ellis sisters stared at their eldest sister. Poppy had gone as still as the statuary gracing the four corners of the garden. She blinked back at them for one tense moment and then inhaled sharply as if bracing herself.

"I knew."

Two simple words and the garden erupted into a volley of shouts, Miranda's being the loudest. She stood to glare down at Poppy like an avenging angel, stray wisps of her red-gold hair stirring in the breeze.

"You knew?" Miranda hissed. "You knew how alone I felt with this burden. I felt a freak, an aberration of nature, and you knew it was not solely I who possessed strange powers?"

Poppy's expression remained frozen, and her eyes were hollow. "It hurt me to keep quiet, Miranda. But it was not my place to warn Daisy or speak of your power unless absolutely necessary."

"How could it not be necessary when I was turning things to ash?" Miranda shouted.

"If you had been seriously out of control, I would have helped you," Poppy said calmly. "As it was, however, you handled the situation quite nicely."

Another round of cursing broke forth but this time Poppy's clear voice cut through it all. "Sit down, the both of you. Now."

Something in her tone was so like their mother's that Daisy found herself obeying, and Miranda shortly followed.

"Explain," Miranda said.

"Of course," Poppy said. "You are elementals."

"Elementals?" Daisy parroted. The sun seemed too bright, the air too hot in the face of such discoveries but she was not inclined to break up the conversation to move indoors.

Poppy's expression was serene. "Beings who can control the elements. In the past, elementals were touted as witches, many of them burned at the stake."

Daisy shuddered and leaned back in her seat. "Witches. Lovely. Though with your temper, Panda"-she sent a small smile toward her irate little sister-"I can fully imagine the moniker."

Miranda had clearly learned quite the number of colorful hand gestures during her time with Billy Finger and used one then. Daisy stuck her tongue out before turning back to Poppy. "How did we get this way?"

"You inherited it from Mother. Elementals are usually women, and the trait pa.s.sed on to the daughters. It was she who forbade me to speak of it unless asked."

"And you simply obeyed?" Miranda asked. "Even when you knew what it was doing to me?"

Poppy blinked. "I took a vow. As First Daughter, it was my duty to keep the secret. Only if you sought to do harm should I interfere. Only if you sought personal gain. You did neither but merely sought to suppress your talent, Miranda. What good would it truly have done to tell you when you didn't even want to use it?"