Forbidden Fire by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

make it work.
    Moments later she opened her eyes and resolutely made her way up the stairs.
    Aye, indeed, there was a way to make it work. And so help her, she would see that it did.
    She had to. She loved Mary; she loved Jimmy.
    And she could already smell the scent of coal dust sweeping around her ankles.
    It was very late when Ian Tremayne at last rode through the almost silent streets near Hyde Park to reach the boardinghouse where he was staying. Most carriages were already off the road, and he hadn’t seen a single motorcar.
    The vehicles hadn’t caught on as quickly in London as they had in the States. Of course, in the States, things were still in a mess because of the growing number of horseless carriages and more traditional transportation. Just before he had left home there had been quite an accident on the street down the hill when a horseless milk truck had collided with a horse-drawn ice cart. Suddenly every vehicle on the street—whether motor-powered or animal drawn—had collided into something. Motors had died, horses reared, and ice had melted all over the place. Once it was ascertained that no one had been injured, the spectacle had been rather amusing. Ian smiled with the memory. Diana would have loved the sight. She would have laughed with delight.
    But then his smile faded as he dismounted from his rented mare before the boardinghouse and walked her to the gas-lit carriage house. It was a typical London night, filled with fog. And the fog somehow seemed to shroud his heart, letting more painful memories rush upon him.
    It had been like this the night Diana had died. A night when the fog had rolled in from the Bay. He had sat with her upon his lap, and they stared out their balcony window, watching the mystic beauty of the fog. She loved San Francisco as deeply as he did, and in those moments, it seemed that their souls touched. She pointed out the stars, disappearing in the fog. And he said that it seemed they sat in heaven, where they were. She rested her head upon his shoulder and sighed softly, and it was several moments before he realized that she had breathed her last. Diana, so fair and fragile, with her delicate features and soft gray eyes. Listening to him build his dreams, listening when he ranted and raved about his buildings and his frustrations with the city. Always there, his support, his life, beside him.
    Beside him no more. She was gone, and had been gone nearly two years. Though he would never forget her, never stop loving her, he knew that he had to find a way to keep her from haunting his dreams and his thoughts. She was with him almost always. And the pain of her loss was with him always, too.
    Except tonight.
    Well, he had to give credit to Sir Thomas’s wayward daughter. She was so proud, so damned argumentative and so sure-fire irritating and troublesome that she had made him forget—if only for a little while.
    Ian unsaddled and unbridled the mare and led her into her stall. Absently he checked her feed and water, patted her nose, then left the carriage house. He paused outside, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the night. He could scarcely see the park down the street. The fog was coming in, ghostly, eerie.
    But he saw no ghosts as he quietly entered the pleasant boardinghouse and strode to his room. There he closed the door carefully behind himself, stripped off his jacket, cravat and tie, and loosened his shirt before falling into the comfortable armchair behind the wide oak sailor’s desk. He opened the bottom drawer, drew out the brandy and took a swig.
    Indeed, she had intrigued him, this child of his old friend.
    Those eyes …
    He could swear that he had seen them before. Green eyes, haunting eyes, eyes that flashed fire and warning and pride. Spitfire eyes.
    He leaned his head against the chair. She was very beautiful, he thought. And despite his impatience with her—and his annoyance that the task of guardian should have fallen into