Free Aching for Always by Gwyn Cready

mother lies dying, she tells the young girl to be wary of the men who will come to court her, that she must save herself for thehandsome knight who will offer her all he possesses—his help and his heart. Which is why, Joss knew, she had seen Rogan as some sort of gift from beyond the grave from her mother, and why, despite the odds, she was still technically a virgin at twenty-three.
    But technically was enough. What girl didn’t look forward to a knight? Waiting seemed the least she could do—especially once he’d actually arrived.
    It still felt weird for her to live in his home—hers now, too. But combining households had allowed her to put her condo up for sale, which would bring another influx of cash to Brand O’Malley.
    â€œI feel like I waited a lifetime to meet you,” he said gently. “Why would a few more days make any difference? In fact”—he drew a long, slow thumb over her breast—“I think we should refrain from doing anything in the next week that would compromise my ability to deliver, well, shall we say Tchaikovsky and the Fourth of July.”
    â€œâ€˜Tchaikovsky and the Fourth of July?’ You know, Mr. Reynolds, you’ve excited my anticipation to such an extent that anything short of Mount Saint Helens is going to be a bit of a disappointment.”
    â€œThen pack your asbestos nightgown. Tuesday’s going to be a cataclysmic night.”

C HAPTER S IX
 
    Hugh looked at the Olympian iron and glass structure that towered over him at the crest of the alley. He’d never seen the likes of it, even in the greatest palaces of the Ottoman Empire. This was surely a place of great magic. Fearing for his ability to stay focused, he turned instead to gaze down the sloping alley and let the morning sun warm his face. Passersby took little notice of him. That was good. It meant the outfit Nathaniel had made fit the times.
    The aroma of bacon and toast from a nearby public house wafted between the buildings, and for an instant he was transported back to the cottage in Wych Cross twenty-two years ago—well, twenty-two years ago in his own time—with Maggie at the hearth and his brother at the head of the table, laughing and talking. And just as quickly the scene in his head turned to the table a year later, when he’d found the cottage empty and his brother sprawled in a pool of his own blood, dead of a pistol wound. Hugh’s hand went automatically to the chased gold in his pocket, feeling its power like a charge. Hugh would never forget the shock of the discovery, nor the realization, crippling toa child of eleven, that he was totally alone. And the slow white-hot burn began again. For twenty-one years he had carried the poison-laced brew in his heart. For twenty-one years he had laid the path for vengeance, one stone at a time, until he found himself standing here, in this alley. He would not rest until he had destroyed Alfred Brand and everything the man held dear.
    He pulled the timepiece from his pocket and opened it.
His blood for yours
, read the inscription he’d chosen so carefully.
A brother’s promise.
He remembered every detail clearly—the smell of coffee in the jeweler’s shop when he opened the door, the weight of the gold from his first prize as a captain in his pocket, the feel of the velvet over which the various choices had been laid and the horrified look on the jeweler’s face as Hugh spelled out the words he wanted engraved there.
    Joss stood cautiously at the top of the narrow road, the hanger holding her wedding skirt in one hand and her cell phone set to video in the other, and peeked down the alley. No sparks. No dome. And the Gulf Tower weather beacon was shining a serene blue. She slipped the cell back in her pocket and stepped off the sidewalk, leaving the throngs of down- and wool-bundled workers on Grant Street to begin her descent. As she crossed William Penn Place, she spotted