Fanning the Flame - Softcover

Martin, Kat

3.76

662 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743419162 ISBN 13: 9780743419161

Publisher: Pocket Books, 2002

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Betrayed by his unfaithful fiancTe and falsely accused of a terrible crime, Adam Hawthorne has little use or trust for women, until he encounters Jillian Whitney, the lovely young companion of an aged earl, but his growing trust could be shattered when Jillian becomes the prime suspect in her employer's murder. Original.

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About the Author:

Kat Martin is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty novels, including The Fire Inside, Heartless, The Secret, Perfect Sin, Silk and Steel, and Night Secrets. She is a graduate of the University of California at Santa Barbara, where she majored in anthropology and history. She currently lives in Montana. Visit her Web site at www.katbooks.com.

Chapter One

London, England

April 1806

The battle raged inside his head, the crack of musket fire, the thunder of cannonade, hot lead tearing into flesh and bone, men weeping in fear and despair.

It's a dream, he cried inside his mind, trying to convince himself, to awaken from another of the nightmares that plagued his sleep. Inch by inch, clawing his way back to consciousness, Adam Hawthorne, fourth Earl of Blackwood, sat upright in his huge four-poster bed. His heart was pounding. Sweat ran in rivulets down his naked chest and dampened his hair, urging it into heavy black waves that stuck to the cords at the back of his neck.

Though a chill pervaded the room, Adam shoved the feather comforter down past his waist and a shiver swept over him, pebbling his skin above the crisp linen sheet. He was used to nights like this one. He had suffered the terrible images for more than six years. Penance, he believed, for the part he had played in the war.

Running a hand over his face to erase the last vestiges of slumber, he swung his long legs to the side of the bed and stood up. Through a slit in the gold velvet draperies, the first gray light of dawn filtered into the room. Adam poured water into the porcelain basin on his dresser and performed the necessary ablutions, then pulled on buckskin breeches and a full-sleeved white shirt and shoved his feet into a pair of high-topped Spanish riding boots.

Making his way downstairs, he headed for the stable at the rear of the town house for his daily morning ride.

His groom, Angus McFarland, a big ruddy Scotsman, formerly a sergeant in the Gordon Highlanders, stood waiting, a beefy hand gripping the reins of Adam's prize black stallion, Ramses.

"'Ave a care, Major. The lad's a bit full o' himself this mornin'."

Adam nodded. "We'll give him a run, then." He patted the stallion's sleek neck. "You'd like a good run, wouldn't you, boy?" The horse was as black and shiny as polished jet, with perfect conformation and a surprisingly gentle disposition. Once Adam had spotted him at Tattersall's, he had spared no expense to have him. It was his single real indulgence since he had unexpectedly come into the Blackwood title and fortune.

Adam patted the soft dark muzzle, then reached into his pocket and held his hand out, palm up, offering the animal a lump of sugar. "A little fresh air always makes the world seem better."

"Aye, and so it does," the Scotsman agreed. Adam swung up onto the saddle and settled himself on the flat leather seat. After eight years in the cavalry, he felt more at home on a horse than he did with his feet on the ground. He bid farewell to Angus, more friend than employee, and headed for his daily outing in the park, Ram in high spirits, dancing and snorting with untapped energy as they rode through the London streets.

At this early hour, the park was empty. Adam set the horse into a gallop, nudged him into a flat-out run, and they pounded around the carriageway. The sun had crested the horizon by the time horse and rider drew to a halt beneath a plane tree on a rise near the duck pond. Adam let the big horse blow, the stallion's sides heaving in and out with spent effort, both of them feeling the benefits of wind and early morning sun.

Giving Ram an absent pat, he turned his attention in another, more interesting direction, scanning the grassy field below in search of his quarry, spotting her on the same wrought-iron bench she had been perched on each morning since he had come upon her three days ago.

The expensive clothes she wore, today a pale green muslin sprinkled with small embroidered rosebuds, marked her as a member of the upper classes. She was shorter than average, with a slender frame and fair, unblemished skin. Beneath the rim of her lace-trimmed bonnet, he could just make out her face, the refined lines and straight nose, the nicely shaped dark copper eyebrows. He imagined her eyes were blue, but at this distance, he couldn't be sure.

What amazed him was how badly he wanted to find out.

On the bench below, the woman smiled at the growing cluster of ducks that swam or waddled toward her, fanning out to surround her feet. To each in turn, she passed out bits of bread, watching with delight as several of them plucked a morsel from her hand. She laughed as a mother duck clumsily waded ashore, six tiny ducklings lined up in a row behind her.

He thought she might have glanced his way, spotting him on the knoll, but perhaps he only imagined it. He wondered who she was and why she came to the pond by herself, so early in the morning. He wondered if, as he did, she sought solace from turbulent thoughts.

He wondered if she would be there again when he came to the pond on the morrow.

Departing the carriage from her morning journey to the park, Jillian Alistair Whitney whisked through the big double doors of the Earl of Fenwick's town mansion, a brisk spring breeze having driven her early from her daily morning outing. She grabbed the rim of her bonnet to keep the wind from blowing it off as the butler, Nigel Atwater, closed the heavy portal behind her.

"A bit chilly, isn't it, to be out gallivanting about?" He glared down his long beak of a nose with disapproval, mirroring the sentiment of a number of the servants, though Atwater was the only one secure enough in his position to let it show.

"The wind came up rather suddenly," she said matter-of-factly, refusing to let him know how much his censure hurt. "Perhaps we're in for a bit of a storm." It wasn't important what the servants thought, she told herself, and even if it were, there was little she could do to change things.

From the start, Lord Fenwick had scoffed at the gossip her presence in a bachelor household caused. He was, he had said, old enough to be her grandfather, was, in fact, a close friend of her father's, a man who had seen more than forty years by the time he sired a child.

Jillian thought of the proud man who had died sixteen months past, a man who had doted on her, loved her to distraction, but left her without a farthing to see to her needs. If it hadn't been for Lord Fenwick...ah, but the earl had come to her rescue, and gossip was a small price to pay for all he had done.

Jillian tugged off her kidskin gloves and started up the stairs to her bedchamber, a cheery room done in pale blue, ivory, and gold, her mind on her situation and the solitude she found each morning in the park. She always went early, before the fashionable set arrived. She hated their knowing glances and speculative smiles and at that early hour, she had the park all to herself.

At least she had until three days ago, when she discovered she wasn't alone.

"Beg pardon, Miss Whitney."

She had almost reached the top of the stairs when she heard the butler returning to the entry. "If you please, Miss, his lordship would like a word with you in his study."

Jillian paused in the process of untying her bonnet. "Certainly. Thank you, Atwater."

Making her way back downstairs, bonnet in hand, she walked along the hall to the suite of rooms in the west wing of the mansion that included the earl's private study, her mind still on the tall, dark-haired rider and magnificent black horse she had spotted on the knoll. There was something frightening about him. Something dark and forbidding. Something mysterious and intriguing.

In truth, he was attractive, in a hard, ruthless sort of way, sitting there astride his horse. At first she had been frightened, then it occurred to her that he would scarcely need to press himself on an unwilling woman. Handsome as he was, likely he could have whatever lady he chose.

A noise in the study drew her attention. Jillian knocked on the gilt-trimmed ivory door, then, at the sound of Lord Fenwick's gruff voice, turned the gold knob and went in.

"Ah, here y

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