This time he moved more slowly, tracing each contour and line, stroking the softness of her skin. Before he had been driven by urgency; now he took in the details one by one.
Distinct features. Stubborn chin, wide mouth, slightly upturned nose. The typically tilted eyes of the Forsters, bred true. Thick, slightly curling hair barely confined by a loose ribbon. He paused at her lips, running the tip of his finger along the seam. They were tender, sweetly curved.
Her lips parted, and her tongue darted out in a nervous gesture to touch his fingertip.
He withdrew his hand and clenched it at his side. “Why have you come to London?”
“To find my family. My mother’s kin. They live here, in England.” Her voice lifted eagerly. “Maybe you know them. They’re called the Forsters, and one of them’s a lord. He probably lives right—” She tensed as if in sudden realization, and then began to laugh in a joyful burst of sound.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” she said. “You are my family!”
A smile tugged at his mouth, as if her childlike happiness were infectious. He mastered the impulse and bowed stiffly. “Your cousin, Braden Forster.”
Cassidy Holt stepped away, her footfalls beating out a soggy little dance on the wet lawn. By God, she was a child. A child just barely of age, but old enough. Yes, old enough to play her essential role. She could not possibly conceive of how important she was.
“Isabelle won’t believe it,” she said. “I found you.” Without warning or the least bit of modesty she hurled herself at Braden, closing her slender arms around him, pressing her face to his coat.
“I found you, “she repeated.
Braden held himself utterly still. Her scent enveloped him: wildflowers and unfamiliar greenery, sharp and pungent, cattle and dust and sunlight not yet overwhelmed by the damp and smoke and dirt of London. With great care he disengaged her arms from about him and placed her hands at her sides.
“Young woman,” he said. “What are you wearing?”
“What? Oh… these are from the ranch.” Her silence burned with embarrassment. “I have a dress, but—”
“How fortunate.” Yet perhaps her choice of clothing—if choice it was—had been an intelligent one. Unlikely that passersby would have perceived her as female. He raised his head to listen for any intrusion on their privacy, but they were alone in the square for the time being. All of fashionable London, it seemed, was at the Leebrook party.
“Where was this ranch?” he asked.
“In New Mexico. I went to live there with my uncle when I was seven, after my mother died.” Her voice softened. “But she wanted me to come here, to you. To the Forsters. She wrote to Isabelle, to ask for her help, but the letter was never sent. My Uncle Jonas came for me, and I couldn’t leave—not for a long time, until I—”
“You came to England alone?”
“Oh, no. Isabelle came with me—we just arrived yesterday. Isabelle is a fine lady, my mother’s good friend. My friend. She’s the one who told me where I might be able to find you.” She blew out her breath. “I left her at the hotel. I guess she’ll be mighty worried by now, if she’s awake—”
“And what possessed you to leave your hotel in the middle of the night?”
“I felt… I heard something calling me.” He felt her move closer, stop, hold herself still. “Ever since Mother died, I’ve been waiting for this.” She swallowed audibly. “My uncle and aunt never understood. They didn’t want me, no matter how hard I worked. They were always afraid.”
Because they were human, as Edith Holt’s mate was human. Braden heard the pain behind Cassidy’s words, and knew there was more to the story than she was willing to share. He could imagine well enough. She’d been left an orphan, taken in by people who had denied her very nature.
Pity was an indulgence he rejected—from others, or for them. There was no self-pity in Cassidy Holt.
“You were calling me,” she said. “Calling me home. And now I’m here.”
His immediate instinct was to reject her claim. He had not even known she was alive, let alone in London. She mistook her own keen ability for recognizing her own kind, uncommon even among loups-garous, for some mystical summons.