The horse-drawn carriage took both Eve and Teeter back to the Towers after her unpleasant visit with her father. Any other night Eve might have taken a moment to appreciate the spaciously noble building and its lush location. As an inheritance, it was grand. The house had been set upon a slight hill, and had a fine view of a meadow and woodlands. Its lofty walls and soaring spires had been raised when Elizabeth I was queen. Now the walls were dark gray with age and mellowed by centuries of weather, and covered in a variety of deep green ivy and flowering plants.
Walking inside the asylum, Eve found it more than odd that the place appeared deserted. Before she could become thoroughly worried, however, a loud disturbance outside caught her attention. Eve discovered as she opened the balcony doors that sounds of merriment grew louder. Perplexed, she stepped down the terraced steps to find a fairyland. Under the soft golden glow of the moon, and hundreds of colored Japanese lanterns, Eve watched her patients and servants mill about the yard with plates of food in their hands, or tap their feet to an orchestra.
"Why is there an orchestra here?" she asked. It was true that music soothed the savage beast, but it wasn't even a full moon yet.
Eve narrowed her eyes in disbelief as she took in the scene before her. Between tall Greek pillars crowned by heraldic beasts or Nosferatu or wereanimals, she spied curious faces laughing and frolicking. Everyone appeared in a rather boisterous and rowdy mood. It was a little after nine at night, and it seemed the madhouse had moved into Eve's garden. She didn't know whether to frown or smile. So often the insane were trapped in silent, ugly worlds, but tonight was certainly different—as evidenced by the chaotic sounds of laughter and mayhem.
"What on earth is going on?" she asked as Teeter came to stand beside her. Glancing up at his homely face, she could tell from his expression that he was as clueless as she. "Who ever heard of a nighttime picnic for the insane? Who ever heard of any picnic for the insane? Who ever thought up this particular folly should have their head examined!" She hoped her paranormal patients didn't decide to eat the servants.
Teeter volunteered a comment nervously. "Madam, the lunatics might escape into the night. If they do, they'll turn London upside down with their strange behavior. What will we do?"
Eve's face clouded as she assessed the situation. So far, everyone appeared to be in fine form, behaving themselves. Did she dare break it up and become the bad guy? No. "I guess we wait and see. And, speaking of duties, I see Hugo." She pointed to the bellicose bell-ringing dwarf. His face was cast mainly in shadow, but she could see his weak chin and the slash of his mouth.
"But we weren't speaking of duties," Teeter complained.
Eve almost smiled and let him off, but a punishment was a punishment, else a ship would go to rack and ruin and a madhouse would be run by its inmates. "Come now, Teeter, it's not so bad. Hugo is playing quietly with his marbles. And see? Sir Loring is watching as well," Eve cajoled. "With avid interest," she added. Upon closer inspection, she had noted that it was not Hugo's marbles that had mesmerized Sir Loring, but rather the dwarf's fat little neck. "Go and tend Hugo now. And see that Sir Loring is fed immediately."
As he left, Eve directed her attention to finding the culprit who had devised this foolishness. To her direct right Mrs. Monkfort was standing on the large marble fountain. Eve assumed that it was so that the widow wouldn't get her feet dirty. Mrs. Monkfort was busy admonishing Mr. Pryce not to land in the potato pie with his grubby little wings. "There's a fly in the ointment, which gives me heart palpitations," she was saying. "Where are my smelling salts?"
Eve raised her eyes to the heavens, hoping heaven would grant her a bit of peace from this day from hell. Her insane patients were having a picnic outside? Yet, to give the devil his due—in this case Adam?—most appeared to be behaving remarkably well. With the exception of Mr. Jack Rippington, who Eve reluctantly noticed, was currently sneaking up on a pair of innocent rosebushes with his pants undone. Fortunately, Pavlov was a mere few feet behind him, evidently having been given Jack the Rip watch.
Sighing in relief, Eve continued her earnest search of the area for the viper in her garden, a particularly tricky little serpent whom she knew was responsible for this nighttime folly. Her enemy was crafty and quite deviously charming, what with his sharp wit and twinkling hazel eyes. And she absolutely would not remember his kiss. He had to go—and the sooner the better. She couldn't have him usurping her authority and ordering picnics with orchestras and champagne without so much as a by-your-leave.
Turning her head to the left, she found him. His powerful build stood out among the members of her staff, and he was jauntily telling some story that had everyone chuckling.
Hurrying over, she nodded briefly at her staff, then pulled on his shoulder to get him to bend close. She hissed in his ear, "I'd really like to throttle you. You make me so hot!"
"The feeling is mutual," Adam replied. Eve brought out the little devil in him. In fact, staring at her, he felt as if a runaway carriage had hit him, and his little devil was looking to get in something holey. "You must stop glaring like that, my love, or people will start to talk," he said. "We wouldn't want to give them something to talk about."
"You cretin! Did you give the orders for this picnic?"
Some of the people in the small group moved away, looking surprised by her cross tone. Adam, however, seemed unfazed. "Of course, my love."
Grabbing him by the arm, she dragged him a distance to a large oak tree. Under it, more in shadow than light, they were isolated by soft darkness from the surrounding crowd and provided the illusion of being alone in a sea of soft lights.
Although she longed to shout and jump, Eve kept her voice low. "You are overstepping yourself again. You had no right to throw a picnic for my patients."
"Don't be a gudgeon. How can I be overstepping my bounds when I'm your husband?"
"Stop saying that. You're not real. I made you up, remember?"
"Aren't you a little old to have imaginary friends? Besides, I'm as real as the next man—and a lot more fun to play with."
"Never!"
"Never," he warned, his voice between a growl and a purr, "say never to me. I love a challenge too much to resist making you eat your words."
"You should be flogged and hung from the quarter mast. You have no right to even be here. I won't live a lie!"
"You already have been," Adam reminded her. "My little pearl, you don't have to do everything alone anymore. You need a husband to warm your bed and your heart. You need help. It's so much more pleasant when you share the burdens of everyday life along with the pleasures."
Eve drew herself up to her full five-foot-two inches with an indignant gasp. "How dare you, sirrah! I fear you have a sad lack of character. I have absolutely no interest in the married state. I know exactly what I need! After all, I'm the doctor!"
Adam sighed, shaking his head. Women could be such… well, women. But while Eve might not care for him now, she needed him. That much was obvious, after only a night and one day. Her patients needed him, too. Eve had too much on her plate, and the asylum's inhabitants needed another quick mind—a less serious mind—to ease their burdens. Eve could cure them, but he would make them laugh. "You're a bossy little thing, aren't you?" he said.
"I prefer to call it instructive," she replied, trying to lessen her temper, for she knew the value of a cool head when under attack. Especially when the attack was one of hot charm, skill, and witty seduction.
"That you are," he agreed with a wicked smile. And passionate—a nature he intended to capitalize upon. "Just think of instruction in bed."
A charged silence hung in the air between them, and in the soft glow of moonlight and lanterns Eve's eyes widened. Adam's face stood out in stark relief, ruggedly handsome. Staring at him, she had to forcefully remember to ignore the way he made her feel, the quickening of her pulse and the butterflies in her stomach. She drew on her previous anger. "How could you order up a midnight picnic without consulting me?"
"The patients seemed depressed, so I thought this might cheer them up."
"Of course they're depressed. It comes with the territory," Eve argued. "They are insane!"
Adam lifted a brow. "Territory?"
"Their madness," Eve whispered. "Mad people are often melancholy. Often their terrors are such that they can't speak of them. And some patients are sad because they know they're mad and want only to be normal. Wouldn't you get tired of living in dark shadows and endless pits of despair? Not to be melodramatic—I get enough of that around here as it is."
Glancing around, Adam regarded the patients. "They don't seem sad now. For once they are forgetting their sorrows." He smiled engagingly. "By the way, how was the visit with your father?"
"My father is the devil's tool," she snapped. "And just how did you know I went to visit him?"
Adam pointed to his head. "I would have done the same. Tell me, how did the old reprobate take your scold?"
"None of your business," she replied.
"It's a rare female who can keep a secret from her husband," he suggested mischievously. "Besides, I know your father. He told you the marriage stands. He quite likes me, you know."
"I can't imagine why. But then, the Captain has never been known for his good taste—with the exception of marrying my mother."
"You'll have to include me in his good taste now. I wouldn't want you to feel disadvantaged in marrying me. I wouldn't want you to feel disappointed."
"Oh, I'm disappointed, all right. You're still here."
"Making merry with your patients and finding ways for them to have fun," he agreed. "See?" He pointed.
Eve glanced over and found, to her surprise, that her lovely fountain was now brimming with ripe red apples. Next to the large marble edifice were some patients and staff, including Jack Rippington, who was at least now standing with his pants buttoned. Rippington was actually smiling for once, and looked interested in bobbing for apples.
"My fountain has apples in it," Eve remarked stupidly, feeling rather dull-witted. "And Jack is there. Not by any rosebushes."
Adam shrugged with that devil-may-care attitude that Eve found distracting. "I thought it was better for all concerned that Jack the Rip should be bobbing for apples and not bobbing for roses—or any other females of this picnic. Furthermore, every Eden should have apples. Besides, you know what they say—an apple a day keeps the doctor at play."
As Rippington bent to bob, Mrs. Monkfort suddenly pointed a finger at Mr. Pryce, shrieking, "He's returned! The fly's returned, and he's masticating on apples! Nasty flying creature. We're cursed! Cursed by the fly." And before anyone could stop her, she began swatting him with one of her numerous handkerchiefs until he buzzed off. As others replaced Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Monkfort shook her head, trying to recover. Staring into the fountain, she said, "I know what's in that water. Do you? It's repulsive. I wouldn't duck my head in it."
"Bobbing for apples?" Eve said. "At a picnic?"
"I told you, I thought it would keep them busy. You know—fun and games," Adam teased. Then winked at her. "Or maybe you don't. You're much too serious, you know."
"Oh, I think I could come up with one or two games," Eve remarked, a sly smile on her face.
"When you look like that," said Adam, "I don't think I want to know."
"I could suggest tar and feathers to them. And I know just who should be tarred."
"I'm sure you do," he agreed, almost wincing at the memory of a time he'd seen a man tarred and feathered in Penzance. The unfortunate victim, Sullivan, had looked like a half-plucked turkey for weeks. "Generally I would be happy to be at your disposal, and feathers would be fine, but the tar I must protest. Not my style at all. Bedsides, they are too busy bobbing."
Eve's attention turned back as Hugo submerged almost completely in the water, but he came up with a nice red apple caught between his crooked front teeth.
"See, the midnight picnic was a fine idea!" Adam crowed. "They need to laugh, just like you do." And kisses—his Eve needed thousands of kisses. He could barely restrain himself from giving her one right that minute. However, he wasn't in the mood to have his face slapped.
"How in the world did we manage to entertain ourselves before you barged into our home?" she asked sarcastically.
He bowed. "I live to serve. Besides, I feel it's rather more than obvious that I have a certain finesse and leadership skill."
"Rubbish! Next time ask the doctor about her patients before you go ahead with any of your harebrained schemes," she said. She was unwilling to concede that Adam's picnic was coming off splendidly. Perhaps her patients did need to make merry, but this audacious man was just too smug for his own good. She didn't care that the dimples in his cheeks were unfairly appealing. And she was too wise to be taken in by his performance as a devoted spouse. The man was, after all, a dangerous deceiver, a great pretender.
Looking smug, Adam placed a hand theatrically over his chest. "Isn't it lucky, then, that I am a doctor."
She blasphemed once, then again for good measure.
"All by your invention!" he continued. "Keep that in mind, sweetheart."
She was quite the little handful, but he would be devout in his attentions. Even seeing her cursing him to the high heavens—and the nine levels of hell—Adam fully believed that a mixture of teasing, thoughtfulness, tenacity, and a tumble in the asylum, a tumble in the garden, and a tumble in the bell tower—or anywhere else, for that matter—would eventually win Eve over. Yes, they would settle down in this cuckoos' nest and raise a fine, attractive brood.
"Argh! You're driving me around the bend!"
"Shall I get the carriage, or the high-perch phaeton? Any particular route you wish to be driven? Shall we go fast or slow? I do like both methods—depending on the occasion, of course."
She stormed away, all ladylike pretensions vanished, her heart beating rapidly. He was a master of the lurid phrase. He was dangerous. Therefore, she would eventually roust him, rout him, and rally her defenses against him, by using her wits and her wile. "Or my name isn't Eve Bluebeard Griffin," she swore resolutely. Then she thought a moment. "Well, it isn't really Griffin." She was honest to a fault.