Chapter 13
Rosie took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and tightened the belt of her robe around her waist, covering most of her nightrail.
It was her coziest, warmest sleeping gown, although sadly not the most flattering.
Still, she didn’t want her intentions to be too obvious.
She supposed showing up at a man’s room in diaphanous blush colored silk would be a bit of a giveaway.
Not that she owned any diaphanous silk. Rosie barely knew what that meant.
Bull would. She would have to ask.
Deciding she’d done everything she could to gird herself for the coming confrontation—and becoming increasingly concerned that Bruno or Mrs. Kettel might turn the corner and see her hovering outside Bull’s door—she knocked.
And waited.
She could hear movement on the other side of the door. Yes, that was definitely movement. And was that muttering?
Oh.
Had he not heard her?
After all the preparation she’d gone through, all the motivation…this was a bit of a letdown.
So she knocked again, more tentatively.
“Aye, aye, I’m coming,” came the grumble from the other side of the door. “Hold yer horses.”
Horses? She had horses? She was opening her mouth to ask what he’d meant, her fist still raised over his door…when he yanked the thing open and she completely forgot what she’d been planning on saying.
Because Bull Lindsay was wearing nothing but a towel.
His auburn hair was wet, there were little droplets of water on his shoulders, and did she mention the towel? There was a towel.
A tiny towel.
Calm down, lass. You saw him mostly naked in Alnwick, remember? You most definitely felt him naked.
Right.
Right.
She could be mature about this.
Mature was a thing she could be.
Of all things she was, it was mature.
So why was she still standing there, knuckles about to rap smartly on his chin, her gaze glued to his—um—towel region?
“Rose?” According to his tone, Bull had gotten over his surprise quickly, and had moved on to the irritation stage of Unexpected Visitors. “What are ye doing here?”
“I am sorry,” she squeaked. “I-I did not expect to interrupt your bath.”
“Bath? There’s nae bath,” Bull grumbled, turning away from the door and scrubbing his hand down his face. “I dinnae warrant a room with a tub.”
He hadn’t exactly invited her in, but Rosie took a tentative step forward, and could see the bowl of water, the soap, and the splashed water on the table.
“I did wonder why you had been placed up here,” she murmured, glancing around the small room, which had clearly been intended for staff. “I suppose Da got his way after all.”
“Nay.” He’d scooped up a pair of trousers and was now wriggling into them. “He wanted me in the stables. Or the next town. I expect yer mother intervened.”
Rosie probably made a noise of agreement. She intended to, at least. The thought occurred to her. But she couldn’t be certain, because all her other thoughts were captured by the sight of Bull’s arse disappearing beneath that dark wool as he yanked his towel up and threw it around his neck.
Only then did he turn back to her.
One auburn brow rose expectantly, and she knew she should blush at being caught staring at his arse…but instead, her lips curled.
“If ye didnae ken I’d be half-naked, Rose, why are ye here?”
“If I had known you would be half-naked, I might have sold tickets.”
His snort of laughter was comforting. So was the way he crossed the room to kick the door shut. “Yer father’s made it clear we’re no’ to be alone together. We spent all that time in the library with Bruno, a man I’m still not allowed to ask about.”
Somehow, the closing of that door—with both of them safe on this side—made her feel more relaxed. So much so that his words didn’t even bother her.
Rosie shrugged, her hands falling to her belt once more, and did her best to pretend nonchalance. “We have not been alone today. Which means we have not had a chance to really discuss the investigation and what we learned today.”
Bull crossed his arms over his bare chest, leaned against the door, and eyed her. “Ye mean about yer relatives? There werenae any ruby necklaces in the portrait gallery.”
They’d spent the day pouring over old books and family histories with Mother in the library—one of their mutual Happy Places—and taking long lists of notes. “My grandmother Amelia did indeed have a mole, so the portrait could not be of her.”
There was a portrait in the gallery of a very young Georgia with her mother and new baby sister, Danielle. It had always been one of Rosie’s favorites; she liked to try and imagine what her mother had been like as a girl.
Bull was nodding. “The gown she’s wearing in the painting is clearly too auld of a style to be Amelia. Her mother Rosemary or her sister Elizabeth, or a cousin are better options. We need to learn more about the two of them.”
Rosie had been fiddling with her belt as she paced—six strides to the bed, six strides back to the window—and considered the conundrum. “Mother was not lying when she spoke of her father’s pride. The Earl was…”
“Aye,” Bull agreed grimly. “I remember him.”
Oh. Of course he would. As a young man, almost boy, he’d been involved in the adventure which had brought down Rosie’s grandfather. In fact, Bull himself had killed the man’s brother, Aunt Kit’s father.
“Right. So we have gads of books about his family history. Amelia’s family history is more difficult to guess. Her last name was Smith before her marriage, which is supremely unhelpful.”
“Aye,” Bull drawled. “Had she been a Chafin or a Uheifer or a Bendover, we would have an easier time of it.”
She was too disheartened to laugh.
On the next lap past his place by the door, Bull reached out and grabbed her hand.
Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—since she was holding onto her belt, the thing came untied as he tugged her toward him.
Thankfully she was too completely distracted by the soft smile on his lips to worry about such a minor thing as the possibility of her clothing falling off.
Bull pulled her against him and cupped her cheek and jaw with his free hand. “We’ll learn the truth, love, I ken it,” he murmured. His thumb caressed her skin. “I swear it. Tomorrow I’ll track down the history of Rosemary and her sister Elizabeth…assuming yer father allows me to stay.”
Her smile was a little lopsided as she swayed toward him, not fighting the impulse to lean. “He is really a big softy at heart.”
But Bull didn’t seem interested in discussing her father. His gray gaze was intense as he stared down at her, his touch on her skin igniting little fires up her arm and down her neck.
“Did ye really come here to talk about the investigation, love?” he whispered.
And Rosie knew this was her opportunity.
She surged up on her toes, wrapping her arm around his neck—not caring how her robe gaped open as she did so—and pulled his lips down to hers.
For a moment Bull hesitated, and she worried she’d been too bold…and then, as if a dam had burst, he took command of their kiss.
His mouth was hot and demanding against hers, and Rosie felt the kiss all the way down to her toes.
Bull’s lips were firm, moving over hers with a confidence that made her knees weak.
When his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, she opened for him eagerly, and the first stroke of his tongue against hers sent a jolt of heat straight between her legs.
Yes.
He kissed like he did everything else: with complete focus and passion and intensity.
His tongue explored her mouth, sliding against hers, retreating then returning to coax her into playing back.
This wasn’t the first kiss they’d shared, and like this morning in the breakfast room, they were no longer playing a role.
Here and now, they were just Rosie and Bull. Just themselves.
When she tentatively touched her tongue to his, he groaned low in his throat and deepened the kiss, one hand tightening in the hair at the back of her head—the hair he himself had styled—while the other splayed across her lower back, pulling her tight against him.
Yes.
She could feel the hard planes of his bare chest through the thin fabric of her nightrail, the heat of his skin burning through the cotton.
Rosie pressed closer, desperate for more contact, and felt the unmistakable hardness of him against her belly.
The sensation made her gasp into his mouth and her hips rolled forward of their own accord, seeking that giddy pressure again.
“For fook’s sake, Rose,” Bull muttered against her lips, nipping at her bottom lip hard enough to make her whimper, even as she wanted to smile at his tease. “Having ye in my arms…ye feel what ye do to me?”
She nodded, unable to form words, and gyrated against him again. The friction was delicious but not nearly enough.
Rosie knew just how much she wanted.
Bull’s mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, kissing and nipping along the line of it.
His tongue traced the shell of her ear, and when he bit down gently on her earlobe, she moaned.
His hand tugged her robe from her shoulders, and she eagerly released his neck to shrug it off.
When she felt the robe sliding down her body to pool at her feet, she eagerly took a hold of him once more.
His hand slid up from her back to cup her breast through her nightgown, and even through the fabric the touch was…it was electric. He squeezed gently, and Rosie could do nothing but arch into his hold with a gasp that he caught and swallowed down.
Oh God, yes.
Before Rosie could process what was happening, he’d turned them both, pressing her back against the door.
The solid wood was cool against her shoulders, a stark contrast to the furnace of his body possessing her front.
He kissed her again, harder this time, his tongue demanding entrance and she gave it gladly.