Chapter 13 #2
He’d never had the care of a child before, not in these circumstances anyway. Oh, now and then, he’d been assigned the duty of escorting an official’s wife and children from one post to another, but rarely when there was any real threat of harm, and never when the children were his own family.
As these two were. He supposed they were two more anchors keeping him from leaving England immediately. Despite her resilience and dedication, would Blythe be able to protect them?
He clutched the banister, fatigue dogging his steps. He’d gone twenty-four hours without sleep and needed some rest before the next day’s search.
First, though, he’d check on the children.
He saw a light burning under the door of a likely room and silently turned the knob.
A hobby horse stood in one corner near a low table and small chairs and a shelf stacked with books. Two low cots that looked like camp beds stretched from one wall.
Nicholas lay, arms akimbo over his blankets, on one cot; Coralie had curled up on her side on the other bed, her hair in a long blond braid, her breath still and regular.
Radley snored in a nearby armchair, and Blythe sat in a wing chair, her feet tucked up under her, her head pillowed against the chair wing.
The dim lamp light cast her in a luminous glow. She’d changed into a night gown and thin dressing gown and taken her hair down.
He went to her and touched her shoulder. When she didn’t stir, he slid an arm under her bottom and the other around her shoulder and lifted her.
Radley was there and the house was guarded. Blythe needed to be in her bed.
In her bedchamber, a lamp burned dimly and the covers had been turned back. He lay her down gently.
Even buttoned up to her neck, she was delectable. Barefoot and with her hair in a long braid for sleep, she looked more like the young girl he’d met so many years ago. On a whim, he toed off his own shoes, cast off his coats, and slid into the bed next to her.
It had been a long while since he’d lain with a woman—too long—but he’d never felt this sort of intimacy. Transitory affection at times, but never this.
She sighed and snuggled closer, and he closed his eyes, inhaling her scent. Despite a whole day of travel, she smelled of clean linens and a delicate perfume.
In contrast to him. He ought to have washed.
It was his last thought before falling asleep.
Blythe struggled awake from a dream, feeling strangely disoriented. Though the room was chilled, she was unaccountably warm.
An arm lay across her waist and slow, steady snoring tickled her ear. The dim lamplight cast enough glow to see the flowers on the bed hangings. Nicholas must have found his way down from the nursery; she hoped the snoring didn’t mean he’d caught a cold on the journey.
She patted the arm draping her, froze, and turned her head.
Graeme. Graeme was here, in her bed, holding her close as if… as if…
What had she done?
The snoring paused, one eye cracked open, and his lips curved. He nuzzled her neck, his bristly stubble sending sensation rippling through her middle and lower.
Her heart pounded. She’d just been dreaming of this. She’d just been dreaming of him.
How…
She’d been in the nursery. Had he carried her down? And then tucked himself into her bed and…
His hand began moving, distracting her.
Closing her eyes, she absorbed the sensation, struggling to think. “Wha-at are you—”
Lips touched hers, gently, and then more forcefully, and as he pressed against her, she felt it—he was fully aroused.
Alarm warred with desire. She opened her eyes and saw that his eyes had drifted closed and his face had taken on the determined set of a man in the throes of passion.
A memory of Archie chilled her. Graeme wasn’t properly awake. He didn’t even know it was her.
She shoved at him and his eyes flew open.
“Blythe.” His hand lifted. “Shhh,” he said, “Sorry.” He smoothed her hair. “Apologies. So tired.”
He shushed and soothed and his strong fingers massaged her shoulder.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, “you’re safe. The children are safe. I… I carried you to your bed and… There’s a Bow Street Runner in the house. No one will hurt you.”
“I thought…” She closed her eyes. Graeme wasn’t Archie. He’d known it was her he was kissing.
She swallowed bile and shook her head. “Will I ever be free of the memories?”
Graeme’s hand paused and he drew her closer. “Yes. We’ll create new memories, good memories, to wipe out all of the old bad ones. But not tonight. Tonight you sleep.”
“Maybe,” she mumbled.
Maybe it could be true. She nodded and finally slipped off into slumber.
Graeme waited until he knew she was sleeping, and then waited a while longer, watching her in the dim light.
He would have made love to her right then and there if there’d been more than the slightest acquiescence. A passionate woman lay underneath all the layers of fears and bad memories.
It had taken a supreme act of will on his part to pause, but it had been anger that drove away the last of his lust.
Not anger at Blythe. Never at Blythe, no matter what document she’d burned or who she’d slept with, willingly, or as he suspected, unwillingly.
He’d forgive her. After all, he was the one who’d got her into that travesty of a marriage.
If Archie wasn’t already dead, he’d have him by the throat. He’d beat his peacock of a cousin to a pulp. He could do it, too. He’d learned when to exercise diplomacy and when to apply his fists.
He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and found his coats and his shoes, guessing that it must be only an hour or so until dawn. Moving quietly to the desk where the lamp stood, he pulled on his garments and noticed a letter lying open.
I believe I’ve found the person you’re seeking though I’ve not spoken to her in person. As you suspected, her lodgings are in Soho, on a not quite respectable street.
He unfolded the rest of the letter and read on, then returned it carefully to the desk.
Blythe was keeping more secrets.
Anger flickered briefly in him and then died.
Of course she would confide in her brother before confiding in him. He still hadn’t earned her trust. But he would. And he’d wait for her to realize that she trusted him. Hadn’t he waited fifteen years for her?
That business about the East End—her brother had found names of pawn shops. She was pawning a piece of jewelry to get money, and there was a negotiation to be conducted. Blythe’s brother had also found Lunetta Casale, and the woman wanted money in exchange for the will.
Or was there some other reason the woman would blackmail Blythe?
Graeme moved quietly to the bed and watched her. Her breathing was heavy, and regular, convincing him that she was truly asleep and not pretending.
What had her life been like? She was a woman with secrets, and he wanted to uncover them all.
He found his way to the corridor, and none too soon. As he neared his bedchamber, he heard footfalls behind him and turned. Blythe’s brother was staggering toward her door.
“Captain Lynford,” he said in a whisper.
Lynford paused, one hand braced on the door, the other on the knob. “You’re up, Chilcombe?”
“I was checking things. You spoke with the Runner who’s here tonight?”
“Cheeky cockney? Yes. Wouldn’t tell me squat. Said I must ask you.”
Graeme nodded. “Let Blythe be. She’s sleeping. Come to the library and I’ll fill you in.”
Frowning, Lynford approached and staggered again, his hand to his mouth.
“Damn if I’m not going to hurl,” he said.
With Graeme’s help, Lynford reached his own room just in time.
“Bloody hell,” he said, when he’d finished spewing. “I didn’t think I drank that much.” He fell back on the bed.
“Get out of those coats,” Graeme said.
“That blasted Lord Vernon.” Lynford wobbled up, groaning and shrugging off his coat. “How’d you know my sister was sleeping?”
“What about Lord Vernon?” Graeme asked.
Lynford’s expression grew mulish. “What about my sister?”
It had been a near thing tonight. If Lynford had found him in his sister’s bed, it might have meant a demand for pistols at dawn.
“I found her asleep in a chair in the nursery and carried her to her bed.”
“The nursery?” Lynford looked confused, and Graeme realized Blythe hadn’t mentioned the children to Lynford.
But she’d told Graeme, and the thought gave him hope that just maybe he’d have a chance of earning her trust.
Lynford gagged again and reached for the chamber pot.
He’d get nothing out of Lynford tonight. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll get you a footman.”
Lynford would be too befuddled for an early start escorting Blythe to Lunetta’s lodgings. He would bet his last farthing that Blythe, who’d already done so much searching, would be out looking at first light.