Chapter Thirteen #2
“Well, all I’m doing is concealing information. I don’t want your mother to know who I am. Is it too much to ask that you guard my secret just a little longer?”
“May I remind you that you’re being paid for concealment. Paid twice, in fact, both for running the Black Widow’s little errands, and for being Mama’s secretary.”
Besides, what did he mean by putting a time limit on the issue? Was he planning to leave soon, or did he intend to bring matters to a head? And what matters might those be, anyway?
She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Tell me what’s going on, Roland, so I can decide what to do.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon needs me here to capture Henry Sutton. She expects him to come after me, and I need to be ready when he does. There’s something else—”
“You think Sutton will come here?” she interrupted. “I hoped we’d seen the last of him. If there is to be a confrontation between you and Sutton, why does it have to happen at Mundlingham Castle?”
He shrugged his shoulders and winced again. “Before I explain, I have to say I can’t think of a better place for our denouement—it will be on my—I mean our terms, not his. This is a castle, after all, and used to defending itself against invaders.”
She tried to imagine Cook, the gardener, the stable boy, and the housemaids all ranged along the crumbling top of the curtain wall, brandishing sickles, whips, brooms, and cabbages, defending their home against intruders.
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds, Roland?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I suppose it does, yes. But I haven’t quite finished.
As we know, Sutton and Treadwell are in cahoots.
Treadwell is now a man with his back to the wall, having lost you and the hope of gaining your fortune.
He’s also a wanted felon, and we have the power to put him behind bars.
Not a comfortable situation for an intelligent man—and I assume he’s comparatively intelligent, since he was a trained artist. He’ll want to come out of his misadventure with something.
I’m concerned that ‘something’ might be you. ”
She pressed a hand against her breast. “Me?”
Oscar must know he’d burned his bridges with her. How could she not have realized he was after her fortune? Love truly was blind, was it not?
“I fear so,” Roland continued. “I’ve made up my mind to remain here. I haven’t been coerced by Mrs. Dove-Lyon, nor asked by your mother as part of any conspiracy against you. I simply want to protect you as best I can. We have both seen what wicked, desperate men are capable of.”
“So, you think Sutton still means to come for you, and Oscar wants to kidnap me for my inheritance?”
“I don’t wish to alarm you, but yes.”
“Then we should tell everyone—warn them.”
He raised a finger to her lips, its warm pressure stealing her breath.
“If we tell everyone, who knows what other secrets would come to light? As I’ve said before, I would have no difficulty giving you the protection of my name if anyone were to find out what befell us on the journey here.
But it would be kinder to you if no one found out.
Because if they learn what Treadwell’s motives were in trying to kidnap us, they will also learn about your elopement.
I won’t downplay our situation—it is a perilous one, and we must keep our heads if we want to come out of this unscathed.
Both those dastardly criminals must be thrown in jail. ”
He was staying in order to protect her? Lissy’s anger at him did an inconvenient thing.
It wavered. She couldn’t rail at him for being protective.
Nor could she be angry about the way his thumb now replaced his finger, tracing the seam of her lips and cupping her chin for the briefest moment before he stepped away.
Even though he was taking an enormous liberty . . .
“Is that everything?” Her voice sounded soft—seductive, even—and she flushed deeply.
“Not exactly. There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you—”
“I think I know.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You do?”
“Yes. Your shoulder is paining you greatly.”
He shook his head several times, like a dog shaking water from its ears. “That wasn’t exactly—”
“I can put together a comfrey and pennyroyal salve—I’ll bring it to the coach house for you. If you keep wincing and whimpering every time you move, people are going to wonder how you got the injury.”
“I do not whimper and wince!” He advanced on her, his glare thunderous.
“Oh, I’m afraid you do.” She wasn’t afraid to provoke him—she knew now that he was on her side and would do nothing to hurt her, either by word or deed.
“I’ll have you know I’m very robust. But that doesn’t mean I won’t accept the offer of salve. Now tell me, Miss Ashby—what do you mean by insulting me when I’m trying to appear heroic?”
She giggled, then wanted to kick herself. Why was she behaving like a lovesick girl? Was it simply because he was prepared to risk his life on her behalf? Because he was ready to hazard so much to preserve her honor? It was a very generous offer . . . from an exceedingly attractive man.
“I don’t aim to insult. I only speak the truth—as you will appreciate when you come to know me better.”
“That sounds like an invitation, Miss Ashby. I would, indeed, like to know you better.”
Before she realized what was happening, he took her in his arms and kissed her soundly.
Her hands came up to push him away, but her willpower was looking in the opposite direction, and her fingers found themselves snaking behind his neck and into his abundant blond hair.
She discovered that by holding him thus, she could increase the intensity of his kiss and prolong the pleasure that coursed through her at the feel of his mouth on hers.
“Well, Miss Ashby,” he murmured as he eased away, “I don’t think I have ever considered a rainstorm such a boon before. But I praise the heavens for sending it our way and separating us from your omnipresent brother.” For all his apparent aplomb, he looked as stunned as she felt.
Lissy brought her fingers to her lips, certain they must be hot and bruised, but they felt soft and moist and, for the first time in her life, truly appreciated.
Roland Chetwynd was far better at kissing than Oscar had ever been.
But now she knew that Oscar’s regard had been false.
He had not kissed her with affection or even desire.
Roland’s kiss was the opposite—heady like strong wine and sweet like honey, and she knew she wanted more of it. And more of him.
He rested his hand on her elbow and brought his lips close to her cheek. She thrilled at the certainty that he was going to kiss her again, but he did not. Instead, he said, “There is still something I really must tell you—”
There was a strange flapping sound from the end of the tunnel, and the gray daylight was temporarily obscured. The next moment, Hugo emerged into the vault, brandishing an umbrella in one hand and a sickle in the other.
“Greetings, prisoners!” he announced cheerfully. “Rescue is at hand!”
Lissy had never felt less in need of rescue, and at that moment, she could have strangled her inconvenient brother.
As she trudged gloomily after him and fought her way through the encroaching bushes at the tunnel’s entrance, she recalled the dangers Roland had warned her of.
And she suddenly realized that the greatest danger she faced in the immediate future was Roland Chetwynd himself.