Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The rising sun warmed Logan where he sat alone behind his desk.
He hadn’t slept well the night before, lying awake under his covers, thinking about the strange woman, his heart racing as he recalled his gallop across the pasture, and his launch onto her back.
When memories of her softness brought an unwelcomed hardness between his thighs, he groaned.
He needed to uncover what she knew, and get her out of his house, his life, and his head.
He frowned into the mocking sunshine, rang for the footman, commanding him to fetch the woman, and gripped the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white.
Straightening, he paced the floor, fighting the urge to rub the bridge of his nose.
Stopping midstride, he turned and gazed at the door, grit his teeth, and waited.
The clock on the mantel intoned, signaling the approach of the breakfast hour.
She should be awake waiting for his summons.
She might even show a little fear and willingness to beg for his mercy.
Oh, how he would enjoy that. A sneer curled his lip when he envisioned her on her knees before him, bowing her head, begging for his forgiveness.
His smile disappeared as the vision in his head turned intimate.
She was on her knees before him, but she wasn’t begging for forgiveness.
She was begging for his touch, her lips pouty and eager, her gaze bright and hungry, and her body warm and wet for his cock. He hardened instantly.
A knock on the door signaled her arrival. Deploring his weakness, he swore and prayed that when she entered, she wouldn’t notice the erection tenting the front of his trousers.
“Come.” His voice was steady, but the huskiness was arousal-born.
The door opened. Startled by how she looked in the bright light of day, he blinked once and picked invisible lint from his coat sleeve.
She’d re-dressed in her freshly laundered, immodest peasant garb.
It took no small amount of self-control to keep his gaze on her face as she approached, but the curiosity and carnal hunger beating at the back of his brain took control.
She was taller than most women. He was six-foot-four, and her lips could brush the bulge of his Adam’s apple.
He swallowed around the tightness in his throat.
She wasn’t just tall; she was lean, not a bit of fat on her.
Her forearms were muscled, unlike the soft fleshy arms most women of the Ton sported.
He knew the length of pleated skirt hid gloriously long legs.
He didn’t doubt she’d been gifted with thighs of supple, touchable skin, and ankles of perfect proportion—slim, and lovely.
Her top hid little from his view. Her shoulders were a golden olive, and her skin flawless, dipping between two round globes of feminine treasure.
He knew how he must look to her, but he couldn’t rush, he needed to take his time to absorb the sight of her.
Though his heartbeat accelerated, his gaze was slow and appreciative.
Heat rushed to the roots of her hair. Despite her experience with leering men, this man’s perusal made her feel naked and on display. Sucking in a deep breath, she cocked her head, summoned up a bit of spunk, and gave what she got.
From the top of his gold-crowned head to the tips of his gleaming black boots, the man was gorgeous.
His face was a masterpiece of marble and flesh, his nose straight and strong, and his lips, though currently set in a grim line, were full.
She tamped down the powerful yet foreign desire to suck his bottom lip between her teeth.
Blinking to clear the erotic image, she focused on his face.
Eyes as black as night, they were large and deep, ringed with dark lashes, long and thick.
He was ridiculously beautiful. When his gaze met hers, her skin warmed.
For the fiftieth time in the last two days, she felt out of her element.
She’d spent the last five years catering to the desires and attractions of thousands of men, but she’d never experienced real desire or attraction of her own.
Despite her short-lived marriage, she’d quickly lost any desire to be intimate with Elgin.
Lies would do that. Even among the droves of men flooding Delicious every night, there wasn’t one who fired her passions, or made her want to give her body, soul, mind… heart.
For the first few years after her split, she didn’t think it was a big deal.
She was young, separated from Elgin, and just starting to pay down his debt.
She could breathe a little easier, and God knew she had opportunities to turn her pent-up frustrations into hot sex.
After rejecting hundreds of requests for dates, she began to wonder if something was wrong.
Was she too picky? Was she trying to remain faithful to her estranged husband?
There had to be some reason her heart didn’t skip a beat when a man showed interest. She was very careful to put on a mask of confidence, cynicism, and indifference.
No one knew she craved intimacy, or that she spent nights fantasizing about men she read about in Regency romance novels.
More than anything, she wanted to trust a man enough to open her heart to him.
Even though she’d trusted Elgin and been burned, she wasn’t ready to give up on all men.
Yet.
Despite the hoping, praying, and fantasizing, no one got to her.
Until now….
She willed her breathing to resume normal depth and speed.
Her heart sputtered in her chest as her gaze roved over the dark, virile stranger.
The cut and fit of his clothes showcased his frame.
His broad, straight shoulders crowned his wide chest, and elicited images of her fingers stroking the muscles hidden beneath his crisp white shirt.
His lean torso tapered to strong hips and beyond.
The sleeves of his black coat encased his arms, emphasizing the strength and tone of his biceps.
She was having severe palpitations. Her chest rose and fell erratically, and she hoped to God Mr. Tall, Dark, and Devastating didn’t notice her sudden development of asthma.
Oh God. Why does my tormenter have to be so lip-smacking? Please tell me I’m in a coma and I get to dream about this guy forever. Although, I’d prefer a better fantasy than captivity smut.
The deep timbre of his voice ripped her from her lusty thoughts.
“Let the inquisition begin.” His tone was even, but spiked with sarcasm. He indicated the chair on the other side of the desk.
Haven hesitated only a second. Just get it over with.
She stepped forward, and descended into the chair, taking great care to avert her gaze, even though she really wanted to look at him again. Her brain was half convinced she was in hell, and that the dark man before her was a demon waiting for her to crumble at his feet.
“Now, I believe the first matter of business should be your name. Who are you?”
She straightened her shoulders and drew up her chin. “My name is Haven Edwards.”
His eyes lit, and an eyebrow lifted, almost like a light bulb clicked on in his brain. “Your accent…you’re from the Colonies.”
She furrowed her brow. Where had she heard that reference before?
Second grade social studies class.
“You mean the American Colonies?”
What the hell?
Her spine stiffened as the corner of his eyelid twitched. “Yes.”
Her stomach jumped into her throat, and she nodded.
“What is an American doing in my fields in the dark?”
She took a deep breath and smoothed a clammy hand over her skirt. “I don’t know. One minute I was someplace else, the next I’m lying in your field.”
His expression hardened. She could cut a lemon with his cheekbones. She should. Then she could squeeze the juice right into those damn penetrating eyes.
“Miss Edwards, I am in no mood for tale-telling. I want the truth. Many of my sheep have gone missing, and you were in the very field from which they’d been taken.
Please explain.” Pausing, he searched her face.
“If you’re innocent, you should convince me you aren’t involved in the crime.
Otherwise, you will be detained until you give up the real culprit or confess.
This time, however, your cell won’t be quite so comfortable. ”
Swallowing a bitter comment, she leaned forward, gripping the chair arms to keep from slamming her hand on the desk.
“How can I convince you? What would it take to make you believe I didn’t steal your sheep, or know who did?
How can I trust your judgment when I have no idea who you are, or where I am? ”
With stiff, practiced movements, he tipped his head and placed a hand over his heart. “I am Lord Dunham, Duke of Caspire. You are in Caspire Manor, my family’s principal seat in Cambridgeshire, England.”
She couldn’t help it; her jaw slackened and fell. “I’m in England?” Pinching her fingers together, she tried to hide the tremors.
“How could you not know?” The tone of incredulity in his voice pushed the knife deeper into her chest.
Unsure how to answer, she shrugged.
She stiffened when cold anger burned from his eyes. “Miss Edwards, you’re obviously mixed up in something questionable. Please tell me what I need to know.”
She narrowed her gaze and hesitated. What could she say that would make any sense?
“Look, I honestly don’t know how I got here.
I have some suspicions, but I know the second the words leave my mouth, you’re going to lock me up and throw away the key.
” She sighed, lowering her head to hide the exhaustion crashing over her.
Her knees and wrists still stung from her fall, and her shoulders and back ached from lying in one position all night.
She was losing her stamina, her hope fled, and her frustration mounted.
On top of her physical complaints, she could add brain damage to the growing list. Remembering her mystical encounter from the previous evening, she pinched her lips together.
She’d somehow been contacted by a spirit, or something, from the missing watch, but how could she believe it talked to her?
What was she supposed to do with her mind on the verge of a post-supernova collapse?
She closed her eyes against the prickling of tears, and exhaled.
After a second of calming darkness, she scanned the top of his desk. Hell, maybe she’d find a clue.
An ink well? A blotter? Hadn’t this guy heard of computers? Ballpoint pens?
For that matter, why is he dressed like the cover of a historical romance novel?
His clothes, though amazingly well fitted, were more like period costume than modern everyday wear. She wasn’t an expert on European fashion, but if the Regency look was popular again, she would’ve known about it.
An insane thought broke into her mind, and a dreadful suspicion slunk its way into her heart.
Frantic, she looked for something, anything that could answer the question looming in her mind. Her breath caught when she spied the front page of a newspaper.
Newspaper? Who the hell reads the newspaper?
Blinking to clear her blurry vision, she read, The London Times.
The blood drained from her face. Clasping her shaking hands to her chest, she leaned in to read the headline: American President, James Monroe, First Weeks in Office. Her heart thudded.
James Monroe? Months in office? Oh, God. Please don’t tell me….
She read the line of print directly beneath the paper’s name and found the very thing she feared more than death.
March 29, 1817.
Trembling, she rose to her feet. Dizziness slammed into her, and before she could utter a word of disbelief, she collapsed, the darkness welcoming.
Startled by the sudden paling of her face, Logan stepped around the desk and caught her before she hit the floor.
She fit into his embrace perfectly, her breasts soft against his chest, and her legs long enough to drape elegantly over his arm.
Despite her tall stature, she made a light burden, her molded contours inviting him to press her closer.
Desperate to be rid of her and the sensations she created, he hurried from the study and up the stairs to her room.
He placed her on the bed and took a moment to carefully free a single ebony lock stuck against the bandage on her forehead. Her soft hair slid like silken threads through his fingers.
Mrs. Roomer made short work of getting Miss Edwards under the blankets.
Running his fingers through his own hair, he left the room, intent on finding a quiet place and a strong drink. After returning to his study, his solitude lasted minutes before Harry walked in, lemon tarts in hand.
“Holy hell, Logan. How do you do it?”
“Do what, exactly?” Turning away from the windows, he gazed at his friend who had taken up residence on the chaise.
“How do you get the same woman to faint at your feet twice? You must tell me your secret. Imagine the power I could wield at assemblies, musicales, by God, the balls. There would never be a dull moment if chit after chit landed in a heap at my boots.” He smiled around his mouthful of tart.
Logan couldn’t help it, he grinned. “No secret there. Simply smash their heads against a rock and then spend the next twelve hours browbeating and questioning them.” He pivoted to the windows again, his shoulders and neck aching from the tension wrapping him in knots.
Rubbing the base of his skull, he let out a heavy groan.
A sharp rap against the door jolted him. Alert and somewhat anxious, he turned. At his summons, Connors charged in, his face white. Catching his breath, the butler huffed, “Your Grace. Your aunt. She’s here.”
Cursing, he turned to Harry, who seemed to have been magically transported from the chaise to a wing-backed chair and was sitting straight as a pin.
Stifling a grin, Logan straightened his already immaculate cravat.
“This is turning into a disaster.” To Connors, he ordered, “See to my aunt’s things. ”
Gathering his waning courage about him like a bulwark, he left the safety of his study and made his way to the pits of Hell. Reaching the ground floor, he entered the great hall and collided with his aunt’s penetrating gaze.
Petite, silver-haired, and formidable, Lady Mildred Dunham was a gale-force wind cleverly disguised as a summer breeze.
He braced for the storm.