Chapter 10 #3
Angel shivered with delight and then reminded herself severely that she was not to come out of this adventure ruined and with a babe in her belly. No matter how much she liked him, he was a man, and men were unreliable. No one was going to take care of her but herself so she must be sensible.
But being sensible is so boring, complained the wicked little voice that never failed to lead her into trouble.
And his arms were so strong, and his chest was warm, and she could feel… Oh. Oh, good heavens!
Angel froze, suddenly rivetingly aware of his arousal, hard and insistent and pressed against the cleft of her bottom.
“You’re driving me distracted,” he grumbled, his arms tightening about her middle.
“You’re doing an admirable job yourself,” Angel remarked, aware she sounded a little hysterical. She must tell him to let her go, and get up, and get away from him before she did something she would undoubtedly regret. She must.
In a minute.
Instead, she leaned back and sighed, revelling in the feel of his arms about her. He was so warm and solid; he made her feel safe. An illusion, she knew, but all the same, it was a lovely one. He pressed gentle kisses along her neck and nipped at her earlobe.
“You don’t trust me,” he grumbled mournfully, as one hand crept towards her breast.
Angel snorted and pushed it away, which was a deal harder to do than she liked to admit.
“I wonder why,” she muttered ruefully as his hand crept back again.
This time she let it, sighing and closing her eyes as it closed around her breast and gently squeezed.
His thumb moved to her nipple, circling it as it grew taut beneath her gown.
Her breath caught, the secret place between her thighs giving an insistent throb of excitement.
“Because you don’t know me. If you knew me, you’d know you could trust me. I’d not—not—”
“—not seduce me into your bed and then wave me goodbye?” Angel suggested, turning to look at him.
To her surprise, he gazed at her, his eyes a trifle hazy, but his expression entirely sincere. “I’m not that sort of fellow,” he said gruffly.
Angel stiffened as she heard Milly’s voice outside the door, no doubt to give her fair warning. She pushed out of his arms and stood, smoothing down her skirts as she tried not to notice the regretful look he sent her.
Milly opened the door and shooting her a glare of exasperation which told Angel all she needed about just how guilty she looked. Ruth came in behind Milly, carrying a tray with a coffee pot, milk, and sugar.
“I warned him it weren’t like the usual stuff,” Ruth said with a laugh, setting the tray down. “But the locals took a liking to him, seeing as how he bought them all drinks, and they determined to get him drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Mr Cleaver grumbled indignantly. “Just a trifle fatigued. It’s been a long day.”
“Oh, aye,” the girl said wryly, winking at them before she swept out again.
Milly hurried over to Angel, reaching up to rearrange her hair, which Mr Cleaver had disordered during their little tussle. “I can’t leave you along for a moment,” she scolded, shaking her head.
“Not with him,” Angel replied crossly. “He’s like catnip.”
“You’re not a cat,” Milly retorted.
Angel shrugged. She might as well be; she wanted nothing more than to be a cat under Mr Cleaver’s big, caressing hands.
Returning to the table, she poured Mr Cleaver a cup of coffee, adding several lumps of sugar, which was apparently how he liked it.
Angel waited until he’d finished one cup and poured him another before she sat back, folding her arms.
“Well, then? We know they hanged Jenny at Maidstone, the gallows on the heath. Did you find out anything else that was useful, or did you just enjoy the local ale and the view down the barmaid’s cleavage?”
Mr Cleaver gazed back at Angel, a speculative glint in his eyes. “Are you jealous because I wasn’t staring down your cleavage?”
“Certainly not,” Angel replied, a touch aggravated because that was probably a lie.
“Hmmm. Well, I know she was tried before the Kent Assizes in Maidstone and was hanged on Penenden Heath.”
“We told you that,” Angel pointed out, though admittedly he had more detail than they’d got from Ruth.
“And I know where she’s buried,” he replied coolly.
Angel sat up with a gasp. “You do?”
This had been what had worried her the most. The authorities did not bury executed criminals in parish churchyards but in unconsecrated ground, often in shallow, unmarked graves.
Mr Cleaver nodded but then looked a little regretful. “Well, perhaps not precisely where,” he admitted.
Scowling, Angel folded her arms and waited.
“She was buried on the heath. Close to the gallows. That’s all anyone knows.”
Angel threw up her hands and muttered a curse.
“Well, it’s close enough, isn’t it?” Mr Cleaver demanded, dropping several more lumps of sugar into his coffee despite her already having done so. “You can put your roses on the heath. Isn’t that close enough? It’s the thought that counts.”
Angel turned to glare at him, but noticed the curiosity glinting in his eyes, the sense that he was testing her. “I suppose so,” she said with a tight smile, and left it at that.