Chapter 5 #2
“I’ll move the barrow and join you inside.”
“Thank you, Mr Hawke. Leave it by the wood store.”
He hadn’t even known there was a wood store, let alone one with a new felt roof and a stack of dry logs.
“Did Ramsey fix the roof on the store?” he asked, stepping into the sitting room, but the words died on his lips.
The last time he looked, the cottage was a pit. Dust thick as ash. Curtains stained yellow from damp. But now? Now the space was clean.
Not polished to perfection, but cared for. The windows were open, the air laced with woodsmoke and something citrus. The curtains were new to the room, but not new to the world. Likely salvaged from another window. Another life.
A worn leather wing chair sat angled by the hearth, its arms softened by time and use. And on the small table beside it, a vase of white roses.
His mother’s favourite.
Fresh from the garden. Their third flush.
“The gardener’s boy fixed the roof,” she said, unaware he was relieved it wasn’t Ramsey.
He wasn’t angry she’d cut the roses. He was strangely grateful. He didn’t care that she’d taken his grandmother’s pink porcelain teapot. The one his mother cherished, decorated with a courting couple.
He almost felt at home here. Which was ridiculous.
Shadowmere was his home, yet it often felt like a prison.
“You can sit in the wing chair. It’s quite comfortable. I believe it was yours once, before you had the study redesigned. I’ll fetch the stool from upstairs.”
“I’ll fetch the stool.”
He mounted the narrow staircase before she could object, driven by a stubborn need to know where she slept.
The chamber was smaller than his boot room. She hadn’t used her charm to convince Ramsey to dismantle the best bed in the house. She’d slept on an old trundle bed, pushed beneath the window.
She hadn’t insisted on luxury. She took meagre things and made do. He didn’t know whether to be furious or impressed.
He crossed to the corner, lifted the candle lamp from the stool she used as a nightstand, and went back downstairs.
“You need a proper bed,” he said, setting the stool down and sitting on it. “Drawers. A nightstand. Choose what you want from the house. I’ll arrange to have them moved and assembled.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she poured the tea into the matching pink cups. “I’m quite happy on the trundle bed. And I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.”
He felt her words like the prick of a pin.
Guests did not come and go as they pleased. He made the rules. He was master here.
“I meant what I said. I’m holding you hostage until your father’s killer is in gaol.” No sensible man would let her leave.
Not when she might be the culprit … or the next victim.
Her gaze moved to his spread thighs, then returned to the pretty teapot. “If I want to leave, Mr Hawke, I will. You may like to think you have dominion over me. You don’t.”
He might have been tempted to overrule her, but he wasn’t a tyrant. “A man should have dominion in his own home.”
“Over your possessions. Not over me.”
I could possess you in a heartbeat.
All it would take was one kiss.
Yet taking from her held no appeal.
He’d find a way to make her give it freely.
“I could throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the gate. You’re here only because I allow it.”
She handed him the cup with a smile that might fool someone into thinking she was simple. “I’ve no sugar. Though you strike me as a man who likes everything sour.”
“What is this? An attempt to civilise a brute?”
He pinched the handle of the teacup and drank like a lord accustomed to every refinement.
She raised a brow. “A brute would have sat in the wing chair, not on the stool.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “I adapt to suit my purpose.”
She sipped her tea. “Which is?”
“To decide whether tidying the cottage is a necessity or a distraction.” He watched her. She’d not been crying today. It was partly why he’d accepted her offer. “Do you need my protection? Are you hiding here? Or do you need time to consider your options?”
She stared into her tea as though searching the leaves for a sign.
“You refused to tell Ramsey the name of your suitor.”
“Which suitor would that be?” Her voice was cool, detached. “Both are willing to pay a small fortune to bed me. One out of desperation. The other because you dressed me up like a prize.”
Someone had already approached her?
He gripped the delicate china handle so hard it was likely to snap. “Let me guess. There’s a house in Mayfair, and an allowance that would make Croesus weep. Who made you the offer?”
He wasn’t sure why it mattered. But it did.
She sat, lips pursed, defiant.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
She tilted her head. “You have the means to find out, as I do when it comes to your act of vengeance. So why don’t we save time and be honest?”
She made it sound absurdly simple. “This isn’t a game of riddles, Miss Harland. If you want honesty, start with yourself.”
“Very well.” She set her cup on the side table, no longer needing the shield. “I’m glad you asked me to dance. Not so glad you wrote a letter and handed it to Lord Templeton. He’s currently awaiting my reply to his scandalous offer.”
Templeton?
A swell of rage rose in him. He’d expected offers to come pouring in. He’d not expected to feel so damned angry that he could whip every man within ten miles.
“Why the hell didn’t you refuse him?”
“I couldn’t. He had a tight grip of my arm and said he’d more than match any other offer.” Her voice sharpened. “It’s why I went to Lady Soanes. Now I understand why you told me to carry a weapon.”
“I’ll speak to him on your behalf.”
“There’s no need. I shall deal with the problem myself. What you can do is tell me something that’s true. You owe me that, at least.”
What did she want to know?
That he’d never taken tea with a woman?
That he liked the idea of her in breeches?
That her white shirt showed the shape of her breasts?
“Your father was my mother’s lover. By necessity, not choice.” He might have used a more cutting term, but remembered she was grieving.
“That much I gathered.” Her gaze drifted to the gold locket resting on the mantel. When she spoke again, her voice wavered. “May I ask when?”
“Eleven years ago.”
She closed her eyes as if the answer were a blessing. “After my mother died, then. That’s one consolation, I suppose.” She paused, a faint crease forming on her brow. “Why wait until now to shame him? You could have ruined me during my first season.”
“You had a season?” Why was she not married?
“Of course. I’m three and twenty. My father was a baron.” She glanced at her hands resting in her lap. “And I’m a dreadful disappointment.”
How? For the life of him, he couldn’t see it.
Suspicion flared.
“What did you do to deter your suitors?” He used the plural deliberately. He was a good judge of men’s tastes and habits.
“Insulted them. Drew attention to their flaws.” She sounded quite proud. “I told Lord Wimborne I’d developed a terrible gambling habit that began at the races. Told Mr Smith-Turbot that I sometimes slipped into a Whitechapel twang when among friends.”
“Do you have friends?”
“Not really, but I gave a stage-worthy demonstration.” A giggle escaped her—like the one she’d bestowed upon Ramsey yesterday—before she dropped into a perfect slum accent: “’Ere, gov’nor. Can you spare a poor love a penny?”
Dominic laughed. A sound a privileged few got to hear.
“No wonder you’re content with a trundle bed. I’m lucky you didn’t lure me onto the terrace and make off with my purse.”
She leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret. “In a gown, I’d have few places to hide it.”
He fell silent.
He’d fought bare-knuckled. Walked ten paces at dawn. A woman had once come at him with a pearl-handled blade while high on opium. And yet here he sat, drinking tea in a quaint cottage, and had never felt so disarmed.
Miss Harland was a damn sight more dangerous than her father. And just as bloody devious.
“I believe it’s my turn to share an honest observation.” The blood chilled in his veins as the memories rose. Diving deep into a mire of hatred was the only way to avenge the one person he’d loved. “Your father hurt my mother in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.”
She heard the venom in his tone and leaned back. “Hurt her more than you planned to hurt me? I hope so, otherwise that makes you a hypocrite.”
That was the trouble with clever women. They always found the bruise.
“I never professed to be a decent man.”
“That’s just as well. There’s nothing worse than lying to oneself.” She drew a deep breath. “Tell me what he did, and I shall tell you what he said after you left the ballroom.”
He firmed his jaw, ready to say cruelty wasn’t a game. But that would make him a hypocrite. And he was beyond desperate for answers.
“Do you have anything stronger to drink than tea?”
“No, but I can wait while you fetch a decanter from the house. Though I sense you’ll never tell me if I let you leave.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Already, every muscle had tightened.
His tongue felt thick in his throat.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything else we might barter. A bottle of Rosée du Matin from Floris?” Though nothing smelled better on her than that mysterious scent she wore. “A sapphire brooch from Woodcroft’s?”
She fell silent, blinking as though a lash had caught in her eye. “I’d prefer a daisy picked from the place where we might share our first picnic. Or a waltz in a cottage while you hum a tune. Other than that, there’s only one thing I want, Mr Hawke.”
He braced himself.
Whatever it was, it would cost him dearly.
“I’ll tell you everything I know. I’ll risk my life to uncover the truth. In exchange, you’ll agree to accept me as your partner.”
“Partner?” Though he was unsure what she meant, the blood pooling low in his loins made its own assumptions. “You want me to bed you?”
It would be no hardship.
Perhaps then he could be free of her.
She glanced at his spread thighs. “A tempting offer, but no.”
“Then what?” He narrowed his gaze, fighting disappointment. “Surely you’re not referring to Shadowmere. You want to help organise parties for the depraved?”
She laughed. “Heavens, no. Besides, we’d argue at every turn. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m something of a romantic.”
Guilt settled in his chest like a weight. There was a reason she’d ruined her own season. Miss Harland wanted to marry for love. And now, it would take a man who loved her to the ends of the earth to ignore her dire situation. For that, he was sorry.
“Just tell me what you want, Miss Harland.”
At this point, he might agree to anything.
“I want us to work together. To discover who killed my father. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m not entirely certain he’s the villain you were after.”