Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sky had turned a murky grey by the time Dominic reached Shadowmere. The first heavy drops of rain landed on the sleeve of his greatcoat as he waited for Crocker to unlock the gate, the iron chain rattling against the bars.
“Has anyone passed through here today?” He was keen to know if Daphne had stuffed her clothes into a valise and quit the house in a temper.
Crocker shook his head as he worked the key in the padlock. “First time opening it since before dawn, sir.”
The tension in his shoulders eased.
Not the tightness in his gut.
It wasn’t Moseley’s document tucked in the saddlebag that troubled him. Nor the reckoning that awaited him when he explained his absence to Daphne. He trusted his instincts. They’d been needling him since he left London, since Moseley’s veiled warning.
Evil men often return to the scene of their crimes.
He looked back at the road.
Would he dare come to the Masque?
“I’ll post two extra men on the gate in the morning. I want every carriage searched. Admit no one who isn’t on the list.”
“Aye, sir.” Crocker dragged the chain through the iron railings. “And if there are strays that can’t be accounted for?”
“They remain in the gatehouse under lock and key until Ramsey comes to vet them. No exceptions. No excuses. That includes the magistrate.”
Crocker nodded as he stepped aside to let him pass.
Dominic reiterated the same concerns to Duncan, his head coachman, as he dismounted. “Search every boot before the vehicles are parked. Man them night and day. No one leaves here without my permission.”
A groom hurried from the shelter of the stable block, steadying the restless horse and taking the reins with a respectful nod.
How often had the same courtesy been shown to the man who destroyed his mother? Had the bastard ridden through the open gate, confident no one would ask questions?
“Shall I post a groom near the footpath?” Duncan nodded towards the cobbled passageway that led to the gardens. “A man could climb the stile on the lane and cross the fields without being seen.”
Damn. He’d never had to consider it before.
Guests liked spectacle. They arrived bold and brazen. A man with darker intentions would not.
“I’ll speak to Ramsey.”
“I expect he’s of the same mind, sir. He went that way with Miss Harland some time ago.”
Dominic stilled. “How long ago?”
Why the hell were they walking when there was work to be done?
Duncan shrugged. “Two hours, I’d say.”
“Two hours, and they’ve not returned?” He heard the crack in his own voice. Had she left Shadowmere? Without waiting. Without giving him the chance to explain. Was Ramsey aiding her escape or attempting to bring her home?
Home.
The word caught him off guard. He dismissed it.
“They might be sheltering from the rain, sir.”
Or someone had intercepted them. Ramsey would not abandon his post on the eve of the Masque. Not without good reason.
“I’ll walk that way. Assess the danger myself.”
It took effort not to break into a sprint.
Barely a minute passed before he saw them trudging across the field. Daphne tipped her face to the sky and stuck out her tongue to catch the raindrops.
Ramsey laughed as if he enjoyed her company. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around her shoulders, tugging it tighter across her chest.
Dominic’s world darkened.
The rain turned cold against his collar.
He had never wanted to kill a man more.
Daphne saw him at the edge of the field, eyes blazing. Her laughter died. Her smile hardened into a scowl that slid beneath his skin.
Ramsey wouldn’t meet his eye.
“Duncan said I’d find you here.” His jaw ached from holding it tight. “He neglected to mention you were amusing yourself in the pasture.”
Daphne said nothing. She strode past as if he were a post in her path.
“Miss Harland insisted on walking to the church.” Ramsey’s answer came a beat too quickly. “We’ve just had tea with Mrs Buckley.”
“We would have invited you,” she called over her shoulder, “had you been here. I wouldn’t have kept you in the dark.”
The comment cut like a lash.
He was cold and tired, wet from the rain. He’d not feel guilty for saving her damn life.
“You could say thank you,” he shouted.
She swung around, hands braced on her hips. “Thank you. Thank you for proving I’m nothing but a thorn in your side.”
She turned her back on him and walked on.
He rounded on Ramsey. “You showed her my mother’s grave?”
Ramsey wiped rain off his face. “She wants answers. You can’t blame her for that. I kept our oath, but Mrs Buckley told her something. She wouldn’t say what.”
“If it concerns my mother, I have a right to hear it.”
He had faced down killers without blinking. He would not be dismissed by a woman.
He marched after her. A sensible man would return to the house, shut himself in the study, and let his temper cool. But Daphne Harland was a distraction he could not master.
“You’ll tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve said.” He followed her through the mews, aware of the stable lads pretending not to stare. “Every word. Do you hear me?”
“The same applies to you.”
She started running, not to escape the rain but him; her boots slipping on the wet cobbles.
He could have caught her easily. Made a spectacle of them both. But he didn’t give chase until she reached the cottage. He wedged his foot in the gap before she could close the door.
“We’ll discuss this properly,” he said, expecting her to throw her weight behind the wood and force him out.
“Which is precisely what we should have done before you rode to London at dawn.” She marched upstairs, leaving the door ajar.
He entered, braced for what awaited him above.
The boards creaked as he crossed the landing.
He’d prefer pistols at dawn to this.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a woman?” she said when he ducked beneath the low lintel into her chamber.
It sounded like a trick question.
“You’re not invisible to me if that’s the implication. You were uppermost in my thoughts today.”
She pulled Ramsey’s wet coat off her shoulders and hung it over the wooden chair. “If that were true, you would have woken me. Given me the choice to accompany you. Is that so difficult?”
“Yes, because I know what men see when they look at you.” He knew every curve of her by heart. Knew the effect she had on him.
She blinked, her mouth softening, but then she flicked her hand at the spreading puddle at his boots. “You’re dripping water all over the boards.”
“I’m not leaving.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat, opened the small window, and tossed the sodden garment into the rain.
“It’s best you do. You’ve lost your wits.”
“I lost them in Templeton’s ballroom.”
“I didn’t ask you to ruin me.”
“But you’re glad I did.”
She snatched a towel from the washstand and pulled the comb from her hair. He watched as the damp locks tumbled loose around her shoulders.
Bloody hell.
“You wore another man’s coat today.” He’d be the only man to shelter her from a storm.
“Because you weren’t there.”
He stepped closer. “Mrs Buckley told you something.”
She patted the ends of her hair with the linen. “That she adds almond essence when she glazes her scones.”
“I know. I settle her accounts.”
She paused. “How endearing.”
He took another step, forcing her to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. “You’ll tell me what she said. I have a right to know.” He meant to hold her with a hard stare, but his gaze slid to the raindrop tracing the line of her throat. “Why go to my mother’s grave?”
The sharp question did nothing to quell the heat coiling low as she drew the linen over her neck and the slope of her shoulders.
“Perhaps I went looking for your heart.”
“I doubt you’ll find it.”
She looked at him with blue eyes he could drown in. “I glimpsed it in the garden last night. I suspect it’s never far.”
It had been buried in hallowed ground until he met her.
He wasn’t sure who moved first. One moment there was space between them, the next his fingers closed around her wrist as she brushed a damp lock from his brow.
“You’ll tell me everything,” he said.
“You’ll make amends for leaving without a word.”
“I doubt you’ll be satisfied until you’ve drawn blood.”
“You know me so well.”
He looked at her mouth, their breath mingling, his need rising. “We’re alike. Both downright stubborn.”
“Stubborn and afraid.”
He feared nothing and no one.
Except for the way he felt about her.
“And hypocrites,” she added, pressing closer.
Panic cut through desire. “I ask nothing of you.”
“I was speaking of myself.” Her hand rested on his chest before drifting higher to trace his jaw. “I refuse to be owned by any man … but I long to be owned by you.”
“Be careful what you ask for. I might give it to you.”
“I deserve some recompense for being left behind.”
He cupped her face, his thumb pressing beneath her chin as though he meant to steady her.
In truth, he meant to steady himself.
The resolve lasted a heartbeat.
“Then you shall have it.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm. Softer than he remembered. Softer than he deserved. He should pull away. Demand answers. Why had she gone to the grave? What had Mrs Buckley said? What did she think she knew?
Instead, he eased her lips apart with a patience he did not feel. He could taste her without taking. Please her and still master himself.
But her fingers curled at his nape, and the touch undid him. When she sighed against his mouth, his composure slipped. His hand went to her waist and he hauled her against him, kissed her like a man who ached to see her undone.
This thing between them was no game.
Heat surged low and savage. The throb in his trousers refused to subside. His hands slid to her bottom and he crushed her to him.
He needed her beneath him. At his mercy.
He deepened the kiss, driving it until her breath faltered and she clutched at him as though the floor had shifted beneath her.
He should stop.
Give her a moment to reconsider.