Kathryn Smith (30 page)

“Yes.” He wasn’t going to argue? “And I am sick because of it.”

“I do not care how you feel.” That was a horrible lie, but she said it anyway. “What I care about is what you intend to do about it.”

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, then blinked to clear his vision. “I’m not certain. Try to draw their attention away from you and Minnie.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?” This man he worked for obviously knew she was in possession of the tiara, what was to stop him from hiring someone else to steal it? He obviously wanted it badly enough to resort to harming innocent bystanders.

Wynthrope lifted his chin, his gaze locking with hers so intently that she knew whatever he was about to say was nothing less than the honest truth. “If I have to, I will turn myself in to Bow Street and tell them everything.”

She stared at him. He would do that? For her and Minnie? No, not for Minnie, for
her
. There was no way she could fool herself about who he meant. His determination to protect her was as plain as the nose on his face.

She moved closer, even though her mind urged her not to. She didn’t stop until she was standing directly before him, and then she knelt at his feet, so that they were eye to eye.

“If this is what they would do to someone not involved, what would they do to you?” Her voice shook as she asked the question gnawing at her conscience.

His silence struck fear into the very heart of her. Slowly, against her own accord, she lifted a hand to his face, trailing her fingers along his stubbled cheek. Lightning fast, he caught her hand in his own, pulling it away.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

Undaunted, she lifted her other hand and placed it against his other cheek. Could he not see that she was trying to bridge the distance between them? That she was trying to tell him that even though he had destroyed her trust and broken her heart, she still cared what happened to him? The very thought of living in a world without him was even more unbearable than the thought that he might not be the man she hoped he was.

He grabbed that hand as well, and before she knew what was happening he had hauled her off balance so that she toppled toward him. He caught her in his arms, holding her gaze for little more than a second before claiming her mouth with his.

He had almost forgotten how she tasted.

Wynthrope kissed her without mercy, his tongue plunder
ing the soft, warm confines of her sweet mouth. He drank her in, his soul sighing in pleasure as she filled him. Warmth seeped into the frigid, barren parts of him, light glowed where just moments before there had been nothing but black abyss. His hands splayed across the delicate width of her back as he spread his knees, hauling her even closer, so that he could feel the pressure of her small breasts against his chest, the soft firmness of her belly between his legs.

She didn’t fight him, much to his surprise. At first her slender hands held themselves somewhere away from him, then they settled with uncertain gentleness on his shoulders. Any pressure from her and he would have to stop. He didn’t want to but, he would respect her wishes.

There was no pressure—not to push him away at any rate. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He groaned against her mouth as her tongue tentatively stroked his.

For the first time since that awful night—no, for the first time since Daniels first reappeared in his life—Wynthrope felt as though there was hope, that everything might actually be all right. Moira was in his arms, kissing him with such longing that it hurt as much as it filled him with joy. Was there a chance that she might be able to forgive him? That once this whole debacle was over with, once Daniels was gone, they might be able to start over? Was it possible she felt more toward him than just this animosity he knew he deserved.

One of his hands slid down the soft fabric covering her back, around to the fragile rise of her ribs. She had put on a little weight, he could feel it in the way her bones weren’t as defined beneath his palm, in the almost imperceptible added heaviness in her breast as his fingers cupped the gentle roundness. Never in the history of man had a woman possessed breasts more beautiful than Moira’s.

An exquisite hardness met his questing thumb as it grazed the peak of her breast. Stroking it gently, he drew the tip of his nail over the tightening bud, his cock stirring in response as she moaned into his mouth.

Regardless of anything else she might feel for him, how she might despise him, she still wanted him. There was no denying her body’s response to him, no denying the pleasure she found in his kiss. It gave him more hope than he dared confront. It was obvious they still had a physical connection, now if he could only rebuild the trust that had been broken.

His breath came in a ragged rhythm as their mouths continued their slow, desperate dance. His hand slid down her back to caress the soft swell of her bottom. The fingers on her breast became more persistent, rolling her nipple through the layers of fabric, lightly pinching until she gasped and pressed against his hand.

Moira’s hands left his shoulders, drifting inward, stroking him through his coat as they glided across his chest.

She untied the knot in his cravat, untwining the length of linen from around his throat. The cravat was tossed aside and her eager fingers came back to his neck, touching him tenderly, stroking the flesh there until she stumbled upon the wound Daniels had inflicted. Wynthrope winced at the contact. The wound was still sore.

Moira drew back, her fingers now still. The gaze that met his was curious, worried even. She glanced down, holding his collar wide as she did so. He knew the moment she saw the cut.

“What happened?”

Reaching up, he closed his hands around hers, pushing them away from his neck. “It is nothing. I cut myself shaving.”

She glared at him, her face pale, her expression dubious at best. “Do not treat me like a simpleton, Wynthrope.”

“I would never dream of it.” No, it would be too much to ask that she had become stupid during their estrangement.

“
He
did this to you, didn’t he?”

There was no need to ask who “he” was. She certainly wasn’t referring to Nathaniel, and the only other man they had discussed that night was Daniels—although Wynthrope had been careful not to refer to him by name. Nor was there cause to be so pleased that she had called him by his Christian name for the first time since his arrival. She was worried about him, and it warmed him.

“Yes.”

She seemed to struggle with something, a puzzling combination of emotions playing across her features. There was concern, anger, fear, and…resignation?

“Because you had failed to get what he wanted?” It was obvious she believed that he was indeed working for someone now, at least.

He could lie, but she would see it in his eyes—or perhaps in his soul. He’d never quite been able to shirk the feeling that she had the ability to read the very heart of him when she wanted.

“Because I hit him.”

Not satisfied, she pressed further. “Why did you do that?”

Damn her, she didn’t really need to ask, did she? For someone who refused to speak to him for the last three days, she certainly had a lot of questions now. Of course, the only reason she was speaking to him now was that her dearest friend had been injured because of him.

He glanced away. “Because he threatened to hurt someone.”

“Me?” There was a tremor to her voice, despite the certainty.

“Yes, damn it!” He glared at her, angry beyond measure that she had drawn the confession from him. “He threatened
my family and I didn’t do anything. He threatened you and I lost control. Happy?”

She looked so beautifully bewildered. “Why would that please me?”

If she were any other woman, it would have. “Because now you know I place you above my family, even though I am no better than dirt in your estimation.” That was a gross exaggeration and he knew it, but a part of him wanted her to tell him different, just as she had wanted to hear that a threat against her had driven him to violence.

“Not dirt,” was all she said. Served him right for daring to hope for more.

He wanted to make her feel even a hint of the guilt and remorse he felt. “So I hit him when he threatened you, and then he pulled a blade and put it to my throat. When I refused to back down immediately, he cut me to put me back in my place. Nothing makes a person feel more vulnerable than cold steel to the throat—especially when it has already sliced through your skin.”

She paled at his description. Good. Maybe he had no right to do this to her, but he needed to see the color drain from her features. He needed to know she was not as unaffected as she wanted him to believe. He needed to know some part of her still cared, damn it. Otherwise there was no point in going on.

She pulled away from him completely and he let her go, despite the urgent insistence from his groin that he try to seduce her into finishing what they had started.

“Wait here,” she instructed, something in her tone telling him that he would be wise to do as she bid.

She drifted from the room like a specter, leaving him waiting for her return like an obedient dog. He retrieved his cravat from the floor and rewound it around his neck, tying the now limp linen in as neat a knot as he could with no mir
ror and fingers that shook. Did he have time for another bourbon? He could use another drink. The brief moments he’d held her were like a cruel jest. He wanted her so badly, but there would be no more kisses this evening, of that he was certain.

He picked up his glass and went to the sideboard, where a selection of crystal decanters sat. Removing the stopper from the bourbon, he poured a liberal amount into his glass and downed it in one swift gulp.

Moira returned just as he was considering pouring another. In one hand she carried a small jar. The other hand held a carved oaken box, which she set on a table. “Come here,” she ordered.

Should he bark and wag his tail as well? Moodily he went to her. “What?”

She removed the top from the jar. “Pull down your cravat. This salve will help heal your wound.”

His cravat felt strangely tight as he held the layers of linen away from his neck. It had been a long time since anyone had doctored a wound for him, and the gesture struck a chord deep within him, sending a ripple of tremulous emotion throughout his entire being.

Her fingers were gentle as they applied the cool salve. The tincture strung a little, but that was it. Once his cravat was back in place, he offered her his handkerchief to wipe the cream from her hand, refusing it when she tried to give it back. Let her keep it. It would give her something to gaze on when she regretted him years from now.

She dropped the discarded linen on the table beside her and picked up the oaken box. For a second she just stood there, staring at it, as though remembering another time she had held it.

“Here.” Snapping out of her reverie, she offered the box to him.

He took it, an uneasy suspicion forming in his stomach. He opened the lid and his stomach plummeted, even though a part of him had known what he’d find.

The tiara. It twinkled up at him from a bed of black velvet.

“Take it.” Her voice was firm, perhaps even a little raw.

The lid snapped shut as he raised his astonished gaze to hers. “I cannot.” He shoved the box toward her.

She stepped backward, shaking her head. “It is yours now. Give it to the man who wants it so badly.”

“Moira—”

She scowled at him, her patience at an obvious end. “For heaven’s sake, Wynthrope, will you just take the fool thing? You had no problem trying to take it before.”

The remark stung, even though he deserved it. Telling her that he had decided not to take it that night would do no good. She wouldn’t believe him.

“Why?” Perhaps he was a fool to ask, but he had to know. Was there a chance she still had feelings for him? Could it be that he had not completely destroyed those precious emotions?

“Because that little bit of shine is not worth someone’s life, not Nathaniel’s, not Minnie’s, not yours.”

“Nor yours,” he added, pleased beyond reason that he had been included with the two most important people in her life.

Her gaze was impassive. “Nor mine. I think you should leave now.”

He blinked. She what? He should have expected this. Had he actually thought anything had changed? No. And no doubt she saw their kiss as a weakness on her own part. She was not about to let him back into her life so easily. Her body—even her heart—might want him, but her mind and her pride did not. And Moira was a very smart, very proud woman.

Her chin tilted defiantly. “You have gotten what you
wanted. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with me anymore.”

“‘Trouble myself’?” He couldn’t contain his annoyance. “Is that why you think I stayed here tonight, in hopes of getting this?” He held up the box.

She shook her head. “No. I believe you were genuinely concerned about Nathaniel, and for that I thank you, but I think you had better leave before I decide that you might just be a good man after all.”

That pierced his heart. “Moira—”

She held up a staying hand. “Please, just leave. I was willing to risk scandal to be with you, Wynthrope, but I refuse to risk the safety of my loved ones. It seems you are a dangerous man to be associated with, and even if I could bring myself to trust you with my heart, I have no guarantee that Minnie and Nathaniel will not pay a price for it.”

He stared at her, a strange tightness in his throat. There it was. It didn’t matter if he managed to win her heart again, she would not give it, not while there was a chance of her friend or sister being at risk—not while he continued to keep the entire truth from her. She had no way of knowing whether more threats from his past would resurface. She had no idea that until recently it had been years since he had stolen anything. She didn’t know.

And he wasn’t going to tell her, because at the moment, it was better that she knew as little as possible. If she knew the whole truth she might feel sorry for him or, worse, decide that she wanted to help him. She was such a good person, he wouldn’t put it past her to make such an idiotic decision. The only reason he cared about Nathaniel and Minnie was that Moira cared about them. His main concern was her, and he would rather die before he put her in danger.