Leslie Lafoy (13 page)

“It sounds perfectly lovely to me. It’s probably because I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, but I’ve always wanted a home filled with noise and life. I always thought that twelve would be the perfect number of children.”

Hearing the wistful notes in her voice, he replied, “Twenty-seven is too young to give up hope for it. It’s still attainable. Well, maybe not twelve. But six is easily possible.”

“Oh, yes,” she scoffed, chuckling. “And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

“Perhaps in Louisiana. But not here in London,” Barrett countered in all seriousness. “When all is said and done … You could stay in London, whirl through the social glitter for a season or two, and find yourself a nicely suitable husband.”

“But I don’t want a husband. I enjoy my independence. Remember?”

“As I said, a nicely
suitable
husband.”

She arched a brow and gave him a wide smile. “And you think
I’m
an optimist?”

“I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

“Ha!” Rising to her feet and lifting his bowl, she asked, “Another dumpling?”

He considered it and decided that he should at least try to develop some skill at resisting temptation. A second dumpling was a fairly easy place to begin. “I’ll save it for a midnight repast,” he announced, pushing himself to his feet. “As a reward for making yet another search for the two missing map pieces.”

Carrying the bowls to the sink, she sighed and admitted, “I’m beginning to think she must have hidden them somewhere other than here.”

“It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “If we don’t find them with the next pass through the house, we’ll search the gardens at first light. There aren’t too many places she could have tucked them and been sure that they’d be safe from the wind and the damp.”

Belle gazed out the kitchen window and into the darkened yard, trying to imagine her cousin being willing to even consider such a hiding place. Aside from the obvious uncertainties of the weather, Mignon had never been the sort to put her hands at the slightest risk from either soil or an accidental nick or abrasion. No, the missing pieces were somewhere dry and clean. It was a certainty. If not in the house itself … She shifted her gaze to the carriage house.

Letting herself into a stable was something Mignon would have never considered under normal circumstances, but since the situation had been obviously dire … Deciding that she’d mention it if their other searches didn’t turn up the missing pieces, Isabella turned away from the window.

Barrett stood beside the table, casually rolling down his shirtsleeve. The pang of regret was instant and she shook her head, disappointed in herself for having a preference in how he wore his shirt. It really shouldn’t make any difference to her at all; a man was a man and a shirt was a shirt.

But, the softer side of her countered, Barrett wasn’t just any man. He had a keen mind and a wonderful sense of humor. He treated her, not as most men did women—like some fragile china doll or a dockside whore—but as an equal. It was most unusual, most unexpected. And so wonderfully gratifying.

Yes, Barrett was different; delightfully so. She liked him, liked being with him, liked how he made her feel. It had been such a long time since she’d felt as wildly alive as she had when he’d captured her hand over the table. And when he’d sucked the whipped cream from her fingertip her thighs had ached. And they were still aching.

When Mignon wasn’t quite as much of a presence between them … No one would ever know. And if she consciously chose to sample temptation—just in passing—it really couldn’t be considered a surrender. No, it wouldn’t be a surrender at all. In fact, under the right sort of light, it might be seen as a rather healthy testament to her willingness to live fully again.

Not that Barrett needed to know that, of course. The less he knew about her past, the better, actually. The idea of being tumbled down out of pity or for restorative purposes didn’t appeal to her at all. And, truth be told, she couldn’t see Barrett being amorous under those circumstances. No, Barrett was undoubtedly the sort of man who liked his women without complications of any kind. She could hide them from him for as long as necessary. She was very good at hiding. And they wouldn’t be together all that long, anyway.

“Belle?” she heard him call softly. “Are you troubled by something?”

Just who I am,
she silently answered.
Where I’ve been and what I’ve done
. She drew a deep breath and summoned a smile as she met his gaze. “Not at all,” she assured him. “I’m a bit tired. It’s been a very long day.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” he replied, openly considering her. “Perhaps we could postpone another search until daylight and call our efforts for today sufficient. If you’re agreeable, I’ll show you to your room.”

What would he do, what would he think, she wondered, if she told him that she’d prefer to sleep with him? Not that she could be bold enough to put the inclination into actual words. But if she could? If, for once in her life, she dared to be the aggressor in a seduction? Would he lay her down on the kitchen table and make love to her right there? Or would he sweep her into his arms and carry her up to his room to thoroughly ravage her on a silk comforter and feather mattress? In the throes of his passion, would he murmur her name or Mignon’s?

Her heart fell like leaden ballast into her stomach. Acutely aware of the heat fanning across her cheeks, Isabella turned away and snatched up the now cooled pan of dumplings. “Let me put these in the larder,” she said, bustling off, “and then we can retire to our separate quarters.”

Barrett smiled as she darted into the shadows of the keeping room. Separate quarters? She’d felt a need to specify? Apparently he’d accurately interpreted the inviting sparkle in her eyes; she had been delighting in pleasurable possibilities. The prospect of which considerably delighted him. Lord, what he would have given for her wanton impulses to have held until they’d reached the upstairs hall.

Just over twelve hours into their acquaintance was a bit soon. Well, sooner than he would have thought at the beginning, but he wasn’t of a mind to let the unexpectedness of her interest be a deterrent. Nor was he the least put off by her blush and obvious effort to squelch her fantasies. Not any more. Besides, only a saint could resist the temptation of teasing out the willing wanton. And he wasn’t a saint, not by the longest stretch of any imagination.

Yes, there was—most definitely—still hope, he assured himself as she emerged from the larder, her eyes deliberately averted and her hands busily smoothing her skirts. Given her tendency to act before fully thinking, his experience in such matters, and the time it would take them to reach the guest room and a decision …

Barrett retrieved the oil lamp from the table and moved to the door. Pausing on the threshold of the dining room, he half turned back and extended his free hand. He held his breath as she considered it, then exhaled in sweet relief as she closed her eyes and placed her hand in his.

Barrett led her through the dining room to the front hall, conscious of how small and delicate her hand was compared to his own, how tentative was her acceptance of being shepherded. At the base of the stairs he shifted his hold on her, gently lacing his fingers through hers and holding her more firmly as he slowly drew her up the flight of carpeted steps. Her pulse was racing; it skittered through his flesh and bones and called his own heart to match the cadence.

He was almost light-headed by the time he drew her into the guest room and placed the lamp on the bureau by the door. But he wasn’t so out of his awareness that he couldn’t feel the tension vibrating through her, couldn’t see the shallowness of her breath and the difficulty she had in swallowing. She looked up at him, her dark eyes huge and searching. Drawing her hand up to hold it against his chest, he smiled down at her. Anticipation whispered that he could obliterate—in mere seconds—every shadow of her doubts. His conscience cringed and then whimpered about being a decent man.

“Shall I light a fire for you?” he asked softly, hoping she would accept his oblique invitation and save him from his better half. “It would take only a moment and I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Her smile so soft, so gently appreciative. So knowing. “It’s not necessary,” she replied, her eyes twinkling brightly. “But you’re most kind to offer.”

It had to be one of the most endearing rebuffs he’d ever been served. And he knew her well enough that his hope wasn’t the least bit dashed. Quite to the contrary, actually. While her current impulse might be to spend the night alone, she could just as well have an altogether different one before she drifted off into slumber. Lifting her hand to his lips, Barrett brushed a lingering kiss across her knuckles.

“Then I’ll wish you pleasant dreams,” he whispered as he released her and stepped away. “If you wake and need me, I’m but a few steps across the hall.”

Isabella considered him and the scant difference between needing and wanting. “Good night, Barrett,” she whispered, taking temptation and the edge of the door in hand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

His smile as she closed the door suggested that he sensed her conflict and wouldn’t chastise her should she decide to change her course in the hours between now and dawn. Belle closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool wooden panel. She was genuinely bone-deep tired; the consequence of an exceedingly long and stressful day at the end of several truly grueling weeks. She’d be able to sleep without nightmares, without waking to wander the past and agonize over what she could have done differently.

But if she did … Belle half smiled and stepped away from the door, strengthened by the knowledge that if she wanted to be distracted, Barrett would be most willing to draw her under his sheets and thoroughly oblige her.

Chapter Seven

A flood of reality came in the first second of wakefulness. Barrett was there, fully dressed, one knee on the bed beside her, one hand cupped lightly over her mouth, the other curled firmly over the hand under the pillow. It was barely light and their breath hung in silver clouds between them.

“We have company,” he announced quietly, releasing her hand and sliding off the bed.

Her heart racing, her body quivering and acutely aware of the cold, Isabella checked to make sure the revolver was still in place and then sat up, reaching for her wrapper and asking, “Who?”

“Chief Inspector Larson and five of his men are on the front step,” he supplied, peering through the slit in the bedroom draperies without touching them. “They’re pounding on the door, no doubt hoping I’ll open it and calmly allow them in to arrest me.”

Arrest him? Her heart turned over in her chest and she scrambled from the warm nest of her bed. “What are we going to do?”

“What any red-blooded, innocent Briton would do … Run,” he answered, his smile tight and thin. Striding across the room, he said, “Kindly dress, gather up what you’ll need for a few days, and then take the servants’ stairs down to meet me in the study,” and then disappeared into the hallway without a backward glance.

Isabella stared after him for a single heartbeat and then launched herself into concerted action. With her valise open on the bed and her clothing piled beside it, she stripped away her wrapper and night rail. Hurriedly pulling on her undergarments, she considered the fashionable shoes she’d worn the day before. Heaven only knew where she and Barrett were going and how they were going to get there. If they had to walk any distance … If he was genuinely serious about the need to run … Isabella dug to the bottom of her valise and extracted her riding boots.

And since she was forgoing feminine for the sake of practical … Isabella stuffed her corset and petticoat into the valise along with the night rail and the wrapper. There was no dispensing with the blasted hoops, though; not if she didn’t want her hems pooling around her ankles.

If only, she silently grumbled, tying the contraption around her waist, she’d foreseen the necessity of bringing Mignon’s trunk upstairs last night instead of deferring the task for today. A fresh dress—one a bit less fashionably noticeable—would have been nice. Under the circumstances, standing out in the crowd wasn’t something she really wanted to do. There wasn’t any hope of hiding it, either; her redingote and shawl were hanging on the coat tree in the foyer—right beside Mignon’s trunk and within plain view of anyone standing on the front step and peering in through the sidelights.

Fashionably outstanding and shivering from the cold. This wasn’t starting out well at all. Once she’d buttoned the front of the gown, it took less than ten seconds to pin up her hair, toss her hat and the last of her essential belongings into the valise, and head for the door.

He was just closing the wall safe when she entered the study. Glancing up, he swept her from hair to booted feet, and then snapped his valise closed, observing, “That was quick.”

“It’s a skill of war,” she admitted, nodding toward the bookshelf that was clearly more. “A secret passage?”

“It’s a priest’s pocket. Most of the older homes have them.”

She’d heard stories and knew that the passage was designed to allow a priest to hide within the home and to escape it if necessary. Bless the English and their devoted aversion to Catholicism. It was going to save Barrett this morning. She crossed the carpet and slipped through the opening and into cavelike damp and gloom.

“Don’t move,” Barrett instructed as he filled the narrow shaft of pale light and sidled into the space. “The stairs are right behind you. Let me get the lamp lit.”

She stood perfectly still, feeling, hearing, the furious thumping of her heart, her body chilling beneath the heat of her racing blood. Barrett was a bold silhouette, his expression indistinguishable in the darkness, but his movements certain and deliberate. The distinct sound of sanded paper broke the silence and Isabella covered her nose and mouth with her free hand, knowing what was coming.

The scrape was fast, the flare instant, the smell as obnoxious and nauseating as always. In the light, she saw the oil lamp sitting on the wall shelf high and between them. Beyond Barrett’s shoulder was the opening into the study. If the constables broke down the door and quickly made their way into the room … As he lifted the globe on the lamp, she eased past him, grabbed the iron ring in the back side of the bookcase and pulled it to, confining the stench of burning phosphorus and lamp oil to the tiny space in which they stood.