Leslie Lafoy (26 page)

Belle. Oh, Jesus. The shots had been so close. Never again. If he had to, he’d clap her in irons.

The pavers flew by under his feet, his path back to the town house a compromise between prudent and expeditious. He came into the yard from over the back fence just as Aiden bounded into it from the neighbor’s and as Carden laced his fingers behind his head and gulped air by the back steps.

Barrett came to a sliding stop beside him, asking, “Have you seen—”

“She was going in just as I got here.”

His knees practically gave out. Locking them, he lifted his chin and took a long, deliberate breath. The staccato rhythm of his heartbeat eased and the pounding torrent of his thoughts slowed. “Christ Almighty,” he murmured, returning the gun to the small of his back with hands that were embarrassingly unsteady.

Aiden trotted up, breathing hard and quietly demanding, “What the hell happened?”

He’d turned his back when he shouldn’t have. He’d made a mistake. And Belle had saved him from his own damn stupidity. Clearing his throat, swallowing down his regret and relief, Barrett replied, “He was in the shrubbery to the right of the back door. I didn’t see him until I came down off the stairs and he stepped out. Belle came up from behind, had him properly cornered, and then someone took him with a shot to the head.”

“It’s going to be goddamn difficult,” Carden growled, “to explain a second body on your property.”

“It might not be entirely a bad thing,” Aiden quickly countered. “Larson thinks he’s in Paris. It’s damn hard to shoot a man from that far away. He’ll have to look for someone other than Barrett.”

It was a possibility, but not one that he was willing to waste time considering in any great detail. Larson was a minor consideration in the grand scheme of things at the moment. He stared at the back door of the house, knowing that Belle had had time to think, to fully realize what had happened. She was alone with it, doubtlessly struggling with the horror of it.

Carden’s hand on his shoulder brought his awareness back to the yard. “I caught sight of her a time or two as I was making my way back here,” his friend offered gently. “She was running like the blazes, Bare. She can’t be hurt.”

He nodded, accepting the assertion in part, knowing that the injury wasn’t to her body, but rather to her mind. He’d give her a few minutes alone to grapple with it and then do whatever he could to make her as whole as possible.

“Are you all right?”

Uncertain which of them had asked the question, he looked between them both and nodded. “It was a little close to déjà vu to be comfortable,” he admitted. Marshaling his wits, he resolved to deal with the practical aspects of the disaster as efficiently as he could. “Did either of you see the shooter?”

“I saw the muzzle flash of the second shot,” Carden replied. “It was over the fence on my side of the house and he pulled back the instant afterward. I didn’t see anything more definite than that.”

“There was nothing, no one on my side,” Aiden contributed. “If he had an accomplice, he was sticking close.”

Barrett reminded himself that they’d escaped the debacle physically unscathed, that the gratitude for that should far outweigh the disappointment at having gained nothing else from it. Except … Before things had gone to hell, he’d found tucked in the back door trim, one of the missing pieces. He’d glanced at it just long enough to see that it was another portion of meaningless lines, but perhaps Belle had found the other, the one with the text.

“You two had best be getting home,” he suggested, giving them both something approximating a confident smile. “It wouldn’t do for you to not be there if Larson should haul a niggling suspicion to your front doors.”

They nodded and moved toward the gate with Aiden asking as they went, “Do you need anything?”

Just time alone with Belle
. “No, but thanks for offering.”

In the name of friendship, he remained where he was and watched them depart. But as the gate closed silently behind them, he turned to face the kitchen door. And confronted the reality that simply pulling Belle into his arms and holding her tight wasn’t going to be sufficient. He had to say something, offer her some words of comfort and reassurance. Women expected that sort of thing in the aftermath of a crisis. And he wasn’t about to deny Belle whatever she needed or wanted from him. She’d earned it.

Giving himself time to think of something more meaningful than the usual, largely empty platitudes, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and extracted the silver case containing his cheroots. He was two hard pulls into the smoke when another realization stole over him: There weren’t any words. And of all the women in the world, he’d had the uncommon good fortune to find the only one who understood that.

Chapter Fourteen

Isabella inhaled sharply and shuddered as the icy water sluiced down over her cheeks. So cold, so cutting. She quickly scooped two more handfuls from the freshly filled bucket and doused her face a second time. She shuddered again and drew a long, steadying breath. So mercifully distracting. A reason to tremble and shake that had nothing whatsoever to do with fear and haunting memories.

Gripping the edge of the cabinet in front of her, she clenched her teeth and let the cold knife deep. The urge to run still pounded through her veins and she locked her knees as she tried to bring the desperate instinct under control. She was safe. So was Barrett. John Aiden and Carden, too. Someone was dead, yes. But not anyone she knew or cared even marginally about. Disaster had been averted. There was no reason to tremble, to cry. She couldn’t let Barrett walk into the kitchen and find her so agitated. She didn’t want him to know how scared she was, just how right his misgivings had been.

Not that he didn’t already know that she’d been a detriment to the mission. Barrett had had to think—and act—for her. If he hadn’t been there … She owed him her life. How she was ever going to repay the debt … Throwing herself into his arms wasn’t toward that end. But it was what she wanted to do with every fiber of her quaking body and battered soul. God, she wanted the warmth of his arms around her so badly, wanted to feel the low rumble of his voice against her cheek. And she wanted with all her heart to hear him say that he didn’t think any less of her for her having failed. She didn’t deserve his acceptance, but that had nothing to do with the need for it. Tears welled in her eyes again.

The back door opened as they spilled, scalding hot, over her cheeks. She did the only thing she could think of to save herself complete embarrassment; she scooped up more of the icy water and flung it onto her face. The tears were obliterated in an instant, in a gasp and another shudder. Her eyes closed, she felt about and found the cotton dish towel. She expelled a hard breath into it and then squared her shoulders and opened her eyes, prepared to pay the piper.

He was leaning back against the cabinet, his arms crossed and a glowing cheroot clamped between his teeth. His gaze gently searched hers, and unable to bear the scrutiny, she looked away.

“Would you like to talk about what happened?”

The gentleness of his voice tripped her heart and melted some of the starch out of her backbone. “Not particularly,” she admitted, carefully folding the towel and laying it aside. “But thank you for offering.”

“It might help.”

More likely it would make her cry. “It never has before,” she replied, trying to sound unaffected. “I can’t imagine it making a difference this time.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded and then eased himself fully upright. She watched as he stripped off his jacket, tossed it aside, and then stepped around her to the pump. Recognizing his intent, she moved—just far enough to be out of his way while staying close enough that she could still feel the comforting heat of his body. The tip of the cheroot glowed bright as he drew on it and then handed it to her for temporary safekeeping.

It had been years. Considering how deep her failures had already gone that night, one more wouldn’t matter. As Barrett splashed water over his face, she took a light pull on the tightly twisted tobacco. The heat was marvelous and instantly settling, the taste sweet and invigorating. And blowing the stream of smoke out into the darkness gave her a powerful, intensely gratifying sense of control. She took another pull, a harder one this time, savoring the sensations and feeling her world slowly sliding back to rights.

She was making another smoke stream when Barrett finished drying his face. At the edge of her vision she saw his brow shoot up. And one corner of his mouth.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” she challenged, turning the cheroot in her hand to flick the ash away.

Tossing the dish towel aside, his smile broadened. “A man who buggered the bishop’s wife isn’t in any position to criticize anyone for anything. Would you like one of your own?”

Shaking her head, she handed it back to him. “A little makes me strong. A whole one will make me wish I could die.”

If he noticed her wince, he was kind enough not to mention it as he settled back against the cabinets beside her. Examining the fire on the cheroot, he quietly asked, “Are you sore? I hit you harder than I intended.”

Isabella smiled, knowing that the ache in her chest had far more to do with standing beside him now than it did the shoulder he’d put into it earlier. “I’m probably a bit bruised,” she allowed. “But I’ll be all right.” She took a deep breath and went on. “Thank you for taking me down. I was too stunned to think of getting out of the way. Even as the little voice in the back of my head was telling me there’d be a second shot.”

“It’s been some time since you had to use those skills,” he offered with far more diplomacy and kindness than the situation warranted. “You’re out of practice. They’ll come back to you in time.”

“If I live long enough to rehone them,” she countered drolly.

“For a second, I thought that chance had been snuffed out.”

The softness of his words didn’t blunt their impact. She started in horrible realization. Swallowing back a wave of tears, she turned to face him. “Oh, Barrett,” she choked out. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own memories of it that it never occurred to me how that must have looked to you. I’m so sorry.”

His smile was patient. Accepting. “You’re entitled.”

No she wasn’t. Not in the least. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” He looked over his shoulder, tossed the cheroot into the water bucket, and then brought his gaze to hers. “What I’d like to do is forget that the whole thing happened.”

“How can I help you do that?”

He tilted his head to the side, openly considering her. She waited, her heart racing, willing to make amends in any way she could. Slowly, he reached up, took the brim of her hat in hand and eased it off her head. Her breath caught and her hair tumbled in free riot as he dropped the cap on the floor behind her.

Gently threading his fingers through the curls and drawing her toward him, he whispered, “Kiss me, Belle.”

She stepped into him, knowing where it would take them, where they would end, knowing that she didn’t deserve the wonder of him and accepting that she was too selfish to put honor before the promise of pleasure. Not tonight.

Twining her arms around his neck, she couldn’t say whether she drew his lips down to hers or she offered hers up to him. And it didn’t matter. The fire was instant and fierce, turning her core molten and reason to ash. She stretched up and pressed against the length of him, her body pulsing with an urgent need to be closer.

His fingers tightening in her hair, his desire hard against the pillow of her stomach, he deepened their kiss, possessing her mouth with a rapaciousness so slow, so deliberate that her breath caught and her entire body trembled in delight. He smiled, his joy rippling through her, as he kissed her deeper still and melted her bones. Releasing his hold on her hair, he slipped his arms around her just as her knees began to buckle.

His tender assault never faltered as he lifted her up and turned to deposit her on the edge of the makeshift cabinet top. Using his hip, he moved her legs apart, then drew her closer to settle himself in the space between her thighs. She gasped at the bold prelude of what was to come, whimpered at the barrier of their clothing and the reminder of what had to be discarded before the promise could be fulfilled.

As though driven by the same need, his hands slipped up between them and feverishly worked at the buttons of her shirt. Struggling for patience, she fumbled to open his, desperately craving the feel of heated skin against heated skin.

Fabric tore. A button rolled off somewhere into the darkness. His or hers, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Cold air on feverish skin sent a sharp shudder through her. The friction of crisp hair and hardened planes of muscle against her palms sent another, deeper, wider, and deliciously grounding. And then it was gone, obliterated in a brilliant bolt of sensation that arrowed, hot and piercing, from her nipples to her already molten core.

Barrett tore his lips from hers. Gasping for air, ignoring her cry of frustration, he took a step back, half turned, and caught her calf in his hands. She groaned in wordless assent and leaned back, bracing herself to ease his removal of her boots. The brazen thrust of her bare breasts nearly destroyed his sense of purpose. The boots landed in quick succession somewhere on the floor. He turned square to her and pressed his hands against her shoulders, holding her back, keeping her breasts offered up for his feasting.

Beautiful, full, and ripe. Begging to be tasted, to be savored. He leaned forward and touched the tip of his tongue to the underside curve. She gasped and arched up, pressing her hips hard against his own and sending a jolt of pure fire through his veins. He licked upward, deliberate and quick, to the hard bud of her nipple. Whispering his name, she arched higher, closer. He couldn’t have resisted the offering even if he’d wanted to. Taking her into his mouth, he suckled her, teased her with his teeth and tongue. She moaned and rocked beneath him, straining against his hands, his hips, and fueling the blaze of his desire.