Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (20 page)

The heels of her hands pressed against his chest. “Release me, Sir.”

Carter relaxed his grip, but he did not set her from him. He repeated, “What is amiss?” He suspected her request had nothing to do with actions. His kiss held no demands, and surely as a widow, she had known passion previously.

She looked down with a frown. “Something bumped against my foot.”

Reluctantly, Carter opened his embrace so they both might determine the culprit. She stepped back to reveal a torn piece of foolscap. Her heel caught the sheet, and it crinkled under the pressure. “Stand still,” he ordered as he bent to retrieve the folded sheet.

“What is it?”

Carter opened the sheet. “Appears to be some sort of note,” he said as his eyes scanned the page.

Rising up on her toes, Mrs. Warren peered over his forearm. “What does it say?”

Carter’s uneasiness rose. “Read it for yourself.” He shoved the note into her grasp before striding away to gather his thoughts. He watched as she smoothed
the page against the side of her dress. “Read it aloud,” he encouraged. He hoped his eyes had failed him.

She lifted the page closer where she might read accurately. “Heard the man who shot yer frind say he ment tu kill the weman. Thought ye shud no.” Her hand trembled, and her eyes never left the page.

Carter whirled to face her. Hauling her to him, he wrapped his arms tightly to him. “I will never permit anyone to harm you.”

“What if you are not near?” she asked in a dispassionate voice.

He cupped her cheek in his large palm, staring deeply into her eyes. His heart thundered with the possibility she could know danger. “We have no basis to believe the note to be true. It is likely a poor attempt of one of Jamot’s smuggler friends to drive me from the area. Those below know me to be an agent of the Crown. I am certain my presence at this inn affects their ability to move their goods. It is a farce: Our author recognizes how a man would always remove a woman from danger.” The frown, which crossed her countenance, said the lady did not necessarily agree.

However, she snuggled closer, wrapping her arms about his waist. It was as if the lady craved his protection. For several minutes, she remained as such, and Carter enjoyed the feeling of being of use to her. Finally, she said, “When we were arguing earlier, you spoke of possessing no knowledge of the letter I received asking me to come to Suffolk.”

Carter caressed her back. She fit perfectly under his chin. It was a heady situation to surround her with his body. “Mr. Watkins explained the truth of your accusations,” he said, but his mind had returned to the sensation of her body rubbing softly against his.

Her body arched, but instead of seeking more of his attentions, for a second time, the lady pushed away from him. This time, he permitted her release. “I am pleased you believe someone,” she said smartly. “And to clarify, I received a letter stating you wished for Simon and me to meet you at this particular inn.” Her voice cracked as she said, “If the letter was not of your making, Sir Carter, it means someone knew of my residence at Huntingborne Abbey and of your presence in London. The letter was franked in the capital.”

Without her in his embrace, Carter’s reasoning returned. Solemnly, he responded, “Whomever our shooter may be, you were his true target. Someone lured you to this inn with the intent of killing you.”

I
t had taken longer than Carter expected to calm her misgivings. He finally agreed to make his bed in the hall outside her door. He had sent Watkins to guard Monroe. It had been a miserable night with the sound of raucous patrons below, plus the memory of Mrs. Warren’s lips pressed to his clung to him. He had no excuse for acting upon his desires, but, thankfully, Mrs. Warren had proved the insignificance of the moment: The lady had ignored his impulsiveness, as if nothing had occurred. Carter was not certain he approved of her indifference. After all, he rarely acted without a logical end. Obviously, kissing Lucinda Warren had been the most unsound act of recent history. That is next to assuming Colonel Rightnour’s command on the battlefield. What was it about the Rightnour family, which robbed him of his good sense?

Mrs. Warren had thought it best if they returned to London, but Carter had had second thoughts once he had had time alone to consider what had occurred. The lady had retrieved the letter for him to study, but he took no note of anything unusual. Whoever had written the message had been literate, which eliminated many of those below. It was written on good quality paper, indicating someone with money. The letter held only “London” as its return direction, and the handwriting resembled his slant.

After he had convinced Mrs. Warren to retire, Carter had returned below, where he nursed two drinks. He had hoped against hope someone would approach him with more information, but even Nell had avoided him. Mr. Blackston had been the only one to offer him any conversation; therefore, Carter had spent his time learning what he could of those gathered in the common room. He had watched the gathering’s interactions previously, but now there was someone missing: the man with whom Jamot had conversed. The
older gentleman who dressed beyond those who called The Rising Son home, but who had been accepted as one of its favorites. The one with whom Jamot had disagreed.

Had the Baloch refused to do the man’s bidding? Carter easily recalled the man Thornhill had captured in London had spoken of an older, well-dressed gentleman, who had hired him. “Whom has Mrs. Warren offended?” he wondered as he stretched out on the floor before her room. The unforgiving hardness reminded him of the years of sleeping on rock surfaces and forest floors; ironically, the familiarity soon lulled Carter to sleep.

Lucinda had shared the small bed with Simon, but sleep did not come. Someone had threatened to kill her. Her! A woman who had never known an enemy! Even her late husband had not been her enemy until after his death. Only then had she indelicately uttered the oaths she had learned from the soldiers, and even then, in the privacy of her quarters. Never to another person.

“The threat must have some connection to Simon’s appearance,” she whispered to the room. “But why would anyone wish to hurt the boy? Could someone believe she had stolen Simon from his family?”

She stared at the poorly draped frame of the four-poster. “The only other person who might wish me ill is Uncle Gerhard. Could the earl’s animosity toward my father be transferred to me?” Lucinda shook off the notion. “How could that possibility exist?” Despite her father’s stubborn aversion for the present earl, Sophia Rightnour had often spoken kindly of the man. Surely, her mother could not have erred so drastically.

She would love to discuss her suppositions with someone. Naturally, she looked to the door where the baronet meant to sleep. “Oh, how shall I face him in the light of a new morning?” she chastised as she rolled to her side. No shadow of light showed beneath the door. Did that mean the baronet had made his bed in the inn’s hallway, as he had promised, or had Mr. Blackston shuttered the candles in the wall sconces? Without opening the door to look, Lucinda knew the answer. Sir Carter was built for protection: His unselfish need to see to the safety of others was why she had clung to him–why she wished to return to his embrace–why she had permitted his kiss.

Her first kiss. Matthew Warren had always claimed a kiss would lead to other complications in their marriage. He had claimed it too dangerous for her to be with child with the war exploding all around them. “My husband did not practice such tender care with his first wife,” she said bitterly. “Matthew robbed me of an opportunity for a family. Robbed me of knowing the depth of a child’s love. Robbed me of my identity. Gave me his name, but not his devotion.”

Her eyes instinctively rested upon the door. Oh, how she longed to open it and to throw herself into the baronet’s arms. To take up where they had left off. To feel his warmth along her body. To listen to the steady beat of his heart. To finally discover the intimacy between a man and a woman. To feel his sensual caresses streaming fire through her veins. Her cheeks heated with the possibility. It was wanton of her to think so, but as a soldier’s widow, she would hold few opportunities to discover a husband’s tender care. In fact, with her unfavorable financial straits, finding a husband of any age and status would be difficult.

“Would Sir Carter turn away?” she wondered. Somehow, she did not think so. Lucinda closed her eyes to imagine herself brave enough to act upon her impulses. “If only…” she whispered. “If only I were a different woman.”

After an early breakfast, Carter had hustled his rag-tag group into the let coach. He placed Monroe in the carriage with Mrs. Warren and the boy. His associate had gathered his wits enough to stumble to the carriage. He had tied Monroe’s horse to the coach’s boot and recovered Prime from where they had hidden the animals.

“Where to?” Mr. Watkins asked as he took up the reins.

“The Earl of McLauren’s estate in Lincolnshire,” he announced. He had made his decision while he lay awake upon the inn’s well-worn floor.

“Why not London?” Mrs. Warren asked from the coach’s open window.

Carter spoke for her ears only. He had not shared the suspicious note with either Watkins or Monroe. It did not seem appropriate to do so, and he relished their confidences, which created the illusion of intimacy. “In London, with its congestion, I cannot adequately protect you. My oldest sister, the Countess McLauren,
resides at Maryborne Park in Lincolnshire. As the duke and I did in Kent, I can set up a perimeter about the estate. No one will access the earl’s home.”

Mrs. Warren frowned in disapproval. “I would not wish to place Lady McLauren’s family in any danger.”

Carter smiled easily. “Have no care for Louisa’s safety. McLauren guards her and the children from all possibilities. Little does the earl know Louisa can hold her place with any man. I have seen her ring my brother’s ears on more than one occasion. Lawrence dances to her tune. I suspect you will enjoy her company.” So as not to argue, he left her before the lady could object. “Lead on, Mr. Watkins,” he called as he mounted. Kicking Prime’s flanks, he thought, “Mrs. Warren and Louisa will get on famously, or they will butt heads repeatedly. They both possess a bit of the shrew in their personalities. Either way, the encounter will be interesting.”