The Runaway McBride (4 page)

Alex turned his head and gave James a level look. “I didn’t say I worked for the War Office. I work for the government in various capacities.”

James smiled and nodded. “Well, we’ve all heard that one before, haven’t we? Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us.” Before Alex could respond, he went on, “What about that new breed of doctors you mentioned? ‘Psychiaters, ’ I believe you called them. Didn’t you think of consulting one of them?”

Alex buttered a slice of toast. “I thought about it, but Granny’s medicine was stronger. Anyway, how could I explain Granny McEcheran to a tribe of unbelievers? They wouldn’t understand.”

Gavin interrupted. “But what are we going to do?”

“Grin and bear it,” said his brother stoically. “What else can we do?”

When the cousins got up to leave, Alex turned to James with a sheepish smile. “It probably means nothing,” he said, “but if I were you, I’d start reading the newspapers from cover to cover. That may help your nightmares.”

James lost no time in following his cousin’s advice. As soon as they left the house, he had his butler bring him that morning’s paper.

Faith felt a little buzz of excitement as she walked briskly
along Woburn Walk to the bookshop and lending library on the corner of Woburn Place. She was on her way to collect the responses to the advertisement she had placed in all the London papers, and she had high hopes that the mystery that had consumed her waking and sleeping hours these last few weeks would finally be solved.

From time to time, she stopped to admire something in the shop windows: an antique necklace, furniture, rare books, finely tooled boots, and leather goods. There wasn’t much to tempt her here. A teacher’s income did not stretch to such luxuries. Besides, she was lingering for a purpose. In the last week or so, whenever she left the school, she’d felt vaguely uneasy, as though someone was watching her. It could be the result of a mild attack of conscience. Teachers weren’t supposed to slip away during luncheon to attend to personal business. Questions might be asked, such as why she was using Pritchard’s Bookshop as a mailing address when it was customary for teachers to have all their correspondence sent to the school.

The reflections in the shop windows showed nothing to alarm her. There were plenty of people about, for the shops in the walk were quite well-known, though not as prestigious as the shops in Mayfair—not that she ever ventured into that part of town. Bloomsbury was far enough away from Mayfair to make it unlikely that she would come face-to-face with any of her former acquaintances. And even if she did, no one would recognize her in the drab uniform that schoolteachers and governesses commonly wore. Ladies of fashion were clothed in expensive fabrics with bustles, flounces, and a profusion of decoration. Schoolteachers wore plain, serviceable gowns and modest bonnets to match their modest occupation.

Anyway, this was July. In the heat of the summer, the society ladies she once mingled with would have retired to their country estates or they would be visiting some fashionable watering hole.

A little bell above the door rang when she entered the shop. Mr. Pritchard was at the counter in conversation with a customer, but he greeted her with his usual friendly smile and salute. She turned to one of the book stacks and began to scan the various titles as she waited her turn. This part of the transaction always made her nervous, though she wasn’t doing anything reprehensible. All she wanted was to protect her privacy. She didn’t want strangers to know where she lived any more than she wanted her fellow teachers to know what she was up to. Too many letters arriving at the school for one teacher, a teacher who rarely received any letters, might lead to awkward questions she didn’t want to answer.

When the bell over the door rang again, and another customer entered the shop, she opened a book at random and idly flicked through it. All was quiet in the shop, so she looked toward the counter to see if Mr. Pritchard was free. A man blocked her view, and her gaze shifted to him.

The light was behind him, so she narrowed her eyes as she studied him: dark hair, broad shoulders, lean frame. She could not see his face clearly. He might have been anyone, except that he exuded an aura of energy and confidence that touched a nerve deep inside her.

He took a step toward her, then another, and finally she could see his face. He was leaner than she remembered, his black brows knitted in concentration, his features hard and uncompromising, but there was the same keen intelligence in his tawny eyes, the same predatory gleam.

“Faith,” he said. “I thought it was you.”

She was having trouble breathing. Her knees were buckling, and the book she had been leafing through slipped from her fingers to fall with a clatter to the floor.

When he held out his hand, she shied away.

“Faith,” he said. “Are you all right?”

She had rehearsed in her mind what she would say to him if she ever had the misfortune to meet him again. No recriminations. No tears. No regrets. She would simply turn her back on him and walk away. She had not realized that her control was so fragile, especially now that he was here in person. All the pain and humiliation she’d thought she’d suppressed tasted as bitter and as fresh as though it had happened yesterday.

“Don’t touch me!”

His hand dropped away. In contrast to her stinging tone, his was mild. “You looked as though you were about to faint. I only wanted to help.”

Damn! Damn! Damn! She was cowering like a rabbit. This wasn’t how she wanted to appear to this man. Her self-respect demanded that she act with some dignity.

Her chin lifted a fraction. “You startled me. I thought you were a stranger.” She gave a choked laugh. “What am I saying? You are a stranger. I thought I knew you once, a long time ago, but I was mistaken. Please stand aside and let me pass.”

He disregarded her dignified speech. “You’re as white as a sheet. You’d better sit down before you fall down.”

She steadied herself by resting one hand on a shelf. Half-formed suspicions began to crowd into her mind. The coincidence of his presence in Bloomsbury at the precise moment she stepped into Mr. Pritchard’s shop was either the sheerest bad luck, or it was no coincidence at all. Was he the one who was stalking her?

“What are you doing in Bloomsbury?” she asked abruptly.

“I could ask you the same question. Look, can’t we have a civil conversation?”

Her voice reeked of sarcasm. “You’re eight years too late. We have nothing to say to one another.”

With alarming deliberation, he took another step toward her and bent his head to hers. Her stomach lurched, but she kept her chin up. She’d been right to call him a stranger, she thought. He’d always seemed self-assured and capable of achieving whatever he wanted, but the hardness in him had been tempered by an odd charm. This man was as charming as a slab of marble.

“Speak for yourself,” James said, his voice as hard-edged as his expression. “There’s plenty I want to say to you.”

She couldn’t bear to go over ancient history. The thought of having her feelings stripped bare made her feel sick inside.

His eyes narrowed on her face. “Take my hand, Faith.”

She pressed her fingers to her brow. “I’d as soon give my hand to a—”

She squealed when he stooped down and scooped her into his arms. Her first instinct was to beat him on the head with her reticule, but the strings had become hopelessly knotted on her wrist, and she could not get to it. The urge to hit him passed when her head began to swim. Her arms and legs felt as if they’d turned to water.

“Mr. Pritchard,” James roared. “Miss McBride is unwell. She needs to sit down.”

Mr. Pritchard came hastening down the aisle, his chubby face furrowed with anxiety. “Through there,” he said, pointing to a door at the end of the aisle. “My little parlor.”

He pushed by them and opened the door. “Shall I send for the doctor?”

“A glass of water,” said Faith, trying to sound decisive but managing only a pathetic wheeze. “I don’t need a doctor.”

As Mr. Pritchard hurried away to do her bidding, James settled her on a leather sofa. He then proceeded to remove her bonnet and began on the buttons of her coat.

That brought her to her senses. Slapping his hands away, she sat up. “Stop fussing!” Her voice was testy. “There is nothing the matter with me except that I have not eaten today.”

She frowned when she saw the ironic smile drifting across his face. “What?” she demanded.

“It’s common practice, when a lady has swooned, to loosen her clothes. Trust me, Faith, I have no designs on your virtue. I was simply trying to be helpful.”

His words brought to mind other times he’d unbuttoned her coat, and not only her coat, but her dress, her stays, her . . . Hot color rushed into her cheeks, and she quickly looked up at him.

The mockery in his eyes faded, and he let his breath out slowly. “The electricity is still there, isn’t it, Faith? We may not want it, but it’s still there.” He lowered his head to hers. Against her lips, he whispered, “You feel it, too, don’t you, Faith? ”

She felt the swift rise and fall of her breasts. The muscles in her throat tightened. A heartbeat of silence went by, then another. She made a small sound of protest, then froze as his mouth touched hers.

He didn’t increase the pressure. He was waiting for her to give him permission. It was all so familiar, just like the first time he’d kissed her. She hadn’t known what to expect then and had been overwhelmed by the sudden rush of sensation that sensitized her skin and quickened her breathing. Without reserve, she had melted against him and fused her lips to his.

It wasn’t going to happen this time. James Burnett had torn her heart and pride to shreds. She would be a lunatic if she let him do it again.

The thought was timely. With every ounce of strength, she strained against his shoulders and pushed him away. No words were spoken. Only the harsh sound of their breathing broke the silence.

Mr. Pritchard returned at that moment with the glass of water. Dragging her eyes from James’s probing stare, Faith reached for it and drank greedily.

Mr. Pritchard hovered anxiously in the background. “Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked.

She managed a feeble smile. “No. Thank you. I’ll be fine. Your customers will be wondering where you are.”

Pritchard glanced from one to the other, as if he sensed the charged atmosphere and was reluctant to leave Faith alone with James. “If you’re sure,” he said slowly, looking at Faith.

Faith had no wish to be left alone with James, but she had even less desire to become involved in a public scene, so she nodded and smiled and asserted that she was feeling much better. On that assurance, Mr. Pritchard shuffled out of the room.

James’s voice was laced with irony. “I beg your pardon. Shall we say that auld lang syne got the better of me? Old times’ sake, Faith. That’s all it was. It won’t happen again.”

She wanted to say something cutting, but she wasn’t up to it. “Auld lang syne,” she murmured. “Yes. That’s all it was.”

To give herself time to think, she began to sip slowly from her glass. She just wanted James to go away, but James Burnett had the tenacity of a bulldog. No one could make him do what he did not want to do. That was what had crushed her all those years ago. No one could make James Burnett do what he did not want to do. So he’d asked her to wait, had gone home to Scotland, and promptly become engaged to his childhood sweetheart.

She felt the sting in her eyes, and suddenly it was all too much for her. She put down her glass. Without looking at him, she said, “Do you think you could find something for me to eat? As I said, I haven’t eaten a thing today, and I know Mr. Pritchard keeps a bag of biscuits under the counter.”

Closing her eyes, she sank against the back of the sofa and sighed. James said something harsh under his breath, but it was not until she heard his steps cross to the door and proceed down the aisle that she came to life. She knew where the back door was, and it took her only a moment to gather her things and exit the premises into the lane. She didn’t walk; she ran. One lane led to another, then another. When she was sure that he was not following her, she stopped in a doorway to catch her breath.

He had tracked her to Pritchard’s. It would not be long before he tracked her to the school. At least when that happened she would be over the shock of seeing him again.

What did he want with her? That was the question that nagged at her mind. There was nothing he could say to make amends for his unscrupulous conduct. She’d thought she’d put the past behind her. It seemed inconceivable that he would want to rake over old coals.

Or perhaps she was making too much of it. Perhaps it really was a chance encounter. Perhaps he was as shocked as she, only he was better at concealing his true feelings.