Lorraine Heath - Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel

“None at all. I’d read Elisabeth’s journal as well.”

“Then perhaps I should read it.” The deep voice echoed through the room.

With tiny screeches, Emma and Eleanor both spun around. They stood close enough that they managed to come together, holding each other as though the devil had risen from hell in order to claim them. But it was only James, filling the doorway, appearing incredibly handsome despite his somewhat disheveled state. He’d removed the bandage from around his head, but hadn’t bothered to put on his waistcoat and jacket-or rebutton his shirt, for that matter. His throat and a narrow V of his chest were visible, but it was enough to make Emma’s hands itch to touch him. If Eleanor hadn’t been squeezing them so tightly, Emma might have crossed over to James and done just that: touched him, stroked him, held him.

A corner of his mouth hitched up into that cocky smile that she so loved. “You didn’t honestly believe a locked door was going to keep me in that room, did you?” He held up a small diamond hairpin, and Emma recognized it as the one she’d worn in her hair the night of the ball, the one she’d forgotten and left in his bedchamber. “I was raised among thieves and pickpockets. A lock is child’s play.”

Emma broke free of her sister’s hold and glared at her. “You locked the door?”

Eleanor gave her a mulish look. “While you were out tending the animals. I wanted to be certain we weren’t disturbed while we worked out our plans if he awoke quickly.”

“Eleanor-” Before she could go on, Eleanor glared at James.

“It was rude of you to startle us so,” her sister said, her voice sharp enough to slice the mutton. Emma knew her tartness harbored her fears that she was no longer in control of the situation. Eleanor was the plotter, the planner, the one with grand schemes and designs. Once, they had focused on how to acquire the best husband; lately, they were centered on how best to avoid the noose.

“Your hospitality is rather lacking,” James said.

“I suppose you expect me to apologize for the sleeping draught.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t expect anything of you.”

His words contained a wealth of meaning, as though Emma and Eleanor were the lowest of the low, snakes-like the ones they’d seen at the zoological gardens-to crawl on their bellies because they were too vile to be given the means to stand.

“I was preparing a tray…your dinner,” Emma said, her voice unsteady. She was anxious to change the subject, to make some sort of peace offering.

“I’m able to eat at the table. I don’t need to be waited on.”

Emma nodded jerkily. “Well, then, we shall serve dinner in half an hour.”

His eyes slowly roamed over her, before his gaze settled on Eleanor. “Put anything in my food or drink again and you’d best hope it kills me, because when I awaken you’ll suffer my wrath, and trust me on this-it’s not at all pleasant.”

He strode from the room without another word.

“I won’t be able to eat a bite with him sitting at the table,” Eleanor said.

Emma wouldn’t either, but she suspected her reasons were very different from Eleanor’s. In spite of everything, she wanted nothing more than to once again lie in his arms.

The wind continued to howl outside, locking them all within the cocoon of the dining room. With the storm, the darkness was arriving earlier. Candles flickered on the table. Dishes were passed around, mutton, potatoes, and beans heaped on plates, and silence reigned, except for the occasional scraping of silver over china.

What surprised Emma was that James had come to the table cleanly shaven, once again wearing his waistcoat, neckcloth, and jacket. No matter how he appeared-like a ruffian or a gentleman-the sight of him did strange things to her stomach, made it flip over again and again.

He sat at the head of the table while she and Eleanor were on either side of him. Her father had never commanded that seat as James did-as naturally as though he were a king. She fought not to imagine how satisfying it would be to see James in that spot every night. He was not made for the quiet life here near the coast. Although at that moment, the night was anything but quiet as the windows rattled.

“Is there the slightest chance this house will be blown into the sea?” he asked calmly.

“No,” Emma assured him. “As the wind is coming from the sea, I suspect if it were to be blown anywhere, it would be blown into the village.”

His eyes glinted with amusement. She could almost forget that he was here for a reason that was anything except humorous.

She fought not to wonder-if she’d been the daughter chosen to go to London last Season, if she might have met him at any balls. Would he have looked across the room and noticed her? Would he have asked her to dance? Would the attraction between them have sparked as quickly when mystery surrounded them?

He studied her now over his wineglass. Earlier he’d brought an unopened bottle up from the cellar, opened it, poured it himself, and not allowed it to leave his sight. Slowly, almost suspiciously, he shifted his attention to Eleanor, then returned it to Emma. “When I questioned your landlady, she was aware of only one lady staying in the hired rooms.”

“Don’t say anything, Emma,” Eleanor ordered sternly. “Presently he comes to us with little more than speculation and conjecture. He can prove nothing. There is no evidence that you were ever in London.”

His uncompromising gaze settled more firmly on Emma. “Because wherever you went, whatever you did, you claimed to be Eleanor. I believe you always planned to be somewhere, with someone, while Eleanor saw to the deed. I fit rather nicely into your little scheme.”

“Yes.” She forced the word up from a pit of regret. She’d hoped to use someone of Rockberry’s ilk, not quite as dastardly as he but a man who deserved to be used. She’d never expected someone like James, with a moral compass that always pointed to decency, honor, and principles.

With his finger, he slowly tapped his wineglass, tap, tap, tap , as though he was locking pieces of a puzzle together. His finger stilled, extended as though he needed to make a point.

“It might have worked…if you hadn’t left incredibly quickly-without so much as a good-bye.” The heat in his eyes almost matched that of the small fire in the hearth. “Especially after…the intimacy we’d shared.”

He wanted to hurt her, wanted to throw back in her face what she’d given him. She could see that also in his gaze, and she supposed she deserved it.

“What trouble could you get into in a carriage?” Eleanor asked.

Dear Lord, but she had no idea. Emma wasn’t about to provide particulars, especially as most of the intimacy had not taken place in the carriage. “I wanted to wait, I wanted to see you again, but I was afraid you’d see the truth of it in my eyes.”

He didn’t ask which truth: the truth that she’d helped take a man’s life, the truth that she’d fallen in love with him, the truth that her last night with him had been the most glorious of her life. Perhaps he realized the enormity of her reasons for leaving, because he returned his attention to his food. For several minutes the silence and awkwardness returned. She suspected they were all pondering the gravity of their intertwined lives. Deception didn’t provide a sturdy foundation on which to build anything that would last. Even her relationship with Eleanor had become strained since they’d returned from London.

“So you grew up in this area.”

His sudden voice in the silence was like a crack of thunder. Emma startled and Eleanor went so far as to drop her fork on her plate. He’d not worded his statement as a question, yet Emma thought it required some response. She peered over at Eleanor, who’d retrieved her fork and was occupied moving her food from one side of her plate to the other.