Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

He meant the Abbey, and she was glad of it. Wallingham Hall was her home, yet her thoughts of her father and Granville were presently so disturbing she doubted she’d find any peace there.

Reaching the horses, Charles tied the signals to his saddle, tossed her up to hers, then mounted and led the way, not back but on. A little farther along, the river path connected with another wider track leading back to the Lostwithiel road.

They clattered into the Abbey stable yard in the small hours. Again Charles waved his stableman back to his bed. Catching the mare’s reins, he led both horses in and turned them into their stalls.

Penny went to unsaddle, only then realized she was shaking. It was, apparently, one thing to speculate and wonder, even to acknowledge and investigate, but quite another to find a recently murdered henchman along with indisputable proof of her father and brother’s complicity in treason.

Her mind felt battered, oddly detached. Dragging in a breath, she held it, and forced her hands to work, to unsaddle the mare and rub her down.

Charles glanced her way, but said nothing.

When he finished with his horse, he came to help her, without a word taking over rubbing the mare down. She relinquished the task, checked the feed and water, then leaned against the side of the stall and waited.

He’d left the tangle of signal flags on top of the stall wall. From amid the jumble, the Selborne crest mocked her. She turned away.

Charles came out of the stall, shut the door, picked up the flags, with his other hand took hers. They walked up to the house and entered through the garden door; in the front hall, he tugged her away from the stairs. “Come into the library.”

She went, too exhausted even to wonder why. He towed her across the room, paused beside his desk to thrust the signal flags into a drawer, then towed her farther—to the tantalus.

Releasing her, he poured two glasses of brandy. Catching one of her hands, he lifted it and pressed one glass into it. “Drink.”

She stared at the glass. “I don’t drink brandy.”

He sipped his own drink, met her gaze. “Would you prefer I tip it down your throat?”

She stared at him through the shadows, wondered if he was bluffing…realized, rather dizzyingly, that he wasn’t. She sipped. Pulled a face. “It’s ghastly.”

Nose wrinkling, she held the glass away.

He shifted nearer.

Eyes flaring, she whipped the glass back to her lips, and sipped.

He stood there, a foot away, sipping his own drink, watching her until she’d drained the glass.

“Good.” He took it from her, put both glasses down, then took her hand again.

She was getting rather tired of being towed, but on the other hand, it meant she didn’t have to think.

Her acquiescence worried Charles. He knew what she believed, knew it was eating at her. He didn’t like seeing her in this state; she seemed so internally fragile, as if something inside might shatter at any moment. He’d always seen her as someone he should protect; for that very reason, he couldn’t utter the platitudes he might have used to calm another. He couldn’t offer her false hope.

He would send a rider to London tomorrow; although there shouldn’t have been any contact with the French that Dalziel hadn’t known about, hadn’t, indeed, been in charge of, it was possible there had been something going on that Dalziel hadn’t got wind of.

A long shot, but a possibility, one he needed checked.

Meanwhile, Penny’s state of mind was only one of his worries, and potentially the easiest to address.

His state of mind was even more uncertain.

He pulled her to a halt in the gallery, in front of a window so the moonlight, now fading, spilled in and lit her face. He studied it as, surprised, she blinked up at him.

Foreseeing the battle looming, he hissed out a frustrated breath. Releasing her, he raked a hand through his hair. “I’m no longer sure it’s a wise idea for you to go back to Wallingham Hall.”

Her attention abruptly refocused; she frowned as she followed his train of thought. “You mean because Gimby was murdered?” Her frown grew more definite. “You think Nicholas did it.”

“Other than you and me, who else has been asking after Granville’s associates?”

“Why?”

“To stop us learning whatever Gimby knew—whatever he presumably learned from Gimby before he killed him.”

Slowly, she nodded; her gaze went past him—he couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t imagine what she was thinking.

Reaching out, he caught her chin and turned her face back to him. “You should remain here. We can set up a closer watch on Nicholas—”

“No.” She lifted her chin from his hand, but kept her eyes on his. “We agreed. If I’m there, I can keep a much more comprehensive eye on him, and you can visit freely as well. The more we’re about, the more likely he’ll grow rattled—”

“And what happens if, growing rattled, he decides perhaps you know too much?”

He thought she paled, but her gaze didn’t waver. If anything, her chin set more mulishly.

“Charles, there are two very good, very powerful and compelling reasons why I should return to Wallingham. The first is because keeping a close eye on Nicholas , especially if he was the one who killed Gimby, is vital. We need to know what Nicholas is doing, and I’m the person best able to learn that from inside the Hall, which also gives you a reason for visiting often and generally being around. Moreover , there’s the fact it was my father and brother who were running secrets to the French. It’s my family’s honor that’s been besmirched—”

“It’s not up to you to make restitution.” Hands on his hips, he loomed over her. “ You don’t have to do that. No one would expect—”

“I don’t care what anyone else expects!” She didn’t budge an inch. “It’s what I expect, and it’s what I’ll do.”

“Penny—”

“No!” She fixed her eyes, glittering belligrently, on his. “Just tell me one thing—if you were in my shoes, wouldn’t you feel, and do, the same?”

His jaw set so hard he thought it would crack. Lips tightly compressed, he made no answer.

She nodded. “Exactly. So I’ll go to Wallingham in the morning as arranged.”

“What was your second oh-so-compelling reason?” If he could find any weakness, he’d exploit it.

She thought, then thought some more. He simply waited.

Eventually, her eyes steady on his, she said, “Because you were right. It’s not at all wise for me to stay under the same roof as you. You are a far greater threat to me than Nicholas is likely to be.”

He looked down into her stormy gray eyes, drank in the directness, the blatant honesty in her gaze, and felt the inevitable reaction to her words—to her admission—rise through him. He clenched his hands tight on his hips. Slowly said, “I would much rather you were at risk from me than from any other man. I, at least, am not interested in murdering you.”

But what you could do to my heart would hurt even more. Penny held back the words, forced herself to take a long slow breath before saying, “Nevertheless, I’ll leave for Wallingham in the morning.”

She went to step back.

He swore, and reached for her.

She’d been watching, but was far too slow; he grabbed her, jerked her to him, then his lips came down on hers.

CHAPTER 8

CHARLES TRAPPED HER AGAINST HIM, CRUSHED HIS LIPS TO hers, surged into her mouth and laid claim.

It was the stupidest thing he could have done, an approach doomed to fail before he’d begun. He knew it, and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t rein in the primal instinct that had slipped its leash, that insisted he should simply claim her and be done with it. That if he did he’d be able to command her, to impose his will on her and keep her safe.