“Have you . . . found her?” he asked, unable to speak Ainsley’s name aloud, fearing it would break him.
Ginny covered her face in her hands. “There’s blood in her room.”
Her muffled words sent Reed into a blind panic. He charged into the last bedroom at the end of the hall, wild-eyed and bloodthirsty. The wardrobe door hung by one hinge. The drapes in a heap on the floor. The screen broken. He was going to kill Mitchum.
Then Reed saw the blood on the floor.
His heart stopped. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes fixed on the small, dark puddle in front of the hearth and the thin, ragged trail leading to the door.
In a rage—in agony—he howled, head back, the bellow ripped from the center of his soul. His fists hung useless by his side. What good were they to him when he hadn’t been here to protect her?
Why hadn’t he been here sooner?
“You came.”
Reed heard the soft rasp behind him and he turned slowly.
He didn’t trust his eyes at first. As if in a dream, he blinked, watching a figure sit up inside a chest, clothes falling to her lap, hair tousled and tears streaming down her cheeks.
Then Reed moved without thinking. One instant he was near the hearth and the next he was clutching her body, his hands fisted in her gown. On a shudder, he buried his head in her neck, breathing her in, making sure she was real.
“You came for me,” she said, her voice hoarse.
She was alive. She was here. He said her name over and over again, like a prayer that men chanted when they were broken down to one single hope.
Wrapping her arms around him, her face wet, she began to pepper him with fevered kisses. “I knew you would see the lights in the window. I knew I couldn’t be wrong. Couldn’t be the only one drawn to the window at all hours.”
He held her face in his hands, kissing every exposed inch, still making sure she was really here. “You’re never wrong, highness. But it took me far too long to get here.”
He couldn’t stop thinking about what she must have suffered, the terror, the broken doors, the blood—
He began a new frantic search, his hands cataloguing every limb and curve. When he reached her ribs, she sucked in a breath. He dropped to his knees. Then, prodding further, he checked for any signs of blood, a tear, a puncture. But he couldn’t find one. “Are you hurt?”
A stifled, squeaking sound escaped her. “Other than being ticklish, no. You, however—with your wild eyes, disheveled hair, and pale face—appear as if you’ve come from battle.”
He stood again and held her close. “This is no time to jest.”
“I am unharmed but”—she stopped, her expression haunted—“I heard Mr. Mitchum attack your cat.”
“So that’s the reason for the blood.” Reed closed his eyes and tucked Ainsley’s head against his chest.
“You haven’t found her?”
He didn’t want to think about the trail of blood, or Mrs. Darden’s gruesome discovery near the servants’ stairs. “Not yet.”
“She was very brave,” Ainsley whispered.
He pressed a kiss to her hair, lingering. “And so were you.”
When she shook her head in mute response, he had to argue. “Throughout it all, you kept your head. I saw the candles in the library, the locked bedchamber doors. You outsmarted him at every turn. There isn’t any other person, man or woman, who could have been as brave and clever.”
“I kept thinking of you”—she smoothed her hand over his cheek, her eyes soft—“trying to summon the strength you always give me when we’re together.”
Reed kissed her then, so overwhelmed that he couldn’t think straight. And she kissed him back with equal fervor.
Their bodies fused together in a desperate, incendiary embrace. Whatever barriers remained between them burned away.
Her lips parted, welcoming the desperate plunge of his tongue. His hand slid down the ripe swell of her bottom, lifting her against him, reveling in the supple crush of her breasts, the inviting heat of her sex. She hitched against him, cinching her arms tightly behind his neck, issuing soft, wanton murmurs. Angling her hips, he let her feel how he ached for her, how he would have died if he hadn’t found her in time.
Then he lowered her to the edge of the bed. All he could think about was how much he needed her. How much he wanted to fill her body, over and over again, to make her his once and for all. He looked at her flushed face and brushed rich, glossy tendrils from her cheek, his fingertips tracing her kiss-swollen lips. He’d imagined her like this too many times to count, with her dark eyes glazed with passion.
Lifting her arms, her hands slid to his nape, drawing him down to the bed. “I knew you’d come for me.”
Reed hovered above her, his mouth and body ready to claim . . .
Then her words sank in and awareness hit.
What in the bloody hell was he thinking? She had just survived a horrifying ordeal and was lucky to escape with her life, let alone unharmed. And so he had the brilliant notion to take advantage of her when her wits were addled?
Reed muttered an oath and straightened. He looked around at her disordered room, and to the door opened to the hall. Not too far off, he saw the maid cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder then pivot back the other way. Even so, it was clear by the blush on her cheeks that she had caught them kissing. And very nearly a great deal more.
“We cannot stay here.”
Ainsley sat up and slipped her hand in his. “Shall we go to Sterling’s, then?”
“You’re asking me to take you to . . .” He stopped. Clearly, she was not herself. The Ainsley he knew would never set foot in his den of iniquity.
From experience, he knew that surviving a dire encounter often made people susceptible to excitement and rash behavior. His mum usually had gone on a tidying-up frenzy after Lord Bray left the house, stripping linens, rugs, and draperies from every room until she wore herself out from exhaustion. And sometimes men acted strangely after a fight, especially when unexpectedly victorious.
The hard thumping of the heart and rapid blood flow through the veins tended to make a person feel impervious and ready to celebrate, never thinking of consequences. They wanted only to bask in the glow of their triumph.
A survivor’s euphoria.
Reed looked at Ainsley with fresh eyes—her flushed face, the pulse fluttering wildly beneath the delicate line of her jaw.
“We’re not going to Sterling’s. Mitchum hasn’t been found yet and I have to take you someplace safe and far away. Do you understand?”
Her cheeks drained of color, her gaze darting over her shoulder. “Do you think he’s still here somewhere?”
“No,” Reed assured her. “I imagine he heard the servants. And since he couldn’t find your clever hiding spot, there was nothing else he could do but leave.”
For now. Reed was certain he would make another attempt.
Ainsley clutched his hand tighter. “I won’t feel safe unless I am with you.”
Sinking to his knees, he kissed her palms tenderly. “That cannot happen, highness. Should anyone discover that you spent a night with me before we are married, your reputation would be in tatters.”
He turned her hands over to kiss her fingertips, but saw that every one of her nails was broken, chipped, and cracked as if she’d been through a war. Muttering an oath under his breath, he vowed to kill Mitchum slowly. There would be much agony and wailing and pleading.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a complete disaster, reputation and all,” she said softly and bent to press a kiss to his temple. “Mr. Mitchum made it clear that he wanted people to know.”
Doubtless, Mitchum wouldn’t have cared if she was compromised in front of witnesses. Perhaps that was even what he wanted—a way to force her hand. To force her . . .
Reed’s blood began to boil again and it took every ounce of control he had not to run out the door and hunt that man down.
“He may be telling someo
ne this instant,” she continued, closing her eyes as if defeated. “His nature is to spin his own heroic tales. Once the ton learns of the attack, there will be nothing of my reputation—or the agency’s for that matter—to salvage. By morning, Mr. Mitchum will have succeeded in fiction where he did not in truth. And I”—she paused on a fractured breath—“will never truly escape him.”
“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”
She studied him closely. “How? By unleashing that dark fury I see in your eyes?” Lifting her free hand, her fingers brushed the disorderly locks away from his forehead and shook her head, her soft eyes pleading. “If his actions bring out violence in you, then he will have succeeded all the same.”
Reed knew she was right. But that left him only one option. “If you come with me, highness, there will be no turning back. No lengthy betrothal. You will leave as Miss Bourne and return as Mrs. Sterling. Are you prepared for that?”
In response, she took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his.
Chapter 24
“How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Ainsley reclined in the portable tub, the steaming water a magic potion for relaxation. How could it be that fear and anxiety weren’t eating her alive after such an ordeal?
The first time she’d packed up and escaped Nigel, she hadn’t been able to sleep for a week. She’d been constantly worried about her uncle and sisters, not wanting them to suffer because of her. Spent endless hours ensuring that their lives were in perfect order.
She’d never revealed how it left her fragile, exhausted, and soul weary.
This time was different. She wasn’t facing any of it alone. For the first time in her life, she could lean on someone strong, and share her thoughts and fears.
Sinking deeper into the water, she rested the back of her head over the louvered lip of the tub. It felt luxurious, decadent—not just the bath, but the fact that she could have a nice long soak and know that Reed was in control of things beyond the door.
He’d taken charge in London as well. After stuffing a few things in a satchel and leaving his men with instructions, Reed had whisked her off, traveling to wherever they were now. It was strange to realize that she didn’t even know the name of this hamlet, where they’d stop next, or what they’d eat or drink. Quite unlike her usual self.
Yet she was merely content to be with him. She’d even slept for most of the journey, dozing in his strong arms, unworried.
It was only when Reed had left the carriage that she’d roused, startled that his comforting warmth was no longer surrounding her. Alone and alarmed, her first instinct had been to call out for him. He’d instantly appeared at the carriage door, proving that he was never far from her side.
Taking her hand, he’d explained that they’d arrived at an inn to rest, but would be off in a few hours again. Then, in short order, he’d paid for two meals, two rooms, lodging for his driver, and a change of horses.
She had not seen him since. Though given the fact that she was in a steaming bath, it was for the best. A giggle bubbled out at the thought.
Ainsley never giggled. It was absurd to do so, especially at a time like this. Yet she couldn’t summon any of her usual worry, not about Nigel, her reputation, or how the townhouse and agency would be set to rights in her absence.
And she knew the reason why—Reed Sterling. The man she would soon marry.
There was no use denying it. No more lengthy betrothal.
No more hiding, a voice whispered at the back of her mind, reminding her of the realization she’d come to inside the chest. Her coffin.
Only now did her heart beat in a harried rhythm. Her breaths quick and short. The firelight in the hearth seemed to grow cool and dim.
Then her mind conjured Reed and, all at once, the panic subsided.
She exhaled a deep, calming breath. Her skin was still chilled, but the room was brighter. Her thoughts sure and steady.
Rising from the bath, she stepped out. After drying off with a flannel, she applied the balm that Reed had so thoughtfully packed. He’d also grabbed her hairbrush, the nightdress from beneath her pillow—though how he knew it was there, she would have to ask him later—and her mother’s ballgown from the cedar chest. Likely he did not know that such a garment was hardly fit for traveling, but she wouldn’t complain. He was doing everything he could to take care of her.
I’m marrying Reed Sterling, she thought with a dazed grin, slipping her arms into the soft cambric of her nightgown and then over her head.
It surprised her that she was not overwhelmed with trepidation. And there was no part of her that felt weaker by this realization either. In fact, though it seemed counterintuitive, she felt stronger knowing that she could depend on him instead of managing things on her own.
How odd.
And instead of fretting and mulling her thumbnail to the quick, she felt a pressing need to live a fuller life. To fill her remaining days and years with more than a sense of purpose.
She wanted her family to be happy and for the Bourne Matrimonial Agency to be a whopping success, of course. But, most of all, she wanted Reed. Whenever she reached out, she wanted her hand to find his. Whenever she lifted her arms, she wanted to be swept up in his embrace. And whenever she closed her eyes, she wanted to taste his kiss.
What she didn’t want, however, was to let fear rule her anymore.
If Nigel had intended to terrorize her so much that she thought only of him and stopped living her life, then he would be disappointed.
A hesitant knock fell on the door, breaking through her musings.
A small feminine voice asked, “Ma’am, if it isn’t too much trouble, Mr. Sterling would like to know if you’re ready for your dinner.”
“You can inform Mr. Sterling that I am not hungry,” she said, smiling to herself, the ruffled hem of her nightdress swishing over her toes. She knew Reed would dislike this answer, and could just about count down the seconds until she heard another—
A hard rap of brutish knuckles fell on the door, and she nearly laughed.
“Ainsley,” Reed said, weary exhaustion in his tone, “you have to eat something.”
“I don’t believe I shall, Mr. Sterling.” Oh, how she loved to argue with this man.
Smiling, she sat by the fire and began to brush her damp hair, letting the heat from the flames dry the chestnut locks into burnished waves. Beyond the door, she heard a murmured conversation, Reed’s gruff drawl loud enough that she could hear him send for her meal, regardless of her wishes.
The quick patter of the maid’s footsteps retreated, but not his.
The floor creaked beneath a heavy boot. “Are you decently attired?”
“I am covered, though—”
The door clicked open, scraping in the crescent groove worn into the floorboards. Reed stepped in. His expression was hard and weary . . . until he looked at her, sitting in front of the fire in her nightdress.
“—not properly.”
Normally, she would rush to cover herself, to put as many barriers between them as possible. But seeing the flicker of the firelight glow hotly in his indigo eyes roused her curiosity. What was he going to do now—cross the room and take her in his arms? Kiss her senseless? Show her all sorts of wicked and wonderful things?
Her pulse leapt excitedly.
Slow and thorough, his gaze swept over her. High color slashed the crests of his cheeks. She’d seen this look before and knew he was thinking of kissing her, and perhaps a good deal more . . .
Yet for reasons beyond her understanding, he shifted, restless. He averted his face to the bathwater, then to the bed, and last to the window.
A bashful rogue? Oh dear, this was the last thing she expected from him.
“You’re not dressed,” he chided, his voice deep and hoarse. Even so, he made n
o move to depart.
She grinned. Rising from the chair, she crossed the room. And while standing within arm’s reach of him, she unfolded the red coarse-woven blanket resting at the foot of the bed and wrapped it around herself like a shawl.
“And you’re not wearing your cravat. Dare we stand in the same room?”
Peculiarly, her usual sense of reservation was absent. However it seemed to have infected Reed, instead.
“Three of a clock in the morning is not the time for teasing, highness.” He scrubbed a hand over his drawn face and through his damp hair, firelight glistening in the dark strands, making her fingers itch to run through them. “I need to make certain you are well rested and fed so that you’re thinking clearly later this morning.”
In other words, he was not convinced that she was thinking clearly now.
Ainsley wanted to tell him about her epiphany, but knew that this wasn’t the right moment. Besides, he likely wouldn’t believe any words of a romantic nature coming from her.
They had been at war for too long. Their two factions would require time to adjust to this new treaty. Therefore, she would be patient and bring him about gradually.
“Very well,” she consented. “I shall have broth.”
“You’ll have a full dinner. I’ve ordered a chicken, a pork pie, mutton, green peas . . .”
“Good heavens! Am I supposed to eat all that, or is there a trencherman army encamped in the stable yard?” She went over to the window and rubbed her hand in a circle over the cool, foggy glass, making a show of peering outside before she lifted her brows at him.
He shrugged, kicking the bedpost with the toe of his boot. “I wanted you to have your fill of whatever took your fancy. We’ve only dined together once, and I don’t yet know what your favorites might be.”
Glimpsing this sweet, uncertain side of his nature, Ainsley’s heart nearly burst. What else would she learn about him if she kept peering closer?
“I like everything,” she answered conversationally. “Well, except for asparagus. I detest that awful vegetable. Whenever the duchess serves it, I have to find clever ways of disguising that I haven’t eaten any.”
The Rogue to Ruin EPB Page 25