Grim-faced, Stokes shook his head. “I already did. Whoever our man is, he’s clever and careful. All their shoes were clean and dry.” He glanced at Lord Netherfield. “I have to thank you, sir—Blenkinsop and the staff have been most helpful.”
Lord Netherfield waved the remark aside. “I want this murderer caught. I won’t have my grandsons—or the family—tainted by this sort of thing, and they will be unless we catch the blackguard.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “I’ve lived too long to shrink from reality. Not exposing the villain will only ensure the innocent are shunned along with him. We need the blackguard caught, now, before things get any worse.”
Stokes hesitated, then said, “If you’ll pardon the observation, my lord, you seem very confident neither of your grandsons is our villain.”
His old hands folded on the top of his cane, Lord Netherfield nodded. “I am. I’ve known them from babes, and neither of them has it in him. But you can’t be expected to know that, and I’m not going to waste breath trying to convince you. You must look at all four, but mark my words, it’ll be one of the other two.”
The respect with which Stokes inclined his head was transparently genuine. “Thank you. And now”—his gaze swept them all—“I must ask you to excuse me. There are details to check, although I confess I’m not expecting to find any useful clue.”
With a small bow, he left them.
As the door closed, Simon noticed Lady O trying to catch his eye, directing his attention to Portia.
Not that it needed directing. He glanced at her, then reached for her hand. “Come on—let’s go for a ride.”
Charlie came, too. They found James and asked him if he wanted to join them, but he uncharacteristically demurred. The awkwardness he felt, knowing he was suspect, was patently clear; he was uncomfortable, which meant so were they. Reluctantly, they left him in the billiard room, idly potting balls.
They found the other ladies sitting silently in the back parlor. Lucy Buckstead and the Hammond girls jumped at the invitation; their mothers encouraged them, looking relieved.
Once they’d all changed, crossed to the stables, and found mounts, the afternoon was well advanced. Once again atop the frisky chestnut mare, Portia led the way out; Simon followed close behind.
He watched her; she seemed distant. However, she managed the mare with her usual assured ease; it wasn’t long before they’d left the others behind. Reaching the leafy rides of Cranborne Chase, in unspoken accord they let their mounts stretch their legs . . . until they were galloping, thundering down the rides, hard, fast, side by side.
Suddenly, so suddenly he shot straight past her, Portia wrenched the mare aside. Startled, he reined in, wheeled and came about—saw her fling herself from the saddle, leaving the chestnut quivering, reins dangling. She rushed up a small rise, her boots shushing through the old fallen leaves; at the top, she halted, spine rigid, head erect, looking out through the trees.
Mystified, he halted his gelding beside the mare, tied both sets of reins to a nearby branch, then strode after Portia.
Seriously concerned. To have wrenched her horse about like that, then dropped the reins . . . it was so unlike her.
He slowed as he neared. Halted a few feet away. “What is it?”
She didn’t look at him, just shook her head. “Nothing. It’s—” She broke off, waved one hand, her voice choked with tears, the gesture helpless.
He closed the distance, reached for her, drew her close; ignoring her token resistance, he wrapped her in his arms.
Held her while she cried.
“It’s so awful!” She sobbed. “They’re both dead. Gone! And he—he was so young. Younger than us.”
He said nothing, just touched his lips to her hair, then rested his cheek against the black silk. Let all he felt for her well within him, rise up and surround them.
Let it soothe her.
Her hand clenched tighter in his coat, then, very slowly, relaxed.
Eventually her sobs eased; the tension drained from her.
“I’ve wet your coat.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She sniffed. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
He eased his hold on her, found it, handed it over.
She patted his coat with the linen, then mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffed the crumpled item into her pocket and glanced up at him.
Her lashes were still wet, her dark blue eyes still glistening. The expression in them . . .
He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, but gradually drawing her to him, gradually deepening the caress until she was caught.
Until she stopped thinking.
Thinking that crying in his arms was infinitely more revealing—between them perhaps an even greater intimacy than lying naked together. Emotionally, for her, it was, but he didn’t want her dwelling on that.
Or dwelling on how he might feel about it, how he might exult that she would allow him that close, to see her with her defenses completely down. See her as she really was, behind her shields, a woman with a kind and inherently soft heart.
One she habitually guarded very well.
A heart he wanted.
More than anything else in life.
Evening came, and with it an uneasy, watchful tension. As he had foreseen, Stokes had uncovered nothing of any value; a sense of foreboding hung over the house.
There was no laughter or smiles left to lighten the mood. No one suggested music. The ladies conversed quietly in somber tones, talking of inconsequential things—faraway things, things that didn’t matter.
When, with Lord Netherfield and Lord Glossup, he rejoined the ladies, Simon sought out Portia, and led her out onto the terrace. Out of the heavy, brooding atmosphere, outside where they could breathe a little easier and talk freely.
Not that outside was all that much better; the air was heavy and sultry, just beginning to stir as another storm blew in.
Releasing his arm, Portia walked to the balustrade; leaning both hands on it, she looked out over the lawn. “Why kill Dennis?”
He’d halted in the middle of the flags; he stayed where he was, giving her some space. “Presumably for the same reason he had a try at you. Dennis wasn’t so lucky.”
“But if Dennis had known anything, why didn’t he say something? Stokes questioned him, didn’t he?”
“Yes. And he might have said something, only to the wrong person.”
She turned, frowning. “What do you mean?”
He grimaced. “When Stokes went to tell the gypsies, one of the women said Dennis had been brooding over something. He wouldn’t say what—the woman thought it was something he’d seen on his way back from the house after he’d learned of Kitty’s death.”
She turned away, facing the deepening shadows. “I’ve thought and thought, but I still can’t remember . . .”
He waited. When she said nothing more, he shifted back; hands in his pockets, he leaned his shoulders against the wall. And watched the night slowly wash over the trees and lawns, wash over them as the last of the light faded.
Watched her, and quelled the welling urge to corral her, to somehow claim her, seal her off in some tower away from the world and all possible harm. The feeling was familiar, yet so much stronger than it had been before. Before he had realized all she truly was.
The wind rose, bringing with it the scent of rain. She seemed content, as was he, simply to stand and let the peace of the night restore their own.
He’d followed her that morning, stepping off the terrace obediently twenty yards in her wake, wondering what she intended to think about. He’d thought himself—had wished for the ability, at any time, to stop her thinking about them at all.
When she did . . . it worried him, bothered him. The prospect that she would think too much about their relationship, and convince herself it was too dangerous, too threatening to pursue, frightened him.
A telling fear, a revealing vulnerability.
He knew that, too.
Finally, perhaps, was close to understanding it.
She’d always been “the one”—the only female who effortlessly impinged on his consciousness, and on his senses, simply by existing. He’d always known she was in some way special to him, but being acquainted from the first with her attitude to men, men like him in particular, he’d hidden the truth away, refused to acknowledge what it was. What it might grow—had grown—to be.
He no longer had the option of denying it. The past days had stripped away all the veils, all his careful screens. Leaving what he felt for her starkly revealed, at least to him.
She hadn’t seen it yet, but she would.
And what she would do then, what she would decide then . . .
He focused on her, standing slender and straight by the balustrade. Felt the welling urge to simply seize her and be damned, to give up all pretense of letting her come to her own decision, to come to him of her own accord, rise up and flow through him, fed and strengthened by the latest dangers . . . yet he knew the first step he took in that direction would be like a slap in the face to her.
She’d stop trusting him, step back.
And he’d lose her.
The rising wind set the ends of her hair dancing. It felt fresh, cooler; the rain was not far away.
He pushed away from the wall, stepped toward her—
Heard a grating sound high above. Looked up.
Saw a shadow detach from the roof high above.
He flung himself at Portia, caught her, threw them both along the terrace, cushioning her fall, shielding her.
An urn from the roof crashed to the flags precisely where she’d been. With a sound like a cannon shot, it shattered.
One flying fragment struck his arm, raised to shelter her; pain stabbed, then was gone.
Silence—absolute—descended, shocking in contrast.
He looked up, realized the danger, quickly urged Portia to her feet.
Inside, someone screamed. Pandemonium followed; Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield appeared at the terrace doors.
One glance was enough to tell them what must have happened.
“Good Lord!” Lord Glossup strode out. “Are you all right, m’dear?”
Her fingers clenched tight in Simon’s coat, Portia managed a nod. Lord Glossup awkwardly patted her shoulder, then hurried on and down the steps. Striding onto the lawn, he turned and looked up at the roof.
“Can’t see anyone up there, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
From the drawing room door, Lord Netherfield beckoned. “Come inside.”
Simon glanced down at Portia, felt her straighten, stiffen her spine, then she stepped out of his arms and let him guide her to the door.
Inside, alarmed, her color high, Lady O scowled and thumped the rug with her cane. “What is the world coming to, I’d like to know?”
Blenkinsop opened the door and looked in. “Yes, my lord?”
Lord Netherfield waved. “Get Stokes. There’s been an attack on Miss Ashford.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Calvin went deathly pale.
Mrs. Buckstead shifted to sit beside her and chafed her hands. “Now, now—Miss Ashford is here, and unharmed.”
Seated beside their mother on the chaise, the Hammond sisters burst into tears. Lady Hammond and Lucy Buckstead, both not much better, tried to comfort them. Mrs. Archer and Lady Glossup looked stunned and distressed.
Lord Netherfield looked at Blenkinsop as Lord Glossup returned. “On second thought, tell Stokes to come to the library. We’ll wait for him there.”
They did, but try though they might, there was nothing—no useful information—to be gained from the incident.
With Blenkinsop’s help, the staff pooled their knowledge and fixed the whereabouts of the four principal suspects. James and Desmond had left the drawing room, presumably for their rooms, Henry had been in the estate office, and Ambrose in the study writing letters. All had been alone; all could have done the deed.
Stokes and Lord Glossup went onto the roof; when they returned, Stokes confirmed that it was a simple enough matter to gain access, and any able-bodied man could have pushed the stone urn from its plinth.
“They’re heavy, but not fixed in place.” He looked at Simon; his frown grew blacker. “You’re bleeding.”
Simon glanced at his upper arm. The shard had torn his coat; the jagged edges were bloodstained. “Flesh wound. It’s stopped.”
Portia, in the chair beside him, leaned forward, grabbed his arm, and tugged him around so she could see. Stifling a sigh, he obliged, knowing if he didn’t she’d stand and come to look; she was so pale, he didn’t want her on her feet.
Sighting the wound, minor to his eyes, she paled even more. She looked at Stokes. “If there’s nothing more you need of us, I should like to retire.”
“Of course.” Stokes bowed. “If anything comes up, I can speak with you tomorrow.”
He caught Simon’s eye as both he and Portia stood.
Guessing Stokes was considering reiterating the obvious—that Portia should not be left alone at any time—Simon shook his head. She wasn’t going to be left alone; she didn’t need to be reminded why.
Cupping her elbow, he guided her out of the room, and on through the hall to the stairs. Drawing in a breath, she picked up her skirts and ascended without his assistance.
Reaching the top, she let her skirts fall. “We’ll need to tend that cut.” Turning, she headed for his room.
He frowned, and followed. “It’s nothing. I can’t even feel it.”
“Cuts people can’t feel have been known to turn gangrenous.” Reaching his room, she turned to look at him. “You can’t possibly be worried about washing and salving it. If you can’t feel it, it isn’t going to hurt.”
He halted before her, looked down into her face—determined, stubborn—and still ghostly pale. It was going to hurt, just not in the way she meant. Setting his jaw, he reached past her and pushed the door wide. “If you insist.”
She did, of course, and he had to surrender. Had to sit bare-chested on the end of the bed and let her fuss and fret.
From his earliest years, he’d hated having any female fuss over him—passionately hated having his hurts tended. He had more than his share of scars because of it, but the scars didn’t bother him—feminine fussing, especially the focused, tender care, always had.
Still did; he gritted his teeth, swallowed his pride, and let her get on with it.
He still felt like a conqueror reduced to a helpless six-year-old—helpless in the face of the feminine need to care. In some indefinable way trapped by it, held by it.
He focused on her face, watched, outwardly stoic as she gently bathed, anointed, and bound the cut—which was deeper than he’d supposed. She smoothed gauze about his arm; he looked down at her fingers, long, supple, slender, just like her.
Felt the emotions he had until then held at bay rush in. Fill him.
He lifted his head as those minutes on the terrace replayed in his mind; his muscles hardened in inevitable reaction.
She’d been within his sight, yet he’d come so very close to losing her.
The instant she straightened, he rose and walked to the window. Away from her. Away from the temptation to end the game and seize, claim, decree, and take her from here, out of all danger.
Fought to remember there was more than one way of losing her.
Portia watched him walk away, noticed the stiffness, the way his fists had clenched. Letting him go, she tidied away the basin and cloths. That done, she paused by the bed and studied him.
He stood by the window, looking out, so tensed for action yet so restrained, his will was like a living thing, binding him, constraining him. That suppressed inner tension—was it fear or the reaction to fear, to
danger, to her being in danger?—was palpable, thrumming through him, emanating from him, affecting him, and her.
It was all the murderer’s fault. The urn had been the last straw. She’d been frightened, upset, more than she’d realized, but now she was getting angry.
Bad enough that the fiend had murdered, not once but twice, but what he was doing to her now—even worse, what the situation was doing to Simon, to what they were trying to come to grips with between them . . . she’d never been one to let anyone tamper with her life.
Irritation edging through annoyance into outright anger rode her; her temper had always outweighed her fear. She walked to lean against the other side of the window frame. Looked at him across it. “What is it?”
He glanced at her, considered, for once didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I want you safe.”
She considered what she could see in his face, in his eyes. Hear in the harsh tones of his voice. “Why is my safety so important? Why have you always needed to protect me?”
“Because I do.” He looked away, out over the garden. “I always have.”
“I know. But why?”
His jaw set; for one long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, his voice low, “Because you’re important to me. Because . . . in protecting you, I’m protecting myself. Some part of me.” The words, ones of discovery, hadn’t come easily. He turned his head, met her gaze, considered, but left the admission unchanged, unmodified.
She crossed her arms, looked into his eyes. “So what’s really worrying you? You know I’ll let you hover, that I’ll let you protect me, that I’m unlikely to do anything rash, so it’s not that.”
His resistance was a tangible thing, a shimmering wall he slowly, gradually, deliberately, let fall. “I want you mine.” His jaw clenched. “And I don’t want this getting in the way.” He drew a deep breath, looked out again. “I want you to promise you won’t hold whatever happens here—whatever happens between us because of this—against me.” Again he met her gaze. “That you won’t put it in your scales. Let it affect your decision.”
She read his eyes, saw both the turmoil, and the lurking predator. The power, the raw force, the primitive need he held back. The masculine need to dominate, reined in only by his iron will; it took courage to see it, recognize it, know she was its object, and not flee.
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