And, she suspected, expensive though it might be, it would be, and was, very much worth it. Certainly to Roscoe and his family. Family, permanence, continuity; to the older families, those meant a great deal.
Was this—the money it took to run Ridgware—behind the transformation of the man walking beside her?
“This way.” With a wave, he steered her beneath an arch and down two stone steps—into a walled rose garden.
“Oh, my!” Even though the season was all but spent, late blooms still bobbed on the dozens of huge bushes, many taller than she was and equally wide. “This is glorious.”
“This is relatively muted. You should see it in high summer when everything’s in bloom.” Roscoe followed her down the central path. “Then you can barely breathe.”
Cupping one large pink bloom, she buried her nose in the scent. “Mmm. So lovely.”
He watched her and had to agree.
Finally releasing the bloom, she looked at him. “What was it you wanted to speak with me about?”
It took a moment to recall his excuse. He waved her on, down the rose walk, and fell into step alongside her. “Through Henry I’ve lodged a complaint against Kempsey and Dole with the local magistrate—that needed to be done, a formality that might prove necessary later. I’ve also set men on Kempsey and Dole’s trail. They may have gone to ground in Birmingham with their families.” Equally, the pair might be tracking them, hounds on Roderick’s scent, but he didn’t see any need to belabor that possibility at this point.
She frowned. “But surely now they’ve lost Roderick, Kempsey and Dole will draw back. It’s this man Kirkwell who was behind the attack—he’s the one who, mystifyingly, wants Roderick dead.”
“I’ve sent word to London. My men will see what they can learn about Kirkwell, but there’s always the chance that’s not his real name.” He glanced at her. “I take it you still haven’t recalled anyone of that name—an acquaintance of Roderick’s, a long-ago suitor of yours?”
“No. I’ve been wracking my brains, but I can’t recall that name at all. Not in any context.”
“Which increases the likelihood Kirkwell’s not his real name. People are rarely killed by strangers, especially not through an elaborate plot.”
“So how can we unmask this villain?”
“The name might be false, but the man is real enough. I’ve set my men trawling the areas in which Kirkwell was seen—the tavern in which he met Kempsey and Dole and the surrounding streets. Someone must have seen him. Someone should be able to point him out.” He glanced at her. “We’ll find him.” Preferably before you and Roderick return to London.
“Thank you.” Miranda glanced up and met his eyes. “For everything. Your help rescuing Roderick, your assistance in finding Kirkwell. Neither Roderick nor I could have managed without you.”
His eyes held hers, then he inclined his head and faced forward. “It’s been some time since I was actively involved in such endeavors.” Fleetingly he met her eyes again. “I enjoyed it.”
She wasn’t sure enjoyed was the right word, not for her, but she’d certainly felt very much alive. Quite aside from the excitement of the chase, and the even greater thrill of escape, just being in his company . . . she forced her mind to the question she had to ask. “Will you be remaining at Ridgware for much longer? I imagine your business dealings will draw you back to town.” She—and Roderick—couldn’t expect him to remain with them, a guardian of sorts, a friend, a support.
“I have no immediate plans to return to the capital.” He paced beside her; she glanced at his face, but, as ever, his expression told her nothing. “I haven’t visited for a while, and it’s not often all three of my sisters are here at the same time, and Henry, too. A short absence from town won’t impinge on my businesses. The people I employ are well able to manage without me for a time.”
“I see.” The leap of her heart was nonsensical. The effervescent happiness tinged with relief that coursed through her simply from knowing he would remain near might have been uncalled for; it was nevertheless real. “I was hoping to send word to my aunt. Now I have certain and favorable news of Roderick, I should let her know he’s well, or at least will be.”
“Write a note and I’ll have it sent down.” Roscoe glanced at her mourning gown, let his gaze slide from the prim neckline to the heavy skirts. “As you and Roderick will be here for a few weeks, you might ask her to pack some clothes—I’ll have my men fetch the trunks and send them here.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you.”
There wasn’t anything more he needed to tell her, but he didn’t want the interlude to end. A simple pleasure, walking in the old rose garden with her. “Quite aside from spending time with Henry and the others, I’ll be using this unexpected visit to catch up with Ridgware, too.” He glanced at her, caught her gaze as she glanced at him. “It’s not just a large estate—it’s made up of many interconnecting elements, many smaller enterprises.” Lifting the guard he habitually placed on his tongue, he let himself ramble—set himself to entertain and distract her from the principal reason he was remaining by her side.
The threat to Roderick was far from over. Kempsey and Dole remained a real and local menace, while the mysterious John Kirkwell hovered in the background. Any man who had gone to the extent of hiring Kempsey and Dole wasn’t going to simply give up and walk away.
Until all three, Kempsey, Dole, and Kirkwell, had been located and removed, he didn’t intend moving far from Miranda or her brother. And remaining near her, in close proximity, was no hardship. None at all—the one thing anchoring him most strongly at Ridgware was, quite simply, her.
Night fell, and with Roderick recovered enough to order all his would-be nurses from his chamber, Miranda found herself restlessly drifting before the uncurtained window in her room. The household had retired; all the others were no doubt seeking their beds, yet she felt too unsettled to sit, let alone sleep.
Together with Roscoe she’d explored more of the gardens, returning to the house as the dressing gong had sounded. Other than her black day gown, she had only one other with her, also black and severe, but at least it was more suitable for evening wear; retreating to her room, she’d changed, then brushed and re-coiled her hair, for some reason eschewing her habitual chignon and instead fashioning the heavy tresses into a plaited bun on the top of her head.
Pleased with the result, feeling acceptably fashionable, she’d gone down to the drawing room and fallen in with the family as if she’d been a longtime acquaintance rather than someone they’d first set eyes on only the evening before. Dinner had passed pleasantly; afterward, once the ritual of the tea trolley had been observed, she and Sarah had come upstairs to relieve Nurse. They’d sat on either side of Roderick’s bed and entertained him, but then he’d ordered them out, and she’d carried her candlestick into her room and shut the door.
Halting before the window, she looked out, and in the faint but steady moonlight saw the walls of the rose garden across the lawn.
Ten minutes later, her cloak over her shoulders, she stepped down to the rose garden’s paved central walk. The day had been fine; the enclosing walls trapped the lingering warmth along with the heady fragrance of the blooms still nodding on the long, arching canes.
For the past week, she’d been living on her nerves in a state of heightened anticipation and uncertainty. Now she was safe and secure, and Roderick was, too, and Ridgware had enveloped them in its serenity. Hardly surprising she was taking a little time to adjust.
“But,” she murmured, starting slowly along the path, “that’s not the only thing that’s changed.”
She had changed. In setting out to rescue Roderick, in appealing to Roscoe for aid, she’d stepped out of her prescribed and rigidly respectable world. She’d done it knowingly, and if the situation were the same, she would do the same again. She didn’t regret her decision—quite the opposite—but in acting as she had, something fundamental had shifted inside her, a change she
hadn’t expected or foreseen.
And then she’d compounded that change and taken Roscoe as her lover.
She didn’t regret that either, but that, too, contributed to her present uncertainty, her unsettled state. She was a novice in such matters; she had no real concept of what might come next.
She was the sort of woman who liked to know where she stood. Uncertainty didn’t suit her; it ruffled her senses and stretched her nerves. . . .
Three more slow steps, and she realized it wasn’t inner uncertainty that was ruffling her senses and affecting her nerves.
Halting, she turned and looked back up the walk.
Roscoe stood in the archway, one shoulder negligently propped against the stone. Hands in his pockets, he was watching her. Even over the distance, his dark gaze touched her, caressed her.
Awakened her.
Lifting her head, she met that gaze and waited.
The moonlight lit his face; she saw his lips curve, wry, almost resigned, then he pushed away from the stone, stepped down to the walk, and prowled toward her.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” Halting before her, Roscoe looked down into her wide eyes, watched them smile up at him.
“But, clearly, I’m not alone.” She studied his face, then tipped her head in invitation as she turned and resumed her stroll. As he accepted and matched his stride to hers, she said, “I couldn’t settle to sleep.”
He hadn’t been able to either. Certainly not once he’d seen her crossing the lawn. “It’s a lovely night.”
That comment set the tone for the resulting conversation. Neither he nor she had any agenda other than passing the time, and, perhaps, hearing the other’s voice. Certainly their mundane, innocuous exchanges held neither secrets nor ulterior intent. It seemed all either cared about was being in each other’s company.
That amused him; he’d never been one for making polite conversation, and, he suspected, she wasn’t an exponent of that idle art either, yet here they were, doing just that, in his case contentedly.
He wanted to be with her. Wanted to learn more of her. She enthralled and enticed him, and engaged him at a level different from anyone he’d previously encountered, a connection broader in scope, richer, more intense. He told himself it was only human nature that he sought to understand her . . . and inwardly scoffed. His interest ran much deeper than mere curiosity.
He wanted to explore, to savor, to possess, yet confoundingly it wasn’t only the physical effect she had on him that focused him so effortlessly on her.
He’d grown to be a connoisseur of human nature, and in that respect she was unique, at least to him. She wasn’t the sort of person who followed, as most women were, yet she wasn’t a leader, either. She took her own road, and intriguingly that seemed to be a facet of herself she was only just discovering.
He was a quick study when it came to people, a talent he’d always had, a talent that as Roscoe, London’s gambling king, he exercised daily. While at first she’d been a conundrum, he was starting, at last, to unravel her complexities. For much of her life she’d set aside her own nature, suppressing it, making it subservient to her need to protect Roderick. That, he understood, none better. Ironic, then, that it was her very devotion to protecting Roderick that had led her to where she now was.
To the realization that, as Roderick had matured and stepped beyond her protection, she needed to reassess and redefine what, going forward, would drive her, what would be her lodestone, the principle that would guide her.
She hadn’t found it yet, and he had no clue as to how she would evolve, but watching her slough off her past and seek her path forward was fascinating, engrossing, and strangely moving.
As he couldn’t predict her direction, all he could be sure about was her in that moment. Her and him in the moonlit night.
They walked, talked, and with a simplicity that itself held a staggering power, drew pleasure from the unstructured communion.
Eventually, she sighed. “I think I’m ready to go in.”
With a wave, he led her back to the house and around to the front hall.
Side by side, they started up the stairs.
He was intensely aware that since he’d left her bed that morning they hadn’t touched. Not a brush of the hand, not a touch on his sleeve, not him grasping her elbow. They’d avoided any contact, any accidental, incidental touch; for both, he suspected, that had been a defensive necessity while they’d dealt with the demands of the day.
But now night had closed around them, and with every step up the long staircase their mutual tension ratcheted higher.
An unfamiliar vice had locked about his chest; with no other woman had he felt so out of his depth.
Their liaison was destined to be a short affair; that had been implicit from the start, underscored by her “just one night.” Having to travel alone with him had handed her an opportunity, one she’d elected to grasp, one he’d been willing to grant.
But after that first night, he’d been left feeling like a ship without a rudder. He’d had no idea whether she would wish to extend their one night of passion into a liaison, given fate had landed them in a situation where the possibility existed. So last night he’d held back—had forced himself to read a novel in his room rather than seek her out—in the hope that she would make up her mind and declare her decision. Her position. So that then he would know.
Instead, Fate, abetted by Nurse, had conspired to place him in her room, with her, sleep-tousled, on her bed . . . and she’d drawn him to her again, but had that been deliberate decision on her part, or her simply responding to the moment? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell.
Which, as side by side they reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the gallery, left him still uncertain. Unsure what she wanted. Unclear as to what was possible, what she would allow.
He did know that he wanted her. Wanted to spend this night, and as many others as she would countenance, with her in his arms.
He halted. When she halted, too, and faced him, brows lightly arching, he said, “My room’s in the other wing.”
Her eyes, luminescent in the moonlight pouring through the ornate skylight above, widened. “Oh.” Those eyes searched his, trying to see, to read . . .
He drew a breath so fraught it almost shook, felt the tension binding him cinch tight. “Invite me to your bed.”
She didn’t blink but studied his face, his expression. The moment stretched, fragile as spun glass, then she stepped closer, raised one hand and framed his cheek, stretched up and brushed her lips over his in an achingly delicate kiss.
He felt the fingers of her other hand twine with his and grip, then she drew back.
She held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned and led him to her room.
He stepped inside, held onto her hand as he closed the door, then leaned back against it. He drew her to him and she came. Spreading her hands over his chest, she stretched up as he bent his head.
Lips touched, firmed. Within seconds their mouths had melded.
Tongues tangled as fingers slid apart and they reached for each other. Gathered each other close. Closer. Pressed nearer.
And as had happened on both previous occasions when he’d stepped into this place, this sensual space with her, plans and intentions melted away and each kiss, each touch, each stroke and caress became their eclipsing reality.
Nothing else mattered beyond the next revelation.
The next moment of passionate exploration, of desirous and desirable knowing.
Familiar, yet different. That conclusion sank into him with every heated breath, with every tracing stroke of her fingers on his skin.
They shed their clothes, his, hers, without rush, without haste. With steady determination.
With a shared purpose that, uncounted heartbeats later, brought them together in a rush of fire and need in the depths of her bed.
That had them clinging to sanity as passion raged and desire raced molten through their veins.
Beneath him, Miranda gasped and held tight, lids falling as sensation swept over and through her. Carrying her up, buoying her higher, ever higher.
Amazed again. Stunned again.
She’d thought she’d known, but he’d surprised her again.
She’d surprised herself again.
The sharing, the lack of screens or veils, the undiluted intimacy stole her breath.
The feelings that cascaded through her, searing in intensity, had only grown stronger. More potent, more powerful. More overwhelming.
She didn’t understand it, but she knew it was real. Knew in the moment that, panting and desperate, her body engulfed by him, filled by him, her mind and senses awash with him, she reached up and caught his face between her palms, raised her head and pressed her lips to his, that this was beyond price.
He accepted her offering, plunged into her mouth, plunged with her into the fire and glory, then he thrust deep and she shattered, came apart on a cry he drank from her lips. His hips pumped as he sent her flying up, further, and on.
Then he groaned, stiffened in her arms, and she felt the heat of him deep inside.
Ecstasy spilled through her in a scintillating tide.
He slumped in her arms, heavy and hot, damp skin to damp skin, as passion-wracked as she.
Bliss rolled over them in a heavy wave laden with satiation, impossibly deep, impossible to deny.
Chapter Eleven
Miranda walked into the breakfast parlor the following morning to discover a family discussion in progress.
Roscoe—Julian—was shaking his head at Millicent and Cassie, seated opposite him. “You can’t simply tell your husbands not to come home.”
“Of course not!” Millicent mock-frowned at him. “We don’t propose to do anything of the sort.”
“Naturally not,” Cassie said. “They’ll quit Scotland and head home with our blessing—we’ll simply send word to be delivered once they reach there that we’ve decided to spend a few extra days at Ridgware.”
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