A Woman’s Innocence

by Gayle Callen

  And there was nothing Sam could do about it. He accepted the gesture of peace, and headed down the path to the portico. Until speaking to Henry, he’d been successful forgetting that his mother lived nearby. He’d concentrated on Julia and their life-and-death problems.

  But Henry was right—he’d been alone too long.

  “Constable Fitzjames?”

  Julia was in the library, making notes about her conversation with Mr. Rutherford, when Sam called her name from the hall.

  “Yes, sir!”

  He entered and closed the door, his expression betraying a moment’s relief, then becoming blank. He looked…pale.

  She came around the desk and approached him, saying softly, “Is everything all right?”

  He stiffened, and she could have sworn he wanted to take a step back. A tension vibrated in him that she’d never noticed before.

  “The constable was headed back for Rotherham. I let him go.” His voice was low, calm—but wrong.

  “Why…of course you did,” she said in confusion. She didn’t understand what was going on beneath the surface of his forced composure, but for once she didn’t think it was because of her.

  “He might return.”

  “And we’ll deal with it if it happens,” she answered. “Is…something else wrong? Did you see our assailant?”

  He took a sudden, deep breath, and some of the palpable strain drained away. He attempted a smile. “No, though I kept watch for him. So how did the rest of the interview go with Rutherford?”

  Julia smiled, finally letting her excitement show. “I learned something interesting. Mr. Rutherford let slip that Lewis had questioned him about Mrs. Hume before her death.”

  Sam perched on the edge of the desk and nodded his encouragement. “What kind of questions did Lewis ask?”

  “About Mrs. Hume’s health, her stamina, even her daily habits. That must be how he knew that it wouldn’t be a total shock should she die in the middle of the night.”

  “So, the good steward was helpful after all,” he said. “And of course his account books will be helpful, too.”

  She frowned. “But he said we couldn’t look at them.”

  “He doesn’t sleep in his office, does he?”

  Sam grinned, and with that beard he reminded her of a pirate following clues to his chest of gold doubloons.

  Walking closer to him, she smiled, then lowered her voice. “When do we sneak in?”

  “I sneak in tonight.”

  “I’m coming, too.”

  He arched an eyebrow, deliberately looking her up and down as if judging her worth. This tension that she still sensed beneath the surface made him seem…dangerous.

  God help her, but it was exciting. She quickly reminded herself of her vow to behave.

  He said, “I can be quicker, quieter without you.”

  “We need to stay together. You said so yourself. I just can’t lie snug in my bed and let you take all the risks.”

  Something in his face had changed when she’d said the word “bed.”

  “These are my family account books,” she hurriedly continued. “Unless you plan on bringing them back to our room—”

  “We can’t risk that.”

  “Then I’m coming with you. We can read twice as many books together.”

  He remained silent as he debated. She watched his face; he watched hers. When he finally nodded, she was glad to step away, feeling a lingering heat as if she’d been scorched.

  They finished the last of the interviews just before dinner, and Sam was relieved. He’d suspected Mr. Rutherford might be the only useful subject that day, and he’d been right. A waste of an afternoon, but it had been necessary to keep the staff compliant.

  And it had forced his churning emotions back into hiding, where they belonged.

  An evening spent with the servants was relaxing, but he retired early, claiming fatigue. Julia’s wide gaze followed him out, and he knew with amusement that it might look strange should she constantly leave with him. And besides, she was the center of interest between Lucy and Florence.

  An hour later, he heard the sitting room door slam, then an insistent knock on his own bedroom door. He pulled on his trousers and shirt and answered it.

  “You must do something about Lucy,” Julia said in a soft, angry voice. “And Florence—and Harold!”

  Her glance found the open collar revealing his bare chest, and he pulled the edges of his shirt together.

  “What did they all do?”

  “Lucy is courting me openly, Florence is egging her on with competition just to be funny, and Harold—Harold thinks I’m stealing his girl!”

  Sam closed his mouth before his laughter escaped. When he had himself under control, he murmured, “Harold the footman?”

  “Who else? The staff isn’t supposed to fraternize—”

  “That I remember,” he said dryly.

  She ignored him. “I saw Harold and Florence briefly talk to one another in the drawing room this morning, and you’d think they were worried about execution, the way Harold tried to explain how innocent everything was.”

  “They could lose their positions,” he said seriously.

  “I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean to make light of their situation. But Lucy is starting to follow me through the halls!”

  “There isn’t much I can do about it.”

  “Tell Frances!”

  “What should Frances say to Lucy: ’Constable Fitzjames is a woman’?”

  Julia threw up her hands and strode to the window, motioning for him impatiently. He followed, his bare feet sinking into the soft carpet.

  “Calm down,” he said.

  “Lucy expects me to dance with her, and I don’t even know the man’s steps!”

  “Is the harvest dance where it always was?”

  “Outside on the back lawn, if the weather cooperates. They have plans for bonfires and musicians and everything.”

  “Think Lucy will want to sneak you away for a romantic walk?”

  She pushed him out of the way and went to her own bedroom. Trying to erase his smile, he held the door when she would have closed it in his face. “Do you think you can handle her for a while longer? She doesn’t seem the type to make advances.”

  She pushed hard on the door, but he propped it open with his foot.

  “I’m sorry I said anything at all!” she said.

  Forgetting himself, he pushed harder and she stumbled away.

  “You’d better leave.” Her hands went to her coat buttons. “Or I’m going to start taking things off, and you know how much that will annoy you.”

  He realized the dangerous game they were playing just in time. He forced his expression to sober. “I’ll wake you at two in the morning.”

  “You must promise. I swear, I’ll sleep on your floor if I think you’ll leave me behind.”

  He had a sudden image of the thick carpet in front of the fireplace in his room—and her stretched out on it, naked. He quickly headed for the door.

  “I promise.”

  Sam was awakened from a light sleep by an unusual sound. He sat upright and strained his ears to listen, but heard nothing from the sitting room or Julia’s bedroom.

  Then he heard it again, a shower of something against the window. It was too hard to be rain. He approached the window and stood to the side, easing the draperies away by mere inches. This time he realized it was a handful of pebbles. Someone was obviously trying to get his attention, but he couldn’t imagine it being Henry.

  One part of him just wanted to ignore it and frustrate the midnight caller. But the other part of him wanted to let the man know in no uncertain terms that his attempts to lure them outside weren’t working.

  From the side, he eased his head next to the window and looked down, but he could see nothing. Very slowly, he slid the lock back and pressed open the glass. If the man had scaled the wall, Sam was going to make sure he had a sudden, long fall to the groun
d.

  He peered slowly over the edge, but there was no one clinging to the wall. He had just a moment’s warning, a glitter of metal in the moonlight, and he backed away as a knife embedded itself in the wooden sill. He removed it and leaned out the window to toss it back, but all he heard was the dwindling sound of running feet.

  He closed and locked the window, then got dressed in the dark. He woke Julia and didn’t bother to tell her what had happened. She didn’t need the added frustration.

  At night, and without candles to light their way, the corridors were pitch-black but for the occasional pale moonlight glimpsed through an open door. One of the footmen passed nearby carrying an oil lamp, but they were able to avoid him. Sam didn’t know where the hell he was, and had to rely on Julia to lead him. He had a glimpse of her face with its I-told-you-so expression, but graciously, she said nothing.

  After he’d bumped into her twice, she reached back and firmly took his hand. Her skin was warm, dry, and her fingers long. She would know just how to touch—

  He forced himself to pay attention to her signals: the tightened grip when she wanted him to stop, and the tug as she moved forward. They hugged walls and crept down the edge of the stairs using the main staircase.

  The steward’s office was next door to the housekeeper’s room, and this was where things got tricky. Sam wouldn’t put it past Frances to put herself in charge of the rotation of the patrolling footmen. They had to be very quiet.

  As Julia stopped in front of the correct door, he heard her fumbling with the handle. He could have told her it would be locked. Gently pushing her aside, he inserted the key, and the door opened soundlessly. Maybe he should have told her he’d “borrowed” Frances’s keys that evening, experimented with them to find the passkey, then put the ring back with Frances none the wiser.

  He closed the door behind them and felt his way to the two windows which looked out over the garden. Both sets of draperies were closed. He took a candle, candle holder, and a match from his pocket, and soon there was a small, cheery light on the desk.

  Julia just stared at him with a stunned expression.

  He’d tell her later that a man like Rutherford would notice if his personal candles were burned lower than he’d left them.

  The account books lined a shelf behind the desk, and Sam pulled out the most recent one and sat down in the desk chair to read it. She took the next one, then knelt on the floor beside him to use the candlelight.

  As he paged through the book, perusing columns of figures, he grew more and more disheartened by the fact that there were regular small deposits being made every month or so, rather than one large, suspicious amount. He hadn’t thought Lewis would be stupid enough to put all his money in at once, but a part of him had hoped Lewis would be careless once or twice.

  Julia looked discouraged as she came to the same conclusion.

  It would be pointless to travel to London to Lewis’s bank itself. Sam was a wanted man, and without some other solid proof, no judge was going to let him open a military hero’s accounts to scrutiny—not to mention the fact that Sam would be arrested before he got near a judge. He reminded himself that he’d known the account books would probably not help him, but it didn’t stop the frustration burning a hole in his gut. Every day without solid evidence was a day closer to them being captured and executed. This day was only proving how useless he’d been to Julia.

  So now he had to find the money itself, and without a clue, what would he do—dig up every inch of the garden? That would take years. Search every inch of the house, rip holes in the walls? Maybe weeks of effort. And that was if no one stopped them.

  For the first time, he wondered if he could really save Julia.

  Then he heard the sound of stones against the window.

  Julia’s head came up in shock, and he held a finger to his lips and blew out the candle. She put her hand on his thigh, and he thought she might be trembling. He put his own hand over hers, then leaned down until her hair tickled his lips.

  “He’s just taunting us,” he whispered. “He won’t be foolish enough to try to break in.”

  “Where are the grooms assigned to watch the grounds?”

  “Hopefully walking on the far side of the manor out of danger. Just wait.”

  Sure enough, no pebbles were thrown at Rutherford’s window again, although Sam thought he heard some land on another window farther down the wing. Then there was silence.

  Sam let Julia lead him back to their suite, where he was forced to tell her that their assailant had already tried this tactic earlier. Though he reassured her enough so that she went to her own bed, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Despair and anger warred inside him, and after the day’s events, he needed some form of outlet.

  Chapter 16

  Julia lay in bed, eyes aching because she couldn’t keep them closed. She should sleep—she needed to sleep—but she couldn’t forget the fact that they’d lost a major chance to prove Lewis guilty.

  The money was somewhere; she had to keep remembering that. But Sam seemed more upset than she was. He’d acted differently from the moment he’d followed that Leeds constable, but she couldn’t imagine what had happened.

  When at least an hour had passed, she decided to find the book she’d left in the sitting room. At least it would keep her mind occupied. She lit her candle and wandered into the next room, ignoring the window, below which an enemy waited. More than once, her eyes went to Sam’s closed door. It drew her until she finally surrendered, and with a sigh, she leaned her head against it, knowing it was the only way to be near him.

  But she heard nothing.

  Before she could think too much, she turned the knob and peeked in.

  The bed was empty.

  She resisted the urge to slam the door in frustration. Had he actually gone back to Rutherford’s office without telling her?

  She quickly bound her breasts and pulled her shirt, trousers, and boots back on. After tucking her hair back under her hat, she blew the candle out and fumbled with her door. Of course, she’d locked it. She found the key, then went off on her mission to find Sam. When she met up with Harold the footman in a dark corridor, looking groggy and stumbling, she sent him to bed, promising to take over for the last hour of his shift.

  Sam wasn’t in Rutherford’s office, and Frances’s room was silent. The kitchen was empty, even the library, where he might have worked so as not to disturb her. Surely he wouldn’t have gone to visit his brother, not with their attacker lurking on the grounds waiting for his chance to strike.

  During a last sweep through the family wing, she heard an unfamiliar sound, like…something soft being struck. She followed the noise down a corridor and found herself at the back of the house, near the conservatory. She could smell the damp earth and the mingled scents of various flowers, and hear the whisper of leaves brushing against each other.

  The thumping sound was coming from inside. Stepping through the door, she finally saw the glow of a single candle in the far corner. It cast shadows of ferns and blossoms in exaggeration upon the dark glass walls. Cautiously, she followed the stone path.

  As she got closer, the thumps became more rapid, and she noticed a faint creaking. Before turning the last curve of the path, she ducked behind a potted palm tree and squatted down, peering past the trunk. This was an overgrown corner of the conservatory, where vines climbed even the glass, acting like a wall against the outside world.

  A rope hung from the ceiling, all but concealed by ivy curling all the way up. A heavy sack hung from the end, swinging out in an arc, then back.

  Sam, his torso bare, threw his weight behind a punch that sent the sack creaking away.

  Julia knew she should tell him that she was there. But she kept silent, watching him until she almost forgot to breathe.

  He held his arms bent in front of him, as if protecting his chest from an opponent. His skin glistened with perspiration, and his hair hung in damp curls at his neck. His body was s
mooth and curved with muscle, from the width of his back to the taut indentations down his stomach. She held her hands clenched tight in her lap, and below that, she ached between her thighs, as if her body were trying to force her to go to him.

  He watched the swing of the sack, seemed to time his punches, and then threw a flurry of hits that made his muscles do incredible things. She stared at his face in profile, his brows lowered angrily, his mouth set in a firm line, though betraying an occasional grimace when he struck the sack hard. His eyes told her that this wasn’t just an attempt to work himself into exhaustion. They were full of frustration and anger and anguish—

  And despair?

  She stepped out onto the path and went toward him. He was partially turned away, and with a low grunt he launched another punch that sent the sack away. He saw her out of the corner of his eye and caught the sack when it would have slammed back into him.

  “Sam.”

  She whispered his name, wanting to comfort him, to take away the pain, to tell him he was doing his best and that was all she needed. Without skirts, she was able to come too close to him, and suddenly her need to console him transformed into another need.

  He was breathing heavily, his nostrils flared, his eyes full of a darkness she didn’t understand. There was so much bare skin before her, and she wanted to touch him. Her hands reached out and this time he didn’t move away, just closed his eyes when she touched his chest and let her hands slide up and across his shoulders.

  He was a man, and she knew what he needed—what she wanted. In this dark, earthy room, there was nothing but them, two people on the edge of disaster, their normal worlds gone but for each other.

  She whispered his name again, let her hands slide up into his hair. She pressed herself full against him, and he groaned as he enveloped her in a hard embrace.

  “Julia.”

  Her name on his lips was full of a need she’d always wanted to hear. It drove away the last of her caution. She pulled his head down and kissed him with all the urgency that consumed her, touching his skin everywhere she could reach. His big hands held her to him; his mouth claimed hers. Each swirl of his tongue against hers made her shudder and press herself harder against him. Then he kissed her cheeks, her chin, her neck just below her ear. With his teeth he tugged at her earlobe, and she dropped her head back, baring her throat for the taking. Every exploration of his lips and tongue seemed like uncharted territory, like no man had ever tasted her skin or made her feel so languid with desire. She felt new and whole just for Sam.