They reached the stairway. “And the police,” she said.
“Our likeliest suspect.” He made to start up the stairs with her.
She halted, her hand on the banister. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Upstairs.” He tried to urge her along.
Her eyes turned from blue to a flinty gray. “Not with me, you’re not.”
Tonight, she had lost the right to make that decision. “If you like, you can keep your almost virgin bed. Although…I am of course available should you change your mind.”
“You’re not staying here.”
He possessed an expression, one he used to ruthlessly quash unruly board members. He donned it now, and lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “Do you have any idea how angry I am that you knew about the robberies, and you stayed here, alone, at night, anyway?”
She climbed the first step, as if wanting the advantage the extra height would give her. “If I’d abandoned my post, the thieves would never be apprehended.”
“And you, my pet, would be out of harm’s way.” She still wasn’t taller than he was, and he moved in on her, letting her see how his eyes gleamed with fury. “Do you think I give a damn about the antiquities in this house, or any other, when compared to your safety?”
“You would care if they were yours.”
He gripped the banister until his knuckles turned white.
She backed up another step.
He followed, crowding her, furious that she thought he would dismiss her safety in the interests of ownership.
She took another step, and another.
He followed, pushing upward, step by step, until they reached the landing. Taking her shoulders, he lifted her onto her toes and stared straight into her wary blue eyes. “Find me a bedroom. I’m moving in.”
Chapter Seven
The great hall, a remnant of Masterson Manor’s medieval origins, stretched the length of the center wing. Its high ceilings soared out of sight, the tall windows were impossible to clean, and the fireplace stretched up to the ceiling. The morning sun slipped through the east windows, slanting its light across the long, narrow banquet table where, every morning at precisely eight o’clock, Kenneth and Grace served breakfast to Laurel.
But this morning, although Laurel sat at her usual place in the master’s chair at the end of the table, Max sat at her right hand, looking wide-awake and disgustingly cheerful. Of course, he would, Laurel thought sourly. He had got his own way.
“I don’t approve, miss.” Grace stood beside Laurel’s chair, her hands wrapped in her apron, her spine stiff. “A young man and a young woman, living here with nary a soul to chaperone them. It’s not proper, it’s not.”
Before Laurel could answer her, Max usurped the conversation. “We’re in love, Miss Grace. We’re going to get married.”
Laurel opened her mouth to deny it.
Max laid his hand over hers and squeezed, and smiled at her with every outward appearance of affection. Only Laurel saw the warning glint in his eyes. This was his plan. He would move in, claim they were madly in love and preparing to marry, when in reality he’d be protecting her life.
She had forcefully protested, but he had been positively menacing about the risks she’d taken with her life. Last night, capitulation had seemed the better part of valor.
This morning, dislodging him was impossible.
“In my day”—Grace was still talking to Laurel—”young people waited until after the ceremony to live together.”
Kenneth entered in time to hear Grace’s comment. He set a steaming basket of scones between Max and Laurel, and said, “In your day, Moses was a whippersnapper.” Flinging back his head, he wheezed with laughter.
“Very funny,” Grace huffed. “A hot scone, Mr. Max?”
Laurel wanted to shriek. The housekeeper reproached her as if she were the one responsible for Max’s residence, which she most certainly was not, and at the same time urged food on Max as if he were totally innocent, which he most certainly was not.
“Currant scones, heh, Miss Grace?” Max helped himself to one. “My favorite.”
“I know, sir. I baked them just for you.”
“No one does them better. It’s a marvelous breakfast.” He gazed at the sausages, the porridge, the sliced peaches with a float of cream, the homemade raspberry jam in a silver pot. “I haven’t seen a spread like this since the last time I visited my mother.”
Laurel hadn’t, either. Grace didn’t prepare meals like this for Laurel.
Grace beamed. “I like to see a young man with a good appetite.”
“She’s been cooking since five-thirty this morning,” Kenneth groused. “Bloody pain, she is.”
Ignoring him, Grace patted Laurel on the shoulder. “If you can actually catch Mr. Max, Miss Laurel, you’ll have a good man.”
“Based on his appetite?” Laurel watched Max take a bowl of porridge and sprinkle it with sugar.
“There’s nothing wan about this one. He’s hearty. He’ll last. He’ll breed well.” Grace sighed heavily. “But why should he buy the cow when he’s getting the cream for free?”
Max choked on a slice of peach.
Kenneth smacked him vigorously on the back.
Laurel could scarcely contain her irritation. “I put him in the lavender bedroom, and that’s where he’s sleeping.”
“It’s true, Grace.” Max waved Kenneth away, took Laurel’s hand again, and this time he raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “I am.”
“Oh, that’ll convince her,” Laurel muttered.
Kenneth cackled.
Max wore the same black shirt and jeans he’d worn last night, and he rubbed his hand over the golden stubble on his chin. “I have to go collect my clothes this morning. They’re still at the inn.”
Couldn’t the man be grumpy in the morning, or have bad breath? For rumpled or not, stubbled or not, he still looked too damned fine for Laurel’s comfort.
“Remember, Miss Laurel, temptation is ever present in the weak,” Grace pronounced.
“Amen,” Laurel agreed silently.
Lifting one of the silver covers, Grace said, “Try the manor eggs with haddock, Mr. Max. They’ve got fresh tarragon in them.”
“Um, marvelous.” He spooned some on Laurel’s plate first, then on his own.
Laurel knew better than to say she hated tarragon.
“There’s ham slices,” Grace said, “and a few slices of leftover steak and kidney pie.”
Suffering from a surfeit of both food and advice, Laurel said, “Thank you, Grace, Kenneth. That will be all.” She waited only until they’d left the room before looking menacingly at Max and tapping her spoon on the table in an aggravated motion.
“Grace is a lovely person,” Max said. “Kenneth…is not.”
Laurel didn’t answer; she just kept tapping. Nothing could muffle the clink of her silverware: not the velvet draperies, plush antique rugs, or ancient, smoke-smudged wood beams.
“All right.” Max put down his fork. “I apologize.”
“For what?” For which of his many perfidies was he apologizing? “For whatever it is you’re irate about.”
He didn’t even know, and that made her angrier.
“Because Grace likes men better than women,” he speculated. “Because you don’t like scones with currants.”
Laurel smacked the spoon onto the table. “Guess again.”
He gazed directly at her. “I won’t apologize for telling them we’re engaged. That’s the course we agreed on last night.”
“We did not agree on that. You took over because you thought…you said you thought I was in danger.”
“What other reason would I have for insisting that I stay in this house with you?” He grinned. “Besides for the chance to lead you into temptation?”
She ignored that as she had resolved to ignore any and all sexual references. “I do everything to make the house secure, so I’m safe.”
“Treasures are disappearing, so you are not safe.”
She ignored that, too. Better not to get in a quarrel with Max. He had a tendency to win. “I don’t understand how someone is stealing my antiques. That’s why I went out last night, or at least one of the reasons.”
“You’re not going to convince me that you going out at night when highwaymen are abroad is a good idea.”
Forgetting she didn’t want to quarrel, she snapped, “I don’t care if I convince you of anything. I’m paid to housesit at Masterson Manor. Artifacts are disappearing while under my care, and my professional reputation will be ruined.” Gloomily, she said, “I’ll never get another job.” Then a steely glint lit her eyes. “And…highwaymen? Don’t glamorize the modern-day common burglar and thief.”
He stroked her arm, a long, slow caress that gave her goosebumps. “When we’ve found our burglar, you’ll be known as the historian who broke up the smuggling ring.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. She might acquire a good reputation out of this mess, after all. Shaking off his touch, she tasted the porridge.
Which apparently irritated him, for his tone got low and menacing. “But you are a professional. You know what goes on in the world of smuggling. You know people kill for these things, and yet when I think you went out there looking for trouble…” He was breathing hard. His green eyes glowed with conviction. “You’re lucky I haven’t set up camp in your bedroom where I can watch you twenty-four hours a day.”
She stared at him and wished she could insist that she wasn’t in danger. But she was—although not from the thief.
She was in danger from Max.
Chapter Eight
She couldn’t believe it. She’d kissed Max. And not just kissed him. She’d embraced him. She’d clutched at him. She’d stuck her tongue in his mouth and accepted his into hers. Women who were trying to discourage a prospective husband did not act like that. Men with Max’s determination and drive would view such acts as a positive sign.
Men like Max would view the fact that she was breathing as a positive sign.
She had to stop thinking about him.
Why had she kissed him? She was supposed to be smart enough to resist him. And she had. These last two weeks, she’d ignored his deep, rumbly voice, his green, bedroom eyes, watching, always watching her, with a kind of flattering hunger…
Yes, she’d done a good job of ignoring him…until they’d kissed.
She had to stop remembering those beautiful, magnificent kisses and the wonderful time they’d had in Somerset.
But how could she?
Especially when it seemed he was remembering the same thing—or perhaps he saw the involuntary softening in her expression. “You can’t blame me for caring. I’ll never forget the first time I noticed you. We were at that antique auction and you made that throat-cutting gesture at me.”
Without meaning to, she relaxed. “You were driving the prices out of sight.”
“You were staring at me as if I were insane.” He chuckled, a deep, affectionate chuckle that made her toes curl in her shoes.
“You were insane. Everyone recognizes that wild look people get the first time they bid. And you were bidding on that horrible tablecloth.” She shook her head. “It was from the fifties, for pete’s sake!”
“The eighteen fifties?”
“The nineteen fifties. It was vinyl. How many vinyl tablecloths did they make in the…” She saw his smirk, and sighed. “You’re pulling my leg.”
What was she doing, indulging in memories and banter with him? She was pretty sure his scent got to her, weakening her resolve, making her receptive to him. He used mint shampoo, and lately, whenever he walked past her, she caught an enticing whiff of mint.
But more than that was how his skin smelled. Those three days when they’d traveled from auction to shop, she’d wanted to bury her nose in his chest and just breathe. He smelled warm and fresh and there was always that faint promise of…oh, she didn’t know…hot sex. Pheromones, she supposed. Tiny pointy chemical hormones that signaled he was a prime candidate for mating. And each arrowhead was aimed right at her.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. What was she going to do about him? She was leaving Masterson Manor soon, but she didn’t make the mistake of assuming he would merely melt away. He might not love her, but she loved him, and the danger was—she was starting to think she should marry him. Surely, if she loved him hard enough, he’d come to love her.
She grimaced. And that was every ex-wife’s worst mistake. Assuming she could change the man she married.
“Try the scone.” Breaking off a piece, he held it to her lips until she opened her mouth and accepted it.
“Good,” she mumbled.
He watched her chew as if the sight of her eating his food gave him some weird satisfaction. “I remember everything you taught me about antiques,” he said.
She swallowed. “Someone had to take you in hand.”
“I’m glad it was you.” He looked as if he were going to place a slice of peach in her mouth.
Hastily she filled her mouth with sausage.
He leaned close enough to speak softly. “Today, when I go into the village, I’m going to spread the word around that the owner asked that I change the security code and the locks. That will put pressure on our thief. So here’s the important question—if this is his last chance, what will he steal?”
She didn’t hesitate. “St. Albion’s cross.” She pictured the glittering cross in her mind. “Although it’s heavy, it’s transportable, and of those pieces, it’s by far worth the most.”
“Why haven’t he taken it before?”
“It would immediately be missed. It holds a position of prominence by the Masterson Bed. It even has a spotlight shining directly on it.”
“All right.” He pushed a wisp of hair off of her cheek. “The cross will be safe, I promise you.”
“How? Who…?”
“I’ll tell you tonight. Try not to worry. I’m not going to disappoint you. I know your passion.”
He was like the grain of sand she carried home from the beach in her tennis shoe, constantly irritating and impossible to dislodge. “Do we have to talk about my…passion?”
“I spent three days with you, digging around through every barn and auction for miles. When you talk about history and antiquities, you burn with a most glorious fire.”
His amusement was almost insulting. “I love antiques. You don’t.” She asked the question that had bothered her ever since she had met him. “So why were you collecting them?”
“Do you still think I’m one of the smugglers?”
“No. As you rightly pointed out last night, if you were, you would have killed me.” And he didn’t look as if he wanted to kill her.
More like he wanted to eat her.
He tilted her cheek toward the light. “You’re blushing quite delightfully. What are you thinking?”
What was he thinking? Where was he from? This last twenty-four hours had made her realize how little she knew about him. For those three days as they moved from auction to art gallery, he had asked her questions about herself, but when she asked him, he had always turned the subject. He’d just done it again. She’d asked him why he was collecting antiques. He’d answered a question with a question.
“Since I love antiques so much, why are you so sure I wouldn’t steal them?” she asked.
“You have morals.”
“Most people have morals.”
“Um…some people have some morals.” Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his hot chocolate. “But how many twenty-four year old virgins are there in England?”
“One less,” she snapped.
Softly, seductively, he said, “Let me make an honest woman out of you.”
She took in a deep breath to blast him, then let it go with an exasperated sigh. Max was impervious to slights, to hints, to direct frontal attacks. “I’m as honest as I ever was.” Pushing back her chai
r, she stood. “And I intend to stay that way.”
Chapter Nine
“It’s not right, Miss Laurel. It’s not proper, that’s all I know, and your mother would be horrified if she knew.” Grace fired her parting shot before she shuffled down the road toward the village. She’d stalled until long after serving them dinner, trying every tactic imaginable to dislodge Max.
Naturally, nothing had worked on him.
But Laurel knew Grace was right; her mother would be horrified if she knew.
Kenneth leered at the couple standing in the doorway. “Don’t pay any attention to the old besom. You two just spend the evening doing what young people do.” He headed down the road, too, then turned and added, “Might as well. Everyone in the village is gossiping about it.”
Laurel stabbed her elbow into Max’s side to dislodge him. As his arm dropped from her shoulders, she said, “Great. I’ve always wanted to be the whore of Babylon.”
Max sounded patient. Overly patient, to Laurel’s intolerant ears. “No one thinks you’re the whore of Babylon.”
“Grace does.”
“Well…yes. But all the other ladies in the village think you’ve done very well for yourself.”
She faced him. The setting sun gilded his tawny hair and turned his green eyes to a beautiful moss, and sculpted his face with the sheen of a precious metal. He was smiling, a whimsical smile that put a cleft in his cheek and, no doubt, charmed women for miles. “That’s what I like about you. You don’t suffer from a lack of conceit.”
“A man should know his worth.” He slipped his arm over her shoulders again and hugged her to him. “Women like a man who can unstop a toilet.”
“Yes, and run a bank, too.”
“That, too.”
She debated jabbing him with her elbow again. He was leading her down the corridor, and she rather resentfully noted how often and well he guided her wherever he wanted her to go. He was like a stallion herding his chosen mare. “What are we doing?” she asked.
His raised his brows at her truculent tone. “Going to the library. Isn’t that where you spend your evenings?”
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