“Son of a bitch!” Instantly his hand was lifted from her mouth and the dark shape retreated from the bedside. “You’ve got a gun! Don’t shoot, Yancey. It’s me—Sam.”
Her heart pounding now with as much relief as anger, Yancey shot up as if she were spring-loaded. With her free hand she shoved her covers back. “What are you doing, Sam? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Put that gun down.”
“I will not. I may yet want to use it. Don’t think that just because you’re you that I won’t shoot you. Because I will.”
“You will not. And keep your voice down.”
“Why should I? Most ladies would be hysterical and screaming their heads off about now.”
“And yet you remain calm and in possession of a gun.”
“I’m nowhere near calm. Or feeling much like a lady right now.” Several ticks of the clock went by. Sam said nothing. Yancey frowned, listening for any sound of his movement. “Sam?”
“I’m right here. Bear with me a moment.”
She cocked her head in the direction of his voice. “What are you doing? You had best not be removing your clothes—”
“You flatter yourself. I’m fumbling my way over to the bed table to light a candle. Can I do that without getting shot?”
“Remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
“Will you please keep your voice down?” His whisper was urgent.
Yancey’s matched his. “Will you tell me why? Have we been overrun by a marauding horde of heathens?”
“Hardly. But my mother has returned.”
“Oh.” Yancey’s stomach flopped sickly. With the dowager duchess in residence, the moment of truth for Yancey’s story had arrived. Her next thought had her frowning. “She risked the roads in the middle of the night?”
“She did, but it’s not now the middle of the night.” Yancey heard sounds that told her he was readying to light the candles by her bed. “It’s after six A.M. already.”
That was surprising. She’d had seven hours of sleep, yet she didn’t feel the least bit rested. Thankfully, though, her mind seemed to be functioning. “Your mother rode all night in order to get here this early? That smacks of urgency, Sam.”
“Very astute. Only she didn’t return alone,” he added cryptically.
That drew a sigh out of her. “Sam, I am no good first thing in the very early morning without coffee. So if you expect me to surmise who accompanied your mother, you’re in for a long list of very bad guesses.”
“I don’t expect you to guess. Only, hold on a moment.” Sudden light flared into the room, causing Yancey to blink. “There.” Sam had put the match to the candles.
Feeling suddenly silly for holding a gun on him, she placed it next to her on the sheet. Now that she could make out his presence, she saw he was dressed decently enough in pants and a shirt. But his face, with his jaw shaded with stubble, appeared haggard in the candlelight that lit his profile. She inhaled deeply, feeling not only his sensual tug on her heart but a surprising urge to comfort him. “Sam, what’s wrong? You can tell me. I’ll help you.”
Yancey surprised herself with the realization that she truly did want to help him. And she wanted him to trust her.
Sam closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his forehead, then met her gaze. His gray eyes looked so haunted. “I’m not certain you can.”
“I can do more than you realize, Sam. You can trust me.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Clearly he doubted her—and with good reason, she knew.
“You can trust me, Sam, I swear it.” She wanted to take his hand and hold it to her cheek. He’d been such a perfect gentleman at dinner and had taken great pains to entertain her. Despite his unorthodox way of awakening her, and the fright he’d given her, Yancey felt warmly toward him. Knowing that the time was fast approaching when she would have to tell him who she was, meaning a Pinkerton, she added quietly, “I’m not your enemy.”
She could only hope he wasn’t hers.
Sam exhaled a sigh. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Because I need you, and I have to ask you to do something.”
Perhaps it was because they were in her bedroom, such an intimate cocoon of a setting. Perhaps it was because she was in the bed and he was standing so close to it and telling her he needed her. Perhaps it was because his shirt wasn’t quite tucked in and was open at the throat, where she could see dark, crisply curling hair peeking out. Whatever the reason, she felt a softening in her belly and heard herself yielding to him. “Anything, Sam. Whatever you want.”
He startled her by coming to the bed in a rush and taking her hand in his as he abruptly sat down. “I have to ask you to be my wife.”
Yancey jerked, pulling her hand back. “Are you insane?” She stared in wide-eyed shock at the duke. “My pretense was nothing more than that—”
“I am fully aware of that. And I have had my reasons for allowing the charade to continue. But now, today, I truly need you to masquerade as my wife. It’s very important, Yancey. Life or death.”
She arched her eyebrows, her detective’s instincts coming to the fore. “Life or death? Good heavens, Sam, who did your mother bring with her? The very devil himself?”
Sam let go of her hand. He sat with a hip perched atop the bed and his muscled leg dangling over the side. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, a frown shading his grim expression. “You’re not very far off the mark. It’s my cousin. Roderick Harcourt.”
Well, that didn’t sound so bad. Yet, given Sam’s behavior, if the man wasn’t the devil, he’d at least sold his soul to the beast. Yancey cocked her head, intent on digging for information. “I assume that this cousin is your aunt’s son, since that’s where your mother was?”
Sam nodded. “Yes. Aunt Jane is my mother’s sister. Roderick is a first cousin. And much more. He is the Duke of Glenmore. And a very dangerous man steeped in court intrigues. He knows much more than he should about most people and isn’t afraid to use the knowledge to his own gain.”
Yancey leaned forward, gripping Sam’s arm. A part of her mind noted that his skin felt warm and smooth, and his flesh hard, much as if he worked the fields. “What does he know about you that he could use against you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”
“Maybe nothing? Then it could be something?”
“Possibly. It’s hard to say.”
Yancey considered him and his evasive answers. “Sam,” she said carefully, “why are you so concerned about your cousin’s being here?”
“Because of what I suspect him of.”
“And what is that, Sam? You need to tell me.”
Sam exhaled sharply. “I suspect him of somehow, if not directly, contributing to my brother’s death.”
A cold sickness invaded Yancey’s limbs. “Your brother? Then your mother doesn’t know of your suspicion, I take it? Otherwise, she wouldn’t bring him here. If she’s like most mothers, she would tear his heart out if she suspected such a thing.”
“You’re right in saying she knows nothing of my suspicion. To her, he’s simply her nephew, her sister’s son. And I intend to leave it at that unless I can and do prove otherwise. There’s no sense in causing a needless rift between her and her sister, whom she loves dearly.”
“Very good of you, Sam. But why do you suspect your cousin? And of what? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to, not all at once.” He shifted his weight as if signaling a change in subject. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending down to the kitchen to have our breakfast—mine and yours—brought up to my private sitting room. I came here to ask you to join me.”
This was a startling—and an amusing—turn to Yancey. “Really? Sneaking around in the darkness and clamping your hand over a person’s mouth? You have an odd way of inviting a lady to your room. I wonder that your entire breed didn’t die out for such tactics.”
At last, she’d wrung a grin from him, one that quickened her pulse. “I as
sure you I’m much more accomplished under less strained circumstances.”
Smiling, Yancey raised her chin. “I shall take your word for it. And I shall be honored to join you for breakfast. I assume our topic of conversation will be your cousin and why you want him to believe that I am your wife?”
“Very astute of you. Will thirty minutes be enough time for you to dress and then join me? Do you need Robin’s services?”
Yancey shook her head no. “I can manage without Robin, although the very idea that I can seems to break her heart. However, I’m used to taking care of myself.”
Sam picked up her gun and brandished it pointedly between them. “I can see that.”
“Yes. But where are your mother and cousin now? What are they doing?”
“They’ve both gone to bed. As you surmised, they’ve been on the road all night and are exhausted. I don’t look for them to be recovered and up and about until late this afternoon at the earliest. Which is good because it will give you and me time to get acquainted.”
“I thought we already were.”
He still held her gun, smoothing his hand over it, hefting it for balance. “Nice weapon.” Then he captured her gaze. “I don’t think we are acquainted at all … Yancey.”
Not if it meant her very life could Yancey maintain her eye contact with him. Instead, she picked at a thread in the bedcoverings and thought of all he needed to know about her. And all he didn’t need to know.
Sam silently held her gun out to her. Meeting his gaze, seeing the questioning expression on his face, she took it from him. He surprised her by running his fingers over her cheek and jaw. His touch was feather soft. Then he exhaled, shook his head, and stood up.
Yancey struggled for something to say to break the spell. “Sam, you never told me why your cousin accompanied your mother here. A mere social call, perhaps? Or did she invite him?”
A smile that held a world of tenderness and intrigue claimed his features. “No mere social call. Roderick and I despise each other, but in this instance, I believe he’s playing the solicitous nephew. To answer your question, he accompanied Mother because she’s absolutely distraught. She was in no condition to tell me why she is, so Roderick did.”
Sam looked away from her and swallowed. Even in the dim candlelight Yancey could see his throat work. Fear for him had her speaking his name softly. “Sam? What did he say?”
He gave her his attention, saying, “In short, Roderick—who looks like hell, I must add—said that on my mother’s last day at his and his mother’s home, she received a letter from America.”
“Is that usual, her getting mail at her sister’s home?”
“No. That’s very odd.”
Yancey could barely breathe. “Who was it from?”
Sam rubbed tiredly at his forehead. “He didn’t say.” Then he frowned. “And gave me no chance to ask. At any rate, Roderick said Mother received a letter that put her into a swoon and then had her insisting on making for home straightaway.” Sam’s expression became baleful, naked and exposed. “Apparently she’s been told that my wife is dead.”
Shocked, Yancey blurted, “He just said it out like that? My God, Sam, that is cruel. I am so sorry. You poor man.”
Even as she spoke, she thought guiltily of what she knew about that poor woman back in Chicago who had been murdered. Had she been Sam’s wife? Yancey stared up into Sam’s haggard, hurting face. If all of this was true and that woman turned out to be his wife, Yancey knew she could swear with a clear conscience that Sam hadn’t known until this moment that his wife was dead. It was there in his face. He was innocent. She expressed her condolences again. “Sam, I am so, so sorry you had to learn it this way.”
He brushed away her words with an agitated wave of his hand. “Dress and join me in my room, Yancey. We have much to do.”
He gave her no chance to respond or to further sympathize with him as he turned and walked away. After no more than a few steps, the room’s darkness swallowed him up.
Yancey slumped atop her bed, her mind whirling with her thoughts. Uppermost was her growing suspicion regarding the Duke of Glenmore. With the arrival of this man, could it now be that the villain was in residence? With each passing second, she became increasingly certain of it. So certain that she would stake her reputation on it. And her life, if need be.
Her life. Would it come to that? Could it? She nodded. Yes. She suspected that should she agree to continue in her masquerade as Sam’s wife, it could come to that. Her very life. Or possibly Sam’s.
Chapter Twelve
In a little less than thirty minutes, Yancey had quickly bathed and dressed in a belted rust-colored skirt and cream blouse. She had her hair pulled back and tied at her nape with a bit of ribbon. As she passed through the adjoining dressing rooms, she couldn’t help but smile at how messy Sam’s side was. If she wanted to be kind, she would say the details of life were of no concern to him. But he, no doubt, would say that that was what he had servants for.
Her conclusion carried her into his bedroom, where she stopped suddenly at the threshold and, filled with a sense of awe, looked around her. Here at last was the man’s room revealed in all its masculine glory and not framed in partial detail by an open doorway, her only means before now of satisfying her curiosity. So this is Sam’s lair. Here is how he lives in private. And these are things with which he surrounds himself.
Even while breathing in the unique masculine scent that permeated the very air, Yancey told her clanging conscience that she was simply being a good Pinkerton. Noticing the details, as it were. Like the heavy draperies done in a rich maroon. They were flung open, allowing in the day’s dawning sunlight. And such masculine furniture the light revealed: the writing desk with papers spread messily across it, and the massive, rumpled bed with the coverings thrown back. To one side hunkered a huge armoire that revealed, through open doors, his considerable wardrobe. And a tall chest of drawers attested to Sam’s harried state of mind. The drawers were pulled out and items such as underthings and shirts spilled out of them.
A fond yet ironic grin claimed her mouth. Does the man not have a valet to pick up after him? She thought about that and realized she’d heard no mention of one. Then who assisted him? Scotty? She shook her head no. She couldn’t picture that slow-moving giant attending to the small fussy details that filled a valet’s time. She concluded that Sam, then, must see after himself. Interesting—and unexpected. Yancey took another moment to notice Sam’s more personal items lying about. If she was to masquerade as Sam’s wife in earnest, then she should know some intimate details of his habits, shouldn’t she? Things like how he flung his hairbrush aside. How he allowed his shaving mug to foam over. And there he’d tossed a wet towel over the dry sink’s mirror. And here were last night’s formal clothes draped over a chair.
Yancey knew one thing: if she were really his wife, this state of affairs would be rectified. The man would have a valet, mind you. Feeling slightly superior for her neat ways, Yancey crossed Sam’s carpeted bedroom, intent now on joining the duke in his sitting room. Through the open doorway she smelled the wonderfully tantalizing aromas of bacon and coffee. But her next thought had her wondering if Sam was messy like this every day. Or if today was different because of the news he’d just learned about his wife.
His wife. That poor woman. Yancey wondered if any proof of her death had been given Sam. His Grace, the duke. My duke, she amended, since his cousin also carried the same title. A private smile tugged at Yancey’s lips. She inexplicably found that she liked his lofty titles and formal forms of address. Absurdly, they now held a note of familiarity and of intimacy for her. An intimacy she was not entitled to with this man, her conscience railed.
Raising her chin stubbornly against those admonitions, Yancey reached the threshold of the sitting room, where she paused, a hand on the doorjamb as she looked around. Where was Sam? There was the breakfast cart, but the room, Spartan in decoration, yet somehow appropriate to the man it served
, appeared to be unoccupied. She stepped farther into the room and looked around. Then she saw him. Her breath caught in her throat. So tall and commanding a presence he was. He stood across the way, staring out a long narrow window set in an alcove.
With his back to her, he was sipping at something, presumably a cup of coffee … although under these trying circumstances, Yancey avowed, whisky would have been forgiven. She noted that he was dressed like he’d been when he’d stolen into her room earlier to wake her up, only now he appeared neater. Certainly she’d seen the evidence as she’d passed through his bedroom that he’d cleaned up for the coming day.
Such a picture of masculine power and beauty he was. Yancey had to bite back a sigh of appreciation, not wanting to alert him just yet to her presence. First she wanted to drink her fill of the man … his black hair, so thick and wavy. His neck, a strong column. Such broad shoulders, narrowing to a slender waist and muscular buttocks. His long legs were encased in riding pants and Hessians.
Having traveled down his length, she flicked her gaze back up him and made a face of feminine despair. Why did her heart do a light, tripping dance with her pulse every time she saw him? Why did her blood sing and her belly softly throb? And what would she do with all those emotions when she had to leave? Not wanting to hear the answers to those questions, Yancey cleared her throat discreetly. “Sam?”
He turned around, his gaze warm, riveting … inviting. “Yancey,” he said, a look of delight and relief edging his eyes. “Come in. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you enter.”
Mindful of his mourning state, she returned his smile and made excuses for him. “You were deep in thought, and I didn’t wish to intrude on that.”
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