by Erica Ridley
“A caryatid would get your meaning.” Susan swayed, then steadied herself with a palm to his arm. Her over-tight stays must be making her breathless. It certainly had nothing to do with the way he didn’t bother to hide the blatant interest darkening his gaze. Or the way her pulse quickened at every touch. “I plan to remain innocent in the way you mean until the day I wed. So if you don’t mind, please step aside and allow a lady to pass.”
He tilted his head and considered her. “Would that be the gentlemanly thing to do?”
Yes. And that’s what she desired. A gentleman. A rich, titled, London gentleman. Period.
“Of course.”
“Then that’s the first fallacy in your logic. You assume I’m a gentleman, when I am not. In fact, the only time I’m ever gentle is when I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Susan interrupted, desperate to cut him off lest she somehow be compromised by mere words alone. A proper young lady should have no interest in hearing any details regarding the style of his lovemaking. Yet her heartbeat tripled its speed.
“Discussion is pointless,” the shameless reprobate agreed softly, “when actions speak so much more eloquently.”
With that, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.
Chapter 9
Miss Stanton’s fist connected with Evan’s ribs.
Several stunned seconds passed before it occurred to him to let go of her face. The moment he regained his senses—which had tumbled from his head after suffering his first-ever setback by a woman—he jerked his hands away as if her pores exuded acid.
She had the audacity to look wounded.
“You hit me,” he pointed out.
Miss Stanton crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You kissed me.”
“A mistake I shall strive not to make again, I assure you.”
“Good,” she snapped. But a slight wrinkle creased her brow, as if she weren’t completely certain whether she was winning the argument or losing.
He, on the other hand, had no such uncertainty. If two people sharing as many sparks as they did were not occupied in the pleasurable task of lovemaking or the preparation thereof, they were both losing.
Evan hated to lose.
However, his primary mission—make that his sole mission—was to uncover Timothy’s killer, not waste time dallying with fast-fisted blondes. Particularly one who now resided in the one house in Bournemouth he frequented nearly as often as his own. If she would’ve succumbed to temptation... Christ. The very thought of seeing the same lover’s face on a daily basis set his skin to itching.
He would, of course, accompany the jasmine-scented beauty for the duration of the walk to Moonseed Manor, as her arse had demolished the only other viable route to the top. As she was still staring at him expectantly, one pale eyebrow arched higher than the other, he might as well give her what she wished and get this over with as fast as possible.
With an ungentlemanly sigh, he proffered his arm.
With an equally unladylike... huff?... she spun around without taking it and stalked up the trail with enough unnecessary stomping that Evan began to fear she was about to ruin this path, too.
“What is it you want?” he heard himself ask, as he hastened to her side while the walkway still existed. This was the main reason port wenches were better than Society women—he never had to ask what they wanted. The answer was always: him.
“I want you,” the blonde virago said without bothering to slow her steps, “to go away.”
And right there was the second reason.
“Just to clear things up,” he informed the irritatingly attractive sway of Miss Stanton’s backside, “I am on my way to visit Ollie, not you.”
Her step faltered, but she didn’t respond.
Evan picked up his pace. Not only were his legs longer than Miss Stanton’s, his feet knew this and every trail in Bournemouth by rote. Within the space of a heartbeat he was at her side, and within another, already beyond. He was almost to the next curve in the path when she gritted out, “Wait.”
He considered continuing on as if he hadn’t heard her. After all, he was nine or ten feet ahead. Perhaps he was deaf in one ear. She wouldn’t know. Yet some devil inside him made him slow. Or perhaps something in her voice beckoned him as irresistibly as a siren’s.
Despite such warning bells, he turned to face her. “What now, woman?”
“Aren’t you at least going to stay behind me?”
What did she expect of him? And why did she think he would grant it? Merely because she was a lady?
Her cheeks held a hint of pink, whether from pique or embarrassment, he didn’t know. He had no idea why his body refused to obey his brain’s directive to quit her presence for good. She seemed to be fighting a similar internal battle. He would solve the problem for both of them by making it easier for her to decide he was the last man a respectable young lady should be spending time with. He was no gentleman. Had never been. And had no desire to be.
“We’re not promenading a ballroom,” he reminded her. “I am not your suitor.”
“Thank God for both of those facts,” she muttered. He was certain that’s what she’d just said. But then she met his eyes, her own blue and wide behind her spectacles, and gazed at him as if she’d said nothing. “What if I should fall?”
Evan stared at her. Was she expecting to fall? Did the woman plan such things? And when had he been enlisted as her personal safety net? The man so far below her lofty status that his only usefulness was that of impromptu carriage? His flesh steamed. He had left his past behind specifically to avoid class conflicts with the ton. This was Bournemouth, for the love of whiskey. He wouldn’t let a comely little debutante play the superior.
“In that case,” he replied icily, “you will have the satisfaction of knowing it was your own damn fault, given that I am too far ahead to give you a proper push.”
Surprisingly, the London debutante did not gasp at his effrontery in highly dramatized outrage. In fact, if it weren’t simply a trick of the sun’s glare upon her spectacles, Miss Stanton’s initial reaction had been to... roll her eyes?
“Walk with me,” she gritted out in a voice even surlier than his own. “... Please.”
He did. Primarily in surprise. She had not wanted to say please. He had not expected to hear it.
He did not offer his arm this time. He didn’t have to. She slipped a gloved hand into the narrow gap between his elbow and his greatcoat and stared straight ahead as if wishing she were anywhere in the world but at his side. At this point, the feeling was mutual.
At least he wasn’t expected to engage in small talk.
As they made their way up the cliff in silence, Evan turned his thoughts from his present companion to his late brother. How he missed Timothy. He’d had such a logical mind and strong sense of justice. Had their situations been reversed, Timothy would’ve solved Evan’s murder with ease, Evan was certain. Timothy had always been clever.
So why was he dead? Was it possible he had been doing something as trivial as adding sums when a miscreant chanced upon him? Evan let out a sigh. There were too many unknowns. Was Timothy the intended target? If so, why? And if not, how the devil was Evan going to track down a killer whose only complaint against his victim had been the happenstance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
The delicate fingers curving around his arm dug into his skin.
“What?” Miss Stanton’s voice was interested. Too interested. He could feel her gaze boring into his skull.
“What’s what?” he mumbled absently, trying to keep his mind focused on unraveling what few clues he had. He would show his brother that the elder Bothwick had as much ability to use his brain as his balls. Vengeance would be swift.
Provided he not lose time with jasmine-scented blonde distractions.
“You sighed.”
That warranted a complete set of nails puncturing his arm through three layers of fabric?
“I did not.”
“You did,” she insisted, staring at him as if the intensity of her blue eyes could force him to voice his darkest thoughts aloud.
“So I did,” Evan agreed, so as to derail the current pattern before the conversation degenerated into the black tar of did-not, did-too as so many of his and Timothy’s childhood arguments had gone. “If you must know, my sigh was because I suffer from horrible asthma. My physician says I should stop carrying women about, and the next time you fall... I should let you hit the ground.”
As before, she failed to gasp in outrage. Her eyes were probing, not wounded. And her muttered response sounded almost like... “Bollocks.”
“What was that?” he inquired politely. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“I said,” she began, “I doubt you’d notice if I fell to my death. Something else is on your mind. What is it? The corpse you mislaid?”
Here he’d thought she’d been about to dispute his alleged lung condition.
He gave those alarmingly intelligent eyes his most careless smile and marched forward in renewed silence. He’d never have mentioned the missing-body situation had she—and the loss of his brother—not caught him utterly off guard. He was on guard now, however. He’d be watching his back around this little Londonite with big eyes, a dangerously round arse, and a grip like a deckhand. Matter of fact, he’d be keeping his eye on everyone.
Someone in town was a killer. And Evan would have revenge.
For best results, however, he would have to keep up appearances of his usual devil-may-care attitude and puss-on-the-prowl activities. In fact...
He slid Miss Stanton a sideways glance.
She noticed.
He couldn’t prevent a slow, satisfied smile from curving his lips.
She noticed that, too.
“W-what?” she stammered, loosening her grip on his arm and edging away as much as the cliff’s edge would allow.
Evan hid his smile and propelled them farther up the narrow path.
With no imagination at all, the entire town could be made to believe she was his newest conquest. Given the roguishness of his reputation and his well-documented lust for fresh blood, he probably would never have to be within shouting distance of the inquisitive blonde for the rumor to spread like pox at sea. The villain would believe Evan too wrapped up in a new skirt to be playing detective... and executioner. Then Evan would strike.
Blood for blood. Death for death.
Chapter 10
Evan let himself into Ollie’s library with the sneaking suspicion that Miss Stanton’s exaggerated flight from his side upon entering the premises was more ruse than reality, and that she lurked nearby in the shadows. He waited a brief moment on the other side of the door before giving it a sudden wrench open and launching himself into the hallway.
He was alone.
The prickles on the back of his neck continued to plague him. He narrowed his eyes at the web of passageways trickling outward like so many rivulets of blood. He had no reason to believe she’d meant to spy on them earlier, particularly given the ghost-white terror in her expression when he’d flown into the hall, but something about the way she’d—
“Bothwick,” came Ollie’s coarse voice from across the room. “Get in or stay out.”
With misgivings, Evan returned inside. He locked the library door before crossing to the half-circle of black leather chairs facing the fire, and threw himself into the one farthest from Ollie so he could keep an eye on any subtle changes in expression.
“I haven’t come to kill you after all,” Evan offered by way of greeting.
“Thank God, or I’d have to say you’re not worth ship room anymore.” Ollie glanced up from his ledgers. “If you fancy a brandy, get it yourself.”
“I need your help. He’s gone.”
“Who? Timothy?” Ollie frowned, the deep lines that shadowed his face making his ugly face even uglier. “Didn’t you say he was dead?”
Evan’s stomach clenched at the memory. “The hole in his head gave that impression.”
“Then how—”
“I obviously don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“How the bloody hell would I know?” The surprise in Ollie’s eyes was real. “Your brother was the least unsavory shipmate I’ve ever had. The only person I can imagine putting a bullet between his eyes is Timothy himself out of pure boredom.”
“Suggest it again and I’ll put a bullet between yours.”
Ollie glanced away, by all appearances suddenly fascinated by the crackling of the fire.
That was as close to an apology as the brute had ever given, so Evan forced himself to stay on course. He needed answers. Ollie hadn’t been present. But other hands had been on board. He just had to find them.
“Red wasn’t at the Shark’s Tooth this morning,” he said aloud.
“Well, hallelujah.” Ollie lowered his gaze to his ledger and ran a finger down one of the columns. “First time that sorry bastard hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor since his mouth let go of his mama’s pap.”
“Don’t you find that strange?” Evan insisted, leaning forward in his chair. Perhaps Red hadn’t been in the tavern because Red had left town. Perhaps the sotted smuggler had turned on Timothy and fled Bournemouth forever.
“Red’s a big enough imbecile to put a bullet in one of his own shipmates, but if you’re suggesting he also managed to hush up the crew and escape by himself with the spoils, boat and all”—Ollie scratched at his beard—“I’m going to be a bit skeptical.”
Hmmm. A valid point.
“Actually, the ship turned back up.” Evan noted the surprise in Ollie’s eyes at this bombshell. “But the last log page didn’t. Who do you think might have taken it?”
Ollie blanched behind the midnight blackness of his beard. “A madman, that’s who. Even Red’s not that stupid. Taking a single word from any of the captain’s log books is tantamount to signing a contract givin’ away your balls.” His big shoulders twitched in an involuntary shudder. “And before you ask, absolutely not. Timothy’s sucket-fed. He would never have come within paw’s reach of that book, much less ripped out an entire page.” Lines creased his forehead. “Makes me wonder if I have any business hauling anchor come Friday. Ship could be cursed.”
Evan turned his gaze to the fire and tried not to let Ollie’s palpable discomfiture poison his own determination to set sail. This weekend’s mission included a stop to the same port Timothy had been scheduled to visit before heading home. There was no way Evan could afford to miss an opportunity to look around, ask a few well-placed questions. He had to go. Despite the unnerving fact that he’d never seen Ollie look the slightest bit ruffled before.
For the record, Evan hadn’t been about to ask if Timothy were foolish enough to rip a page from the captain’s log. Everybody knew coming within touching distance of that book was the fastest way to walking the plank. If the captain had suspected Timothy capable of doing so, Timothy would’ve wound up dea—
Evan shot to his feet so fast Ollie fumbled with his ledgers and they spilled to the floor.
“What the deuce, Bothwick! You—”
“I have to go. I’ll explain later.”
He sprinted for the door, but the handle refused to turn. It was as if he were trapped in a nightmare he could never escape.
Perhaps he was. At the very least, he was trapped in the library. Whose idea was it to lock the damn door, anyway? And what the hell had he done with the key? Ah—there.
“Bothwick?” came Ollie’s clearly uneasy voice.
Evan was already down the hall, through the maze, and bursting out of the front door.
Timothy would never be that stupid, he repeated to himself the entire way to his brother’s house. His legs and lungs burned from running so fast, so far, but Evan couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Timothy would never be that stupid.
Timothy’s front door was locked. Of course the door was locked.
Evan kicked it in.
&nb
sp; Sunlight filtered around him, sending his dust-flecked shadow spidering into the marbled receiving room—which was full to bursting. Crammed floor to ceiling with giant crates of brandy and silk and... What the hell was this? Hand-painted tea sets?
He staggered backward, collapsed against the splintered door frame, tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Cargo. Specifically, the ship’s stolen booty, which was always immediately dispatched to the captain’s secret accomplice to peddle along the coast. That cargo.
Here, in Timothy’s receiving room.
Chapter 11
The next morning, Susan reached an important decision. If she were to succeed in her plan to win over the town’s inhabitants with her unimpeachable deportment—and win back her parents’ good favor—she needed to stay far, far away from Mr. Evan Bothwick. And his kisses.
Especially his kisses.
Susan dragged herself out of bed and padded over to the washbasin. The freezing water she splashed on her face did little to alleviate her sluggishness... or to dilute the dream still swirling in the back of her mind. Him. His scent. His touch.
She bared her teeth at her dressing mirror before returning to the basin and scrubbed them again. She’d always had clean teeth and fresh breath. Her inability to leave the washbasin was in no way a new obsession. Truly.
Besides, it’s not as if she’d done anything so vulgar as enjoy the reprobate’s kiss. She was a proper lady. He was a rude, arrogant commoner who lost track of dead persons. And was, likely as not, the cause for them being in that state to begin with.
Susan rang for her lady’s maid, then sat down at the escritoire, chin in hand.
Perhaps by now her parents had written, or at least decided to send money. Then all she would have to do was wait for the magistrate to reappear with his horse so she could make her escape back to London. Life might not be perfect, but at least she wouldn’t still be banished to Bournemouth.
She frowned. Usually the dream of returning to Town filled her with bliss and longing. Today all her stupid brain could conjure was a stark emptiness, as if she’d missed an opportunity to experience—