Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2)

by Samantha Holt

  “What?”

  “You couldn’t have found a better home for them?”

  “Well, there is always my garter...”

  He resisted the desire to bury his head in his hands. What was he going to do with her? “Is there still a knife there?”

  “A new one, yes.” Her gaze narrowed in on him. “You made me lose my last one.”

  With a sigh, he grabbed her arms and hauled her halfway out of the hole. Once she was almost free, he grabbed her waist and set her on her feet.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.

  “I COULD THINK of a few things.”

  Oh no. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Maybe he had not heard her.

  No. From the arched eyebrow, he certainly had. He removed his hands from her waist as though he had been handling fire.

  Which was not far from true. Every part of her felt scalding hot, as though he’d been dangling her over flames. She blew a strand of hair from her face and gulped down a giant breath then held it for a few moments.

  She had lied too. She couldn’t think of a few things. Oh no, she could think of lots of things. Maybe hundreds if she had the time to dwell on it. He could kiss her, for one. Touch her again, for two. Carry her over to the bed, for three. Maybe remove his jacket and shirt, for four.

  Well, this wasn’t helping with the heat rushing through her veins. She released the breath and straightened her bodice. “That is, um—”

  “What did you find?” he asked abruptly.

  “Oh yes.” She tugged the papers from her bodice and unfolded them. “Looks like letters. We should read them for clues.”

  “You can read them.” He glanced behind her. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing that looked important. Some wine, a wooden box, and old jewelry. It probably belonged to my grandmother, but it didn’t look as though it was of value.”

  “Hardly worth setting a trap for then...” Russell mused.

  “Maybe there is something in these that can tell us why he might set the trap.”

  He straightened his jacket sleeves. “Read them and we can meet tomorrow.”

  “There’s still a whole afternoon left for investigating.”

  His lips moved into that odd, elusive smile she was beginning to recognize. It did not crop up often, but it was almost as mysterious as that look in his eyes. “I have other things to do, Rosamunde, but I am certain you are capable of reading a few old letters on your own.”

  “What other things?”

  His lips tilted farther. “Am I to divulge my every move to you?”

  “Well, I am paying you.”

  “So I suppose you own me now, then?”

  What a thought. She would not mind that at all. She would command him to do a great many things.

  No. She gave herself a mental shake. She’d heard of women doing such things, paying young, handsome men to be their lovers, just like courtesans. She had little desire to do that. If Russell ever...made love to her, she would never wish him to do so because she had paid for him.

  Not that he would do such a thing and to think so was folly. Yet again, she had let her imagination run away with her. The job was keeping him here, nothing more.

  “I did not mean that,” she murmured.

  “I should hope not.” His gaze grew dark, his posture almost menacing. “No one will ever own me. Not again.”

  “Again?” She blinked at him. “You mean when you were a soldier?”

  “Something like that.”

  Rosamunde opened her mouth to ask more but the menacing posture had not faded so she closed it. Whatever was in this elusive man’s past would stay there it seemed but, sweet Mary, did he pique her curiosity. What stories he would have to tell. No doubt they were a hundred times more exciting than her Uncle Albert’s tales.

  “Where shall we meet?” she managed to ask, instead of the hundreds of other inappropriate questions burning through her mind.

  “Somewhere quiet.”

  “So not at my house then?” she said with a smile.

  “No.” His posture relaxed, and his lips twitched marginally.

  She allowed herself a breath. “Perhaps Harris’s subscription library in Piccadilly? It shall be nice and quiet there. I always thought it would be a good place for a...” She clamped her mouth shut.

  “For a what?”

  “Rendezvous,” she said softly and braced herself, waiting for his admonition.

  “Rendezvous,” he repeated. “Do you have a frequent need for secretive meetings?”

  Now she did not know how to respond. Was he suggesting she took lovers? Or something else. “I have never used it for meetings,” she said hastily. “That is, I do not really meet with people.” She blew her hair from her face. “Well, of course, I meet people. But not in a secretive manner, of course. Especially not men.” She clamped her mouth shut.

  Lord, now she had made this ten times worse. Perhaps she ought to go thrust her foot in that animal trap and end it all. A good amputation would certainly put a stop to this conversation. It should not even matter if she had taken lovers. She was a widow. So long as she was discrete, it would not matter. She doubted Russell cared either way.

  She lifted her chin. “I could if I wanted to, though.”

  His gaze held hers for so long that she grew breathless. A clock ticked somewhere in another room and birds chirped outside.

  “I have no doubt you could,” he said finally. “No doubt at all.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  She pressed her lips together. “So...”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  “Oh yes. Tomorrow. At the library. Shall we say noon?”

  He nodded. “Noon it is.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Excellent.”

  He gestured to the door. “After you then.”

  “Right. Yes.” She moved swiftly through the house, almost tumbling down the stairs and spilling out into the fresh air. She drew in several breaths and willed away the heat in her cheeks. This man had such an ability to make her feel unsteady, as though she was standing in a rowboat, waiting to topple into the Serpentine. And the most foolish thing was, if it were not for her ridiculous inability to hold her tongue, she might well like it.

  Chapter Twelve

  He needed to end this as soon as possible. Which meant finding Albert as soon as possible too.

  Russell clasped his hands behind his back and strolled past the bookshelves, eyeing the gold letters upon red, green, and blue spines. The scent of parchment and a little dust swirled in the air. He paused to peer at a title and withdrew it, gingerly opening the stiff leather and running a finger along the title on the inner page. Interesting. He’d have to see if he could find a copy of his own.

  He snapped it shut when the door to the library squeaked open, feeling guilty for even picking up a book. He blew out a breath. Not that he needed to. He could read perfectly as an adult. Hell, he read faster than most men he knew and with greater understanding of the text but it didn’t stop that gnawing ache in his stomach that reminded him a man like him should never have been able to read, let alone enjoy books. It was only through pure determination as a boy that he’d taught himself.

  That, and a few carefully curated books that ended up in his possession by way of what one might consider illegal means.

  Very well, he’d stolen them. But he sure as hell didn’t regret it. As far as he was concerned, education should be for anyone, regardless of wealth.

  Rosamunde gave him a little wave and hastened over, a far too pleasing smile upon her face.

  Oh yes, he needed this over.

  Most especially when her smile made his insides do odd things. Who’d have thought a man like him could get excited over a mere smile?

  “I was not sure you would be here yet. I thought I might have to grant you access.” She undid the bow on her hat, and he found himself distracted with the quick movement of her fin
gers and then the glossy dark curls under the dull lamplight.

  “I know some people.”

  She peered at him and set her hat on the nearest table. “People?”

  He shrugged. “People know me, I suppose. Or at least of me. Makes it easy to get into places.”

  She shook her head and grinned. “For a man who behaves so mysteriously, that seems surprising.”

  “Mysteriously?”

  “You know, this whole rather brooding, tight-lipped thing.”

  “I hardly brood.”

  “You do a little. Not to mention you give away as few details as possible about yourself, and you are rather, well, sneaky, I suppose.”

  He arched a brow. “I hadn’t expected a whole dissemination of my character today.” He gestured around. “I rather thought you wanted to discuss our plan.”

  “Believe me, Russell, I do not have your character marked yet, so it would be impossible for me to disseminate.”

  He could not help move a little closer. Only because the lamplight was so low, of course. Not because he wanted to look more closely into her eyes or remind himself of those freckles that hopped across her nose. “Why should you wish to?”

  That smile danced on her lips. “Oh, you must know I love a story by now. And you, Mr. Russell, most certainly have one.”

  “Not an interesting one.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He shook his head, allowing himself the smallest of smiles. There was no escaping it—the woman was mad. No other woman had ever been interested in his history. They certainly did not want to hear about his life on the streets or the army. None even got as far as figuring out he was likely richer than half the people they knew. Which was perfect. He liked it that way. If they didn’t know him, they wouldn’t get attached, and neither would he.

  “Shall we make a start?” He drew out a chair for her.

  “Absolutely.” Rosamunde sat, laid out the letters, and patted the chair beside her. “Will you sit? It is hard enough craning my neck up to look at you normally, let alone from a seated position.”

  He jerked into action and lowered himself onto the chair next to her, grimacing when his leg brushed hers through her skirts. A bolt of heat flashed through him. It was pure insanity. A mere brush of a leg and he felt like a young man catching his first glimpse of a woman’s thigh.

  He drew in a deep breath through his nostrils and regretted it instantly. The scent of orange blossom lingered on her, combined with the clean fragrance of soap. She must have bathed this morning and—

  Damn it, now he was picturing her in the bath, all soapy and wet with her dark hair trailing down her damp skin. He gritted his teeth and focused on the shiny surface of the mahogany table. He was not some whelp at the mercy of his newfound libido, nor was he some wet-behind-the-ears man, in desperate need of the feel of a woman. He was Marcus Russell—orphan turned soldier turned entrepreneur, and he controlled every aspect of his life, including his desires.

  “So, a few of these letters were a little, um, saucy.” Rosamunde’s cheeks colored in the dull light.

  She tapped a finger at a line in the top letter and the words breast, taste, and lick caught his attention.

  He groaned.

  “WHAT IS WRONG?” Rosamunde peered sideways at Russell. He seemed a little pained, his brow furrowed.

  “Nothing.” He gave a tight smile. “Just hoping this gives us a lead.”

  “Well, I think it does. These letters are from a lover of my uncle’s. He never mentioned her to me, which is curious.”

  Russell eyed her. “Your uncle is in the habit of telling you the sordid details of his love affairs?”

  She tugged off her spectacles, rubbed them on her sleeve, then put them back on. “Well, honestly, I did not know he really had any love affairs, but he never usually kept anything from me.” He gave her a skeptical look. “I am a widow, Russell. A grown woman. I am quite aware of how love affairs work and am hardly in need of protection from such knowledge.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  He jabbed at the date at the top of one of the letters. “These are from fifteen years ago.”

  “Yes, but my uncle kept them hidden. I have to wonder why.”

  “The lady was married perhaps.”

  “She fails to mention a husband.”

  “It’s hardly romantic to write to one’s love of one’s husband, is it?” he pointed out.

  “True.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Do you think a jealous husband has had a hand in his disappearance? Lord, what if he is harmed or has been challenged to a duel? He’s a good shot but his eyesight is not much better than mine!”

  “Let’s not run away with ourselves. This could be nothing. If you didn’t find any newer letters, then surely the affair is not ongoing.”

  “There were only these. They span a year.” She spread out the letters.

  “It would still be worth looking into. Did you find out who the lady is?”

  “Yes and no. Her name is Mary but there is no last name. However, her address is scrawled on the outside of most of these letters.” She flipped one over to show him.

  “That’s on the west side of London.”

  “So not far from here.”

  “Of course, there is nothing to say she still lives there.” He pulled a letter close and scanned it. “It seems a, uh, passionate affair.”

  Rosamunde nodded. It felt a little odd thinking of Uncle Albert being embroiled in such a match, but he had been a handsome man once upon a time and he was full of personality. It made sense that this woman would be so enamored with him. It also made her a little envious.

  “What’s the matter?” Russell asked, his gaze narrowing in on her and making her feel a little breathless.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Rosamunde...” he pressed.

  Well, he was insisting so she supposed she might as well say it. “I was wondering what it must be like to have a passionate love affair.”

  “Ah.” He scanned her face. “I take it your marriage was not one of those.”

  “It was...fine.” She lifted her shoulders. “More than most women could expect from an older husband I believe. He was pleasant enough, but we didn’t spend much time together and I think I bored him.”

  “More likely he didn’t have the energy for you.”

  She pursed her lips. “You think?”

  “I’d be hard-pressed to neglect a beautiful bride like you unless there was good reason. And you are hardly the sedentary type.”

  “I suppose not.”

  She shouldn’t but she could not help but latch onto his words. He thought her beautiful. And she liked that. Far too much. She had been called pretty or handsome before but usually by family members and that didn’t really mean much. After all, they were biased. But coming from Russell, she could not help but believe it. He had no reason to say such a thing and hardly seemed the sort to hand out compliments willy-nilly.

  “I pity your husband in a way.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You do?”

  “Stuck with a beautiful woman but not knowing what to do with her.”

  “Well, I’m sure he knew...” Her cheeks warmed. She was no prude, but she certainly did not expect to be discussing her late-husband’s prowess or potential lack of in the bedroom department.

  “I’m sorry you were neglected, though. That should never have happened.” His eyes took on that dark, unfathomable look as though she were looking into a deep well of darkness and unable to see the bottom no matter how far she leaned over.

  If she wasn’t careful, she was going to lean too far and fall in. Her heart pounded fiercely at the unspoken words that seemed to linger in the air.

  I wouldn’t neglect you.

  He’d be an excellent lover. Even with her lack of experience, she felt that certainty throbbing through her body. He moved with such confidence, spoke as though he had never once had to worry wheth
er he was wrong or not. Not to mention, he had kissed her with such skill that if she closed her eyes, she could recall it and find herself all hot and bothered and ready to sneak off to her bedroom again.

  “Russell...” she managed to mumble, not even sure why she needed to say his name.

  He jerked back a little. “We should visit here then.” He jabbed the address. “But we also need a list of where else your uncle likes to visit, in case we come up emptyhanded.”

  There it was. She’d leaned too far and tumbled down the hole, landing at the bottom with a cold, wet splash. Simply because she was imagining kisses, and there being more behind his complimentary words, did not mean any of it existed. When would she learn? Real life was nothing like her imaginings.

  And Marcus Russell did not want her. Not now and probably not ever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Russell handed Rosamunde down from the hack and paid the driver. He was rather relieved she hadn’t had access to the family coach today as he’d feel a damned fraud riding along in the luxurious vehicle. Not to mention, meeting away from her home meant he could avoid her family and their inquisitive nature. Why they should even be interested in him, he had no idea.

  He also had little idea if that was the way families always were. He’d ask Guy or Nash but neither of them had much contact with their families either. Nash more so of late but his relationship with his father was still in its tentative stages.

  If they didn’t press him for information, he’d probably find their boisterous, noisy manners amusing.

  Perhaps.

  The truth was, he didn’t know how to feel about them. Or if he even wanted to feel anything. It certainly would not help this whole desiring Rosamunde a great deal thing. After yesterday at the library and learning of her neglectful husband, he’d been unable to cease thinking of her.

  He smirked to himself. Well, that was not that uncommon at present, but the ruminating was worse now. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about what a damned waste her marriage had been. Couldn’t cease picturing her, all alone, untouched. He gritted his teeth. She was no virgin but by the sounds of it was close enough. It was enough to drive a man to the edge of madness.