Hello Stranger

by Lisa Kleypas

  In the past week, Ethan had made love to her twice more, managing to overcome her concerns with the perfect mixture of reassurance and temptation. The man was a silver-tongued devil. He spent long minutes whispering, kissing, caressing her, until every subtle movement sent delight humming through deep-secreted chords in her body.

  Trying to keep her mind on the conversation, Garrett turned her mouth from his long enough to ask, “What are you planning to do when we return? Go to the Lord Chancellor? The Attorney-General?”

  “I’m not sure who to trust,” Ethan said ruefully. “I think it’s best to put them all on the hook by making the information public.”

  Propping up on her elbow, Garrett looked down into his face with a slight frown. “But you gave the evidence to Commissioner Felbrigg. Will we have to break into Lord Tatham’s safe again?”

  “I kept a few extra pages,” he said. “Just in case.”

  Her eyes widened. “Where did you put them?”

  A lazy smile curved Ethan’s lips. He was a handsome sight, his skin gold-dusted in the light, his eyes dark and vivid blue. “Can’t you guess?”

  “Somewhere in your flat?”

  “I gave them to you.”

  “To me? How . . . Oh.” Garrett laughed. “You wrapped them with the monkey picture.”

  “I pasted an envelope to the back of it,” he said. “It contains the pages, and a copy of my will.”

  Although Garrett had been about to ask more about the evidence, she was distracted by that last part. “You have a will?” she asked skeptically.

  He nodded. “I named you as the sole beneficiary.”

  Surprised and touched, Garrett said, “That’s very kind of you. But shouldn’t you leave your possessions to a relation?”

  “My mother was cast off by her family. I’d never give them a farthing. And anyone on the Ransom side would put it to ill use. No, it’s all for you. When the time comes—hopefully none too soon—you’ll be well taken care of. My lawyers will help you through the patent rights transfers, not only here but abroad. Everything will be put in your name, and—”

  “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” Garrett asked in bewilderment. “Patents for what?”

  “For lock designs.” He began to toy with the trimmings on her dress, tracing the seams with his forefinger. “I have about three dozen. Most of them are insignificant and don’t turn a farthing in profit. But a few—”

  “I call that impressive,” Garrett exclaimed, beaming with pride. “How many talents you possess. You’re going to be a great success someday—in some profession other than spying, I mean.”

  “Thank you,” Ethan said, enjoying her praise. “But there’s more to tell you. You see—”

  “Yes, tell me everything. When did it start?”

  “It was while I was still apprenticing for the Clerkenwell locksmith. I’d worked out a way to make the standard cell locks pick-proof, by adding a stop-plate to the bolt. The prison governors—and the locksmith—had me draw the plans and write out the specifications, and then they took out a patent on the invention. They made a pretty penny on it.” With a cynical twist of his mouth, Ethan added, “They cut me out of the profits, since I was only a boy.”

  “Scoundrels,” Garrett said indignantly.

  “Aye,” came his rueful agreement. “But the experience put me in the learning of patent applications. In the years after that, whenever I came up with an improvement on an existing lock design, or a new prototype, I registered a patent under the name of an anonymous holding company.” He paused. “A handful of them still earn royalties.”

  “How wonderful.” Her brain began to calculate possibilities. “If we add those to what I earn, someday we might be able to sell my house in King’s Cross and buy a larger one.”

  For some reason, the statement seemed to disconcert Ethan.

  Garrett’s face flamed as she realized the assumption she’d made. “Forgive me,” she said hastily, “I didn’t mean to imply—there’s no obligation—”

  “Hush,” Ethan interrupted firmly, and pulled her head down to his. After quieting her with a long, searching kiss, he drew back and smiled at her. “You jumped to the wrong conclusion, love. Let me explain.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  His forefinger touched her lips in a brief caress. “I receive annual income from selling usage rights and privileges to manufacturers. Sometimes I take shares of a company in lieu of cash. I have stock and securities in more businesses than I could name offhand. I run everything through holding companies to remain anonymous. I employ three solicitors full-time just to handle patent infringements, and I have two others on general retainer.”

  Slowly it dawned on Garrett that this so-called hobby of his was far more lucrative than she’d assumed. “But you said your patents were insignificant.”

  “I said most of them are. But a handful turned out to be not so insignificant. A few years ago, I came up with the idea for a permutation lock.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s an assortment of active and passive tumblers arranged around a central spindle, all enclosed in a ring that adjusts them—” Ethan paused as he saw her puzzled expression. “The kind of lock with a dial instead of a key.”

  “Like the one on the cannonball safe?”

  His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Like that one.”

  Perhaps it was the proximity of his warm body, or the gently wandering hand on her leg and hip, but Garrett’s dumbfounded brain was slow to work through the implications of what he’d just revealed. “Was that your design?” she managed to ask. “Is that how you knew how to open it?”

  “Aye.” Ethan continued slowly, giving her time to digest the information. “Those locks are used by banks, shipping and railway companies, dockyards, warehouses, military outposts, government buildings . . . everywhere.”

  Her eyes turned huge. “Ethan,” she began, and paused, unable to think of a civilized way to phrase it. “Are you rich?”

  He nodded gravely.

  “Regular-rich,” she asked, “or vulgar-rich?”

  Leaning closer, he whispered near her ear, “Swiney-rich.”

  Garrett gave a bemused laugh, then shook her head in confusion. “But then why would you work for Sir Jasper? It makes no sense.”

  The question brought a troubled look to Ethan’s face. “By the time the patent royalties started coming in, I’d already been recruited by Jenkyn. I didn’t want to stop. He was a fatherly figure. His approval . . . his interest . . . meant a great deal to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her heart wrenching as she realized how painful Jenkyn’s vicious betrayal must have been for him, and perhaps would always be.

  Ethan gave a short laugh. “I’ve never had much luck in the way of fathers.”

  “Does Sir Jasper know about your patents?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve always been careful to cover my tracks.”

  “Is that why you lived in an empty flat? To keep anyone from suspecting you had another income?”

  “Partly. It’s also never mattered what kind of bed I sleep in, or what kind of chair I sit on.”

  “But it does matter.” It concerned and puzzled Garrett that he would deny himself an ordinary life of comfort. “It should matter.”

  Their gazes met for a long moment. “It does now,” Ethan said in a low voice.

  Filled with tenderness and worry, Garrett laid her hand against his lean cheek. “You haven’t been kind to yourself. You must deal more gently with yourself.”

  He nuzzled into her palm. “I have you to be kind to me. I have you to deal with me in any manner you wish.”

  “I’d like to domesticate you just a little,” she said, holding her thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart. “But not so much that you would feel like a lap dog.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.” Amusement glinted in his eyes. “It all depends on the lap.” He pressed her to the white cloth on the groun
d. His lips touched her collarbone and followed it to the base of her throat.

  A glittering mosaic of sun, blue sky, and green leaves filled her vision as he browsed over her slowly, drawing in the scent and taste of her, feeling the shape of her limbs through her thin dress. “Someone might see,” she protested, squirming as she felt his tongue swirl in the hollow of her clavicle.

  “We’re behind a pair of hampers the size of river barges.”

  “But if one of the footmen should come back—”

  “They know better than that.” He unfastened her bodice and inched it down until the tips of her breasts were revealed. His thumbs grazed the soft buds in circles, bringing them to aching tightness, making them ready for his mouth.

  Garrett closed her eyes against the dappling of light from the branches far overhead. By now her body had become so attuned to the sensitive skill of his touch that it took only the slightest overture for her nerves to light with anticipation. His lips closed over her breast, tugging at the swollen pinkness, the tip of his tongue flirting and stroking. Lightly his hands moved over and beneath her clothing, unfastening, gently pulling, until the thin layers of fabric offered no defense.

  There were times when desire made her restless, wanting to clamber all over him. But there were other times, such as now, when a strange hot lassitude weighted her limbs, and she could only lie beneath him passively, her heart pounding, her muscles twitching and laboring for the pleasure he offered. He murmured in between kisses, telling her how beautiful she was, how he loved the softness and strength of her. His thumb and forefinger closed over each satiny inner lip of her sex in turn, fondling delicately. A moan broke from her lips, and she lifted to him, her hips catching a helpless arch.

  “Patience,” he murmured, a smile curling against her skin. “You’ll have your pleasure when I’m ready to give it.”

  But as his thumb slid to the inflamed little crest of her clitoris, gently stroking and cossetting, a deep pulse of ecstasy went all through her. She quivered hard, sensation running through her with the resonance of a bell tone. Ethan gave a subtle growl of delight and kissed her throat. He scolded her softly, pretending displeasure at her lack of control, her wetness, and while he was admonishing her, he slipped two fingers deeply inside and teased her into more delicious spasms.

  She was too dazed to summon words, only clutched her arms around his neck and spread her legs wide, wanting him so badly that nothing else mattered.

  A whisk of laughter fanned her ear. Ethan whispered that she was lovely and shameless and naughty, and there was only one thing to be done with her. Her skirts were pulled up high, and he mounted her, the masculine weight of him lowering between her thighs. He entered her with infinite care, filling her not as an act of possession but of worship, using himself to caress her inside and out. His kisses tasted of spearmint and his skin was fragrant with salt and sun, the wonderful smell of summer. His eyes were ardent, the color of a hot blue midnight, his face flushed as he thrust slowly within her.

  God, the way he moved . . . sinuous and natural, like the flickering of a flame or the rippling of water. Undulating, surging. One of the long strokes angled just the right way, rubbing exquisitely inside her, while his groin nudged the tingling center of her sex, and she whimpered in response. He did it again, and again, while his mouth fastened over hers in a deep, drugging kiss. She felt her body clinging to him, reshaping itself for him. She felt him in every part of herself, in her blood and bones, in the primal earthly rhythm of pushing and pulling, opening and closing, rising and falling.

  Half mad with desire, she tugged her mouth away from his. “Finish inside me,” she begged. “Don’t pull back at the last moment, I want all of you, I want—”

  Ethan hushed her with his mouth, kissing her strongly. “Acushla,” he said with a low, uneven laugh, “for a woman who doesn’t like to be spontaneous, you have your moments.” He pressed his shaven cheek hard against hers. “When we’re back safe in London, I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “I want a life with you.” Years with him. A fireside of children with him.

  “My life is yours,” he said huskily. “You own every minute I have left. You know that . . . don’t you? . . .”

  “Yes. Yes.” Sensation flooded her and swept away every thought, every awareness except the two of them, summer-heated and bound in love, merging and fusing until it seemed as if they were sharing one body, one soul.

  Chapter 23

  In the three weeks since she had arrived at Eversby Priory, Garrett had discovered that, contrary to popular opinion, one did not sleep more deeply in the peace and quiet of the countryside. Without the familiar lulling mixture of city sounds, she was surrounded by silence so comprehensive that even the hopeful chirp of a cricket or the croak of a lonely toad, would bring her sitting bolt upright in bed.

  Since she couldn’t resort to medicinal remedies to induce sleep, she had tried reading, with mixed results. A book that was too interesting only made her even more awake, but if it was too dull, it couldn’t hold her attention long enough to help her relax. After searching through the extensive library on the ground floor, she had finally found Livy’s History of Rome condensed into five volumes, which suited her perfectly. So far, she had finished the first volume, ending with the first Punic War and the destruction of Carthage.

  Her rest was especially difficult tonight. She tossed and turned in the broken hours past midnight, never descending into a full sleep. Her brain refused to stop milling, grappling with the knowledge that they would return to London the day after tomorrow. For a brief, longing moment she considered going to Ethan’s room for reassurance and comfort. However, she knew exactly where that would lead, and he needed rest far more than she did.

  Wishing she had thought to bring volume two of the History of Rome upstairs with her, Garrett debated whether it was worth going down to the library in the middle of the night. After plumping her pillow, she lay back in her rumpled bed and tried to concentrate on something monotonous. Sheep marching single file through a gate. Drops of water falling from a rain cloud. She recited the alphabet forward and backward. She went through the multiplication table.

  Finally, she gave an exasperated sigh and went to squint at the mantel clock. It was four in the morning, too late and yet too early, the hour of dairy farmers and coal miners and insomniacs and the History of Rome, Volume II.

  Yawning, she donned a dressing robe and a thin pair of shoes, and carried the oil lamp by its finger handles as she left the room.

  The common areas of the house were dimly lit by tiny pilot lights in the hallway gas lamps. In the entrance hall, the grand staircase was illuminated by the very faint glow of a pair of bronze cherub lamps affixed to the newel posts below, and the pilot lights of the chandelier. If the house’s main gas supply line were completely shut off each night, it would entail too much risk and work to relight all the lamps every morning.

  The house was still and quiet, pleasantly cool and fragrant with rosin and furniture oils. After passing through the entrance hall, she walked along a shadowy hallway and approached the library. But just before she crossed the threshold, she heard a sound that gave her pause.

  A series of distant but raucous cries was coming from somewhere, from . . . outside?

  Garrett went down a small passage that led toward the back of the house, and entered a cleaning room used by the valets and footmen to polish shoes and boots, and clean and brush coats. After setting the glass lamp on a small cabinet, she unlocked and cracked open a window, and listened intently.

  The sound came from beyond the kitchen gardens. It was the aggressive honking of the geese in the poultry yard. They were raising a veritable war council. They’ve probably seen an owl, Garrett thought. But her heart had begun to beat unevenly, as if with a drunkard’s gait. She had a momentary feeling of weightlessness, as if the floor had dropped out from her feet. As she bent to the lamp, she had to work for enough air to blow out the flame.


  Her nerves were crawling. Stinging. The “creevles,” she’d once heard it called, by a patient who said his nerve disorder made him want to jump out of his skin.

  The geese were quieting now. Whatever had antagonized them had moved on.

  Garrett’s fingers trembled as she eased the window shut and relocked it.

  She heard small noises near the back of the house. A rattle, a metallic clack. The thin squeak of a hinge. The creak of a floorboard.

  Someone had entered the house through the kitchen.

  Panic made her insides collapse. Her hand fluttered to her throat, searching until she found the silk cord that led down to her silver whistle. It would produce a sound that would travel at least four city blocks. If she blew a few shrills in the entrance hall, it would alert the entire household.

  Her fingers curled around the slender silver tube. She left the room and stole along the short passageway to the hallway, pausing at the corner. Seeing no sign of intruders in either direction, she ran full-bore toward the entrance hall.

  A dark shape intersected her path, and a blow came out of nowhere, catching her temple and sending her crashing to the floor. Disoriented, she lay in a heap. A bright ache blossomed in her head. Her jaw was clamped in hard fingers as someone pushed a wad of cloth in her mouth. Garrett tried to turn her face away, but there was no escaping the viselike grip. Another length of cloth was cinched over her mouth and tied behind her head in a cleave gag.

  The man crouching over her was very large, his movements swift and efficient. He was in exceptional physical condition, but his face was heavyset and too broad, as if his features were gradually being absorbed over time. The eyes were ugly and shrewd. The small mouth appeared further diminished by a thick black mustache, so meticulously trimmed and waxed that it was obviously a source of pride to its owner. Although Garrett couldn’t see a knife, he used something to sever the silk cord from her neck, and coiled it a half dozen times around her wrists. After wrapping the cord crossways to cinch the loops tight, he finished with a knot opposite her thumbs.