Her Mad Baron (32 page)

Oh, well, she’d start with the only vital change as soon as she could. “Do I seem as if I’m on a campaign to transform you? I hope not.”

He sipped coffee and didn’t answer.

“I suppose we both must adjust.” She picked up the marmalade and spooned some next to her toast. “At least I have Miss Brock to show me how I must change.”

“She won’t make many changes, I hope.” He spoke with his polite tone, but she couldn’t let that stop her.

Now or never. If she waited too long, it would just grow harder to speak of it. “She won’t be able to make me less foolhardy.”

His answering smile held real warmth.

Encouraged, she said, “For example I can’t abide running from bullies.”

Now he positively grinned. “You are calling me a bully?”

“No. Not you. Never you.”

Now.

Her throat closed, and she put down her toast. “But whoever wrote that note... They shouldn’t be allowed to get their way.”

The smile vanished. He carefully wiped his mouth and threw down the napkin. “The note from ‘Mr. Smith.’ You read it.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, but I felt I had to see it. We’re married now, and that’s more than just—”

“When?” he interrupted.

“When what?”

“When did you read it?”

“While you were asleep on the train.”

“I should have known you wouldn’t leave it alone.” He sounded weary. Better than polite, she supposed.

She nibbled her toast. What a relief to have the matter at last out in the open. But no, she hoped too much. This wasn’t going to be easy after all. His face had closed again.

He didn’t storm off, so she had to try. “We have to think of what to do. Don’t let him get away with it. Nathaniel, they can’t.”

“Yes, my dear girl,” he said gently, “they can. It’s not just a matter of scandal. You might go to prison.”

She crumbled a piece of the toast, uneasy. She’d only been prepared for his icy anger, but though he wasn’t obviously angry, something in his wry manner chilled her. He knew something she didn’t. “Why haven’t we been arrested yet? It’s been months since we, er, reclaimed a dagger.”

He shrugged. “Runcle figured it out so others must have as well. Not difficult to do. Bound to happen. Now you’re an object of interest, not an obscure shop girl.”

“What do you mean Runcle figured it out?”

He said, “You took the King Arthur knife? From the house in Wimbledon, I believe.”

She gave up trying to eat, wiped her fingers, and sighed. “Yes, that was us. Our first job.”

“The Arthur knife has resurfaced.”

“It couldn’t have. We’re not so foolish to sell them. They’re stored in a steamer trunk.”

He folded his arms. “Why did you take the blades?”

She had asked herself that question so often, she was weary of it, but at least she could supply a ready answer. “They were never paid for so they actually belonged to us.” She winced at her own words.
The real reason? Missing Papa—plus a silly fool-hardy desire for adventure.

Nathaniel didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He asked, “Not for profit as well?”

“No. We sold two knives that he’d left to us but none that we, ah, repossessed. We wouldn’t be that foolish. Papa’s work was very distinctive.”

“Exactly. And the one known as the King Arthur was sold to a private dealer by a man wearing spectacles. Runcle has a convincing way about him, and he got the dealer to describe the man. Duncan, of course.”

*

Florrie pushed back from the table and buried her head in her hands. “How could he be so stupid? I could kill him.”

“Be my guest.” Nathaniel should have known that she had no idea what Duncan had done.

She looked up sharply. “But Runcle knows? Could he be Smith?”

“No. I’ve had him thoroughly investigated, and he’s on the straight and narrow. And, yes, I have wired him to come and help find Smith.” Nathaniel got to his feet.

“It must be Lord Bessette then.”

“That was my first thought, of course, but I don’t think he’d use such an inelegant style of correspondence or employ blackmailers who would. And he certainly wouldn’t make an effort for Maller.”

The secret weapon of Mrs. MacDonald meant Nathaniel had checked Bessette’s power at last. He recalled his uncle’s staring, frightened eyes the last time they’d met. Nathaniel understood he’d won their lifelong war.

Knowing it wasn’t Bessette didn’t give him any peace, however. Someone threatened to harm Florrie, and he hated the thought he couldn’t act immediately and break the blackmailer’s neck. It drove him to useless pacing and the desire to snarl.

Florrie said, “No matter who wrote that, I’ll be fine. You must testify—”

He shook his head impatiently. “Do you really wish to find yourself in the dock answering awkward questions?”

She also stood. “Yes. I’d pay that price to see Maller in the dock too. What he did to you was horrible.”

Her eyes were huge and fierce, and filled with angry tears. She said, “Remember, I saw you. He wanted to kill your mind.”

“He won’t harm me again,” he said, wishing he could shake some sense into her, wishing she’d take back that phrase,
killing his mind
. It dredged up too many demons. “And perhaps they don’t need my testimony—”

“You mustn’t do this for me,” she said. “Let me take responsibility for my past. Not you.”

“You’re my wife,” he said. “I must protect you.”

“You’re my husband,” she said. “I won’t let you protect me from my own stupidity. Not at this cost. I can’t. I...I care about you too much to watch him win. I’d die to protect you. I can certainly stand to go to prison as long as Maller goes too.”

She should have hit him. It would have been easier to take a physical punch than the burden she threw at him now.

Nathaniel stared at her. Her hair, which had been carefully coiffed, already had tendrils that escaped along her temple. Her cheeks were pink. From his beard, he knew. And from strong emotion.

“I have to protect you. I love you,” she said. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. And damn you. I won’t stop even if you do keep looking at me as if I’m a lunatic.”

The silly woman. Passionate, strong, and afraid of nothing. She meant every word.

He backed away from the table, trying to get the wheels in his head to engage, but they spun crazily, ricocheting through him, disarranging great parts of thought and deadly emotion. Whirling. He had trouble getting enough air into his lungs.

“Nathaniel. Please stop.” She stood next to him, her hand on his arm, and her eyes pleaded with him. “Please don’t turn into the ice man again.”

He shook his head, because he couldn’t speak properly. “No, no, of course not. Just give me...a moment. Pardon.” He turned and left the room.

He strode out the door and down the wide stone steps, taking them two at a time. Then he veered off to the side and ran as fast as he could, down to the very same copse of trees where they’d fled that first morning of freedom.

He ran beyond them, onto a wide open moor until he couldn’t breathe, and he still kept running.

Absurd response on his part. Yet if he’d stayed there in that room...he would have...

Panting, he bent over resting his palms on his thighs to catch his breath.

What would he have done if he’d remained in that room? Simply cried, he supposed. Wept like a baby.

Absurd. He ran from his own tears. As signs of weakness, tears had cost him more than one beating, but that was all in the past. No need to run. No one would cane him for weakness.

Several choking sobs shook him. Then, in the best imitation of Bessette’s intimidation, he ordered himself to sort this out immediately.

All right, the trouble was Florrie. No, that wasn’t fair. He drew in a thick, shaky breath.

No one had ever offered to make a sacrifice for him, certainly no one whom he’d give his life to protect in return.

Florrie threw herself in the path of his enemies, the ones outside and the ones inside he’d alternately ignored and fought.

What’s more he didn’t need to fear the worst in himself. Not with her.

The woman might look frail, but he couldn’t break her, at least not with words, and neither could his demons. He knew he could hold back the worst... Now she’d said the words that had shot through him, releasing every last demon.

He owed her the truth. He owed her more than his lust.

He straightened and walked back toward the house.

To think that he’d called her silly. He was worse. Simple, stupid. Now that he’d managed to run down the fear and name it…

Face the enemy head on, look it in the eye. When you give it a name, it shan’t rule you.

Too bad about that last bit because, named or unnamed, ardor had controlled him for months and would continue to hold sway over him.

His family was ruled by passion. Why should he be any different from his uncle and his mother? Except he was entirely different, because he’d stop fighting.

Even as he’d run away, he’d surrendered entirely.

The huge front door creaked and shuddered when he opened it. He stopped to test it, small motions back and forth, listening to the range of squeals. Because if he could concern himself with something as petty as an oak door in need of repair, he’d calmed down enough to function rationally. He could think of all the work ahead of him. Ahead of them.

Even as he scowled at the door, the giant truth continually whirled through him.

He abandoned the pretense of the door to find her.

It had only been a few minutes since he’d fled like a coward, but she’d already left the breakfast room. He broke into a trot, searching for her, going faster as he found room after room empty. She wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t drive her away. She’d promised.

He vaulted up the stairs.

Thank God. She had gone to the third floor to root around in a spare room. She had her back to him, and he saw cobwebs in her glossy hair. Her chignon had almost completely fallen down on one side.

He stepped into the room, pausing only for a glance down the hall toward the open door. How appropriate that he’d track her down so near the cursed room where she’d first encountered and freed him.

“Are you looking for your father’s dagger?” he asked, and felt pleased that he sounded entirely casual. No fear left. He stepped into the room.

She spun round and tripped over an open case, falling into his arms. She buried her face in his neck and clung to him, her arms like a vise around his waist. “I wasn’t worried, you know,” she said, her voice thick. “Not really.” He suspected she’d wept, and that was just horrible.

His heart already raced from the run, but now it thumped harder. “Florrie. Listen.” He folded his arms tight around her and cleared his throat. “Florrie? This is important. I’m sorry, but listen. I love you.”

Her voice was muffled, but he could hear her smile as she said, “I suspected as much.”

He groaned. “If you knew how much it cost to say that, if you had an inkling of what kind—”

“Why did you say you’re sorry? I’m not.”

“Because…because I crave simplicity. It would have been uncomplicated, and now it’s so difficult. I am too...” He sighed and kissed her temple because that was easier than talking.

Florrie tilted her head to meet his mouth with hers. After a long kiss, she pulled back, grinning up at him. “Perhaps if you say it again, it will become easier?”

He tried again. “Florrie.” He only needed a pause to draw in more air. “I love you.”

She was right. It grew easier with each breath.

“And you love me. Yes?” he asked as easily as he might ask her to pass the butter. Nearly. Waiting for her answer seemed to take too long, however.

“Yes, yes,” She gave a shuddering breath. “How could I do otherwise?” She pulled back. Her nose and eyes were adorably pink. When she blinked, a tiny tear trickled from the corner of her eye. “I think I fell in love with you right after I bit you hard enough to draw blood and you apologized to me.”

“You bit me? Ah, that’s right.” He touched the spot on his shoulder. “I think I was about to rape you,” he said dryly. “That’s when you fell in love with me?”

“Absolutely. You do recall that you didn’t ravish me, don’t you? Until I asked you to that is. Begged you to.”

He nodded. The urge to ravish her again stirred.

“Feel free to beg any time,” he said. “Or just ask. Or for that matter,” he added in a whisper, “just look at me the way you’re doing now.”

“All right. You might say it again.” She snuggled into his arms. “Just for practice.”

“I love you, Florrie.”

“Yes, good.” She clutched his back and rocked their bodies back and forth as if soothing a fractious child. “I love you, too, Nathaniel. And I plan on reminding you every day of our lives.”

“Every hour,” he challenged her, and tilted her head up to gain access to her lips. Just as the kiss started to get interesting, she tore away.