Leslie Lafoy (18 page)

Barrett … Barrett was an intriguing bundle of contradictions. Cool and analytically detached on one level and yet, on another, in the very same heartbeat … He wasn’t what she’d call volatile; she’d seen nothing to suggest that he might have even the slightest tendency for uncontrolled violence. And Lord knew that he wasn’t excitable in the sense that people commonly used the expression. Still, there was a definite current of emotion surging just beneath the smooth veneer he presented to the world. And sometimes, for just a second or two, it broke through in defiance of his determination to keep it hidden away.

How openly stunned and worried he’d been when she’d confessed her wartime penchant for explosives. And good Lord, the intensity of his desire, the absolute certainty of his unspoken carnal promise. For as long as she lived …

Shaking her head, she deliberately shattered the enchantment, reminding herself that there was more to Barrett than hard-edged physical hunger. His emotions could be breathtakingly gentle, too; like those that had stolen over him when he’d looked up at her on the stairs. Or lushly tender as when he’d tilted her face up, kissed her, and declared her perfect just as she was. They could also be flinty and unbrookable, she added, remembering the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice when she’d mentioned the need to search the grounds of his house.

Something about the notion bothered him. Once Aiden and Carden left, she’d step up to the bridge and, if she had to, force her way across it. Whatever fears possessed him, she’d lay to rest. She’d blithely slipped around Billy Yanks and sweetly plowed her way past Johnny Rebs. Barrett Stanbridge, English gentleman, didn’t stand a chance.

*   *   *

Barrett looked between his friends, not liking their Cheshire grins. “What?” he demanded.

Aiden had the good sense to sober, but his hastily murmured, “Nothing,” wasn’t the least bit convincing.

Carden, not so much as bothering to look even marginally chagrined, wandered over to drop down on the window seat and ask, “How did you find her?”

Jesus. There was no way around it; he was going to have to answer their questions and play his expected part. As bad as it was going to be, they’d put him through worse if he refused. “She found me, actually,” he replied, trying to sound casual as he made his way over to the wall and propped his shoulder against it. “Yesterday morning. Just walked into my office and ever so blithely and thoroughly backed me into a corner. I didn’t have any choice but to fall in with her.”

Carden’s smile widened. “I must say that you don’t look too terribly pained by that part of the situation.”

If they thought he was going to provide provocative details … Not that there were any of the sort Carden and Aiden expected. Barrett chose the middle course and a neutral tone. “I may be desperate, but I’m not blind or stupid. I can see the one positive aspect in it all.”

Carden considered him for a few moments, and then, apparently having come to some measure of his good sense, let his smile fade away. “Where’s she from?”

Aiden meandered toward the fireplace, saying, “I hear a slight whisper of the Caribbean in her voice.”

“You’re close,” he allowed. “New Orleans. She’s a war widow.”

“She certainly seems intelligent,” the younger man offered, leaning against the mantel. “And quick.”

“She is,” Barrett admitted, sensing that they were dancing around a more central issue, but not having the slightest notion of what it might be.

“She’s different, too,” Carden drawled, looking at the doorway through which Belle had disappeared minutes before. “I can’t tell you what it is about her, precisely, but I can feel it.”

That she’d spent years blowing up buildings and bridges for the sheer joy in it? That she had more grit than most of the men with whom they’d soldiered? Yes, Belle was decidedly different. But her past was hers and that she’d shared it with him didn’t give him leave to pass it on to anyone who happened to inquire.

“It doesn’t matter how old you live to be,” he observed, trying to walk the fine line between honesty and respect, “you’ll never meet another woman quite like Isabella Dandaneau.”

“You seem rather taken with her.”

There it was; the central issue to which they’d been working along. The what-feelings-do-you-have-for-her-and-how-should-we-treat-her? question. Obliquely stated, of course. As always. He’d asked much the same question of both of them once. In much the same way. As it had turned out in the end, they’d lied to him. Not intentionally, but more out of having been—at that moment in time—as blind as bats and as stubborn as mules.

How to answer
them
was something of a dilemma, though. On the one hand, he could simply toss out the standard response and not worry about the accuracy of it all between now and the end. How it all ended was what mattered and he knew that there wasn’t any sort of forever for him and Belle. She’d made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t interested in marrying again and he’d all but legally resigned his choice in the matter to his parents. And while Mignon had found being a mistress quite acceptable, Isabella Dandaneau wouldn’t even consider it. Ever. No, all they had was the time between now and when they found Lafitte’s treasure. The end was a given and admitting it would be honest on the whole.

On the other hand, he’d be damned hard-pressed to pretend an indifference about her in the time they had together. She was, without doubt or dispute, the most interesting female who had ever crossed his path. And tempting, too. God Almighty, she was tempting. And never more so than when she abandoned any deliberate effort to be feminine. He sure as hell didn’t understand why he felt such an acute attraction to her in those moments, but that didn’t have anything to do with accepting it as reality.

But having to explain it all … Having to explain any of it … Barrett shrugged and met Carden’s gaze squarely. “I don’t exactly have any other immediate prospects. Considering the present circumstances and all. As they say, a bird in the hand…”

Carden nodded, but his eyes and the edges of his smile said that he didn’t believe a word of it.

From the other side of the room, Aiden laughed quietly and then quipped, “Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, your choice of a love nest leaves a lot to be desired.”

“As I recall from my inspection,” Carden added, his grin widening, “there isn’t even a bed.”

As if a bed were all that mattered. Christ. “We’ll make do,” Barrett coolly assured them, hoping to close the subject. “We’re fairly resourceful.”

To his relief, Card’s smile disappeared. “You’re going to have to be to get yourselves out of this mess.”

“Maybe you ought to turn yourself in,” Aiden suggested earnestly from the other side of the room. “If your own friendships in the constabulary aren’t enough to ensure they let you post bond, then your father’s would be. Either way, you wouldn’t be trying to unravel this snarl as a fugitive.”

“I’ll pay the bond,” Carden offered quietly.

“And I’ll stay with Belle until it’s posted and you’ve been released.”

Barrett looked between the two of them, knowing they were sincere in their concerns and their offered solutions. He also knew that sincerity didn’t make it the right course. “Thank you, but no,” he replied, shaking his head. “My instincts tell me that we’re safer this way. My moving about freely would put Belle in danger. Sooner or later they’d get past me. I can’t take that chance. Two women dead after being in my company would land me on the gallows for sure.”

“Who is this mysterious ‘they’?” Carden asked.

“It has to be someone from New Orleans,” he supplied, pleased to be moving forward and on a topic not intimately related to Belle. “Someone Mignon knew and trusted. Someone who knows there’s a treasure worth finding and that it’s in London.”

“And Belle can’t think of anyone who meets all the requirements?” Aiden asked.

“She came up with four possibilities.”

“Four? You’re joking.”

“One of them more likely than the other three,” Barrett admitted. “In the end, though, she’s making nothing more than educated guesses.” He turned to meet Carden’s gaze. “Card, you offered to do what needed to be done. And, at the moment, I need O’Brien put to work on finding our man. I want you to give him the list of possibilities and tell him I want them run to ground as quickly as possible.”

“I’m ready to write,” Aiden declared, pulling a little book and a pencil from the inside breast pocket of his coat.

“Neville Martinez,” Barrett began, watching Aiden scribble. “He’s supposedly confined to a wheeled chair. Emil Caribe. Apparently he’s something of a sop.” He paused, waiting until Aiden looked up and nodded. “Etan Choteau,” he went on. “O’Brien’s likely to find him with the shady ladies. His brother, Pierre, is a gambler. Any American named de Granvieux. And last, but not least, Henri Dandaneau.”

“Who’s Henri?” Carden asked as Aiden continued to make his notes.

“Belle’s supposedly dead husband. Jacques de Granvieux is definitely dead. His sons are in the same column as Henri, though. I’m not eliminating them as suspects on the basis of an assumption grounded on a wartime report.”

“Can’t blame you,” he replied with a decidedly rueful smile. “Will Quincy know how to find O’Brien?”

“If he doesn’t, tell him he’s fired.”

Aiden tore the page out of his book and brought it across the room to hand it to Carden. And with that, Barrett mentally noted, they were largely done. All that remained was to remind them to bring food with them next time, walk them to the door, and close it behind them. Barrett stared down at the toes of his boots, wondering when he’d begun the slide into the mental attitude of a hermit. An ungrateful hermit at that.

“Breakfast, such as it is, is served.”

As Carden vaulted to his feet and Aiden grinned, Barrett turned to find Belle standing in the doorway, a fairly wide, if broken, board in her hands. Atop it was a wrinkled piece of paper on which she’d placed slices of hard sausage, a couple of cheese wedges, and some crusty rolls. All of which surrounded a bottle of red wine.

“We don’t have any coffee or a way to fix it even if we did,” she explained with a smile as she moved past him and toward the window seat. “We don’t have any wine glasses, either, but I decided to let you solve that particular problem.”

He could carve them shallow bowls in under an hour. With a week and suitable chunks of wood, they could have proper goblets. Or, he decided, meeting Aiden’s gaze, they could have glassware delivered later in the day.

“If our task is logistical support,” Carden said, moving out of her way, “it’s time to begin work on this place. Or at least make a show of doing so.” Slipping the list into his pocket, he asked, “Can you two make yourselves invisible in here this afternoon?”

Barrett nodded crisply and his friend went on, saying, “Good. Aiden will get started on putting together the things you’ll need to be marginally comfortable in this rat hole. I’ll find O’Brien and then the maps you want. Aiden, how soon do you think you can have a rudimentary household crated and ready to deliver?”

He pulled his watch from its pocket on his vest and flipped open the cover. “Let’s say three o’clock today. Alex is aces at this sort of thing.”

“Then we’ll be back here by late afternoon,” Carden announced as Aiden put the timepiece away. “We’ll have the carters dump everything in this room, so kindly be somewhere else in this beast. The fewer people who know you’re here, the better. If any of the neighbors make inquiries about you, we’ll tell them that you’re the caretakers.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Barrett allowed, his mind racing through the opportunities the pretense afforded them. At the very front of the list stood a crackling fire—with hot food, coffee, light, and warmth following immediately behind.

“Then, considering all that has to be done,” Aiden announced as he moved purposefully toward the door, “we’ll see ourselves out and leave you two to your breakfast.”

“And for God’s sake,” Carden admonished dryly as he trailed after him, “don’t further complicate your situation while we’re gone. It’s sufficiently awful already.”

Barrett watched them go, thinking that the circumstances didn’t look all that horrible from his side of things. He and Belle were safe. They had a clearly delineated set of tasks and a rudimentary plan for accomplishing it all. They were dry and they had food and a bottle of wine. All in all, matters had much improved since daybreak.

“So,” he began, stepping up beside Belle and snagging the bottle of wine from the makeshift tray, “how do you propose we spend the next five or six hours?”

She shrugged and pulled the knife from her pocket. Slicing off a chunk of the cheese, she answered brightly, “I found an old bucket in the kitchen closet and the well pump works. I’m not sure that I’d drink the water that comes out of it for a while, but it’s perfectly fine for cleaning.”

“Cleaning?” he repeated, the bottle stopped halfway to his lips. “Cleaning what?”

“The kitchen to start,” she retorted, giving him a look that said she thought the answer should have been obvious. “And then the room with the curtains.”

Well, it wasn’t obvious to him. They were hiding, not setting up a real house together. “Why?” he asked before taking a healthy drink of the wine.

“Aside from the fact that they’re very dusty, there’s nothing else to do.” She grinned and extended her hand. As he passed the bottle to her, she arched a brow and added, “Unless, of course, you have a suggestion of your own.”

A bottle of wine … A gorgeous, adventurous woman with incredibly kissable lips … Five or six guaranteed uninterrupted hours … And no bed. He was resourceful, yes, but there were certain, very basic standards. Standards Belle deserved to have met … and exceeded.

“Have a swig of wine,” he said on a sigh, “while I give it some thought.”

Chapter Ten

Unfortunately, the only thought that occurred to him was that he’d never seen a woman sip wine from a bottle before. He wouldn’t have thought that such a thing could be so damn provocative, but how she held the bottle, the bare angle at which she tipped it, the way the green glass rim barely kissed her lower lip …