More Than a Lover (8 page)

He looked about him, his expression a little grim. ‘You know, it is past midnight and, if I am not mistaken, the most respectable of tonight's attendees are also taking their leave. What will be left are the riff-raff.'

He was right. Several of the well-to-do families were bidding farewell to friends; others had already gone.

She breathed a sigh of relief. It would behove her to leave, too.

With the skill of a general, he marshalled their party and had them down the stairs in minutes. As they left the inn, he placed her wrap around her shoulders. She looked up into his handsome face and felt a rush of traitorous warmth at the solicitous expression she saw on his face.

‘Thank you,' she said as he walked her out into the street.

‘The pleasure was all mine,' he said softly.

And her foolish heart wanted to believe him.

Chapter Seven

A
t just before midnight, Blade walked the perimeter of the house and stables. Something he'd been doing at irregular intervals throughout all the nights he'd been here. Ned looked after most things around the property during the day, leaving Blade free in the afternoons to roam the local inns with an eye to picking up any gossip that might be of interest to Tonbridge, such as men forming a citizens' army intent on wrecking property.

Before escorting the ladies to the assembly he'd spent the afternoon in the taproom of the Lamb and Flag,
making friends and acting the disaffected soldier without learning anything of use. Nevertheless, he'd been disturbed by how many of his countrymen had expressed similar disaffected feelings, particularly when they discussed the circumstances of the Peterloo massacre and the Six Acts intended to quash any further rebellion. In his opinion, the north was ripe for revolution. All it needed was a leader.

Yet he'd learned of nothing specific. Nor was he surprised. While the men might talk to a stranger in general terms, Yorkshiremen were a closed-mouthed lot when it came to naming names or getting a fellow Yorkshireman into trouble with the authorities. He had a long way to go before they trusted him with those sorts of secrets. And so he patrolled the house just in case.

He paused in the shadows of the stables wall, looking up at the windows across the back of the main house.

As he expected, there were no lights to indicate the occupants were anywhere but where they should be. In their beds. He pictured Caro Falkner in her bed. Likely in a nightgown of flannel that covered her from neck to toe. The image was so erotic as to make his breeches feel uncomfortably tight. More fool him.

She was a lovely lonely widow and she was lovely and dreadfully lonely for all she tried to hide it beneath her prim and proper ways. It showed in the shadows in her eyes. And lovely lonely widows were his speciality among the ladies of the
ton
. Caro Falkner, however, was not of their ilk. She deserved a man who could give her so much more than a brief affair, no matter how pleasurable.

And so he continued his perambulations, making plenty of noise as he went. He wanted anyone interested to know the place was well guarded. He circled around to the front of the house. Nothing amiss here. He bit back a yawn, half-wishing something would happen to ease the boredom. He returned to the back of the house and took up position in the shadows.

A faint grinding noise caught his attention. A light flickered in the kitchen window.

Hell, had somebody found a way past him and into the house? He pulled his pistol from his waistband and checked it was primed and ready before moving towards the back door.

As he reached it, it swung wide.

‘Let me see your hands,' he whispered.

The figure gasped. ‘Is that you, Mr Read?'

‘Mrs Falkner?' Wearing, if he was not mistaken, nothing but a dressing gown over her nightclothes. ‘What in the devil's name are you doing out here?'

‘I brought you a cup of coffee. I thought you might be cold.'

Not when he had his trusty flask of brandy. A soldier's best friend on a long cold night.

‘I could have killed you,' he said in a low mutter. ‘What can you be thinking, sneaking around in the dark?'

‘I wasn't sneaking,' she said indignantly. Then surprised him with a soft chuckle. ‘Well, only a little. I didn't want to wake anyone. I am sorry if I scared you.'

‘Hardly,' he scoffed, uncocking his pistol and tucking it back in his waistband.

He took the coffee mug from her hand and led her to a wooden seat outside the kitchen door. He sat down beside her. ‘What are you doing up at this time of night?'

She let go of a soft sigh that sent his blood heading south to a part of him that had no brain at all, though it knew what it wanted. ‘A sound woke me and then I couldn't go back to sleep.'

‘What sort of sound?'

‘That is the trouble. Creaks I never used to care about now have me leaping from my bed. All this talk of insurrection is making me nervous, I suppose. Even Cook was going on about it this evening. Talking about the need for good Yorkshiremen to rise up to take back their rights.'

The whole thing was a mess. Parliament, it seemed, had lost touch with the people it was supposed to represent. Hopefully, sensible men like Tonbridge could convince the government to use their heads for once.

‘I'm sorry you are distressed. Be assured, I will not let anything untoward happen to the occupants of this house. Word of significant male presences on duty will be enough of a deterrent.'

He sipped at his coffee. It was strong and sweet. Just how he liked it. Had she enquired of the cook as to his preference? Not something he could ask without looking a fool. But it gave him a strangely warm feeling inside to think she had cared enough to ask. Who was he fooling? Likely it was simply a lucky guess.

He took a deep breath. ‘There is one thing. Young Beth—'

Her shoulders tensed. ‘What about her?'

‘Did you know she went out shortly after dark? Not long after nine. She has a key.'

With a groan, Mrs Falkner pressed her palm to her forehead. ‘She asked me if she could visit Polly Garge. I told her I wanted her to remain indoors with the other two ladies. Are you saying she went and hasn't yet returned?'

‘She has not.'

‘Now what do I do?' She put down her mug and closed her eyes for a brief moment. ‘After all she has been through you would think she would know better. She will put the reputation of this house at risk.'

She sounded so defeated, so bewildered, he couldn't stand it. ‘I sent Ned to follow her. He'll watch out for her.'

She turned her face away, swallowed loudly, then sniffed.

A feeling of horror went through him. Was she crying? He rummaged for a handkerchief and handed it over.

‘Thank you,' she whispered, her voice thick. She dabbed at her cheeks and blew her nose.

The little snort was the sweetest sound he had ever heard for all that it made her seem so terribly vulnerable when he had hoped to make her feel safe.

He felt like the worst cur imaginable, telling her about Beth. Yet she had to know what was going on under her roof. He had no doubt she would have been angry had she discovered it later and learned he had known. He put an arm along the back of the seat, an offer of comfort without touching. ‘She will be all right, Mrs Falkner. I promise you. She likely wanted to gossip with her friend.' Hopefully, she wasn't off seeing the grocer's boy.

‘Caro,' she said. ‘Please, call me Caro, just as Charlie does. Since it seems we are to be thrown together in this enterprise at least for the next few weeks, we might as well observe the courtesy of being friends. At least in private.'

Did that mean she was afraid to be his friend in public? He cursed himself for his defensive reaction. He'd become too jaded, too ready to sense rejection, and yet he did want her friendship. At the very least.

He forced a note of cheerfulness into his voice. ‘My friends call me Blade.'

* * *

Caro could not believe how having him close could offer such comfort. This was what she had dreamed of as a girl. Her own personal knight in shining armour. A foolish dream, as she had learned the hard way. Men only wanted what they wanted, and if you were fool enough to succumb to their charm they would walk away. And yet she trusted Blade in a way she had not trusted for a very long time.

She'd been calling him Blade in her mind since the afternoon at the pond.

A shiver went down her spine. The harsh unforgiving sobriquet suited him. A soldier. A man who dealt in death. As hard as steel and honed to cut through whatever was in his way. If he knew the truth about her past, he might not be so kind as to offer friendship. And who would blame him? While he might be illegitimate,
his
father—an earl, no less—recognised him as his son.
Her
father had told her exactly what he thought of her and turfed her out of his house when he learned of her sin.

He'd been ashamed. Disgusted. If her mother hadn't come after her and silently pressed money into her hand before running back into the house, things might well have gone very differently for her and Tommy.

She would never have been able to afford a midwife without those funds. Nor would she have been able to support herself until she found work. And even that had not been going too well after Tommy's birth. Trying to work and keep a child had been nigh impossible. And then she'd received the letter from Carothers's parents telling her of his death. They wanted their grandson. And only their grandson. It was what had made her leave Bath and run north. If Merry had not come along when she had, she might have been forced to give Tommy up. The thought of it made her blood run cold.

It was the fear that kept her awake at night and the reason why she was letting a man she barely knew sit with his arm almost around her shoulders in the dark. Not let. She was leaning into him. Cuddling closer.

‘I should go in,' she said, trying to force herself to sit upright. To move away.

‘Yes,' he said.

Neither of them moved.

He took another sip of his coffee.

They sat in companionable silence.

There was something she wanted to ask him. Had wanted to ask for quite some time. ‘You were at St Peter's Field that day. Did you see what happened?'

‘I saw.'

‘I hear such conflicting reports. Was there a riot?'

‘There was not. It was a peaceful gathering of people who wanted to hear Hunt speak and to make those in power understand their problems.' His voice was full of regret. ‘The newspapers reported correctly. The militia struck the first blow. They rode down innocent men, women and children without a second thought.'

‘Some people are saying the newspapers made it all up to make the soldiers look bad.'

He shook his head. ‘I was among those men.' His lips twisted bitterly. ‘It was a massacre.' Clearly distressed, he got up, leaving her feeling chilled. ‘It is time you went inside, Mrs Falkner.' His voice was friendly but distant, as if talking about that day was not something he could ever do with ease. ‘I thank you for the coffee. It was most welcome.'

She took his coffee cup and looked up at him. He looked so lonely, so alone, she went up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Blade, for looking after us all so well.'

He turned his head and his lips met hers, gently, tenderly.

Heat lit up her blood. Warmth spread out from low in her abdomen.

After blissful seconds—no, even less, merely moments—he leaned back to regard her face, the light from the lantern beside the door clearly showing puzzlement and a question in his expression.

Are you sure?

A fair and honest question given her frequent claims of respectability. From a man who had been kind and generous to her little son. A man also, Merry had told her, whose skills as a lover were greatly sought after by the naughty ladies of the
ton
and who could be trusted for his discretion as well as his expertise. An embarrassing sharing between a married lady to a widow Merry had often said ought to take a husband or a lover. Merry had no idea she had never been married or that her one experience with a man had been so miserably unpleasant, she had never wanted a repetition.

Where had been
her
enjoyment the bolder married women teased about? Was she not owed some pleasure? Provided no one learned of it. Especially not members of Tommy's family, whom she had not seen or heard from for the past three years.

She liked this man. Was drawn to him in a way she had never been drawn to anyone else. She trusted him. Mostly.

In answer to his question, she put her free hand around his neck, drew him down and kissed him back. Felt his lips soften beneath hers, become pliant and wooing. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and tingles drizzled across her shoulders and down her spine. She gasped at the strange sensation of the tip of his tongue touching, licking at, the tip of hers.

A small sound startled her. A little moan of approval. Hers. And flutters where no flutters ought to be. And heaven help her, she could scarcely breathe for the feelings rioting through her body. Amazing, wonderful, terrifying out-of-control feelings.

Shuddering, gasping for breath, she stepped back, so unsteady on her feet, if he had not kept a hand beneath her elbow, she might have stumbled. He led her to the bench against the wall, seating her and taking the mug and setting it down. He sat beside her, his thigh close enough to feel its warmth.

With a care that permitted her to object, he settled an arm around her shoulders.

She leaned against his solid form. ‘That was...' She did not know how to express what she was feeling.

‘A surprise?' he offered. ‘Too much? Not enough?'

The teasing note in his voice dispelled her tension.

‘It was lovely.' The loveliest thing she had experienced since holding her child in her arms for the first time and perhaps anything before that, too.

‘Lovely is good,' he said, skimming warm soft lips across her temple. ‘My next question is, where do we go from here?'

Heat rushed to her face. ‘I thought I...that is you...'

What on earth did one say?

* * *

Lavender-scented warmth bloomed against Blade's cheek. The prim and proper widowed Mrs Falkner—Caro—was blushing? And the moment his brain realised the import of that blush, desire, up to now a low murmur, roared to life behind his falls.

The hound that resided inside every red-blooded male perked up its ears, while the remaining human part of his mind recommended caution. To this point there had been nothing in her demeanour, not a flirtatious glance or innuendo in her words, to hint at prurient interest. ‘Are you suggesting that we engage in some sort of intimate relationship? Hmm?' Hardly tactful.