The Runaway McBride (11 page)

“What is it, Faith? Are you cold? Here, let me warm you.” He opened his jacket and wrapped it around her, enveloping them both in a warm cocoon.

She had the strangest sensation that this wasn’t real, that she was dreaming. A frown puckered her brow as she looked at him. His eyes seemed black in that dim light, dark and intent as they gazed back at her. He wasn’t smiling now.

She wanted him to make love to her, just as she had on that long-ago morning in the summer house. She’d been the brazen one then. “Make love to me, James,” she’d begged. He wouldn’t hear of it. They could wait a little longer, he told her. When he returned from Scotland, they would marry. All she had to do was be patient.

She wished the empty years of loneliness and heart-break had never been. If only she had never met him. If only she had never loved him. If only . . .

Sensing the change in her, he raised his head and took her lips in a searing kiss. His hands weren’t idle, either. He grasped her posterior and dragged her against the bulge that strained against the cloth of his trousers. Holding her fast, he ground himself into the core of her femininity.

Faith choked back a helpless whimper. This couldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be happening. She had to gather her wits and make him stop. But her body was telling her a different story. It ached to give him whatever he wanted, what they both wanted.

His breathing was harsh, fierce, difficult. Through clenched teeth, he grated, “I’ve damned myself a million times for being so noble in that cursed summer house.”

Noble? That’s not how she remembered it. He’d kissed her and caressed her with such passion that she hadn’t known how they could possibly become more intimate. But she’d wanted to know. Nothing had changed. He could still make her ache with need.

Her thoughts scattered when his hands brushed over her frilly drawers, but when his fingers probed gently between her thighs, she bit back a scream and flung back her head. They had never gone this far before.

“You’re wet for me,” he said.

She was wet and ready for him, and he was more than ready for her. A smile of supremely masculine satisfaction spread slowly over his face. Gradually, the smile faded.

It was at this point that he seriously began to question his sanity. There was no room to lie down in that small cupboard and barely enough room for the two of them to stand. It was still possible to make love to her, but only if they remained as they were.

And what about his resolve? He’d made a promise to himself not to become beguiled by the winsome ways of the treacherous Miss McBride. Sweat broke out on his brow. She was driving him crazy with the soft, trilling sounds of arousal she made. Fine. He would give her something to remember him by, something to drive
her
crazy whenever she remembered how close they’d come to making love in her classroom cupboard.

The slow slide of his fingers was making her frantic. She couldn’t think; she didn’t want to think or debate the rights and wrongs of what she was doing. Her whole world was centered on the incredible tormenting sensations between her thighs.

She opened her eyes wide when tiny, rippling shudders started deep inside her, then she clutched at his shoulders as she convulsed in wave after wave of mindless sensation. She would have screamed at the wonder of it, but she couldn’t find her breath. When the tremors died away, she sank against his chest and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder.

The world came back to her slowly: the scent of their lovemaking, the heat in that closed space, the hard-muscled body that cradled her so carefully. She raised her head to get a better look at him—and that insufferably complacent smile on his face.

This wasn’t the man she remembered. This man was too knowing, too skilled, and too damn carnal to be the knightly lover she had once known. In eight years, her experience amounted to zero. She’d bet her last farthing that he couldn’t say the same. Then what was she doing, sprawled across him like a wanton out of a bawdy house?

Since she couldn’t scream her frustration at him, she took refuge in the logistics of their situation. “We have to get out of here,” she said, “before—”

The unmistakable sound of voices carried to them from the corridor. “Do something!” she cried. “It’s Robert.”

Whether it was the pain from her fingers biting into his shoulders or the stark horror in her voice that made James suddenly rear up was immaterial. The result was that Faith was thrown back, knocked her head on the edge of a shelf, and cried out in fright.

James got to his feet. “Get us out of here!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

They heard the tread of footsteps crossing to the cupboard. When the door was flung open, James was on his feet and filled the entrance, blocking Faith from view. Staring up at him with shocked expressions were Faith’s friend and Robert Danvers.

“What took you so long?” demanded James, feigning annoyance. He hoped that Faith had the presence of mind to straighten her clothes. “Didn’t you hear me shouting?”

Robert eyed James with patent suspicion. Lily was bobbing this way and that, trying to see past James. “Was that Faith’s voice I heard? Is she in there with you?”

Robert said, “What’s going on here?”

James turned his back on Robert. “I’ll tell you what’s going on.” He took a moment to help Faith to rise. She looked disoriented and close to tears. “One of those abominable girls shut the door on us when I was helping Miss McBride stack the books.”

Breathless and slightly disheveled, Faith stepped out of the closet and put a hand to the back of her head. “I banged my head,” she said plaintively, “and Mr. Burnett tried to help me.” When she took her hand away, there was blood on her fingers. She moaned but was careful not to overdo it. What she wanted was to convince her friends that nothing untoward had occurred when she was locked in the cupboard with James.

Her ploy worked. The stiffness in Robert’s spine softened, and he adopted a commiserating look. “One way or another,” he said, “I’ll find out who played that filthy trick on you.”

“Please don’t bother,” Faith replied. “Whoever it was, I’m sure she meant it as a joke.”

Lily’s expression was more knowing than sympathetic. She shot a look at James then studied her friend. “Well,” she said, “no harm done. Let’s get you to your room, and I’ll take a look at that cut.”

Flanked by Robert and Lily, Faith hobbled to the door. James crossed his arms over his chest and watched them with mounting irritation. He might as well have been invisible.

At the door, Faith turned to face him. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Burnett. I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

He gave her a smile that was little more than a baring of his teeth. “Don’t mention it, Miss McBride. I was more than happy to be of service.”

The others saw nothing amiss in these words, but faint color ran under Faith’s skin. A moment later, James was alone.

 

 

All unsuspecting, Faith was walking into a trap. James knew
that he was dreaming, but that did not lessen the sense of panic that squeezed his throat. He was inside the mind of a killer who would go to any lengths to get the book.

What book? What book? What book?
The words throbbed inside James’s head, and his hold on the killer’s mind relaxed, allowing him to slip away.

Panic wasn’t helping him. He had to think! Concentrate! Focus! Where was Faith?

A gray mist, like gauze drapes fluttering in the breeze, swirled around him, blinding him.

Pictures flashed in front of his eyes. A house, a bridge, a waterfall. Faith was there, running for her life.

Where was the man who wanted to kill her?

As easily as an otter slips into water, he entered the killer’s mind.

The killer didn’t hate Faith. He wasn’t enraged. Killing her was a matter of expediency. But first, she had to give him the book.

The mist thinned then slowly lifted, and he saw everything. He knew where he was and what he had to do. He was on the grounds of Lady Cowdray’s house, and he had to get Faith and her book safely away.

The dream changed. The sun beating down on him was almost blinding. He raised a hand to shade his eyes. Off in the distance, he saw pyramids and sphinxes and desert as far as the eye could see. The sound of laughter brought his head around. He was in the courtyard of what he knew was a hotel, though not the sort of hotel he had ever stayed at. It reminded him of the Moorish buildings in southern Spain.

The people here were British. Someone was herding them together to take a photograph. Then he saw her, Faith, head bent, in the shade of a palm tree, scribbling in a notebook. She set the notebook aside, got up, and joined the others.

The sun beat down relentlessly. He could feel the pressure of it behind his eyes. It was blinding him. He couldn’t see Faith. Where was she? Where—?

He wrenched himself up and opened his eyes. He was in his own bedchamber. The gas lamp on the wall was still lit, though it had been turned down. His lungs felt as though he’d been running for miles.

Heaving the tangled covers aside, he got out of bed and strode to his dresser where he’d left the glass of whiskey his butler had brought for him. It was untouched, but not for long. Two healthy gulps chased his panic away. He put the glass to his lips again then changed his mind. The last thing he needed was to blunt his powers of deduction. He had to relive the dream until he made sense of it.

He didn’t need Granny McEcheran to tell him that this was no ordinary dream. The fine hairs all over his body were bristling. The episode with Faith was easy to grasp, but not the second episode. Pyramids, sphinxes, and deserts could only mean Egypt.

What did Egypt have to do with anything?

He put the glass down and began to pace. Egypt could wait. What was critical was keeping Faith safe. Faith would be on the train to Lady Cowdray’s place, but if she caught sight of him, she might turn tail and run. Or she might start asking questions, such as how he knew that she would be on the train. He didn’t relish the idea of telling her that he’d broken into her room and found Lady Cowdray’s reply to her advertisement.

He went back to bed, but he was in no mood to sleep. Resting his neck on his linked fingers, he stared blindly up at the ceiling and forced himself to think of something else. The girls at St. Winnifred’s made no bones about what they wanted out of life. They wanted it all: love, marriage, children, and a satisfying profession where they could exercise their formidable gifts. He wondered what Faith wanted out of life.

His thoughts turned to his erstwhile wife. Having lost Faith, he’d drifted into marriage because he did not care whom he married and, of course, their families were ecstatic. Who could have known that the sweet and biddable Lady Fiona was a harpy in waiting? The temper tantrums! The scenes! The constant quarreling over trifles! She seemed to think that after they were married, he would give up his interest in trains and railroads and dance attendance on her. And her heart was set on becoming the foremost hostess in Edinburgh.

His heart, on the other hand, was set on building railroads in South America. It gave him an excellent excuse to put some distance between himself and Fiona. It also helped to replenish the family’s fortunes. What it did not do was bring him happiness. He was at a crossroads. He still loved trains as much as ever, but he’d set up his company with good men at the helm, and there was little for him to do.

What was next on the horizon?

He made a face. It was too bad that his ability to see into the future did not apply to himself. If it had, he would never have kissed Lady Beale’s companion under the mistletoe, never have found shelter from the storm in Mrs. Rowatt’s dilapidated summer house, never have married Fiona, and never, never have walked into the closet to help Faith stack her books. Now he could not get her out of his mind.

Gritting his teeth, he focused his thoughts on his dream. Someone wanted to kill Faith but only after he had the book. Faith was making notes in a book. Faith was in a photograph. Who took the photograph? Who else was there? Why did he see pyramids out in the desert?

The pieces of the puzzle kept floating around his head, but try as he might, he couldn’t fit them together. A thought entered his brain like a shaft of light. Lady Cowdray had written that she had something of Madeline’s that might interest Faith. Was this the book the killer was after?

He was still mulling over that thought when he finally fell asleep.

It was a miserable, foggy morning when Faith boarded the
train at King’s Cross station. It seemed to her that three of the passengers in her carriage were men of business. They would probably be going on to Manchester or other big centers of commerce. They looked bored, as though they’d made this trip many times. She’d rarely traveled by train, and she was looking forward to the journey. There was, however, more to her anticipation this time. She would finally learn the truth about Madeline Maynard.