The Smithfield Bargain (22 page)

“I never know what to expect from you, James,” she said, too tired to play games any longer. Not even with herself, for as her fingers tingled with the memory of his skin beneath them, she yearned to touch him again.

“Honesty?”

“Always.”

“Always?”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “Usually.”

“Then,” he said, reaching over the side of the settee, “I must be as honest. I'm afraid I upset this stack of letters when I was lighting the lamp earlier.” He held out the crumpled pile. “You may rest assured, Romayne, that I did not indulge my perverse curiosity and read them nor your reply to your darling Bradley.”

Snatching the letters from him, she stood. He started to speak, but his words hung unfinished in the air when she tossed the pages onto the hearth. He swore under his breath as the fire played around them, turning the edges brown in the second before the paper vanished beneath the blaze.

“You need not look so flabbergasted, James,” she said as she faced him.

“Mayhap I should be furious, for you clearly have no wish for me to read them.”

“True.”

His eyes darkened to the gray-green of a stormy sea. Standing, he dipped his head toward her. “I regret that I have had to interfere with your life, Lady Romayne. I bid you a good night.”

Romayne was unsure if he or she was the most surprised when she ran forward to grasp his sleeve, but the taste of honesty was too sweet to let this conversation end like this. Too many lies had passed her lips in the past fortnight, and she wanted the only person who understood her ambivalence to help ease it.

“James,” she whispered, “you always jump to conclusions without letting me have a chance to explain.”

“Then explain.” His voice was as clipped as if he was giving orders to his men.

“Bradley has written to me faithfully, but I have not answered.”

“You expect me to believe that you have not taken the opportunity to hint of your undying love for Montcrief, so you can have him on a string?”

She stepped away, drawing him with her back toward the settee. Now that her fingers were only the breadth of the fine linen from him, she did not want to lose even a single moment of the sensation of his muscles beneath her hands. “I have no need to befool Bradley.”

“He is undoubtedly certain that you love him.”

“Then he is more certain than I.”

“You no longer love him?”

“I no longer am sure … of anything.” Her fingers crept up his arm to reach his shoulders under the silk of his waistcoat. The slick material urged her to explore brazenly.

He laughed and shook his head. Encircling her face with his broad hands, he whispered, “If this scheme does nothing more than show you the wisdom of giving a packing-penny to that hard-faced muff, then I consider it a wild success.”

“I would not have guessed that you have given thought to anything but your mission.”

“Then I have befooled you, dearie. I—”

She did not wait to hear what he might have said. On tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his. When his arms enveloped her in their strength, she softened against him. She wanted to feel him with every inch of her being as she lost herself in the enchantment of his fingers and lips.

The satin heat of his tongue laved her neck as he sifted his fingers through her hair, tipping her head so he could tease her ear. He murmured her name as he found her mouth with the ease of the dreams she had had through too many lonely nights.

“Fire!” The shout came from beyond the door to the corridor.

“Not another interruption,” James muttered with a curse. He released her so quickly she rocked back against the settee. She followed as he ran to the closest window. A malignant orange glow climbed into the black velvet sky. More cries for help rang through the Hall.

At her moan of despair, he asked, “Can you tell where the flames are coming from?”

“Beyond the stables.”

“Inside the walls of the Hall?”

She nodded, and James saw terror in her eyes. That shocked him, for she had appeared less frightened while fleeing the caterans. Then he realized as if she had screamed the truth, that she loved this house nearly as much as she loved her grandfather.

He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair and jammed his arms into it as he hurried to the door. Hearing her call his name, he paused in the doorway.

“I'm coming, too, James. Wait a moment.”

“They may need help right away,” he started to say, but she had vanished into her bedchamber, pulling on her slippers as she ran. He heard a cupboard door crash against the wall, then she rushed into the sitting room, her spencer and bonnet in her hands.

“We must hurry,” she gasped. “It cannot be allowed to spread.”

James squeezed her hand and did not let it go as they sped along the corridor and down the stairs to where the household staff was assembling in the foyer. When Romayne called for them to pay attention, he listened as she gave everyone a task in quick succession. He smiled. No seasoned officer could have handled the people with more skill.

Later, when they returned to their rooms, he promised himself he would compliment her. A silent groan resonated through his head. He would be the world's biggest nick-ninny if he let his longing for them to be alone again betray him. How much tantalization could any man take?

The damp blades of grass crunched under his feet, and he knew the temperature was dipping again. Spring refused to come to Yorkshire, and that might be the salvation for Westhampton Hall tonight. The still night had no wind to send the flames toward the main buildings.

James had no chance to tell Romayne to stay away from the flames before a bucket was shoved in his hand and he was made a part of the bucket brigade. Icy water splashed, freezing his clothes to him, but the work of swinging the unwieldy buckets on to the next man in line was strenuous and left him drenched in cold sweat. The line shifted, and he found himself closer to the flames which roared through the roof of the barn. Heat seared his face and threatened to steal his breath. Still he matched the rhythms of the men beside him.

A halt was called only when the last wall fell into the flames, and it was clear that the building could not be saved, although the fire had been kept from spreading. Nothing remained but to stand guard over the ruins until the last ember blinked out like a morning star.

When a mug was shoved into James's hand, he drank greedily. The bitter ale soothed the rawness of his throat. Walking away from the others, he smiled grimly when he saw a familiar form.

“Thatcher!” he called.

The young man turned and waved. When James reached where he was standing, not far from where the door had been, Thatcher said, “Glad you came out to help, Mr. MacKinnon. We needed every hand as you can see.”

“What was lost?”

“Nothing of value. This was where we stored all the old equipment that could not be repaired. If you needed a spare part for one of the other wagons, you could have found it here.” He chuckled and wiped soot from his face. “That's where I was trying to fix Mr. Montcrief's carriage.”

“Didn't he take it before he left for Town?”

He shook his head. “Never sent word that he wanted it, so it was still here.”

“His loss.”

“'Tisn't the only one he's suffered here at the Hall.” He laughed, then abruptly grew serious. “Watch him, Mr. MacKinnon. He's rag-mannered at best, and he is sure to behave scaly when he hears about this.”

“I know how to deal with Montcrief.”

“I'm sure you do, but just wanted to warn you.”

James clapped the younger man on the back before walking away to look for Cameron. When he located him poking about in the ashes that still glowed with heat, he listened to what his sergeant had to say. Suspicions he had not whispered even to himself were corroborated by what Cameron had found. He left his sergeant to his responsibility while he turned to his, knowing he had been a sop to let Romayne's soft lips persuade him to think of other, much more enthralling pastimes.

James said nothing as he took Romayne by the arm and steered her away from the group of women she had been talking with and back toward the main house. He hissed her to silence when she started to ask a question. Until they reached her sitting room, he said nothing.

As he closed the door, she snapped, “James, I should be there to oversee the work. I am my grandfather's eyes.”

“You shall stay right here.”

“You are not my lord and master.

“I
am
your husband.” His hand on her shoulder guided her to a chair. “Listen to me, Romayne.”

“Not when you are acting beastly.” She jumped to her feet and stormed toward the bedroom.

He caught her, spinning her to face him. Shock filled her eyes as he said, “You will listen when it's clear that something is very amiss here.”

“Yes, with you!”

Holding her chin in his palm, he said quietly, “Be angry with me if you wish, but listen when I tell you that Cameron has discovered signs that are suspicious.”

“You don't think the fire was an accident?” she whispered, turning as gray as the shadows in the corners.

His voice was grim as he said simply, “No.”

Chapter Thirteen

Ellen peered out the window of the carriage and gasped, “London looks even grander than I imagined! Can you believe it, Jamie?”

James gave a cursory glance toward the window. The only thing that concerned him about Town was discovering the whereabouts of that blasted traitor. With luck, Cameron should have arrived in London several hours past and would already have uncovered some clues to pinpoint their man's location.

“I cannot believe,” continued Ellen, “that we will be going to a party this evening.”

“It is nothing grand,” Romayne replied. “Bradley wishes only to welcome us to Town. There will not be a large gathering.”

“On Soho Square? See, Romayne, I've learned my lessons well.”

“So you have, and tonight will be an excellent time for you to practice what you have learned. Such an intimate party will present you with a taste of what awaits you.”

“Aren't you excited?” Ellen asked.

“Bradley always hosts an entertaining party. I think we shall have a grand evening.”

James looked back out the window, but saw nothing as his thoughts turned inward. He almost laughed aloud at her words which contradicted everything she had told him last night. Gawney that he was, he had thought that the warmth in his wife's eyes was sincere when she had told him that Montcrief could hold her heart no longer. Instead she could not hide her excitement when she spoke of being entertained by Montcrief.

The invitation had been delivered just as they were departing Westhampton Hall. He had noted how her fingers trembled when she took the note from Clayson and how she slipped the small card within the bodice of her dress when she thought no one was watching.

James agreed with her grandfather. Montcrief was the worst choice of a beau for her. He seemed as useless as the Duke of Westhampton had deemed him. A gambler who had an untoward interest in cheap demi-reps, Montcrief fought to keep his creditors at bay and needed to wed a wealthy heiress to maintain his extravagant life.

Frowning, he tapped his fingers on the carriage window. He did not understand why Montcrief had chosen Romayne. Discounting the idea that Montcrief might harbor affection for her—because James suspected that Montcrief thought solely of his own pleasures—he wondered if Montcrief was unaware of Romayne's financial state. She had shown him the message from her family's barrister, and James knew the few thousand pounds that she possessed would vanish quickly if she had to survive without her grandfather's benevolence. Montcrief, if poker-talk was true, had lost more on a single turn of a card at faro.

It was a puzzle he had wrestled with during the long drive south, and he still was without an answer.

“You should be able to meet many eligible men tonight, Ellen.” Romayne's voice returned his attention to the conversation.

“He was so kind to include us in the invitation,” the younger woman gushed. “Don't you think so, Jamie?”

“Montcrief has been extraordinarily generous,” he replied.

When Romayne flinched, he knew she had noted his sarcasm. He might be acting unreasonably, as Romayne had accused him of being more than once since they had twisted their lives together, but she continued to deny the truth. That was what angered him the most. Or, at least, that was what he tried to convince himself. Romayne was his wife now, and she should behave appropriately. A hint of perverse amusement flitted through him as he realized that Montcrief would be the obvious libertine to name as his wife's seducer once James's work was completed.

Yet if he caught Montcrief doing more than making calf eyes at her, James would use that as an excuse for repaying him for abandoning Romayne to the merciless highwaymen. He had resisted pulling her into his arms and demanding that she explain how she could love a man who would do such a thing. He had resisted because, if he held her against him, he would forget Montcrief as he sampled the warmth of her soft lips.

By gravy! The whole muddle was a disaster, and they were compounding it by coming to London. Now, not only did he have to watch his step as he chased the phantom traitor, but he must keep a close eye on Romayne to protect her from Montcrief, who would be anxious to make up to her.

The carriage slowed before a magnificent row of town houses facing a garden in the middle of Grosvenor Square. In spite of himself, James admired the simple, but elegant Palladian columns crossing the front of the upper stories. This was more to his taste than the medieval extravagances of Westhampton Hall.

“We're staying here?” gasped Ellen.

He looked at her sparkling eyes. She was lost in the life she had not dreamed could be hers. This, at least, was good. As Cameron had said, Ellen was too immersed in dress fittings and the hope of invitations and calls to betray them.