The Suspect's Daughter (23 page)

He cleared his throat and stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. She’d touched his hair, kissed his cheek, and cried in his arms. Last night she’d touched his scar, and now…he must think her unladylike and forward. She blushed. Even a man who walked a darker path than most members of the upper classes would have scruples about the kind of lady with whom he spent his time. If only he wanted to spend time with her for reasons other than his investigation. Of course, if he did, that would present a whole new batch of problems, foremost being; did she want to be courted by a man who was so emotionally closed?

A loud crack shattered the silence. Grant moved in a blur. In an instant, Jocelyn lay face down on the ground with a weight pressing on her back. Distant cheers rang out as spectators and players enthused about a game of cricket.

The weight moved and then lifted. “Sorry.” He grabbed her elbows and pulled her to her feet.

“What is it?” She fixed her whole focus on the man standing in front of her.

His mouth tightened to a hard line.

“Grant?”

He shook his head, his breathing hard and unsteady. His jaw muscles clenched.

“What happened just now?” She touched his arm.

“I…thought…” He took several more breaths and didn’t pull away from her touch.

Another crack sounded. He flinched but remained still. From the back lawn came more cheers as the game continued, innocent of its effect on Grant.

She waited. Perhaps he’d confide in her if she were patient.

He finally spoke. “Loud sounds remind me of gunfire
.”

She squeezed his arm, warming all the way to her toes that his immediate reaction always was to protect her from danger, whether real or imagined. Then the implications sank in. She’d heard of men coming home from war suffering similar problems, loud noises making them believe they were back on the battlefield, surrounded by death and danger. How horrible it must have been for them, probably far and away exceeding her worst nightmares, to have caused such lasting effects even years after they returned home.

She studied the face of this handsome, tortured gentleman. “Does it happen every time you hear a loud noise?”

“Not every time. Less now than when I first came home.”

“You were injured,” she said softly.

He closed his eyes.

The word “injured” couldn’t begin to describe what he’d suffered. The scar on his face probably paled compared to other wounds not visible to her. Anger at Napoleon, at all the suffering he had caused, renewed in her heart. Banishment was too good for the Corsican Monster.

An aching longing arose to embrace Grant and offer him the comfort of her touch. She slid her hand down his arm and grasped his hand. It had curled into a fist. At her contact. he opened his hand and squeezed hers. She sank into the joy of Grant holding her hand, needing her, opening up to her.

It didn’t last long. As if catching himself, he released her hand and glanced about. His mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t want anyone seeing us holding hands and think ill of you.”

She tried to lighten the mood. “Oh, well, I suppose if they did, you’d just have to marry me to save my reputation.”

He let out a harsh, wounded laugh. “You don’t want a monster like me.”

“You aren’t a monster!”

“I’m the very devil, Jocelyn. I’ve killed more men than you’ve probably met in your lifetime.”

She grappled with the harsh truth of his past and what pain it still caused him. What he’d done in the line of duty didn’t make him bad. She shook her head. “Soldiers in the—”

“I wasn’t a soldier.” His words came out sharp, angry. “I was a sharpshooter. I have a good eye. And an uncommonly accurate rifle. I became an assassin—hunted down targets and killed them from a distance. They never knew I was there. They had no way to defend themselves against me.” He turned away and stood with his back to her.

Images of Grant slinking through darkened buildings like the ninjas of the Orient and coldly killing men edged into her mind. But he wasn’t cold. His targets weren’t innocent men, they were enemies. And he wasn’t a murderer, he was a loyal Englishman following orders during a long, brutal, bloody war. If he hadn’t taken out his “targets” the war might still be going on, and a lot more of other people’s brothers would have died—be dying still. Always Grant’s first instincts were to protect.

She moved to face him, standing closely to him to let him know she wouldn’t reject him, no matter what he told her. “It was war.”

“Not just in war. I’ve killed since then, too.”

“Working with Bow Street?” The thug who had threatened her and Aunt Ruby flashed through her mind. She valued life, but criminals intent upon harming the innocent deserved to face justice. She’d just never thought of those who dealt with such matters, had never considered the cost to their souls.

Grant nodded once. “Mostly. But worse, last summer I shot a man in cold blood.”

Her breath caught and a chill settled in her limbs. There had to be more to the story. Grant was not a monster. She waited to give him the opportunity to tell her what clearly weighed on him.

He stared straight ahead as if reliving the past. “He brutalized his wife until she finally left him. He terrorized her after she thought she’d escaped him, threatening to kill her and her parents. He tried to kill my brother—repeatedly. When I had him in my sights, I took careful aim, cold as ice. And I put a bullet right between the eyes.” He placed a finger on his own forehead.

Sickened by the news, and cursing fate for putting him in such terrible situations, she wrapped both hands around his upper arm to let her know she was there.

Revulsion twisted his expression. “My life was not in danger. I could have shot him in the leg, I could have rushed him and held him at gunpoint, forced him to surrender—anything. But I didn’t give him that chance. I was his judge, jury, and executioner. And I don’t regret it—not really.” Finally, he turned tortured eyes upon her. “I am a monster.”

She placed a hand on his cheek, the texture of his dark stubble and the puckered edges of his scar rough against her palm. “No. You are not. You are a defender, a protector, who constantly places himself in danger to save others. You might not wear armor, but you are as brave as any knight of old.”

His brittle laugh rang out. “I’m no knight.”

She allowed herself a small, sad smile and let a drop of humor into her voice. “A
dark
knight perhaps, and completely lacking in courtly manners…” She sobered and put her free hand on the other side of his face, holding his head steady, and gazed directly into his eyes. “I would gladly put my life into your hands. I trust you to do the right thing because you are a man of honor and integrity.”

Eyeing her as if he didn’t believe he’d heard her correctly, he went very still. Without thinking, she moved, rising up on tiptoe. She placed a soft kiss directly on his lips. He froze. But his lips were anything but frozen. Warm and pliant, they moved against hers, returning the kiss. Shockwaves arced through her, awakening every nerve with new life.

She lowered herself back down on flat feet. His expression defied description. Whether he was aghast at her boldness, or terrified at the new path on which they’d taken a step, or simply shocked that she’d want to kiss him, she couldn’t say. Before she had too long to agonize over his reaction, he gathered her into his arms, kissing her over and over and over, a ravenous man setting upon a feast—no words of affection, no gentle touches, he simply devoured her in raw, true need. In return, she consumed him, all his darkness, all his wounded anger, all his defensive barriers. She took all of that from him and offered her acceptance, her genuine affection, her hope, pouring into her kiss what she didn’t dare vocalize yet, not when he wasn’t ready to hear it.

And she knew then two things that she’d been afraid to explore or admit to herself: Grant Amesbury was a man of extraordinary passion, and she loved him.

Grant kissed Jocelyn as if his very life depended upon it. Her sweetness, her softness, the exquisite pleasure he’d discovered with her, transcended anything he’d experienced. He craved, no—needed, more. She met him with equal ardor, devouring him as hungrily as he devoured her. For the first time in years, wrapped in her arms and consumed by her kiss, he felt alive. And safe.

Dormant, primal desires raced through him. But he couldn’t act on them.

He ended the kiss before he did something they’d both regret. Pulsating with energy he hadn’t possessed in years, he set her back and took a step away.

He shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have opened a door he knew he couldn’t step through. Years ago he’d sworn off women once he realized they held the power to destroy him. He’d vowed he’d rather live and die alone than open up his heart to complete desolation. Alone and angry, his heart had closed up so tightly that it had shriveled and blackened.

But she’d seen inside his heart, breathed life into it, and filled it with light and acceptance. He held onto that sensation for a moment, the hope and joy, before throwing it out and slamming the door. Better to hurt her now than lead her on and hurt her later. He wasn’t capable of loving. Too many years of bitterness had leeched out that possibility.

Her lips, plump and moist, curved into a delicious, lazy smile.

Breathing as if he’d run several city blocks, he focused on a point over her shoulder and said woodenly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. We both know there can be nothing between us.”

Undaunted, she continued to smile. “That was not ‘nothing’ and you know it.”

“It was just two lonely people sharing a kiss.” He turned and stalked away.

With each step, he reminded himself why he didn’t want an entanglement with Jocelyn Fairley. He was safer alone. And he had nothing to give. Eventually, she’d want more. And he wouldn’t be whole enough to give it to her.

He strode to the house. Tomorrow he’d return to London. The very thought of London brought a conflicting mix of relief to have no further need to associate with Jocelyn, and an unexpected sense of loss. But he could resume his investigation better in London.

At dinner, Grant tried to avoid Jocelyn without appearing as if he were doing so. Then he went to bed early.

Sleep teased him, and he relived the beauty and glory of kissing Jocelyn—assaulting her, was more like it. Of course, she’d kissed him first, soft and warm as the curl of steam from a cup of hot coffee, tantalizing and inviting. The second their lips had touched, something had sprung to life in him, something best left dormant and untouched, and he’d lost control. Then he’d attacked her. She should have stepped away in righteous shock and reprimanded him for taking such liberties when all she’d meant to offer was sympathy. But she’d responded with equal vigor. She’d taken all his dark hunger and replaced it with healing light. For a moment, he’d felt…whole. Safe.

But that was insane. He knew better than to go down that path, tantalizing and fleeting and made only for the lucky few. Not for Grant.

The following day, as they made ready to return to London, Grant glanced at Clark. “You heard nothing below stairs?”

“No, sir. Most of the servants like their employers and don’t say nuthin’ bad about ’em--them.”

“Anyone new?”

“A few.”

“Any of them say something odd, something about the country’s leaders, or the rich in general?”

“Nothing.”

No, that would be just too easy for one of them to announce he wanted to kill the prime minister.

Downstairs in the great hall, the guests made a great commotion as they prepared to leave. Though tempted to skip all the inane pleasantries, and an awkward last scene with Jocelyn, he made a point of bidding farewell to the host and any guest who crossed his path.

“Glad you came, Amesbury,” Fairley said. “I hope to see you again. Call on me any time.”

Grant bowed and said goodbye, keeping his face composed so no part of his encounter with Fairley’s daughter would be apparent.

Jocelyn appeared, smiling as if nothing unusual had happened between them. If anything, her smile beamed brighter and her eyes danced wickedly. “Papa, since Mr. Amesbury is recovering from a recent head injury, don’t you think we ought to offer him a ride back to London in the town coach with us? I’m sure it will be more comfortable.”

Grant almost choked. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

“But if you should suffer any pain or dizziness—”

“Clark will be there to assist me. I really must be off—urgent business in Town. But thank you both.” He bowed and all but fled.

He strode as quickly as possible without running outside to where Clark waited. “Let’s go,” he barked.

Clark, accustomed by now to Grant’s moods and mannerisms, made no comment. They traveled quickly and without incident to London. During the journey, Jocelyn’s kiss tormented him, tempting him to seek more.

They reached London that evening. Dusk fell as he rode into the familiar streets. Fog hovered over the Thames and stretched lifeless fingers into the surrounding neighborhoods. Grant returned the horses and left Clark at home. Unwilling to let the case rest overnight, Grant immediately went to see Barnes. The magistrate often kept late hours and would likely still be in his office. Grant wound through the streets until he reached the Bow Street Office.

Lamps burned in the building, a pale defense against encroaching darkness. Grant entered and passed through the entryway and reception area toward the magistrate’s private office, led by the soft murmur of male voices.

Inside Barnes’s domain, he found the magistrate with Connor Jackson. Both men brightened.

Barnes motioned him in. “Amesbury, what news?”

Jackson eyed him speculatively, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “You survived polite company at the house party, I see. Nice haircut.” He smirked. “Find anything useful?”

Grant threw himself into a chair. Weariness from the journey tugged at his strength. “I believe we can eliminate Fairley as a suspect.”

Barnes leaned forward. “What do you mean eliminate?”