Whirlwind Affair

Chapter 12

Redfern limped up the cobbled walkway leading to the earl's house, cursing his rotten luck. Blast that screamin' banshee of a maid. If it weren't for her, he'd have the bloody box. And he wouldn't be sportin' a sore ankle from leapin' over the damn balcony rail. Bad enough he'd landed with a bone-jarrin' thud, turnin' his ankle, but he landed with that bone-jarrin' thud right in some sort of thorny bush. Now his ankle throbbed, his best breeches and jacket were torn all up, and his arse hurt like hell. Were there any bones in a man's arse? 'Cause if there were, he knew he'd broken the bastards. All 'cause of that screamin' wench. Typical woman. Never knew when to shut up. Maybe when he'd washed his hands of the nightmare this job had become, he'd pay that screamin' wench a little private visit.

But for now, the earl were not going to be pleased he'd failed to get the box. Why the devil would he want the piece of junk? He'd considered avoidin' the earl, not reportin' in until he had the goods, but decided it were better to let Lord Shelbourne know he were on the job and huntin' for that box. Otherwise Shelbourne might get it into his head to kill first, ask questions afterward. I'll get the box tomorrow. Without fail.

He knocked on the big double doors. Shelbourne's uppity butler Willis opened the door. Damn, Redfern hated the way that pompous bloke looked at him-down his long, skinny nose as if he were his bloody majesty and Redfern were a piece of flotsam on his shoe. Devil take it, the man somehow seemed to sniff all his comments. He were nothin' but a servant! Well, when Refern collected his blunt, the first thing he were going to do were hire himself a fancy butler he could sniff orders at.

After a quarter hour wait, where he were forced to stand on his throbbing ankle-'cause in spite of all the hoity-toityness of his lordship's fancy house, there weren't one single chair in the bloody foyer-Willis finally led him down the corridor. Well, when Redfern collected his blunt, the second thing he were going to do were buy himself a fine house and fill the bloody foyer with bloody chairs so a bloody body could sit itself down. Yes, he'd set himself up right nice, and never again take orders from any nose-in-the-air nobleman.

Seconds later Willis opened a door. Redfern offered him his best sneer, then limped across the carpet. The door closed behind him with a firm click.

The earl sat in a brown leather chair near the fireplace, a brandy snifter cradled in one hand, the other hand resting on his mastiff's enormous head. Both the earl and the dog watched his hobbling progress across the room through narrowed eyes, and Redfern weren't certain which made him more uncomfortable-the man or the beast. He weren't particularly fond of dogs, especially dogs wot looked like they could chew his arm off with one bite. Shelbourne certainly seemed to love the monstrous beast, always pettin' it. He'd even heard the earl talkin' sweet to the beast several times, in a silly high-pitched voice like one would use with a tyke. He indulged in a mental shrug. Just no figurin' the Quality.

Redfern halted in front of the earl. The heat from the fire only partially eased the chill of unease snaking down his back. No, the earl didn't look happy-and he hadn't even told him the bad news yet. Maybe this was a bad idea.

"Well?" the earl asked in that icy tone of his.

Trying to inject confidence into his voice, Redfern said, "I've got me some good news, my lord. That box you want? You'll have it by this time tomorrow. You've got me word on that."

"Really? Unless you intend to rob me, I do not see how that is possible. You see, Redfern, I have the box."

"You?" Redfern repeated, confused. "How'd-"

"Mrs. Brown gave it to me."

Although muddled by all the whys and what-fors, Redfern instantly understood the ramifications. Relief relaxed his shoulders. "Well, fine, then. You've got what you wanted. Now, about my blunt-"

"I'm afraid there's a problem, Redfern. You see, the box contained a note I wanted. The note is no longer in the box, leading me to believe Mrs. Brown still has it."

"Bloody hell, wot's this now? First you wanted the ring. Then the box. Now this note. Why the blazes, if all you'd wanted was this foolish note all along, hadn't you just said so?" He clenched his hands to curb the overwhelming desire to plant the earl a facer. "You blame me for botchin' a job, but how can you expect me to succeed when I don't have all the bloody facts?"

The look the earl leveled upon him was no doubt meant to freeze his blood, but there was no cooling the anger bubbling in Redfern's veins.

"I wanted all of them," the earl said. "The ring, the box, and the note were together until you separated them. My error was in assuming you were intelligent enough to carry out the simplest of orders."

He took a leisurely sip from his brandy, then continued, "I want that note, Redfern. And you're going to get it for me. Do you understand?"

"I understand." But it's the last bloody thing I'm doin 'for the likes of you.

"Good. Mrs. Brown is traveling tomorrow to the Bradford country estate in Kent. I'm certain she'll have the note with her."

He hesitated. Blast and be damned, hopefully the earl weren't going to want him to read this bloody note. Well, if so, he'd figure some story. He'd gotten himself this far without knowin' how to cipher words. 'Course, the earl didn't know that. And none of his business it was, either. "How will I know which note you're lookin' for? You know how ladies are, always keepin' letters and such."

"This letter will be old, and will have been folded many times so it would have fit in the ring box. It will be hidden somewhere-she wouldn't keep it out in the open. Bring me the letter, and I'll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. If you fail…" The earl shrugged. "I believe I've already made myself clear regarding that scenario."

Very clear. Still, nothin' but anticipation surged through Redfern. He would indeed be a rich man. Because the blasted earl were going to have to pay a king's ransom before Redfern would surrender that letter.

Robert eyed the rough-looking character who answered his knock on Michael Evers' door. Although properly garbed in servant's attire, the man looked more like a cutthroat than a butler. No doubt because of the huge muscles evident beneath his black jacket, his shaved head, the scar that diagonally bisected his forehead, and the small gold hoop earring dangling from his left lobe. He looked as if he could pulverize stone without breaking a sweat.

"Bloody early fer a visit, ain't it?" the giant growled. He crossed his beefy arms over his massive chest and regarded Robert from his extraordinary height with an obsidian-eyed glare.

Robert handed the man his calling card, which was swallowed up in his ham-sized palm. "I need to see Mr. Evers. Immediately." Although he favored the man with his best aristocratic stare, it was damned difficult to peer down his nose at someone who stood a foot taller than him.

"Well, we'll just see if Mr. Evers needs to speak to you." With that, the door slammed in Robert's face.

Momentarily stunned, he stood on the porch, a cool gust of early morning air blowing about him. Then amusement tickled him. Damn, but Michael certainly employed a colorful group, both at his boxing emporium and his home, and it seemed some new face or another was always popping up. This giant was unfamiliar to Robert. As he recalled, Michael's last butler had been thin as a stick and sported a patch over one eye.

Robert knew his friend could afford properly trained servants, as well as a much grander residence, thanks to his lucrative career. But Michael preferred to live simply, in a part of town that, while decent, fell short of being fashionable. And he'd once told Robert that he liked to hire people who needed a second-or in some cases a third or fourth-chance in life. An admirable and noble sentiment to be sure, and Michael could certainly defend himself against any ruffian who might be foolish enough to cross him.

The door swung open. With a jerk of his head, the giant indicated he should enter. "This way," he growled, leading Robert down a short corridor. Opening a door, the giant shouted across the threshold, "Here's the bloke wot came to see ya."

Robert entered the breakfast room. Michael looked at him over the rim of a steaming cup of what, based on the redolent scent in the air, was strong coffee.

"Good morning, Jamison. You're looking a mite better than when I saw you last."

"Feeling better, too."

"No more being bashed on the head, then?"

"No, Although I suspect your, er, butler would be happy to oblige."

"Don't worry about Crusher. His bark far outweighs his bite."

"I don't believe I'd care to experience either his bark or his bite. Do I want to know why he's called Crusher?"

"Probably not." He waved Robert forward. "Sit down. Enjoy some coffee. Would you care for some food?"

"No, nothing, thank you. I cannot stay. We are leaving for Bradford Hall as soon as I return to the town house."

"We?"

"Me and Al-Mrs. Brown."

"Aye? And how is the lovely widow? Fully recovered, I hope?"

To Robert's annoyance, warmth crept up his neck. "She is very well."

Michael studied him for several seconds with a penetrating, inscrutable look, then slowly nodded. "So it's that way, is it? I suspected so."

He didn't even attempt to deny it. "Yes. It's that way. But she's in danger-there's no doubt of it. Other things have happened since the night she was abducted, and I need your help." Sitting down across from Michael, Robert filled him in on the disturbing events that had occurred since he'd last seen him- the robbery, the attempted break-in, and finally the discovery of the note. At the end of his recitation, after stressing the need for discretion, he carefully withdrew the fragile note from his waistcoat pocket.

"Can you read this?" he asked, handing Michael the missive.

Michael gently unfolded the paper, then spent several minutes studying it. "I would agree with you that this is Gaelic," he said. "Unfortunately, except for a few words, I cannot read the language. I was always more a fighter than a scholar."

Reaching across the table, Robert pointed to the two words he'd deciphered. "Do you not agree that is 'Evers' and that is the name of the town where you grew up?"

"Yes." A puzzled frown creased Michael's brow, and he leaned closer to the paper.

"Do you recognize something else?" Robert asked.

"It looks like this says 'Brianne,'" Michael said slowly. "That name's bloody odd."

"Odd? Actually, I think it's rather a nice name."

"It is." Michael looked up at him, a combination of confusion and suspicion flickering in his eyes. "It's my mum's name."

Robert raised his brows and stroked his chin. "Bloody odd, indeed. Granted, there's probably thousands of women named Brianne in Ireland -"

"But it's peculiar that my surname, the town I lived in, and my mum's name are all in this note," finished Michael. A troubled frown pulled down his brows. "I wonder if this could explain…"

When he did not elaborate, Robert leaned forward and prompted, "What?"

"I don't know… it's probably nothing."

"What is probably nothing?" When his friend again remained silent, Robert's patience slipped. Reaching across the table, he grasped his friend's forearm. "Damn it, Michael, you must realize how important this is. Tell me."

After another long hesitation, Michael finally said, "When I was a lad, I used to tell my mum that her eyes were 'secrety.' A silly, childish word, but I didn't know any other way to describe what I read in her eyes. To this day, I still don't. She told me that everyone has secrets… And it was always evident to me that she herself had some."

"Surely you don't think this note has something to do with your mother?"

"Brianne's a common name, but I don't recall any others called that in our small village. Impossible as it seems, I can't dismiss the possibility. Can you?"

Robert raked his hands through his hair. "I suppose not. Can your mother read Gaelic?"

"Yes." His steady gaze met Robert's. "I'd like to show her this. I understand Mrs. Brown's desire for discretion. You have my word I'll show it to no one else but my mum."

A long silent look passed between them, then Robert nodded. "All right. But I'd like this matter resolved as quickly as possible-before any further strange incidents or accidents occur. When can you depart for Ireland?"

"I'll make arrangements to leave today."

Robert rose, then extended his hand to his friend. "I'm grateful."

"I'll report back to you at Bradford Hall as soon as I can."

"Thank you. And Michael-be sure to watch your back."

Unobtrusively lifting his gaze from the book he'd been trying to concentrate on for the past several hours, Robert ventured a look across the seat at his traveling companion. She sat perfectly composed, holding a book she appeared completely engrossed in.

He swallowed a disgruntled sound. She'd kept herself busy from the moment she'd settled herself in the carriage. First she'd sewn tiny buttons on several pairs of black gloves. Then she'd pulled out an embroidery hoop, which had occupied her for over three hours. Now her nose was buried in a book. He'd twice tried to engage her in conversation, but she'd answered in monosyllables, never looking up from her stitching or reading, and he'd finally turned his attention to his own book- with miserable results.

How could she concentrate on such mundane matters when all he could do was think of her? The feel of her. The taste of her. He inhaled and the flowery scent of her skin… that luscious honeysuckle, wrapped around his senses. How was it that while she clearly found him completely resistible, he found her completely irresistible?

And just what the bloody hell was she reading that was so fascinating? They'd both chosen volumes from the town house library before departing, but he had not asked what she'd selected. Shifting slightly forward, he squinted at the title printed in gold leaf on the leather spine of her book. His eyes widened.

She was reading The Taming of the Shrew.

Upside down.

He stilled, then pressed his lips together to contain the broad grin that threatened to spread across his face. Clearly she wasn't quite as engrossed in the Bard as she'd like him to think.

Considerably cheered, he gave up all pretense at reading. Snapping his book closed, he laid it on the velvet squabs next to him and indulged in a long, leisurely look at her.

She was dressed from head to toe in unrelenting black. The gown she wore looked new, and he surmised that it was one of those she had purchased from Madame Renee. The stark color contrasted with her creamy skin, lending her an alluring air of delicacy. Her black bonnet covered nearly all of her hair, and his fingers itched with the desire to untie the ribbons and remove it. He recalled the silky, thick texture of those chestnut strands sifting through his fingers. With her eyes cast downward on the upside-down words, he noted the length of her lashes casting crescent shadows on her smooth cheeks.

His gaze lowered to her lips and he stifled a groan. The feel of that luscious mouth crushed beneath his came roaring back with a vengeance that swelled him against his breeches. Such a delicious mouth. And bloody hell, she knew how to use it.

Wrapped in mourning from her neck to her toes, she looked like a remote, black-garbed island-untouchable, and lonely. Yet he knew the passion that hovered beneath the surface of her quiet exterior. And he was determined to share and experience that passion, in all its forms, with her. For after a sleepless night spent pacing and thinking, he'd finally, as dawn approached, accepted the irrefutable truth.

Allie was The One.

The one he'd been searching for. The one who made him feel that "certain something." The one he wanted.

Oh, he'd tried to talk himself out of the realization as he'd paced a trough in his bedchamber last night. Ticking off the reasons on his fingers. He'd known her less than a week. She lived an ocean away. She did not trust men. In her own words she'd said she refused to risk herself again. To any degree. For any man.

But as quickly as the obstacles rose, he felled them. It did not matter that they had not known each other long. Every member of his family had married after brief, whirlwind courtships. He'd always known that when love hit him it would, in the family tradition, resemble the strike of a lightning bolt-fast, hard, furious, and sizzling. As for living in America, she could simply do as Elizabeth had done-resettle in England. And while her aversion to involvement and marriage was justified, he would just have to find a way to overcome it. She might not want to risk herself for any man, but damn it, he wasn't just any man. He was the man who loved her.

But how to convince her to change her mind-set? To make her want him as he wanted her? How to get her to give up the past and embrace a future with him?

He shook his head at his own conceit. He had never even considered the possibility that when he found "the one" she might not fall in happily with his plans-might not feel exactly the same way about him. No, he'd simply assumed that Cupid's bow would strike them both simultaneously, and there would never be any question that they were made for each other.

He swallowed an ironic snort. Of course, he'd always thought he'd fall in love with an uncomplicated English girl who would worship the ground he walked upon. Instead, Fate had presented him with an American widow whose life was in danger, who adamantly wanted nothing to do with men or marriage, and who compared him to her criminally-minded, adulterous late husband.

A bloody tall mountain to climb was what Fate had given him.

Luckily he enjoyed a challenge.

And he always played to win.

Yet he clearly sensed that if he simply laid his heart out for her, told her his feelings and asked her to marry him, she would bolt like a fox chased by a pack of hounds. No, he needed to move slowly. Cautiously. Let her realize, on her own, that she felt all the same wondrous things for him that he felt for her. Because he knew she did. Fate would never be so unkind to allow it to be otherwise. Besides, he clearly recalled Elizabeth's prediction-that he'd find the happiness he sought in London. There was now no doubt in his mind that she'd meant Allie. Well, he'd found her. Now all he had to do was keep her safe from the maniac who was after her, and convince her that she wanted to give up her life in America and stay in England to marry a man she barely knew. Bloody hell.

Allie felt the weight of his stare, and fought to retain her outward air of calm. It had been nearly impossible to ignore him while he was engrossed in his book, but now, with his volume set aside, it was painfully obvious he was engrossed in her.

An unwanted, heated thrill coursed through her. Within seconds her face would flush and he'd know… know she was aware of him and his regard. Would he also know she'd spent a sleepless night, her thoughts in turmoil, her body aching with long-forgotten needs? Needs that she feared would demand to be met now that they were reawakened?

Images flashed through her mind. The early days of her marriage. She'd gone to her marriage bed self-conscious and unsure, but David had quickly cured her of her insecurities. He'd introduced her to passion, and for all his other faults, she could not deny he was a wonderful lover. He'd taught her how to please him and to learn what pleased her. During their first four months as man and wife, not a night had passed without them making love, endlessly exploring each other's body. And while she had never failed to find physical release and satisfaction during their lovemaking sessions, something was missing… something she could not put a name to. Physically, David gave her everything she craved, yet every night she'd go to bed hoping to capture that elusive missing element, but it somehow remained out of reach.

They'd spoken briefly about children… She'd wanted them desperately, and the fact that she had failed to conceive was the only cloud on her otherwise sunny horizon. When she'd expressed concern to David that she might be barren, he'd agreed that she must be, crushing her hopes of becoming a mother. But he'd told her it did not matter, that they had each other and that was all that mattered. He'd been so convincing, she'd done her best to bury her disappointment and concentrate all her energies on him. Even though there would be no children, she had David, and he made her happy.

A bitter sound rose in her throat. She'd been such an incredible fool.

When David's passion had started to wane after those first few months, she'd accepted without question his increasingly frequent explanations of being tired, or not feeling well. Such a fool.

After he'd died, she'd ruthlessly banished every feminine urge and longing he'd awakened in her. And dormant they had lain. Until this man sitting across from her had roused them from their hibernation.

She'd tried mightily, as she'd paced her bedchamber floor last night, to plow through her warring emotions and make sense of them… to talk herself out of this impossible attraction, but to no avail. Her inner battle had continued during this seemingly endless carriage ride, but now it was time to surrender and face the truth.

Robert aroused feelings in her she'd thought long dead, but now that they'd returned, she could not ignore them. She would never marry again, but her status as a widow did give her some advantages.

She could take a lover.

Fiery heat rushed through her at the mere thought. The idea had occurred to her during her endless pacing last night, but she'd thrust it away in fear. But now, after spending the last several hours sitting only several feet away from him, breathing in his musky, masculine scent every time she inhaled, being so painfully aware of him her skin tingled, she could not run from the truth any longer. She wanted him. In a way that exhilarated and frightened her all at the same time. In a way she could not ignore. And based on what they'd shared last night, it was obvious he wanted her as well. They were both unmarried adults; no one would be hurt. She did not need to worry about conceiving a child. As long as they were discreet…

She'd be leaving England in six weeks, if not sooner. They could enjoy each other during that time. Then a nice, clean break. No messy emotions. She would allow him to engage her mind and her body, and leave her heart untouched. It wouldn't matter if he was devil-may-care, or if his past held secrets. Theirs would be only a physically intimate union.

Her inner voice tried to interject, to object, but she squashed it soundly. Yes, an affair might be just the thing.

But how to broach such a subject? Should she simply ask him? Offer it up like a business proposition? What if he refused? She pressed her lips together. Dear God, as embarrassing as it might prove to ask him to become her lover, it would be utterly humiliating were he to turn down her offer. Well, she'd just have to make certain he could not turn down her offer.

The hint of a smile pulled at her lips as she imagined herself in the role of seductress. What would he do if she slid across the seat to sit upon his lap? Sifted her fingers through his thick, dark hair? Brushed her lips over his lovely, masculine mouth?

He d kiss you senseless. Then he d touch you… in all the spots that ache for him. He d strip off your gown and then-

"How is your book?"

The huskily spoken words jerked her from her sensual thoughts. She raised her head, and her gaze collided with his. It was the first time she'd looked directly at him since last night, and the effect of his dark blue eyes, of the unmistakable desire brewing beneath his innocuous question, wreaked havoc upon her already heightened awareness of him.

Heat rushed into her cheeks and her heart skipped one, perhaps two, beats. She swallowed to locate her voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your book. Are you enjoying it?"

Book? She glanced down and sanity returned. "Oh! Yes. It's wonderful."

A slow, devastatingly attractive smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "That is an incredible talent you possess. Did your father teach you that as well as juggling?"

"What talent?"

Instead of answering, he reached across the space between them, then plucked the book from her fingers. Without breaking eye contact, he turned the slim volume upside down, then handed it back to her.

Puzzled, she looked down. At the correctly printed words.

Surely the hellfires burning in her cheeks would simply scorch her and leave her in a pile of ashes. She raised her gaze once again, and their eyes met, but instead of the humor and teasing she'd expected to see, his gaze was intense. And completely serious.

"I'm suffering from the same affliction, Allie," he said quietly.

That softly spoken admission arrowed straight through her heart. And erased any doubts she might have possessed. Closing the book with a snap, she carefully placed it on the cushion next to her. Then, gathering her courage, she drew a deep breath and jumped off the cliff into the black abyss of the unknown yawning before her. "I believe I've thought of a solution to cure our mutual… affliction."

"Please, do not keep me in suspense."

Adopting what she hoped was a businesslike tone, she said, "I think we should become lovers."

Surprise flashed in his eyes, followed instantly by a flare of fire, then a flicker of something else that passed too quickly for her to read. He said nothing for several seconds. Then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, the carriage jerked to a halt. They both turned toward the window. A palatial gray stone home stood before them.

Before she could assimilate her scattered thoughts, a footman opened the carriage door and announced, "We have arrived at Bradford Hall."