Chapter Fourteen

Joanna stopped at the sound of her name. Brimming with righteous indignation, she whirled around, ready to give Kincaid a piece of her mind.

“Who do you think you–heavens,” she gasped when she saw the wagon barreling down on her.

The driver pulled frantically on the reins, but the draft horses were too large, their bodies too cumbersome. She willed her legs to move, but they were stuck to the ground. She threw her hands up in front of her face, preparing for the impact…

Out of nowhere, a hard force slammed into her from behind, and she was flung out of the path of the horses with nary a second to spare. Kincaid, her stunned mind barely had time to register before he tucked her against him and they rolled across the cobblestone.

The wagon clattered by, the driver shouting at them as he passed, but Joanna couldn’t hear above the roaring in her ears.

Her entire body was tingling with adrenaline. Blood dripped from a scrape on her elbow and her shoulder ached from where it had struck the ground. But it was Kincaid who had taken the brunt of the impact.

He was stretched out beneath her, his long frame cushioning hers. There was a cut above his right brow. Another on his chin. His spectacles had been knocked askew. She could feel the wild pounding of his heart through his clothes, its erratic rhythm keeping time with her own as she managed to push herself up into a half-sitting position, her splayed fingers filling the narrow gaps in his ribcage.

“You–you saved me,” she said in amazement. “How did you move so quickly?”

His gaze fell to her arm, and his eyebrows shot together. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. A scratch.” But if not for Kincaid’s swift actions, she knew it would have been far, far worse. With a tender smile, she straightened his glasses. “There. That’s better,” she said quietly. “You need to be able to see.”

And she needed to have patience.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, and stubborn detectives didn’t open their hearts in a week. But they did risk their lives to save others, and what more could she ask than that? Maybe Kincaid couldn’t say what he felt for her in words. But his actions had said all that she needed to hear.

“I see you, Miss Thorncroft,” he said huskily.

As the world continued on all around them, with no one giving any mind to the couple crouched on the side of the street, he gathered her in his arms.

She tucked her head beneath his chin.

They were two fragments of a whole, clicking into place. Just like a puzzle not yet solved, it seemed they had nothing that connected them together. She was an American bluestocking. He was a British detective. Their paths never should have intersected, let alone become entwined. But then the unsolved part of the puzzle became smaller. And suddenly, it became obvious where the last pieces needed to go.

This was all Joanna wanted. To want, and be wanted in return. To protect, and be protected in return. To love, and to be loved in return.

Her breath caught.

Did she love Kincaid?

As frustrating as it could be, she loved arguing with him. She loved coaxing these precious moments of vulnerability out of him. She loved the way he made her burn.

If she wasn’t in love with him, then she was falling.

No, not falling.

This tingling inside of her wasn’t a simple descent of gravity.

It was a spinning. A twirling. A dancing.

She was waltzing with Kincaid. And for once, they were moving in unison.

Until he exhaled, and abruptly hauled her to her feet.

“You little fool,” he growled as any traces of softness vanished in a poof of proverbial smoke. “You could have been killed. You almost were killed. What the devil were you thinking, stepping off the pavement like that without looking first? You are never to put your life at risk like that again.” He gave her a small, painless shake. “Do you understand me?”

Taken aback by the dark fury burning in his eyes, Joanna was slow to respond. She felt as if she’d been languishing in a hot bath, only to have a bucket of cold water suddenly dumped on her head. Where had it come from? Better yet, what was its purpose?

“Would…would that have bothered you?” she asked. “If I were hurt?”

“Would it have bothered me?” he repeated incredulously. “Would it have bothered me? Yes, it bloody well would have! What sort of stupid question is that?”

Why, he’s scared, she realized.

Frightened out of his wits, really.

Because of her.

She could all but feelKincaid’s anger vibrating in the air. But beneath all that bristling, tumultuous rage was panic and fear. Fear that he wouldn’t have felt…unless he felt what she did. Daring to risk his wrath, she stretched up and gently brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because you’re my client, and I’m responsible for you.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“Because you’re my secretary, and I don’t have time to find another.”

“Why?” she persisted.

She wanted–she needed–to hear him say it. Actions were all well and good, but sometimes words were the only thing that could fill a heart. If he was going to drain her emotions like this, he couldn’t leave her empty. He had to give her something. Something to fill her until the next kiss. Something to sustain her until the next soft moment. Something to give her hope that when she was done spinning, and twirling, and falling, he would catch her.

He would always catch her.

Because he was right. She could have been killed. And maybe it was selfish of her but, before she died, she wanted what kings went to war for. She wanted what sonnets were made of. She wanted what poets wrote about.

Lust, and longing, and love.

She wanted it all, damnit.

And she wanted it with Kincaid.

“I understand your reservations,” she began when he remained wrapped in icy silence. “I would have them, too, if I were in your place and a stranger arrived unannounced on my doorstep, demanding things. Making me feel things I didn’t want to feel. But I know that I’m more than just your client. I’m more than just your secretary.” Wide eyes framed with thick lashes implored him to open up to her. To lower his guard. To come out from behind his wall of stone. To trust her as she trusted him. With her secrets, with her life…and with her heart. “I do not want to keep going in circles.”

“What do you want?” he demanded, all raw tension and simmering angst.

“You, Thomas Kincaid,” she said with quiet conviction. “I want you. And I know–”

“You don’t know anything,” he snarled. “Not about me. Not about what you’re asking. Nothing.”

“Kincaid–”

But he was already walking away.

And this time, there was no one to catch her when she fell.

* * * *

Kincaid had to walk away. If he didn’t, he would have touched her again. If he’d touched her, he would have kissed her. And if he’d kissed her…if he’d kissed her, this time, he wouldn’t have stopped until he’d devoured her whole. So he forced himself to let her go, and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

He knew he was being a bloody sod, leaving a bleeding woman in the middle of the pavement to venture home by herself. But given the alternative, this was surely the safest option for them both.

Joanna was young and na?ve. She was full of hope and stars and everything bright and magical. She didn’t understand what she was asking of him. She didn’t understand what she was risking. She didn’t understand what she stood to lose.

But he did.

He understood that when you played with your heart, you didn’t always win.

And the pain wasn’t worth the reward.

Kincaid considered himself to be a practical man. Which was why, in his head, he knew Joanna was different from Lavinia. As different as the warm sun from the cool, cold moon. But it was his heart that needed convincing, and it was his heart he refused to risk. Not again. Not even for a titian-haired goddess with eyes of blue fire and an unbridled spirit that rivaled the four winds.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat as he walked, his stormy expression hastening pedestrians out of his path. He passed by his office without stopping and proceeded on to Grafton Street, a fashionable address on the outskirts of Mayfair.

If there was a surefire way to distract his mind and stop himself from turning around and marching right back to Joanna like a poor, besotted dunce, it was to bury himself in his work.

He’d gone as far as he could with Sterling’s case. For now, at least. And Joanna was right, which only served to heighten his temper. Although this anger was self-directed. Because she’d held her own as well as any seasoned peeler, and he never should have doubted her. Not for an instant. But couldn’t she see the danger she’d be in if she continued? He couldn’t let her be part of the hunt for a bloody murderer.

If something happened to her, it would be the end of him.

He did not know when or how that had come to be.

He just knew it was.

What he felt for Joanna…what he felt for Joanna was stronger than anything he’d ever known. And that terrified him, as it should have. As it would any normal, sane person. When you were burned once, you didn’t stick your damned hand back into the fire. If Lavinia had left his heart filled with gnarled, puckered scars, then Joanna was going to turn it to ash.

It was only a matter of time.

Which was why he needed to get her the hell out of London.

The sooner, the better.

The sheer terror he’d experienced when he saw her step in front of those horses…he didn’t want to feel that ever again. He didn’t want to feel this yearning inside of him. He didn’t want to feel anything.

Not if it meant giving up everything.

Unfortunately, stubborn minx that she was, he knew Joanna wasn’t going to return to America until she had answers. Answers he was determined to provide. As much for her sake as his.

He was hoping the Countess of Beresford’s ball would lead him to the ring, and Joanna’s birth father. In his gut, he knew that if he found one, he’d find the other. In the meantime, he’d been using her grandmother’s maiden name of Ellinwood to track down any remaining relatives that might still be residing in the city. He’d withheld his search only because he hadn’t wanted to disappoint her if he came up empty. And thus far, that was precisely what had happened.

Over the past few days, after Joanna had left his office, he’d walked all over London, knocking on door after door. Ellinwood wasn’t an exceedingly common surname, but there were enough families who shared it to make the task an arduous one.

He had one last residence to check. A manor on Green Street, not too far from the house they’d just left. In this section of Mayfair, however, the homes did not share walls and the gardens were considerably larger, a subtle indication of wealth and privilege.

He knocked on the door. A maid answered. After accepting his card, she ushered him into the front parlor.

“I was not told Lady Ellinwood was expecting anyone, but I will tell her you are here,” she said before discreetly sliding the pocket doors closed.

Hands clasped behind his back, Kincaid circled the room, the restless energy still moving through his veins from when he’d snatched Joanna from certain death making it impossible to sit or to settle.

Thankfully, he was not kept waiting for long.

Within a few minutes, the pocket doors opened to reveal an elderly woman with a hawkish nose, gray hair pinned beneath a lace cap, and a thin mouth. She wore a mauve-colored gown that rustled as she walked, its skirt decorated with too many pleats and bows to count. In her right hand, she held a cane, its whalebone handle worn smooth.

“I was told you requested to see me?” she asked, her voice scratchy with age.

“Indeed, Lady Ellinwood.” On instinct, Kincaid bowed lower and longer than he should have, and was rewarded for the gratuitous act when he caught a glint of approval in Lady Ellinwood’s eyes as he straightened. “I am a private investigator, hired by a young woman to find any family ties she might have in England. Your name brought me here. It should not take more than a moment of your time to discover whether you are, in fact, the family she has been seeking.”

Instead of looking annoyed by his intrusion (as nearly every other person whose door he’d knocked upon had, their lives far too busy to be bothered by a random stranger, and a detective at that), Lady Ellinwood appeared resigned.

“She’s an American? This young woman who has hired you.”

“Yes, she is,” Kincaid said earnestly as anticipation gripped him. “How did you know that?”

With a sigh, Lady Ellinwood leaned heavily onto her cane. “Because I suspected she would come here eventually. Her mother did.”

“Anne Thorncroft,” he supplied.

Lady Ellinwood’s gaze sharpened. “My niece’s name was Pratt when I met her. The only daughter of my dear sister and her ne’er-do-well American husband. Joseph’s blood must have been strong, because Anne received most of it. A more rebellious, disobedient child I’ve never met. I won’t say I wasn’t glad when she left. In the dead of the night, like a thief. Fitting, I suppose, given what she had stolen.”

“What did she steal?”

Lady Ellinwood blinked. “Why, the Duke of Caldwell’s granddaughter, of course.”