Chapter Eleven

Rafe knew he would have to leave her soon, well before dawn crept over the horizon. Each time, it seemed, he stayed a bit later. Each time he was a little less willing to leave. It took something from him, he thought, to always have to leave her. Each time he left a little more of himself in her hands, dreaded a little more the inevitable end of their relationship.

And it would have to end, eventually, as all things did. Most of the time, one wasn't even aware that the end was the end. Perhaps he, too, would not know when they had ended until after the fact. Perhaps one day in the near future, she would request the return of her key before he left. Perhaps she would simply never send another note. An ending established only in retrospect; a tiny death stretched out over days or weeks as he wondered, when, if, she would ever reach out to him once again.

In these last moments before he took his leave, in the still-stygian darkness of the early morning hours, he wanted only to memorize the texture of her skin beneath his hands, the elegant slope of her shoulders. To feel the feather of her lashes, and see the quirk of her smile. To hear the sweet sigh of her breath and the soft hum of her voice. Each time could be the last he would ever experience these things. If he could keep nothing else of her, at least these memories would live on in her absence.

"Thank you," she said in a sleepy murmur into the bend of her elbow as he pulled on his shirt. "For coming. I didn't expect it. But I am grateful nonetheless." She peeked one eye open, watching with open curiosity as he dressed. "If you would come back again tomorrow—"

"I will."

"Thank you. I was finding it dreadfully difficult to sleep before you arrived," she said. "I suppose I feel safer with you here."

"Safer?" It hadn't been only the pain that had kept her wakeful, then. "Why?"

"You'll think it foolish," she said, with a wry twist of her lips. "It's just that—well, Neil informed me yesterday that someone had broken in, probably early in the morning. Straight through the stillroom window, it would seem."

I thought you were an intruder, she'd said. And he hadn't marked it as odd, because he hadn't been expected this evening. There was a queer sensation at the back of his neck, as if he was being observed. The feeling of some unseen threat lurking, not too distant, like a trap closing in around him.

It could be a coincidence. There was always that vanishingly remote possibility. But it wasn't. He knew damned well it could not be. The timing was too convenient, too prompt.

Rafe paused in the act of tucking his shirt into his trousers and modulated his voice as he asked, "Was anything taken?"

Her brows pinched together. "No," she said. "Not that I've noticed. Not that Neil has noticed yet, either, and he does keep a scrupulously accurate inventory. A few of the rooms were rifled through. Some even"—she gave a delicate shudder—"within this corridor."

And it had happened, most likely, whilst she slept. Too close a call. For her taste, and also for his.

"It is just so violating," she said. "To have a stranger rooting through one's things."

"Terribly violating, I would imagine." Rafe shoved the thought that he had done just the same to the back of his mind. At least he had been competent enough to leave no evidence of his own pilfering.

Emma eased one arm beneath her head, propping her chin in her hand. "Perhaps Neil will discover some bits of silver missing at some point in the future. As for myself—I'm simply glad that whatever burglary the intruder intended to commit, it was limited to this part of the house. If the children had been in danger—"

"Unlikely," he said. "Housebreakers often perform surveillance in advance of a break-in. The goal is to get in and out swiftly, attracting as little notice as possible, and leaving no witnesses. The intruder would have taken the path of least resistance, avoiding heavily-trafficked areas." The wing the children occupied had entirely too many people living and working within it. Besides, if the intruder had been after what he imagined had been the target, then there was no reason to expect to find it within the school wing.

It had been a rush job, undertaken within hours of the ball. The intruder had left empty-handed, and hadn't cared if his presence had been discovered. Probably a hired man, then, and that—that meant desperation. And that very desperation could place Emma in jeopardy.

Emma shuddered, eyes gone wide and stark. "Do you mean to tell me that someone has been watching my house? Could they be, still?"

"Difficult to say." He didn't want to lie to her any more than he wished to frighten her. The thief had failed, but he suspected there would be another attempt, and another—as many as necessary to secure the journal. "I'll speak with Chris in the morning. Have him place a couple of men nearby at night for a little while, for your peace of mind," he said. "Just until we can be certain there's no one lurking about."

"Thank you," she said again, on a breezy little sigh of relief.

A moment of silence stretched out between them. He didn't want to leave her here alone, frightened of every little sound that might come in the night. He didn't want to leave her unguarded, when anyone might be lurking in the shadows. Gingerly, he sat at the edge of the bed and placed his hand upon her hip. "Would you like me to stay?"

The lingering tension went out of her in a rush. "Yes," she said. "Yes, please. If it's not too much trouble. I wouldn't have asked—"

"It's no trouble. I'll leave before first light." Tonight, at least, she would be safe. And tomorrow she would be under guard. "Don't worry," he said, as he dragged his shirt off over his head once more. "I sleep lightly."

"That makes one of us," Emma said with a wry grimace as she settled her head upon his shoulder. "I sleep like the dead." Her fingers drummed a nervous little rhythm upon his chest, but she had settled in his arms so naturally, so comfortably. "If someone should break in this evening—"

"They won't." Of that, at least, he was reasonably certain. "If someone has been watching the house, they will have noticed that I have not left." Probably the intruder had been waiting for him to leave the night before. "And if they should decide to risk it anyway, they'll have a nasty shock waiting for them. I'm quite good with my fists."

"What if they've brought a weapon?"

"A knife is more likely than a gun. Guns produce a great deal of noise and thus draw a great deal of attention." And they required reloading, besides. "I can disarm a man with a knife."

Appeased by his confidence, Emma slid her leg between his, curling closer. The tips of her fingers sketched out tiny, inconsistent patterns upon his chest. Sleep, if it had been in the offing for her, had slipped from her grasp. "Will you tell me something about yourself?" she asked, finally, her voice lowered to a murmur.

"Like what?"

"Anything at all. I would like to know you better." Her breath sighed out against his chin, warm and compelling. "Please, Rafe."

My sister is your dearest friend. "I am the middle of three children," he said. "The one that has always been lost in the shuffle. The one to whom not much attention has ever been paid."

A soft sound; agreement, he thought. "I thought that about you," she said, "the first time I saw you. Not that you would not draw attention—but that you don't appear to seek it. Force of habit, then, I suppose."

"Yes. Habit."And then necessity. It had become a way of life; it had ensured his safety. Better, always, not to be noticed.

"It's not so very difficult, is it? Speaking of yourself?" Those soft fingers slid up his throat, traced the line of his jaw. "Another. Please."

I have loved you from afar for years and years. "Once, years ago, I was a soldier. When I was shipped off abroad, it took my father weeks—months, most likely—even to notice I was gone. We were all disappointments to him, my siblings and I, but I…I was so far beneath his notice that he did not even note my absence."

He felt the pull of a small, sad smile against his shoulder. "We have that in common, I think. There was nothing my father wanted so much as a legitimate son. But my mother could not give him one, and he never let either of us forget how much we had disappointed him." The pad of her thumb slid across his lower lip, as if to coax forth more words. "Something else."

I killed your husband. I destroyed your life, and I can never let you know it. Because above all, I cannot bear for you to hate me. He said instead, "I have very few people in my life whom I would call friends. I have long become accustomed to solitude. I haven't found it lonely. It's simply the way my life has always been." Alone, even in the midst of a crowd. It had become a comfortable thing for him.

"I think I'm a little jealous of you for that," she said softly. "I have been lonely for years, and I feel every minute of it. Like a sickness of the soul." She pressed her cheek to his, whispered in his ear, "One thing more," she said. "Tell me—tell me something no one else knows. Something just for me."

When we part ways, I will spend the rest of my life longing for you. "I haven't found it lonely," he said, "until just lately." She had given that curse to him, and he would have only a handful of memories to counterbalance it. "I am lonely when I leave you."

And now, forever after her, he would know it.

∞∞∞

There was an arm about Emma's waist. Solid, heavy, and warm. A sort of warmth that had long been absent from her life. No—a warmth that had never been present in her life. The heat of a man's chest against her back, his legs entangled with her own, the rush of soft, even breaths against her shoulder; these were all new, all novel.

She had never once woken within the shelter of someone's arms. And for just a few moments, she was going to savor it, savor this strange new sensation of intimacy. Of closeness. Her fingers drifted along that arm settled across her waist, raking through the dusting of dark hair upon it.

"Good morning." There was a trickle of amusement in Rafe's voice, and not even a hint of grogginess. Probably, she thought, he had been awake for some time already.

"Good morning," she said, because it seemed like the sort of thing one ought to say. "How long have you been awake?"

"An hour," he said, his stubbled jaw trailing along her shoulder. "Perhaps a little longer. Nothing is amiss from what I've seen. No disturbances in the night."

"You've been up already?" She had slept quite deeply, then.

"I rise early," he said. "It seemed a prudent thing to inspect this wing for signs of trouble. I didn't want you to have any uncertainty on that front upon rising."

"But you came back to bed," she said.

"Yes. You were still in it. Are you better this morning?" His palm settled over her abdomen, with tender pressure

"Better than yesterday, though I think I will have another bath." The hot water had done wonders last evening, and so had he. But already there was a dull ache that promised to sharpen as the day advanced. "Will you still return this evening?"

"If it pleases you. I might be quite late; I do have some…business to which to attend."

"With Kit," she said. Through the window, the first peachy strains of light had begun to emerge, and a strange melancholy settled in her chest. Dawn was imminent. He would have to go, and soon, and she—she would miss him. She would miss the peace of this moment when he had gone, the sense of comfort and security his very presence had given her.

"Among other things. You needn't worry. Chris would never take chances with your security." A sigh slid past her ear; a regretful sound her heart echoed. "I must be going," he said. "Sleep a little longer. You'll be safe while you do."

It took him only a few moments to dress and quit the room, and Emma sighed as she rolled into the warmth of the spot he had vacated. Her fingers slid over the impression of his head left behind upon the pillow, which still carried his scent. That particular blend of cinnamon and spice that had become so soothing. Synonymous with comfort and care and companionship.

Here was a man who cared if she was in pain, who had stayed with her through the night to allay her fears. A man who had risen before dawn to assure himself—and her—of her safety, only to crawl back into bed simply because she was still in it. A man who asked how she was feeling as if he held a genuine interest in the answer.

Emma had not had much experience being honest with herself, because truth was often a painful thing to confront. For so many years it had been easier simply to ignore it, to pretend it away. Yet it had always followed her, lingering in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Only now that she had begun to sort through them at last, she found that the anticipation of those painful truths had been so much the worse in her mind. She had, in a way, both created and extended her own suffering.

Now there was a new truth lingering just at the fringes of her mind. A subtle, sneaky one. A sly sort of thing, which had crept up upon her an inch at a time. And so she closed her eyes and acknowledged it, this strange reality, with a sense of inevitability and not a little dread.

She had told Kit, not too very long ago, that she had only wanted to feel again. Now, she feared she was feeling a bit too much. More than she had ever expected. More than she had asked for. More even than she had wanted.

How na?ve she had been. In the same way that a sun-starved flower stretched toward a shaft of light, so, too, did she stretch toward the warmth of Rafe's consideration, his kind regard. A dangerous man, she thought, as she let her fingers drift over the pillow. Not to her, he'd said—but that had been a lie, even if he hadn't known it.

The danger was in the risk of forming a one-sided attachment to another man who might not return her affections.

∞∞∞

Rafe peered through the tiny gap between the curtains at the window of his study, looking down onto the street below. There across the street stood a man in a dark coat, who seemed to be doing his damnedest to make himself inconspicuous.

It had become a habit, in the long years of his employment, to make careful note of his surroundings in order to pinpoint any changes from the usual. Such as people who followed a bit too closely, dogging his steps for too long a time for such a thing to be a coincidence alone. People whose paths ought to have diverged from his own at some point. People who did not belong there outside his house, struggling to hide behind the too-thin trunk of a tree.

Naturally he had made note of the man who had shared Emma's mostly-empty street with him when he had left just before dawn. It would have been impossible not to, given that there were so few people about. The mere presence of the man hadn't been concerning in and of itself, since it was hardly a crime to be up and about at that hour.

What had been noteworthy was that the man had followed him. At a discreet distance, of course, with his head bent toward the ground and the brim of his hat largely obscuring his face. But the man had followed him straight to his home in Soho, where he had set himself up across the street, half-concealed behind a tree.

A troubling new situation. And since he was reasonably certain that Chris had not set the man upon him the only thing to do for it at this juncture was nothing. He'd been careful not to give any obvious signs that he was aware of the fellow's presence. He could only continue to behave as if he was unaware he was being observed, and in the meantime attempt to determine to whom the man reported.

From his vantage point near the window, Rafe saw Dannyboy scurrying toward the steps below, saw the man waiting across the street watch the lad as he approached the door.

Damn. Well, perhaps he could make use of this complication in some small fashion, at least.

Within moments, there was the pound of small footsteps upon the stairs, and Dannyboy came careening into the room. "Got somethin' fer me today?" the boy asked, his hand still clutching at the door handle.

"I do," Rafe said, as he strode back toward his desk. "But tell me first—did you see the man across the street when you arrived?"

"What, the gent wiv the fancy hat? Standin' like ‘e were waitin' fer someone?"

Good; the boy was more observant than he'd hoped. "That's the one. I suspect he's spying upon me, and I require your assistance to throw him off my trail."

"Why's ‘e spyin' on ye?" Dannyboy asked, his brow puckering with a curious frown.

Impossible to say for certain, but he had his suspicions. But with Dannyboy's assistance, he could bait a trap for the fellow who had followed him and either confirm or deny them.

He said, "I'll not bore you with the details. Are you up for a bit of trickery? Do you think you can pull one over on that gent out front?"

Dannyboy offered a gap-toothed grin, delighted with the prospect. "What do I got to do?"

Rafe pulled out his chair and settled into it to scrawl out a couple of notes. "You recall the man who first sent you to me," he said. "You know how to find him again?"

"Course I do," Dannyboy said, rocking on his heels. "Lives in a big ‘ouse in Mayfair. Got a shiny black door and a brass knocker what looks like a lion's head."

"Good." Rafe blew upon the note to set the ink, folded it up, and handed it to the boy. "I need you to deliver to this to him. Keep it close and safe, somewhere it can't be pickpocketed, and make certain you aren't followed."

"Got it." Dannyboy dropped to the ground, pulled off his boot, and tucked the note into the toe. "'Ow's that?" he asked, as he shoved his foot back within it.

"Perfect," Rafe said. "You give it only to him, you understand." He scratched out a second note, folded it into quarters, and held it out. "This note," he said, as he held it out to the boy, "is how you're going to help me. When you leave here, I want you to stand on the steps and to be very obvious about putting it in your pocket."

Dannyboy's brows rose toward his hairline. "Ye want the gent to see it?"

"I do. Moreover, I want to see if he takes it. So you'll put it in your pocket, and pretend you haven't seen him. If he pickpockets you, let him do so without indicating you've noticed. When he's out of sight—when you're certain he's gone—deliver the other note. It is imperative that the gent outside doesn't know he's being misled," Rafe said. "Can you handle that, do you think?"

"Sure I can," Dannyboy said. "Ye want I should tell ye if the gent takes the note?"

"Tell the man I'm sending you to," Rafe said. "He'll pass word along. And, Dannyboy—from now on, you come in through the kitchen in the back. Do your best not to be seen." He fished in his pocket for his purse and retrieved a few coins to toss to the boy. "When you're done, go and get yourself some breakfast."

"Fanks, guv." Dannyboy nipped out of Rafe's study, and Rafe went to the window once more to watch. From his vantage point he could not see Dannyboy upon the steps, but he watched the man across the street stand up straighter, instantly alert. Within moments, the man had retreated down the street, ostensibly to follow after the boy.

When the man did not reappear after several long minutes, Rafe collapsed back into his chair with a weary sigh. He had got rid of the man, yes—but in the doing, he had learned a troubling new bit of information.