Chapter Seven

onday crawled around with agonizing slowness, one day creeping into the next at a turtle's pace. Or perhaps it was simply Emma's mind that worked too swiftly, reeling from one thought to the next like a hummingbird in flight.

Rafe would arrive soon enough, she thought. Night had long since descended, and the house had grown quiet once more now that all the children were safely ensconced in their beds at the opposite end of the house. She had kept herself busy, for her mind tended to wander when her hands were unoccupied—but now, in the silence of Ambrose's study where she sorted neat stacks of books that had once lined the shelves, her mind wandered anyway.

Couldn't have none o' yer own, aye, Em?

It had been true, of course, even if the delivery had been tactless. But then, Kit had never had much tact going spare that he had been inclined to save over for her. Probably he wouldn't have cared enough even to offer tact, even if he had.

They had not often spoken of that night, she and Neil, in the years that had passed since. She had known only enough to understand that his situation had been dire indeed, and that he did not like to be reminded of the life he had escaped. So she had never insisted upon forcing him to reveal the details of it which might have made him uncomfortable.

He had never told her anyone had been there with him other than Kit. And she had never asked, for there had never been a compelling reason to do so.

And still it seemed…odd, somehow, that the direction of her life had been driven by someone else entirely. Someone she had never met, never known. Someone who had, somehow, known her. Or of her, at the very least. Known enough of her to know that she would not have turned out a child in need.

Known enough of her to know that the mere presence of one had made her large, empty, silent home feel less like the mausoleum she had made of it. Or perhaps he hadn't known at all. Perhaps they had just been at loose ends with Neil, and had offloaded him onto her for want of another more palatable option.

His suggestion, and yet she'd never once heard mention of him before. Perhaps she and Kit weren't what anyone would call close, but someone who had been amongst his intimate acquaintances for so long—well, he might have mentioned something.

There; another pile of books sorted. She laid them upon the desk, frowning at the mess she'd made of the room. Ambrose had liked things tidy, neat, orderly. He had never welcomed her presence in this room, which he had treated as his haven, his sanctuary. She'd kept it locked up tight for years after his death, unchanged, as if it had only been waiting for him to return.

What rubbish. It had changed anyway, with or without him. The years had turned the loose paper within his desk brittle and yellow. The ink had dried in its etched-crystal well. A thick layer of dust had settled upon every conceivable surface, and an odd, musty smell had permeated the room. Time had left its marks regardless, and she had been a fool to believe it might have been otherwise.

She had been such a fool. Wasting years of her life on a man unable to appreciate the sacrifice of it in death, as he had been unable to appreciate her in life. Her palm rested upon the stack of books she'd laid atop the desk; a selection of novels and other literature she'd found scattered amongst the weighty treatises and texts. They'd been suspended in time these last years, their pages unturned, their covers lying closed. A sort of death in itself, and an insult to the printer who had created them as well as the author who had written them. They had never been meant to decorate a shelf, as pure and perfect as the day they had been produced. They had been meant to be read and enjoyed. Loved. Instead they'd languished in their silent tomb. As had she.

"Dangerous, to leave doors unlocked."

Emma startled to the sound of the words, which had ripped through the silence from behind her. Rafe stood there in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. The shadows of the hall outside seemed to collect around him, as if he were quite comfortable with sinking into them. Disappearing within them.

She hadn't even heard him approach. Had she been so deep in thought as that?

"Not so dangerous," she said. "Marylebone is quite safe—"

"There's nowhere that's ever quite as safe as it seems. Quiet neighborhoods, especially those containing large houses, are particularly appealing to burglars. Fewer witnesses, less likelihood of being caught. An unlocked door is practically an invitation to an enterprising thief. And it's not so far a journey from thievery to murder as one might expect."

The fine hairs at the nape of her neck lifted with the advent of chill bumps, as if the frosty tone of his voice had carried in the winter breeze from without the house. It was easy enough to forget that despite the genteel accent he wielded, still he was an acquaintance—a friend—of her brother's.

And she had never held any illusions as to Kit's character, or to his vocation. He was a criminal. Not even a repentant one. He consorted, happily, with the lowest dregs of humanity, and had never had any inclination to be better than he was.

This man was his friend. Not a bit player in the fringes of Kit's life, but an active participant. He had been for years; a decade at least. And she had now invited him into her life. Her home. Her body.

He stepped closer, into the circle of light cast by the lamp she'd set upon a recently-cleaned bookshelf, and Emma caught her breath.

"My goodness," she said. "What in the world has happened to your face?"

There was a bruise there, shadowing the better half of his jaw. A mottled deep purple, fading into grotesque yellow just toward the edges.

As if he had forgotten it altogether, his fingertips grazed the mark. "Ask your brother," he said.

"Kit struck you?"

"I expected it." A casual shrug. "In fact, I'd have likely done the same, had my sister's husband not had the good sense to marry her eventually."

"You have a sister?"

"It's not so unusual an occurrence. You have a brother."

A half-brother, at least. And it wasn't unusual; it was just that she couldn't imagine what sort of a family he might have belonged to. A gentleman who consorted with criminals. Or perhaps a criminal who pretended at being a gentleman.

"What is her name? Your sister, I mean to say."

"Irrelevant. You didn't ask me here to conduct a family history inquiry, I assume."

The certainty in his voice was galling, and she found herself lifting her chin in response. "And if I did?"

"I'd have to decline." Another step closer, and another, the lamplight carving hollows into his cheeks, casting shadows beneath his eyes. "It didn't matter before. Why should it now?"

It didn't matter, really. It was just that she wanted to know. She couldn't place him within society, at least not with any degree of certainty—what little she knew of him defied reason and logic both. He dressed better than Kit, which might have placed him as a man more of leisure than of business, but his clothes, while undeniably well-made, were plain. Either he had a valet of his own, or he had some skill at tying his own cravats. He was paying a comparative fortune to a young boy to carry notes for him, suggesting he had a comfortable income of his own—and yet, she could not conceive of a single reason that a man of means would consort with known criminals.

It was as if he might simply slide into whichever place he chose to occupy at any particular moment in time, changing roles like some gentlemen might a wrinkled cravat.

With a face like his, with the income she was certain he had—ill-gained or not—he might have easily acquired a wife. Or if not a wife, at least a mistress. If not a mistress, then still he could have afforded to have his pick of women at any one of London's numerous brothels.

Instead he had made it to the grand age of—what? Five and thirty? Perhaps six and thirty?—unmarried. He had allowed himself to be talked into a liaison with his friend's sister, and had taken a blow—which he had said was expected—in the doing of it.

Why? What manner of man was he, then?

Still he maintained that silence, one with which he seemed perfectly comfortable, as if he might have let it stretch on between them unbroken forever, unless she chose to fill it.

And she did. "Kit has never spoken of you to me," she said. "Not once. And yet he's spoken of me to you."

"That's right."

"Often, you said."

A shrug. She imagined he did quite a lot of that; he seemed rather proficient at it. "I imagine he's proud of you."

Proud? "Nonetheless, it's…disconcerting, you realize, to learn that someone who is a stranger to you knows a great deal about you." Ever so much more than she knew about him. And she was certain, now, that it was by design.

"Emma, I doubt that there is a soul in London who does not at least know of you." There was a vague edge of exasperation within the words, as if he couldn't understand what point she was attempting to make, or even why it would have been important.

She suspected that he understood both well enough; that it was only the pretense of exasperation he was giving. A misdirect, or a deliberate dodge. She simply couldn't imagine why.

One palm flattened upon the surface of the desk to brace herself and steel her spine, prepared to match wits, if necessary, with a man she assumed had altogether too many. She said, "I am saying that I would like to know more than your given name." That same horrid little thought traipsed once more through her mind. "Is Rafe your given name?"

"It is."

"You could be lying." She didn't know why she'd said it. Perhaps just to needle him, since he seemed to be eternally composed even as every grace she had ever cultivated slipped away from her.

"Lies are inconvenient and troublesome," he said. "I avoid telling them whenever possible."

"And when it's not possible?" she inquired.

"Then I lie."

It was offered in such a blasé tone that she very nearly laughed. She might have laughed, indeed, had she not been utterly certain that he had told her the truth. He might not want to lie—but he would, if he deemed it a necessary evil. Perhaps he ought to be commended for his honesty regarding his dishonesty.

"It would not be advantageous to either of us," he continued, "for my association with your brother to be known publicly. If he has not mentioned me to you, it is because he affords me the selfsame privacy that I afford him."

"But you are associates," she pressed. "In—business?" Crime?

"The precise nature of our association is not something upon which I am willing to speak. Neither is it germane to our association," he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice, not even the tiniest hint of indecision that might have suggested a thread that she could pull at, unraveling his secrets like she might a row of misplaced stitches in a sampler.

Still— "Are you dangerous?"

"Yes. But not to you."

She believed it. Perhaps because he had confessed an undesirable truth in favor of telling her a pretty lie. It only served to reinforce his claim that he disliked lying unless it was necessary.

But a disinclination to lie did not mean he would ever tell her the whole of the truth. It did not mean he would not stretch it, or bend it, or otherwise manipulate it to his benefit. That he would not dance around it or avoid it or deflect from it. Perhaps she oughtn't to have cared. He did not owe her an honesty which might suggest a more familiar relationship than the one they had. But she wanted it of him anyway.

His steps were slow as he moved toward her, the soles of his shoes hardly making more than a whisper over the carpeted floor, as if he had long learned the value of walking silently. "Second thoughts?" he asked, as he placed his hand beside hers upon the desk. Their fingers nearly touching, but not quite. A careful distance maintained, while she considered his question.

A dangerous man, she thought. But not one without principles. Not one without honor or integrity. A dangerous man—but not to her.

"Tell me one true thing," she said. "Just one thing that is not a lie, or a half-truth, or an obfuscation." One thing to breach that gulf of inequity between them, when all of the knowledge was his and all of the ignorance was hers.

"One truth," he said slowly, his dark eyes fixed upon her face. "All right, then." He lifted his hand and laid it over hers, and she knew that her opportunity for second thoughts had gone. The heat of his skin branded her own. "Probably your brother is going to hit me again."

"Why?" The question whisked across Emma's dry lips. For just a moment she had the oddest sensation that she was the fragile little moth to his flame, perilously close to singeing her wings. "Why, when he is the one who sent you to me to begin with?"

"Because that is the sort of man he is." A flat, bland statement.

"And you will…what? Let him?"

"Yes. And, Emma—I damn well intend to earn it."

∞∞∞

Rafe hadn't expected to find Emma in Ambrose's study. He'd arrived a few minutes earlier than she had indicated, but the terrace door had already been unlocked for him, and he'd let himself in to wander the house, expecting that she would come in search of him at some point.

His temper, usually quite well leashed, had already been simmering at the thought that even one point of entry into the house had been unprotected. Of course, a lock would hardly keep out a proficient thief, and there were many ways one might have gained access even to a house locked up tight. But leaving a door unlocked was looking for trouble.

She didn't understand the danger she might be in, and he could not tell her. Hell, he didn't even understand it. He wouldn't until he and Chris had deciphered Ambrose's journal.

He'd expected to find her waiting upon him in a sitting room somewhere, or perhaps even in her bedroom. But, no—the light of a lamp had glowed like a beacon in the darkened corridor, there from the door of Ambrose's study.

It had felt like an insult, a slap to the face, even if it hadn't been a conscious one. Even if he had no right to her.

Ambrose hadn't any right to her, either. Not any longer. And yet, here she was, in this place that had been his and his alone, surrounded by all the trappings of the man Ambrose had once been. Utterly unaware of her husband's duplicitous nature.

By the tide of color that burned in her cheeks and seeped down her throat, he could see that she understood that he did not intend to exhibit any more decorum than he had the last time he had come to her home for this purpose.

Her fingers twitched beneath the pressure of his. Through the prim set of her lips, she managed to say, "Yes, well—my bedchamber—"

"No."

Her brows lifted, arched high above those rich blue eyes. "No?"

"If you had wanted that, then you ought to have let me find you there." He could feel the tension within her as he slid his fingers from the back of her hand to her wrist, pushing up the cuff of her sleeve with the motion. "Perhaps your husband was the sort that was content enough to creep into your bed beneath cover of darkness. I'm not."

Chill bumps broke out upon her skin beneath the touch of his fingers. "He was—I mean to say—" The words faded into silence as she let him peel her hand from the surface of the desk, her eyes rounding as he followed the progress of his fingers with his lips. A shiver rippled through her at the scratch of his stubble against the sensitive skin of her wrist.

"You mean to say?" he prompted.

She jerked, as if the words had startled her out of some stupor to which she had fallen victim. In a rush, she said, "That's just how it's done."

A laugh—or something near enough to it—eased from his throat, muffled against the skin of her inner elbow. "No, it's not."

"It is!" The starch in her voice warned him of a flair of temper. "I would have cause to know, wouldn't I? Having once been married, I mean to say."

"Yes, more's the pity. That doesn't mean your husband wasn't a graceless sod who cared more for his pleasure than yours."

A gasp, high and offended, tore from her throat. Her fingers clenched into a fist, and she gave a futile tug at her arm in an attempt to wrench it away from him. "How dare you presume to render judgment upon the state of my marriage. As if you have any right!"

He supposed that while she might have drawn her own conclusions about it already, it did not make them any easier, any more comfortable to accept. One could know a thing to be true and still not wish to hear it spoken aloud by another. "I know what it feels like when a woman comes around my cock," he said. "It is not arrogance to say that I pleased you. I know I did—you told me yourself. With your sighs, your trembles, your moans. The way you tightened around me like a fist. And you—you are going to tell me again. Right here."

She made a small sound of surprise when he released her wrist to grasp her waist, lifting her off her toes to set her at the edge of the desk. The affronted anger, the misplaced instinctive loyalty to her deceased husband, and the general awkwardness all fell away like a discarded cloak the moment he fisted one hand in her hair, dragging her down until her back was flush against the solid surface of the desk.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, something soft and vulnerable lurking in the fullness of her lower lip. "I shouldn't enjoy this," she whispered, her lashes fluttering across her cheeks. "Being manhandled."

Probably it weighed upon her conscience, little Puritan that she was. A woman accustomed to doing the right thing, thinking the right thing, saying the right thing. There was no room for shades of grey within the strict order of her life. So much the suffering saint that she would have lived out her life in silent martyrdom with an unrepentant bastard of a husband, without offering so much as a word of complaint.

Her buttons were at her back. If he had given more thought to it, he would have undressed her before he had placed her here upon the desk. He'd have liked to watch her breasts bounce, those pretty, coral nipples ripe as berries to suck into his mouth. Later, then.

"I suppose your mother told you before your wedding that you were meant to close your eyes and think of England," he said, and felt the hitch of her breath beneath the hand he laid upon the cage of her ribs.

"Something like that," she admitted, her hands flexing restlessly at her sides. "I suppose many ladies are told the same."

"I don't want a damned sacrificial victim in my bed," he said. "But close your eyes and think of England if you must. For as long as you are able." His hands fisted in the folds of her skirts, tossing up flounces of silk and the petticoats beneath. Her legs jerked at the touch of his hands, a token resistance to the thumbs he pressed between her knees, wedging them apart.

A faint splutter; probably he'd half-buried her beneath the skirts he'd tossed up. There was the soft rustle of fabric as she batted it away from her face. Her heels braced upon the side of the desk as she levered herself up onto her elbows.

"What in the world are you doing?" she inquired, her voice laden with confusion as he sank to his knees.

It was a damned tragedy that she didn't know. Ambrose had more to answer for than he'd ever suspected. The globes of her bottom tensed in the grip of his fingers as he slid his hands beneath her, dragging her closer to the edge of the desk. She squeaked her bewilderment, momentarily unbalanced. A froth of petticoat slipped down over his shoulder, the fine, lacy fabric draping itself over his elbow.

"Rafe?" A tremulous murmur. Suspicious, yet rife with disbelief. He felt her shift, lurching to support herself upon one elbow while the opposite hand struggled with her disordered skirts in an attempt to shield herself from his gaze. Her fingers splayed over her intimate parts almost desperately. "You really should not—"

"I really should." Someone damned well ought to have. Pity that the lamp was some distance behind her. He'd have liked to see more than the shadowed valley half-hidden there beneath the few flounces of her petticoats she'd managed to wrench down.

The muscles in her thighs flexed and tensed; a half-hearted, instinctive attempt to shove her knees back together. Slowly that tension dissolved beneath the strokes of his fingers up the delicate skin of her inner thighs—only to return again when his fingertips stirred through the crisp cluster of curls that shielded her sex.

He delved deeper, parting her curls, fingers slipping smoothly across soft flesh already slicked with a revealing moisture. A small sound, hardly more than a gasp, and her knees fell open just a hair wider.

He touched her with the tip of his tongue.

Her elbow slid out from beneath her. Her head hit the desk with a pronounced thunk. She muttered, "Ouch."

And then she gasped, "Oh, my word," as her hand fisted in his hair. Then she lost the ability to speak at all.