She sensed the earl shifting, no longer leaning on the bookshelves. “Wythe said he merely extended you the invitation.” His voice was soft on the outside but hard underneath, velvet over steel.
“He did a lot more than that.”
“Such as… ?”
She waved a hand. “He said some nonsensical things about you taking him up on his idea after hitting him for making the suggestion. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about and tried to get away on his horse, but the silly beast threw me. The next thing I knew I found myself beneath your coverlet and you were there.…”
“Touching you.” He stepped into the moonlight streaming through the front windows. “And you were telling me in ways as old as time that you wanted me to.”
Yes. Even his scarred hand had not put her off. The thought of it brought her no revulsion now, as much as she wished otherwise. “No,” she started but he cut her off.
“Then why didn’t you say something? Let me know there had been a mistake?”
“Because I had just hit my head!” She almost mentioned that she might’ve been drugged, too. But that was a serious accusation and she had no proof of it. It wasn’t necessary, anyway. The bump was enough. “I was too befuddled to think. I didn’t even know who you were,” she lied.
His laugh this time was bitter. “Of course not. You would never willingly give yourself to me, not for money, not for anything. I almost forgot. I am your nemesis. God forbid you might actually find yourself attracted to me.” While he spoke, he moved closer, stopping only inches away. Towering over her the way he was, limed in silver, his cloak swirling around his knees, he looked darkly mysterious. “But you know who is touching you now, don’t you, Rachel?” he asked, removing the glove on his good hand so he could run a finger down her cheek.
Rachel’s brain screamed for her to move away, but her legs wouldn’t carry her. She stood staring up into eyes that glittered with challenge and desire.
He lowered his head until his breath fanned her cheek and his lips hovered a hairbreadth above hers. What she felt in that moment reminded Rachel of a line from one of Tennyson’s poems: “Once he drew with one long kiss my whole soul thro’ my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.”
Closing her eyes, she swayed expectantly toward him, but he didn’t kiss her. “I think you knew it was me all along,” he said, and when Rachel opened her eyes again, he was gone.
Chapter 7
“Very interesting.” Chuckling softly, a figure stood in the shadow of the building, watching as the earl rode away from the McTavish Bookshop. Unless the glimmering moonlight had been playing tricks, Druridge was upset. There was no accounting for that, but there was also no dismissing the confident way he’d let himself into the shop. It had almost been as if he had a right to be there. As though the McTavish wench would welcome him.
And after all her airs and self-righteous rhetoric about helping the poor working class! Evidently she’d found a way to improve her own lot and had jumped at the chance.
The earl’s whore. Not a pretty title, but depending upon Druridge’s devotion, Rachel could change everything. An unexpected but bold move.
Cutberth definitely needed to hear about this.
Truman slammed his fist into the stable wall, scaring the horses. They nickered and whinnied in surprise, but he didn’t care if he woke the stable master, the stable master’s dogs and all the lads sleeping above.
She was still with him, damn it. After five miles of slow travel, he couldn’t escape his desire for Rachel McTavish. He had left her standing in that humble bookshop, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly parted, waiting for his kiss, and he had managed to walk away. But he had regretted it the moment he climbed astride his horse—more with each passing mile. She did something to him, something he couldn’t quite combat. He’d chosen to ignore her and move on. But that wasn’t as easy as he’d expected it to be. Deep down, he believed that maybe, just maybe, a woman like Rachel would be the perfect antidote to his cynicism and doubt.
Shaking away the pain in his hand and willing away the ache in his loins, Truman wished he’d never met Rachel. He’d been caught in her spell ever since he’d seen her on that ladder—a bit of revenge for Jack, were he alive to enjoy it. After last night, Truman was more enchanted than ever. He remembered the feel of her arms around his neck, the way she’d gasped as he moved inside her.…
Ah, sweet torture. But she was just one more thing to steal his focus from where it needed to be: solving the mystery of Katherine’s murder. Considering all that had transpired, Rachel would never have a kind thought for him.
It was better to forget her. Certainly he’d be able to, eventually.
The sound of hooves beating the damp earth and then clattering over the gravel of the drive echoed above the settling noises of the stable he’d just left. Truman stepped closer to the stone wall that separated the slaughtering house and chicken coop from the kitchens and waited for his cousin to shelter his horse. What kind of shape would Wythe be in tonight? Rough living and alcohol were taking a toll on his work at the mine, but he refused to believe he had a problem.
Because Truman expected Wythe to be drunk, again, he was surprised to watch his cousin make his way toward the house on sure feet.
“Another late night?” he asked, stepping into his path.
Wythe didn’t seem startled. “Not as late as most,” he said, barely breaking stride.
Truman fell in step beside him. “Did Elspeth close early?”
“Elspeth never closes,” he said with a grin. “That’s what I love about her. But you wouldn’t know. You take your pleasure right here, eh, cousin?”
Truman refused to let Wythe bait him, especially when he believed that Wythe was to blame for last night. “Actually, I’m glad you mentioned that. Rachel claims your horse threw her. You wouldn’t have any idea how that could have happened, would you?”
Wythe slanted a glance his way. “She must’ve been dreaming. I told you this morning I merely made her an offer—one she apparently couldn’t refuse.”
“That’s what I thought.” Truman smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t lie to me. Just like I know you will stay away from her in future… because we wouldn’t want any trouble between cousins. Am I right?”
Wythe stopped and gaped at him, shocked by the veiled threat. But Truman wasn’t about to back down. He wanted to make his point perfectly clear. Rachel might hate him, and he might want to keep his distance from her. But he would not allow anyone connected to him to hurt her ever again.