Bertie rubbed the puckered skin. “Must have hurt.”
“My language was unfortunate. But Steven was stricken—poor lad didn’t realize what would happen.” Sinclair was silent a moment, as though remembering that long-ago injury. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” Bertie should be thanking him, for this breathtaking feeling.
“For watching over Andrew. For helping me save his life.” Sinclair moved his hand to her shoulder, his touch warm. “You were certainly cool and steady while I sewed up his wound.”
Bertie had been anything but cool and steady, but she shrugged. “Many’s the time I’ve stitched up me dad when he got himself stuck with a knife. He’s prone to picking fights with men stronger than him. Never was very bright, my dad. And he yells a lot more than Andrew.”
Sinclair’s smile vanished. “I’m glad you’re away from him.”
“He won’t be very happy about Jeffrey. They were great pals, Jeff and my dad, even if Jeffrey was younger.” Bertie touched an angry cut on Sinclair’s face. “The idea was to have Jeffrey marry me and take over Dad’s business when he was gone. I mean the business of robbing and thieving.”
“Which you are out of,” Sinclair said sternly.
“’Course I am. I’m a governess now, ain’t . . . aren’t I?”
Sinclair laughed. He was beautiful when he did that, especially when it was a genuine laugh. “We’ll make you one yet, lass. How is the training going?”
“Coming along. We’ve got about a quarter of the books read. I like the history ones the best.”
He looked interested. “What do Cat and Andrew like to read?”
“Well, Andrew likes the astronomy ones, and so does your cook, by the way. Andrew says he wants to build a flying machine that will reach the stars.”
Sinclair’s laughter came back. “What about Cat?”
“Not sure. She reads everything, remembers everything, but she doesn’t care. That’s not right, is it?”
Sinclair let out a breath. “Poor Cat. I’ve not been the best father to her. To either of them.”
Now Bertie’s anger stirred. “Rubbish. You’ve been fine. Don’t they have a fancy house and fancy clothes and all they want to eat?”
Sinclair slanted her an ironic look. “There’s more to being a father than that.”
“All I can say is, I wish I’d had a dad more like you. Wouldn’t have been knocked about, then, or told I had to marry a bully.”
Sinclair rolled on top of her again, his weight and warmth a fine thing. “And you are wise beyond anyone I’ve ever known. I complain, and you slap me with perspective.”
Bertie touched his cheek. “Aw, I’d never slap you.”
His eyes heated, showing even more wickedness. “I know that, wretched woman. Come here.”
Bertie was already there with him, but he drew her up into his arms. Sinclair’s next kiss was hot, his body tight, as he parted her thighs and firmly slid into her, starting the loving again.
When Sinclair woke in the wee hours of the morning, Bertie was gone. He stretched his hand to the empty pillow, his blood growing cold when he didn’t find her there.
He rose and sought his dressing gown, which had been folded neatly over a chair. He couldn’t help a touch of amusement through this alarm. Bertie had tidied up after him.
It was four in the morning by the clock on the bedside table. Sinclair fastened his dressing gown and opened the door to his study to find a lamp burning and Bertie standing at his desk.
His heart beat faster, his breath starting its constriction. Bertie was looking at one of the blasted anonymous letters that must have slipped out from where he’d thrust it among his papers. She raised her head as Sinclair strode in, her eyes wide, shock and anger on her face.
Chapter 18
“Put that down,” Sinclair said, unable to stop the snarl. He dragged in a breath, forcing himself to exhale normally. “It’s nothing for you to see.”
Bertie didn’t obey—she never did. “That’s vile, that is.”
Sinclair came to her and pried the paper from her fingers, her hand warm even in this chill room. Bertie had dressed again, though she hadn’t laced and buttoned herself all the way. Her hair hung down her back, loose. Her dishevelment made his blood grow hot, Sinclair’s need for her in no way sated.
“Who sent it?” she asked, watching him. “Not your brother-in-law, I take it?”
“No, not Edward,” Sinclair said with a snarl. “If I knew who, I’d rid myself of him, wouldn’t I?”
Sinclair heard his angry tones but couldn’t stop them. He’d received this letter this morning—no, yesterday morning now. Henry had brought him his post from chambers, and this letter had been among it. In the stiffly printed capitals, it said:
That whore you’ve taken to your bosom will be the death of you and your children. I know who she is and what she is. The viper always stings, and its venom is deadly.
“The whore, I take it, is me,” Bertie said. “Likewise the viper.” She was angry, not distressed, her eyes sparkling with indignation.
Sinclair folded the paper and thrust it into a drawer. “I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in this. I never meant you to see the letters.”
Bertie’s brows rose. “You mean there’s been more? About me?