Page 31 of This Haunted Heart

Slowly my pulse calmed, and the thump of footsteps retreated. The door opened and closed once more. The darkness went quiet.

Finley released my eyes. I blinked, adjusting to the glow of the lanterns. The darkness behind him remained still. Had I really heard the door open? Was my mind playing mean tricks on me?

“Ghost country,” he reminded me. “There’s more of them here in Blackwood County.”

I shook my head. “I hear those noises all the time,” I insisted. My voice shook, and my skin pebbled like the rest of me doubted my own words. Sounds haunted dark spaces, lying in wait to play with those of us with an overactive imagination. “The noises just don’t usually . . .”

“Get so close to you?” he offered. He pressed his palm over my heart, and it surged once more. It beat against his hand, striking madly like the hooves of a galloping horse in flight.

Heat built between us, and the thud of my pulse began to race for a very different reason. His hungry eyes claimed mine. He shifted his weight, and the hard, hot bulge in his trousers nudged my thigh. A thrill went through me: fear-triggered lust.

Finley worked his throat. “You should go to sleep,” he rasped. “We have a long day of travel ahead of us.”

“So should you.”

We stared at each other for so long, time stopped holding any meaning.

Finally, he settled back over me, using my stomach as a pillow. I was glad for his nearness, for the shield of his broad body against the mysteries of the dark, and I finally joined him in slumber.

* * *

I awoke early the next morning well before Finley stirred. He’d shifted off me in the night, onto his side of the bed. Auburn lashes feathered against his cheeks. Even on his scarred side, he looked significantly less like a wicked serpent. Younger, peaceful, more innocent.

I almost felt bad for slicing up most of his clothing.

Almost.

I gathered my dress and fresh underthings for the day from my valise and laid them over the chair to let the wrinkles settle out of them. Then I pulled on a simple cream dressing gown over my chemise and visited the outhouse. The inn was old and far from the nearest municipality. It didn’t have a lavatory.

The family worked together to get a hot breakfast onto the large dining room table for guests. I took advantage of their distracted state to let myself into the small office off the parlor, looking for something—anything that could aid me. I found a piece of parchment, a pen, and a small square envelope for correspondence.

I could write a letter and send for help. Perhaps the inn owners would even agree to post it for me after we took our leave. If this were to work, I’d need to speak with them quickly,before Finley woke and caught me conspiring.

But who would I send it to and how would I pay the post? No lawman would care about the woes of a harlot, and I didn’t want to have a discussion with the police about all the ways I’d made my fortune. Not every dollar had been earned legally.

I bit my lip. There was only one person who would be angry enough to attempt my rescue—if I could even call it that.

Utrecht would come for me. I shuddered even thinking his name. If I worded things just so, specifically to get under his skin and tug at his pride, he’d come in search of this Nightingale House in Blackwood. I didn’t have a way to reach him while he was traveling, but Cynthia, the madam of the brothel where I’d formerly been employed, would hold the letter for him if I sent it to her there.

As much as I was displeased with him, Utrecht was the devil I knew, which was only slightly less intimidating than the devil I was getting to know. If I could get my hands on my cash and incite Utrecht to come after me, perhaps I could evade both serpents at once while they were preoccupied with each other.

It felt like a long shot—a reckless one at that—but I saw no other option. Finley refused to confirm what his game was about, and I would not be anyone’s prisoner indefinitely. Even if they had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen and the orgasms were toe-curlingly good. I was no one’s helpless captive. Anyone who tried to make me such would regret it.

I scribbled out a quick note, then stuffed the letter into the envelope and addressed it. I searched for postage or a coin to help pay for it, pushing about items on the cluttered desk, opening and closing drawers, but my efforts were fruitless.

Movement in the hall caught my notice. I tucked the letterinto my garter belt, then I slipped out the door—right in front of the inn owner.

His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. He seemed taller there than he had last night, broad and imposing. He folded bulky arms across his chest.

“Oh! Apologies. I needed to borrow a pen,” I told him, lacing my fingers together in front of my waist, the picture of demure innocence. “Hope that was all right.”

The sternness cleared immediately from his expression, the poor trusting fellow. “Of course. Breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you. I’ll let my husband know, and we’ll be right down.”

I headed back toward our room, having second thoughts about my plan to summon Utrecht. The letter remained tucked in my garter, scratching gently against my thigh. Bringing two devils together when I could hardly handle one seemed less and less like a grand idea the higher up the stairs I traveled.

Back in our room, I made quite a bit of noise tending to my hair, fetching a fresh pitcher of water, washing and using toothpowder, but Finley continued to sleep soundly. In my brief absence, he’d flopped onto his back and now hogged the center of the bed, spread out like a starfish.

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