Page 82 of The Devil in Her Bed
“Stop being a bother, you cad!” She elbowed him in the chest, and he let out a melodramaticoofas his hands fell away from her.
She turned to gaze up at him. Even in the dimness of the warehouse, his eyes sparkled with mischief, and Francesca’s heart lurched into her throat.
What fun adventures they might have. What a wonderful coterie of two they made. Generally, after hoursin the presence of almost anyone, Francesca longed for the silence of her own company. Even Cecil and Alexander would create a need for space, what with their constant academic musings and infinite emotions. Not so with Chandler. He seemed to have no great need to fill a comfortable silence but if he did, it was endlessly entertaining.
Instead of impatiently hurrying her through her morning ablutions, he’d harassed and “helped” her, which almost led to another bout of lovemaking.
He’d been concerned when she’d shyly expressed her intimate tenderness. Concerned… and not a little conceited. And so, when she’d banished him from her dressing room, he’d made himself useful by assisting the groom in readying the horses.
A useful man. Not idle or irate. It was an indulgence she’d not been prepared to enjoy.
But enjoy him, she had.
“Do let’s hurry.” She tugged at him, pulling him farther into the warehouse stacked with rows upon rows of full and dusty shelves. “The croissant we devoured won’t last long, and I’m a terror if not fed at regular intervals.”
“One shudders at the thought.” He winked and danced away from her swipe at him. “I know a pub around here that makes excellent meat pies.”
“Spend a lot of time in the industrial district, do you?” She lifted an eyebrow.
“A bit,” he said cryptically before transforming his features into those of an exaggerated Irishman with a severe squint. “If we dine there, you’ll have to call me Mr. Thom Tew and put up with me mates from thefoundry. We sometimes sneak away and get drunk before the call of the labor whistle.”
Thomas Tew, another pirate.
Francesca shook her head at him as he sauntered toward the east side of the warehouse in long, lazy strides. “Five more pounds to whomever finds the documents first,” he called over his shoulder. “Or should we raise the stakes?”
The question sobered her a little. Could the stakes be any higher?
Three exhausting hours and a ruined riding habit later, Francesca had stumbled upon a box on a shelf markedUNSOLVED ARSONS. #187(M) MALDON—MONT CLAIRE.
She opened it with a captured breath, half shocked to find that no ghosts rushed at her from beneath the lid.
Chandler stopped at her shoulder, gazing down into the box as she rummaged about in papers, ash samples, statements from neighbors, and even a list of suspects upon which Kenway never appeared.
She glanced over at him, her gaze snagging on the set of his stubbled jaw. Her skin that bore the abrasions of said stubble prickled with awareness. The insides of her thighs. Her breasts. Her throat. Indeed, she’d had to wear a high-necked lace blouse just to cover a few love marks he’d made with his teeth.
She’d made a few of her own.
Biting down on her lip, she firmly planted herself in the task at hand.
His presence was both a comfort and a distraction. Just knowing he was there beside her to lean onif necessary was such an alien reassurance. One she thought she might just get used to. Chandler at her side. A solid man with uncommon skills and a curious intellect to match her own. Everything was better with him nearby. More dangerous, perhaps. More complicated, but less lonely.
And most definitely more passionate.
When they were through with this, she was going to tell him everything, she decided. She’d whisk him off somewhere remote and exotic. Ride him into senseless oblivion, whisper her secret to him, and then beg his forgiveness.
She had the sense that he wasn’t a man prone to clemency, but hedidunderstand the need for a good secret… and maybe hers wouldn’t knock his planet too far out of orbit.
Then why not tell him now?
She’d tried. So often the night before she’d opened her mouth to tell him.
And something had stopped her.He’dstopped her mostly by interrupting. She enumerated to herself the many logical reasons to maintain the farce, the chief of which was the unknown human variable.
When people, especially men, were hurt or deceived, they tended to become angry. An angry man was generally an unpredictable creature. Often cruel. And while a part of her was a little afraid of his antagonism, she was more afraid of the consequences thereof. Not emotional, per se—though that was plenty enough to keep her up at night—but legal.
Even lethal.
In the worst-case scenario, he’d turn his back onher—no—even more devastating than that, he could turn her in to his superiors. The subsequent litany of charges to be heaped on her shoulders would undoubtedly lead to the gallows. She was impersonating a dead countess, after all.
