Page 42 of The Truth Serum
Fletcher was thorough in voicing his disgust of her. She had no sense, according to him, and frankly, given what had happened, she couldn’t disagree. Her brother knew nothing about the serum, but she did. And she was disappointed in herself.
She should not have dosed the baron. He’d taken it willingly, but obviously, neither of them had guessed at the effects. Good God, she never would have dreamed that the stuff was that effective!
Meanwhile, Fletcher continued his tirade, adding in pressure for her to accept the baron’s suit. He really wanted her to marry the man. She told him explicitly that she would never agree to that. If nothing else, the truth serum had revealed his brutish side. No man had ever tried to haul her around by her hair, and now that she was sitting safe in the carriage, that memory surfaced stronger than any other.
The baron had been brutish and cruel. She shuddered to think what might have happened if they’d been alone. Certainly,he hadn’t been in his right mind. She might be able to excuse his behavior because of that. But she would never get past it.
He had hurt her. And he’d revealed that he only wanted her dowry property and her breasts. There was no way she’d marry the man.
Nevertheless, she let Fletcher blather on. It was what Fletcher always did. He lectured, he threatened, and when they were children, he would strike her. But that ended after Henry taught her how to fight back. Indeed, Henry had often protected her from her brother’s rages. Her father, when he’d been alive, had also kept Fletcher’s tirades in check, but after his death, everyone hid in their own private places. That left Fletcher to do as he wanted. And sometimes what he wanted was sneaky and cruel.
There was never any proof. A dog who disliked him disappeared. A farmer who had cursed him found his pig pen open and his pigs gone. A barmaid who refused his advances was attacked from behind and beaten. None of these things were ever tied to him, but Rebecca wondered.
The best practice was to let Fletcher blather on, appear to agree, and then do whatever she wanted once they were apart. Back in Cornwall, that had been easy. Here, it would be a great deal harder, but she would find a way.
She sought her bed as soon as they entered the house. Fletcher wouldn’t stay long, she knew. He was never in bed before two or three and it wasn’t even midnight now. So she waved him good night and headed for the peace of her bedroom. He let her go, his expression tight with annoyance.
She made it into her bedroom and quickly undressed. As soon as she could, she dismissed her maid and exhaled in relief, relishing the quiet. And though she was ready for bed, she settled into her window seat to read. A light wrap pooled in her lap, and a pillow cushioned her backside. And though it was hardto see by the light of the candelabra, she gloried in the peace of the moment. And the excitement in her book.
Until the moment someone tapped on her window.
Nate.
Chapter Thirteen
Nate cursed ashe secured his rope on Becca’s rooftop. It had been touch and go getting up here. This was an elite neighborhood, so the rooftops were spaced further apart, which meant that he’d had to jump a large span before he could land safely up here. “Safe” meaning he didn’t plummet to his death, but his feet were an aching, throbbing mess. Not to mention his ribs.
A few years ago, he’d run ratlines in a storm without thinking. Today, he felt every year of his life as if it had been a decade. Nevertheless, he’d take ten times the pain if it meant he could talk to Becca without interference.
God, he prayed tonight would finally be his moment.
He tied off his rope and carefully climbed down. He’d left his shoes on, even though he was more secure on ropes barefoot. The calluses on his feet were fading. He needed the dubious protection of the leather. And his right toes were wrapped and braced with pieces of wood to prevent the bones from re-breaking. So he secured himself as best he could and wondered what had happened to the devil-may-care boy he’d once been. Right now, he was a knot of anxiety.
Nevertheless, he descended to her window, taking a long moment to watch her reading there. Her hair was down, gathered to the side in a mahogany cascade of silk that would smell like summer. Or at least it used to. Her head was bowed,but he still saw the curve of her shoulder half hidden by her worn cotton shift. No silk for her. She was a simple cotton girl.
Then she smiled as she turned a page, and his breath caught at the sheer beauty of her. Pleasure in a book. Sweetly innocent. And so damned sensual that he was rock hard just looking.
He tried to see the book but couldn’t manage it. Still, he guessed it was a scandalous tome of adventure, read only at night. During the day, she pulled out scientific inquiries or treatises on household management. But night was when Becca let her real self shine, if only in the pages of a book.
God, how he wanted to touch her.
He tapped the window instead and her head shot up, her blue eyes jumping to meet his.
He waved and tried to look dashing. Then he tried not to be disappointed when her expression shifted to chagrin. At least that was what he labelled it in his mind. It could just have easily been “annoyance” or “anger.” He countered by putting his hands together in a prayer position and mouthing, “Please, please.” Unfortunately, that loosened his grip on the rope, and he slipped.
He didn’t go far. The hemp was tight around his good foot and shin, but the burn as he slid ripped his pants. Worse, the act of stopping tore at his hands. He should have worn gloves. That would be his usual practice, but he had so few left, he’d thought he could go without them.
It was fear of his death that had her springing to the window. She jerked it open with a hard pull, then leaned out and reached for his shirt. He let her, wanting the comfort of her grip even though it would not stop a fall.
“Are you mad?” she cried.
Quite possibly.
“Let me in, Becca. Please, I want to talk.”
“I will not!” she said, her tone prim.
“I’m not going to accost you,” he grumbled. “But this is harder than it looks. I’m not a teenager anymore, and there’s hard cobblestone beneath me, not soft grass.”
