Page 131 of Where the Heart Leads
His first impulse was to scoop her into his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed. But then he thought of why she was there.
After a moment, he crouched down, found her hands amid the folds of her cloak, lightly chafed them. “Penelope? Wake up, sweetheart.”
She roused at the sound of his voice. Eyes blinking, then opening wide, she stared at him, then flung herself into his arms. “You’re all right!” She hugged him violently.
He laughed and caught her; rocked back on his heels, rather than sprawl on the rug he rose, drawing her with him.
The instant her feet touched the floor, she pulled back and looked him over; it took a second to realize she was checking for damage.
He smiled and tugged her back into his arms. “I’m unhurt—there wasn’t any action. I’ve been at Scotland Yard all night.”
She stared into his face. “So what happened?”
He looked down at her, then stooped, swung her up in his arms, turned and sat in the armchair, settling her on his lap.
She made herself comfortable, leaning against his arm so she could see his face. “So?”
He told her everything. He even described Stokes’s frustration. She made him recount every tiny fact he’d learned of the single burglary reported, then with him hypothesized as to what had occurred—how one of the boys must have slipped in and out through the bars, taking the urn.
She frowned. “It must have been a small urn.”
“It was. Stokes and I questioned the caretaker before he left. He described the urn—from the sound of it it wasn’t just any Chinese urn, but a very old one made of carved ivory. God only knows how much it might be worth.”
After a moment, she said, “He’s targeted collector’s pieces, hasn’t he?”
He nodded. “Which fits with the idea of him thieving on demand—stealing specific items he knows certain individuals want and will pay for, without asking difficult questions about how he got them.”
She grimaced. “Sadly, when it comes to the more avid collectors, there are quite a few unscrupulous enough to fit the bill.”
He didn’t reply. They’d covered all the known facts; no matter the urgency they both felt over finding the two missing boys, there was nothing else—no other avenue—for them to explore that night.
Not in terms of the investigation.
He could tell she was thinking, still mulling over all he’d told her. Absentmindedly she rubbed her cheek against his chest. The simple, unconscious caress sent warmth, not just of desire but of a deeper need, swirling through him.
She was quiet, at ease, at peace in his arms.
The opportunity was there if he wished to grasp it, yet…the moment still felt so special, so novel and quietly glorious, he couldn’t bring himself to disrupt it, to cut it short.
After Lord Montford’s comment, after her coming here—after his reaction to finding her waiting for him—there was no question of what lay between them. He’d wanted her to speak, to suggest that they marry, thus absolving him of having to, yet his need to have her as his wife and what drove that need, while still featuring in his mind as a vulnerability, was no longer something he sought to hide…or more accurately, hiding it was no longer reason enough to keep him from seizing what he needed, what he wanted, what he had to have.
If she didn’t speak soon, he would.
But here, tonight, was not the time.
They were both tired, and the morrow looked set to make demands on them both. Tonight they needed respite—they needed what they would find in each other’s arms. Pleasure, and an oblivion that healed.
Carefully, he stood, lifting her securely in his arms. He started for the door. “Is your poor coachman waiting outside?”
Penelope rested her head on his shoulder, her arms loosely circling his neck. “No. I sent him home. We’ll have to find a hackney later.” As he turned toward the stairs, she smiled and murmured, “Much later—at dawn.”
22
Penelope spent the next morning struggling to concentrate on running the Foundling House. There was nothing on her plate that was unusual, and issues such as which supplier to use for the next order for towels were not demanding enough to pull her mind from the treadmill of her thoughts.
When she’d discovered Dick missing, she’d felt in some way personally responsible. Logically she knew no blame attached to her, yet still she’d felt as if somehow she should have prevented it.
Losing Jemmie had only intensified the feeling. In murdering his mother and taking the boy, Smythe and Grimsby—and by extension Alert—had struck directly at her. At that point, the investigation had become very personal.
