Page 45 of Heartbreaker

They shall have to come through me.

Adelaide ignored the tightness in her chest at the memory and the image of him, relaxed, in shirtsleeves,a wedge of somehow sun-kissed skin beneath a woolen blanket he’d found somewhere. She dressed silently—years of practice making it possible—marveling that he’d left his secrets on the table. That he’d trusted her.

A mistake. A thief was born to steal, was she not?

She was gone before he woke, his treasure in hand.

Chapter Seven

The Duke of Clayborn was in a foul mood.

He hunched his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, pulled the brim of his hat low over his brow, tightened his grip on the reins, and cursed into the biting wind that felt more like December than October should.

It was not the weather that had put him in his mood, however.

Nor was it the backbreaking ride in the carriage, bouncing and rocking, wheels groaning as the road grew less and less smooth and the afternoon sun began to set.

No, he’d been in this mood—cursing the weather and roads and vehicles and an overhanging oak branch that had nearly removed his head and a broken wheel that had set him back a full hour while he replaced it—since he’d woken that morning, gnarled into the most uncomfortable position a body could find in sleep, in a hard chair, in a cold room, at the Hawk and Hedgehog.

Truthfully, his mood might have survived the crick in his neck.

Except, Adelaide had disappeared.

It was impossible, or at least he’d thought it had been when he’d set the chair to the door as she’d slept. By the time he’d entered the room, she’d been in bed, all but a single candle extinguished, lighting his way as he made himself as comfortable as one could with a small blanket, a waning fire, and an uncomfortable chair.

When he’d extinguished the light and tried to sleep himself, it had been nearly impossible, knowing that he should not be sharing a room with an unmarried lady.

In the darkness, he told himself it was all in service to their race. Adelaide not being able to leave without waking him had been an added bonus. He’d keep pace with her from the start on their second day’s journey—having eyes on her from daybreak would ensure he would not lose her again.

It was only half true. There was another reason to share her room. To station himself like a sentry by the door. He wished to keep her safe.

He’d chased sleep for hours, doing his best to remain gentlemanly. To avoid thinking of her, warm and soft in the room’s only bed. To avoid wondering whether she’d removed her dress before climbing into bed. Whether she’d taken down her red hair. Whether it spread across the sheets as he’d imagined before, when he absolutely shouldn’t have.

He’d made a list of all the things he shouldn’t wonder, and the activity had done nothing to deliver rest. The clock in the hallway outside had marked eleven. Then midnight.

When one chimed, he gave in, finally allowing himself to listen to the smooth, even rhythm of her slumber. To count those breaths like sheep, sure he’d wake before her.

Instead, he’d woken without her.

He hadn’t liked it.

He cursed again, leaning into the ride, pushing the horses farther up the road, grateful that there’d been a fast, strong set waiting for him when he’d stopped to change the team—the only good thing that had happened that day, considering he was behind in his race to catch Adelaide, and he had no indication of how far she would push her own horses in her pursuit of his brother.

Clayborn had done all he could to catch her, comingout of the chair in which he’d slept instantly. It hadn’t taken him long to discover two things—first, the room had a secret exit, a door perfectly hidden in the tapestry of elaborate wallpaper on one side of the bed, which led to a set of back stairs that exited directly to the stables. He should have expected it—Adelaide Frampton would never allow herself to be trapped, when she could be free.

And second, she’d taken his box with her.

He leaned forward and gave the horses an encouragingyah!, hoping they’d find themselves motivated to close the distance she’d left.

She’d left.

He’d trusted her with the box, telling himself as he sat in the darkness that he’d hear her if she came for it. No. That was nonsense. What he’d told himself was that she’d stay, and the box, in her hands or in his, would remain with him.

But Adelaide Frampton was a thief first and everything else second... and she’d slipped away under cloak of night, just before dawn, according to the stable boy he’d terrified with ducal interrogation at half six in the morning.

He wasn’t far behind, and a strong set of horses could make all the difference.

But Clayborn knew better than to underestimate Adelaide, and as the sun set and the cold began to bite, and he was reminded that his horses would soon tire, Clayborn lost control of his thoughts—the ones he’d promised himself he would hold at bay.

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