No. He was far too old a hand at manipulation, at creating an illusion to make people believe what he wanted them to, to not play the role he’d scripted to its end.
He remained in the front garden for half an hour more, pretending to work on his plans.
And every minute his mind seethed with possible answers to the now-critical question of who his housekeeper and her children truly were, and why they’d sought refuge at the manor.
Eventually, he shut his sketch pad, gripped his cane, and, unhurriedly, headed for the front door.
He wasn’t surprised to find Rose hovering in the front hall.
She didn’t even wait for him to close the door before demanding, “Those men—who were they?”
Turning from the door, he studied her, took in the tension thrumming in every line of her body, tightening her features, sharpening her tone. Slowly, he went forward. Halting two feet away, voice low, he said, “They were inquiry agents. They were hunting”—and knowing the breed, the word was apt—“for a lady who had fled Leicestershire with two children in tow.”
Every vestige of color drained from Rose’s face.
He calmly went on, “I told them that while my housekeeper and her children might be thought to fit the description of the people they sought, I knew for a fact that my housekeeper hailed from a family from around Penzance, and that she had never been out of the county, and nor had her children.”
Rose felt as if her world was disintegrating; all security, all sense of safety and comfort, had fled. Gone. She could barely breathe as, eyes wide, she searched Thomas’s face . . . slowly the import of his words sank into her panicking brain.
He’d lied and protected them.
The steadiness in his hazel eyes, the acutely observant mind that lurked behind, were assurance enough that, at least in terms of the identities of the three people the men had been searching for, he knew the truth.
Dragging in a breath, she forced herself to ask, “Did they believe you?”
He hesitated, and she knew that he was deciding what he should tell her—deciding what was right for him to tell her. Eventually, he said, “For the moment. They have, at least, gone away.”
The absolute truth—no more, no less.
Forcibly filling her lungs, she nodded. “Thank you.”
A moment passed. Her eyes locked with his, she knew he was waiting for her to tell him more, to explain . . . but their tale wasn’t hers to tell; it wasn’t she who was the focus of the threat.
When she remained standing before him and volunteered nothing more, his lips lightly twisted and he inclined his head. “We all have our secrets, Mrs. Sheridan.”
Then he shifted and limped past her, making for the stairs.
Leaving Rose, puzzled, staring after him.
Rose replayed that exchange countless times through the rest of the day and into the evening. Her initial, quite staggering relief on learning that the men had believed Thomas’s assurances and gone away had quickly been tempered by the realization that, at some point, they, or men like them, would be back.
Would come hunting her and the children, and next time Thomas might not be there to deflect the inquiry.
To act as her and the children’s shield.
He’d told her he had come to the manor purely to await a summons that might arrive at any time.
Her mind elsewhere, she bumbled her way through lunch, then dinner, and finally got the children to bed.
After that, she paced in her small bedroom under the eaves, debating what to do, what her next move should be. Previously, whenever danger had threatened, at the very first sign, she’d taken the children and run. Even now, some deeply buried instinct was urging her to sweep the pair up and flee into the night.
But this time Thomas had intervened; his actions had bought her time to think. To plan.
They would have to leave the manor. She had started to believe that they would never have to flee it, to hope, instead, that they would be able to live there in peace until the time came to return to their world and fight the battle waiting, but her long-ago vow rang too clearly in her mind, and she would not risk all the effort she’d expended, all the sacrifices made over the last four years, on an uncertain hope. They needed to leave, but, thanks to Thomas’s unconditional support, they didn’t have to flee in a panicked rush.
Indeed, to make best use of Thomas’s gift, she should think of what she could do to disguise their leaving as an unremarkable occurrence, as nothing worthy of note, a simple moving on due to mundane events, rather than driven by any precipitate reaction. Fleeing with the hounds too close on her trail . . . no. Better she plan; better she use her head.
She paused, verified that that conclusion was sound, and felt more settled. More sure. Decision made, then, at least in theory; the practical details would follow.
But first . . .
Going to the door, she opened it; drawing her shawl about her shoulders and knotting it, she went to Pippin’s room and looked in on the little girl. Her face utterly angelic in slumber, Pippin was fast asleep.
Rose closed Pippin’s door, checked that Homer, too, was sound asleep, then, determined on her course, she descended the attic stairs and set out in search of Thomas.
The attic stairs joined one end of the first-floor corridor. Stepping out of the stairwell, she walked briskly along. She hadn’t brought a candle, but although it was night and the shadows were black, sufficient light from the moon and the stars reached through the big windows at either end of the corridor to allow her to walk with confidence.
She couldn’t explain—for Homer’s sake, she had to keep their secret—but she needed to thank Thomas properly for his unquestioning support. She didn’t want to think of what state she and the children would have been in at that moment had he not so calmly lied on their behalf. Lied, and from all she’d seen, without the slightest hesitation. At the very least, she owed him her abject thanks, and, given he knew that she was, indeed, keeping secrets, an assurance that her reason for refusing to confide in him wasn’t that she didn’t trust him but that their secret wasn’t hers to share.
She was nearing the head of the main stairs when a familiar repetitive thump reached her. She slowed, then halted, and waited for Thomas to gain the top of the stairs.
He did, and started along the corridor, not immediately realizing that she was there.
Standing in his path.
This, Rose decided, was better than she’d hoped. Better than speaking with him in his library. Pinning him down when he had a whole room to move in . . . no; the confines of the corridor were to her advantage.
Head rising, clasping her hands at her waist, she waited where she’d halted, in the middle of the corridor in a spot where a hall chest on one side and a side table on the other narrowed the space even further.
He noticed her and paused. After a moment, he came on. From the steady weight of his gaze, something she could feel even through the dimness, she was certain he’d guessed that she wasn’t about to let him pass until she’d said all she intended to say.
He halted before her, and she could almost hear his mental sigh. He arched a brow. “Yes?”
No name, she noted, but she didn’t let that deter her. Fixing her gaze on his shadowed eyes, she drew breath and stated, “I want to thank you—properly—for what you did today—”
He cut her off with a brusque wave. “You already did, as I recall.”
“No, I didn’t. Not properly.”
“The thanks you tendered were more than sufficient. There’s no need—”
“There’s every need.”
His eyes locked with hers. Rose felt the weight of his will, felt it pressing against hers almost like a physical force, but she wasn’t about to give way. She held her ground and gave him back stare for stare, her determination against his stubbornness.
His lips thinned. After a pregnant pause, he drew in a tight breath. “Mrs. Sheridan.” His voice had cooled, but the cutting edge tha
t might have been there was absent; he wanted to force her to retreat, but he didn’t want to hurt her. “Allow me to explain that I didn’t act as I did today to garner your thanks. I acted as I did because it was the right thing to do, and I neither need nor want your gratitude—”
“You irritating man!” Rose finally lost her temper. Over the past weeks, she’d grown well acquainted with his constant self-abnegation, but this time, she wasn’t having it. “Has it never occurred to you that people thanking you is something they need to do—and that you are supposed to accept their thanks with due graciousness, thereby excusing them from feeling forever indebted to you?”
Even as the words echoed between them, she recalled his confession of days before, heard his halting words in her mind: “I’m not very good at dealing with other people. I don’t—habitually don’t—think of how my actions will affect others, how what I do might impact on them.”
She watched his expression blank, then his gaze fell from hers, and she realized she’d hit the nail on the head. He honestly hadn’t known, hadn’t seen . . . Her own expression easing, her voice lowering, she went on, “You do it all the time—you refuse to accept even the mildest, smallest expressions of thanks. You slide around them, avoid them, but, even more, you constantly downplay the good you do. You dismiss your actions, deny their importance—you denigrate the contributions you make to the lives of others . . .” All of that was true. Confused, she stared at him. “Why?”
He didn’t immediately meet her gaze, but then his features hardened and he raised his eyes to hers. “If you’ve quite finished . . . ?”
The words . . . weren’t cold. There was emotion beneath them, roiling and churning, but ruthlessly suppressed.
When she blinked at him, trying to sense, to see further, to understand, he looked away and shifted to edge past her.
“No.” Brazen, Rose sidestepped and blocked his path. That brought them face-to-face, close, his coat brushing the knot of her shawl. “I haven’t finished.” Anger—at him, because of him—and a host of other emotions pounded in her blood. “There’s this.”
Raising her hands, she set her palms to his cheeks, hauled his head down two inches, and pressed her lips to his.
Damn him—he wasn’t worthless!
She kissed him, pressed her lips to his, determined to express the feelings he’d denied, her heartfelt thanks, yes, but also to acknowledge the relief he’d brought her, and her appreciation of all the countless minor acts of kindness he’d lavished on her and the children.
He might not know how to deal with others, but he was trying, and he wasn’t failing.
That much she could tell him—and given he wouldn’t listen to her words, she told him with her lips.
Ignoring the strange feel of his scars against her right palm, she boldly did something she’d never done in her life and poured her heart and soul into her kiss.
Bold, reckless, but, on a host of levels, so very necessary.
And he responded.
Her heart leapt—literally jumped in her chest—when she felt his lips, so unexpectedly smooth and giving, ease against hers.
Just for a heartbeat.
But then he stilled, stopped, caught himself.
Oh, no—she wasn’t having that.
With smooth deliberation—a determination, a decision, he wouldn’t miss—she stepped into him and kissed him harder.
The dam broke.
Rose rejoiced.
And Thomas lost all touch with the world.
Stunned, amazed, he was swept up and away on a tide of feelings, of emotions whipped along by a desperate yearning, one he hadn’t even realized lived within him.
Where had all this come from? How had she set it free?
He didn’t know the answers. All he knew was the feel of her lips moving on his—demanding a response he could no longer not give.
All he sensed was the warmth of her body, touching his, holding out a siren’s promise of succor amid the desolation his life had become.
No longer his to command, his lips parted; effortlessly—without thought or intention, much less any exercise of conscious will—he took control of the kiss, and then he was kissing her with all the pent-up longing, all the suppressed need he’d been holding back for the past months.
Ever since he’d first seen her.
Distantly, he heard a muted crack and realized his cane had fallen. Where, he didn’t care. Of their own volition, or so it seemed, his arms rose and closed, gently yet possessively, about her.
About Rose.
Some lingering uncertainty made him wonder if she would pull back, but no—she sank against him, into him, equally caught in the tide of the moment.
In the passions, so recklessly freed, that flowed, unrestrained, between them.
With victorious abandon, she surrendered her mouth, and he claimed. Feasted. Supped, sipped, then, at her insistence, plundered, and she took, gave, and incited, her palms and fingers firm and clasping, holding, steering, directing.
Not easing. Not letting go—not even for an instant.
He’d known sensual pleasure in the past, but this was something more—something finer, something elementally precious.
Their mouths melded and she was with him every step of the way, urging him on when he wanted to pause, to savor, wanting more, taking more, driving them both to utter distraction.
The kiss grew wild, beyond all control. The physical communion swelled, expanded, and captured them, drowning them both in unexpected heat.
Their tongues tangled and danced, dueled and lured; their lips captured and teased.
And desire flared. An elemental force, it swirled up from within them, twined with their passions, and ignited.
The flames bloomed—within him, as well as in her.
He’d thought he’d lost it, that fundamental fire, but no, it was there. It had been slumbering, smoldering as barely nascent embers, until she’d fanned the blaze.
She pressed closer and the flames roared.
The conflagration consumed him, rivers of fiery need streaking down his veins. He tightened his arms, drawing her fully against him; angling his head, he took the kiss further. Deeper.
Metaphorically taking her hand, he led her on into the flames.
Rose followed him eagerly, no thought able to stand against the joy of knowing he wanted her. That was no longer in question; the hard rod of his erection pressing against her stomach was testament enough to the reality of his ardor.
He wanted her, and, good Lord, she hadn’t truly realized just how much she wanted him. Hadn’t realized that her reactions to him were simply symptoms of this—this greedy, ravenous, driving need.
Sliding her hands up, she speared her fingers into his hair and, up on her toes, met his tongue with hers, delighted and thrilled by the unfettered engagement. This was what she’d truly craved.
This closeness.
With him.
Heat and passion, need and urgency, merged and swirled through her, then pounded through her veins. Desire consumed her and cindered all thought. The only impulse remaining was more.
Thomas couldn’t find his feet in the raging tumult of their needs. The realization struck out of nowhere; the resulting stab of panic, of being so hopelessly out of control, jarred him—fleetingly, momentarily—but it was enough.
Enough for a shaft of clarity to pierce the fog of their mutual desire and remind him of who they were.
Him, disfigured as he was on so many levels, and her . . .
Was this, her passion so warmly and freely yielded, real? Or was she offering him all this because she felt she must, because he was her employer? In return for his protection.
Some part of his logical, rational mind scoffed at the thought—she was the one who had refused to let him past—but the rest of his reeling self, so much more vulnerable than he’d ever been, wasn’t—couldn’t be—sure.
That uncertainty—the possibility that she might not truly feel as he assume
d—made him think. Made him realize . . .
Realize the line they’d both stepped over, the barrier they’d breached, indeed, all but eradicated.
They were exposed, both of them . . .
He dragged in a deeper breath and drew back from the kiss.
Forced his lips from hers, pulled back against her hold and raised his head.
She blinked her eyes open, and through the dimness met his gaze. They remained intimately close, their lips inches apart, their breaths mingling.
For several heartbeats, he looked into her eyes. Then, unable to help himself, he raised one hand and, gently, his senses aching with the need to touch, to know, he slowly ran the back of one finger down her perfect cheek.
And felt.
So much more than he ever had before. The clash of unfamiliar emotions rocked him.
He drew in an unsteady breath, his chest swelling against the lush curves of her breasts.
Even as his senses settled, he felt beyond unsteady, as if some internal mooring had been ripped away and he was drifting.
Still out of control.
No longer in control.
No longer the man he once had been, and unsure of the man he now was.
In this arena, too, it seemed.
But he knew what must be—he still had to pay his ultimate penance, and until he did, his life was not his own.
He didn’t even know if, after, he would have a life to live.
He didn’t want to let her go, but . . . slowly, he eased his arms from about her and set her back on her feet. Losing her warmth rocked him again, but he clamped down on the impulse, sharp and intense, to reach out and draw her back.
Dazed from the kiss, she’d stared—unsure, uncomprehending—at him, but now he saw confusion fill her eyes.
She opened her lips, but he spoke before she could. “That was . . . inappropriate.”
She blinked. After a heartbeat’s pause, in a strange tone, she parroted, “Inappropriate.”
He suddenly saw that he’d misstepped again. “Not on your part,” he hurried to explain, “but on mine.”
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 11
