For Your Arms Only

by Caroline Linden

  His mouth curled again. “So it is my abilities you doubt.”

  She blushed, damn it all. Hopefully he couldn’t notice in the dark. “No! Not at all. I am sure you are very able, I just…that is…”

  He watched her, his head cocked to one side and that curious light in his eyes. As if he had seen her blush and liked it. As if he was thinking of something other than finding Papa. As if he found her intriguing. “Hastings must have thought my talents well-suited to the job.”

  Cressida closed her mouth to avoid making a fool of herself. She was being very foolish tonight, spurred on by her sister’s ridiculous suggestion that he…She looked at her feet. The major hadn’t moved or done anything that might justify her leaping pulse; he’d walked out with her, told a few amusing stories about his youth, and been perfectly polite. Poor man. If he ever knew what she was attributing to him, he’d be horrified.

  She took a fortifying breath and faced him, squaring her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, “for offering to help. We would be very grateful for your assistance.”

  He bowed his head. “I shall do my best not to disappoint.”

  The man had a dangerous smile, dark and knowing, as if they shared some secret. Cressida felt again that he would tease all her secrets out of her, if given enough time. And she shuddered to think how little time that might be, given that just standing in the dark with him had made her mind run wild and her knees wobble. “I shall do my best to help.”

  His smile grew. “I look forward to it,” he murmured. “Shall we begin tomorrow?”

  “I…” She swallowed. What abilities, she wondered inanely, were well-suited to this task? Did he just corner people against a wall and look at them until they burst out in confession? It would bloody well work on her. “Yes.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer. “Excellent. Until the morrow, Miss Turner.”

  He turned and walked away. Cressida pressed a hand to her bosom, wondering exactly what she had just agreed to. And why she felt such a hot surge of anticipation for his visit.

  Chapter 11

  He took her at her word, and arrived early the next morning.

  “How shall we begin?” Cressida wanted to be involved in whatever he did. What was he going to do that would miraculously locate Papa? Or was there some obvious thing she ought to have done weeks ago? She was still wildly curious to know why he of all people had been sent to them, but like many other things, that seemed to be something he kept to himself.

  “Tell me everything about your father’s trip. Even the smallest detail may have significance.”

  She sighed, but related everything she could remember regarding Papa’s journey to London. The major listened closely, asking only a few questions. Cressida waited to hear something insightful, but instead he appeared to abandon the topic altogether.

  “Where would your father keep his private papers?”

  She frowned. “Why? What has that got to do with anything?”

  “It might reveal another destination, or another interest he might have had in London,” Alec explained. This, he had to admit, was easier when there was no subterfuge. Being able to ask a question openly was far quicker than his usual methods. He could see Miss Turner still wasn’t completely won over, but she was cooperating, and somehow her sharp, watchful gaze was even more attractive than her suspicious gaze.

  For a moment she didn’t reply, folding her arms. With her chin tipped down and her head cocked, she regarded him with unmistakable doubt. It also exposed the lovely long line of her neck, wreathed as ever with escaping wisps of hair. For some reason Alec always wanted to sweep his hand up the curve of her shoulder and smooth those loose hairs back into the heavy mass pinned atop her head. It was annoying that he was so distracted by her neck, and he clasped his hands behind his back to stifle the urge to touch any part of her.

  “What do you expect to find?” she said at last.

  “Anything that offers an avenue of possibility.” At her continued silence, he added, “I regret the invasion of your family’s privacy, but I am doing my duty. If you have any other suggestions, by all means share them, and I shall endeavor to follow them.”

  She drew breath as if to argue, then let it out. She unfolded her arms and held out one hand. “Of course. You are right. I apologize, sir.”

  Alec hesitated just a moment before clasping her hand in his. Like the rest of her, her fingers were long and slender, but she returned his grip as firmly as any man might. He let go at once, calling himself a fool for finding this woman so intriguing.

  “Papa made his study down here,” she said, turning to lead the way from the room. As she moved past the parlor windows, the sunlight streamed across the nape of her neck, turning her skin to glowing ivory and setting those tempting wisps of hair agleam with hidden highlights, not just brown but gold and chestnut and honey. Alec blinked, disoriented at his inexplicable fascination.

  “What do you hope to find?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Er…a diary, indicating private plans, bills from merchants he might have gone to see, even letters from acquaintances indicating plans to call. Anything that might give some idea where to turn next.” He gave himself a mental shake and followed her, scrupulously keeping his gaze away from her neck.

  She led the way down a narrow hallway into a small room at the back of the house. Bookshelves lined two walls, but they were mostly bare. A scarred wooden desk stood beneath the room’s only window and a narrow wooden bench sat opposite it. The walls were faded, and the tiny fireplace was cold. Overall it was a sad, dingy little room, and Alec’s instincts pricked up.

  “Why did he choose this room?”

  Miss Turner opened the wooden shutters, letting in more light. Even so, it was still dark in the room on a sunny day. Alec could see a corner of the stable through the window. “He likes the privacy and quiet of it. My grandmother never comes back here.” She turned to face him, her back to the window. “His papers are in the desk.”

  “Right.” Alec crossed the room and sat at the desk, opening drawers and sifting through the contents with practiced speed. It was almost child’s play to search a room in daylight, even if he was all too conscious of the woman standing in front of the daylight. Women like her shouldn’t be allowed to stand in front of windows, where their figures were so well-outlined and the sun could catch every highlight in their hair.

  He sorted through bills, bills, and more bills. There were a few letters, mostly from former army superiors responding to Sergeant Turner’s inquiries about employment opportunities. Turner had ambition, Alec realized, noting what sort of positions the man had sought. No hard labor for him; Turner asked about clerkships to governing boards and plum posts in the scaled-down army. Those seemed a bit out of reach for a sergeant, even a distinguished one, but the replies were all apologetic in their refusal, even deferential. It struck Alec as odd that Turner would think himself fit for these posts, and be refused with so much solicitude. He was sure mid-ranked officers would have been refused these patronage positions, which were highly sought for the combination of comfortable pay, modest status, and low work requirements. He tucked that thought away, adding to his still-forming picture of Sergeant Turner.

  The bills were more interesting, but still told him little. Turner seemed to play things out just to the point of becoming unpleasant before he paid. He bought on credit almost exclusively, and apparently had no trouble getting it anywhere from Marston to London. Alec looked through the desk, but there was no ledger to verify the bills’ payments. “Would your father keep an account ledger?”

  Cressida started at the question. He had been so quiet for so long. The way he went straight to work, sorting through the mess of Papa’s papers, was almost preternaturally silent and efficient. She had peeked at those papers herself, when Papa had been gone a month with no word, and knew they were in a horrible mess. She had given up trying to sort the bills into order—an exceptionally depressing task, given ho
w many of them there were—when her grandmother scolded her for interfering in Papa’s affairs and shooed her out of the room. So far Major Hayes had flipped through every one of them and made three neat stacks on the desk, and now he was looking at her with that piercingly direct gaze. It was so unnerving, and so blue, she completely missed his question. “What?”

  “An account ledger, to keep track of payments. I don’t see one.”

  “Oh—yes. He does.”

  He waved one hand across the desk top. “It’s not here.”

  Cressida bit the inside of her lip. She knew it wasn’t there from the time she had tried to look through Papa’s things. It had bothered her then, too, for she knew he kept one; she had seen him making entries in it. But she had brushed it aside as inconsequential; Papa might have left it anywhere or even taken it with him. Perhaps that had been a mistake…She thought of all Callie had said, and what Major Hayes had said, and realized she must honor her decision to cooperate. She had accepted his help and must freely give him her cooperation. Otherwise she might as well be guilty of the horrible things he had suggested when he drove her into Marston. “I don’t know where it is,” she admitted. “I know he kept one, but I couldn’t find it when I looked.”

  The major seemed to sit up a little straighter. “Might he have kept it somewhere else?”

  “I don’t think so. This was his room. We weren’t to enter it, under normal circumstances.”

  He was on his feet before she finished, turning in a slow circle and taking in the entire room. “But you did?”

  “He kept his strongbox here. I had to come in and get money, after he left.” She didn’t mention that she’d had to pick the lock to get it open, nor that it had been nearly empty. It was highly unlikely Major Hayes hadn’t already deduced that much.

  He stepped closer to the wall and ran one hand over the wainscoting. “Where was the strongbox?”

  “In the lower desk drawer.” She watched in astonishment as he knelt on the floor and began tapping on the panels. “What are you looking for?”

  “A hiding place.” He pulled off his coat and tossed it on the chair, then returned to the floor and leaned his ear against the wall before rapping on it with his knuckles.

  Cressida gaped at his broad back. “Why?”

  He rapped some more. “This is an odd room to choose for his study. It has no light. It’s more like an estate manager’s office than a gentleman’s study.” Another rap. He moved along the floor, smoothing his hand over the wall as he went, stopping to feel every crack and edge. “And if he kept his strongbox here, quite likely he kept the ledger with it. Unless you found it in his bedchamber?” He swung around so quickly Cressida jumped back, banging her elbow on the desk. She had followed his progress without realizing.

  “N-No.” She rubbed her elbow as he nodded. There was a curious light in his eyes, almost elation, as though he had a plan.

  “Many of these old houses have hidden cupboards. Not terribly secure, just an out-of-the-way place to keep something private.” He turned back to the wall and spread his hands over the wood. “I could be wrong, of course.”

  Cressida watched, askance, as he leaned into the wall. That made sense, she supposed, even though he didn’t know Papa at all and couldn’t know how closemouthed her father was about certain things. “No,” she said slowly. “I think you may well be correct.”

  She moved to the opposite wall and began rapping on the panels herself, but stopped after a few tries. She didn’t know what she was doing, and was probably just making it harder for him to hear whatever he was listening for. Again she retreated to the window and waited, with nothing to do but watch as he systematically rapped at every square inch of wall. Intent on his task, he said nothing, which unfortunately only left her mind free to wander to inappropriate subjects.

  The shape of his hands, for instance.

  When he laid his palm flat against the wall and spread his fingers wide, Cressida couldn’t help noticing how strong and capable his hands were. He paused and ran his fingertips lightly over the edge of one panel, his cheek laid right against the wall as he scrutinized every stroke of his fingers. A funny feeling stirred in her belly as she watched him caress the old wooden panel, stained dark from age and smoke. A cavalryman’s hands, she thought, ought not to be capable of such delicate motion.

  “Ah,” he sighed in satisfaction. A slow smile curved his mouth and Cressida’s breath stopped in her chest for just a moment. She had better go scrub floors or pick vegetables or—

  “I was about to suggest we look in the bedchamber,” he said, “but I think there’s no need.”

  It took her brain a moment to function again. “Oh,” she said, then: “Oh!” Under those strong, capable fingers, a panel in the wall was sliding inward. He pressed harder, until the wood squealed a little and then gave way, revealing a dark space about a foot square behind the wall just to the left of the fireplace.

  “It’s warped,” the major said, pushing it fully open. “There’s a tiny nail hole here, as if someone tried to seal it shut. That may have alerted your father to its presence.”

  “Oh,” she said for the third time. She never would have noticed such a thing. Was the major this observant about everything? “Of course.”

  He grinned at her and reached into the space to pull out two books, one the ledger Cressida had seen her father write in, and another, smaller one. He brought them to the window, beside her. “Let’s see what we have here,” he muttered, opening the larger book in a ray of sunshine.

  “That’s the ledger,” she said stupidly. Of course it was a ledger, the pages lined with long columns of neat numbers; a man who would notice a pinprick of a nail hole in the wall didn’t need to be told that.

  “Indeed it is.” His eyes were flitting rapidly over the page, and he turned through a few more before closing it and setting it on the desk. “And what is this?” He flipped open the smaller book.

  “I have no idea,” she said after a moment. “It looks like Papa’s hand, but…”

  “It looks like a journal.” He touched one page. “Dates.”

  It was. But aside from the dates, everything was nonsense. The words looked like ordinary words from a distance, but were composed of random assortments of letters that didn’t spell anything in English. “It’s a code,” she said in amazement.

  He glanced at her in surprise, then paged through the rest of the book. Everything was the same odd jumble of letters. “I believe you’re right. Did your father tell you he used codes?”

  She shook her head. “He’s always been fond of puzzles and secrets. I—I suppose that’s what led him to hide the books. I never saw this one, though.”

  “It’s old. The dates go back over ten years, although they end only six months past.” He looked up, meeting her gaze. “Then you probably don’t know the key.”

  Cressida pursed her lips. “No, but…I should like to take a turn at deciphering it.”

  “You like codes?” His eyes lit up, and she felt absurdly pleased at having delighted him. “By all means. I’ll take this”—he tapped the ledger—“and you have a go at this.”

  She took the journal. The leather was stiff and creased, and the pages crackled when she turned them. But it smelled of Papa’s tobacco, and she held it close to her heart. “I will.”

  He turned away and began stacking the sorted bills on top of the ledger. “I’ll go through this and match up the bills with the payments, to see if he owes anyone. He might have made a quiet trip to discuss a debt. It will be quite tedious, I’m afraid, or we could do it here. I know you wish to stay informed of all I do.”

  Cressida blushed at his matter-of-fact statement. “I do, but I don’t wish to interfere.” He gave her a wry look that indicated he knew exactly how much she wanted to interfere, and she blushed harder. He would think her face permanently red, the way things were going. “I hope you find something helpful.”

  “And I you.” He placed one hand on the ledger
and the other on his hip. With the window at his back, in his dazzling white shirtsleeves, he seemed large and powerful and very male. “How shall we go on?”

  “Go…” She cleared her throat—difficult to do with her head tipped back to see him. “Go on?”

  “Yes. You did say you wanted to remain involved. Shall I work until I discover something, or shall I call every day even if I have no news?”

  Every day. She cleared her throat again. “As often as you see fit, Major.”

  He looked at her. “Alec,” he said. “Please.”

  “Oh.” She tried to laugh and ended up making a strange coughing sound. They were very close together here by the window and the desk. Cressida didn’t remember the last time she had been so close to a man who was not Tom or her father, let alone one who looked at her like this. “I don’t think…That is…If you wish.”

  “We’ll be thrown together a fair amount, I expect.” Finally he looked away. “I’m not in the army any longer. I haven’t used the rank in some time.” He raised one brow and cast a significant glance over her shoulder, to where his coat lay on the chair. Cressida hurriedly stepped aside, and he moved past her, his boots brushing her skirts. She stood clutching Papa’s journal to her chest as he put on his coat and collected the ledger and bills. They walked into the hall, where she murmured a good-bye and he bowed and left with a promise to return soon.

  Alec. He swung onto his horse’s back and touched the brim of his hat to her. We’ll be thrown together…Did that mean he wanted to call her Cressida? He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t invited him, either, but that was more because her tongue seemed tied up in a knot. What would her name sound like on his lips? And just how often would he call?