A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  She brushed down her skirts. “I’m not hostile, exactly, more like curious. It’s been nearly five years—you might have written a letter.”

  He swept back his jacket and placed his hands on his hips. “You’re bringing this up now? Honestly, Fan, this is rotten timing.” Rafe glanced over his shoulder toward the cottage.

  “I can’t think which of us is more rotten at timing—you or me?” She folded her arms under her chest. “I wouldn’t wish you to fail your first great trial.”

  He stared at her. “I wrote—many times. I just never posted a single letter.”

  “And . . . how many letters did you not mail?” She tilted her head, waiting.

  His gaze moved to the sliver of moon and back again. “Hundreds.” He kicked a bit of dirt around the yard. “Might we discuss correspondence later? I mean to try for a meal and a bed.”

  Skeptical, Fanny swept past him on her way to the cottage door. “And no dodging out on me like you did five years ago,” she hissed at him in a whisper.

  At the entryway, she hung back and let Rafe do the knocking. He patted the side of his leg. “Come stand by me, kitten.”

  “Why do you use silly words you obviously don’t mean? I can’t imagine courtesans of quality answer to such ridiculous sweet talk.”

  “On the contrary, they speak in oohs and ahs and contented purrs.” The sudden throaty gravel in his voice made her pulse jump.

  “You always were prone to exaggerate.”

  “As a sheltered innocent and suffragist, I would not expect you to be familiar with the sounds of pleasure.”

  “How ridiculous. I am perfectly capable of oohing and ahing.”

  He put an index finger and thumb to his lips and twisted. “Afraid you’ll have to button it—for now.”

  Rude of him to remind her of his sexual experience and expertise—as well as her lack thereof. And he did it to provoke, quite deliberately.

  Rafe turned to knock again, but before his knuckles could manage a rap, the door opened, seemingly on its own. Inside, a hearth burned low at one end of a comfortable room. “Hello. Anyone home?”

  “Of course I’m home. Where else would I be?”

  They lowered their gazes. A woman of very small stature stood in the doorway wiping her hands with an apron.

  Fanny sidled up beside Rafe. “We’ve had a bit of a spill. My brother was driving me to the station when his new team got away from him.”

  “Capsized the carriage.” Rafe feigned a humble grin. “No one was injured.” He rocked his head back and forth affably. “Thank God.”

  Fanny clamped her mouth shut to prevent a burst of laughter. Rafe was purposely playing the role of a witless toff. “We’re looking for a place to stay for the evening. Perhaps a bite of supper?”

  Rafe nodded. “We’ll gladly pay for any hospitality you might be able to offer.”

  The middle-aged woman sized them both up and down. “I’ll give ye I’m small, but no’ short of brains.” The diminutive woman slammed the door shut.

  Rafe stared momentarily at the heavy wooden barrier. “What do you suppose she meant by that?”

  Somewhat amused, Fanny raised and lowered her shoulders. “I thought you were doing quite well, playing the dandy nob—”

  The door opened and slammed shut again. A folded newspaper landed on the stone pavers. Rafe reached down and unfolded The Scotsman. “You’re on the front page, Fanny.”

  She leaned in close and tilted her head. “I never liked that photograph.”

  The bare semblance of a grin surfaced as he studied her and the likeness printed in the paper. “It doesn’t quite capture that wicked glower of yours.”

  Rafe dodged her swat with a chuckle. He took a seat on a wooden bench and stretched out his legs. A row of rubber boots covered in barnyard muck stood upright against the cottage wall. All of them appeared to belong to children or people with very small feet.

  Fanny straightened a floppy boot at the end of the queue. “It appears we have washed ashore in the land of Lilliput.”

  He glanced at the muddy column. “I look forward to an attack by wee folk wielding pitchforks. I shall set them on you—have them tie you down with string.”

  Fanny rolled her eyes. “How easily amused you are.”

  “Not amused—aroused.” As twilight edged into darkness, Rafe squinted at the article. “‘Francine Greyville-Nugent and Detective Lewis remain at large.’ There’s some speculation as to what may have happened to us—captured by unknown assailants appears to top the list.” He turned the page. “Ah, here’s an article that makes mention of a fatal laboratory accident.”

  “Poor Mr. Poole.” Fanny chewed on her lip. “Might this mean we can go to the authorities in Bathgate?”

  Rafe tilted the paper to find some light. “Perhaps.”

  “You’ll be wanting to speak with the constable, then,” the husky voice came from above as the small woman poked her head out the window.

  Rafe jumped up and turned around. “His name wouldn’t be Wee Willie Winkie by any chance?” he asked.

  The petite woman slammed the shutters closed.

  Rafe pivoted toward Fanny. “Tom Thumb?”

  “Stop it, Rafe!” She rapped on the window shutter. “Hello, again. We wish to apologize—that is, Mr. Lewis would like to apologize for his last remarks.” Impatient, she waved him forward.

  “Come on—Constable Winkie? It was a little droll—” He threw his hands in the air and shouted at the shuttered window. “Sorry.”

  Rafe plied his regrets to no avail. “Madam of the house, please forgive my thoughtless speech—”

  “Brutish.” Fanny kept one eye on the window.

  A shutter whined and opened a crack. Inch by inch the hinged panels parted enough to shove two wooden bowls onto the windowsill. Rafe took down one and sniffed. “Lamb stew.” He handed a bowl to Fanny and took the other for himself. The shutters slammed closed again.

  “I thank you. Miss Greyville-Nugent thanks you.” Rafe nodded a bow and settled down on the bench. She surveyed the dish in her lap. “A lovely warm pottage and a large chunk of bread to sop it up with.” She looked up at Rafe. “Heaven.”

  Fanny broke off a piece of bread, sloshed it around, and popped the crusty tidbit in her mouth. “Mm-mm.” They ate in relative silence, lapping up the savory hot liquid with bread and using their spoons to scrape ravenously after bits of lamb and carrot.

  She finished her last spoonful and closed her eyes.

  The now-familiar craggy voice echoed from inside the residence. The front door burst open and lamplight arced over the grounds. The small woman shuffled closer, lantern held high. She was of middling age, sturdily built, and rather unkempt. She eyed Fanny with a certain amount of suspicion and curiosity. “This here is the kidnapped heiress.” She shifted her wary gaze to Rafe. “And you’re the Yard man, wanted for questioning in Edinburgh, aren’t ye?”

  She jumped forward and screeched. “Aren’t ye?”

  Rafe leaned away. “You’ve found us out, madam.” He reached into his pocket and held out a few coins. “May I pay you for your hospitality and your silence?”

  Their curmudgeonly hostess considered his offer, then gave a nod.

  He placed the coppers in her hand. “Might you have a name?”

  “Iona Tuttle.” She set the lantern on the ground and dropped the coins in her apron. “Strange folk have been lurking about, asking after the both of yez.”

  Fanny’s pulse quickened as she met Rafe’s sober glance. “Men, presumably, and rather nattily dressed?”

  Iona Tuttle grunted. “Them and another. Strange character driving a steam-powered machine—almost like a locomotive it was. Saw the smoke cloud it made for miles. Rumbled into my yard, growling and puffing—see there.” The small woman pointed to a wide sweep of heavy wagon tracks.

  “Can you describe this machine in detail?”

  The Tuttle woman ignored Rafe’s question and took a seat between them. “The Scotsm
an only printed half the story, aye?” She waited, presumably, for their recounting of events.

  Rafe nodded to Fanny, encouraging her to elaborate.

  “All right, then.” She hesitated, not knowing where to begin. “Yesterday evening I was abducted from one of the University’s courtyards. Detective Lewis quite bravely came to my rescue. Soon after, we found ourselves fleeing once again from the horrid kidnappers.” Fanny paused in her tale for a yawn. “Sorry. Your wonderful pottage and a long day on the run have quite suddenly overtaken me.”

  “You can stay the night in the loft.” The small woman slid off the bench and picked up the lantern. “Come along.”

  Twilight had faded into darkness. She led them across the yard and into a large barn. A newly painted hay wagon sat in the center of the stone floor. Paint fumes lingered in the air, along with the sweet scent of new-mown hay. The Tuttle woman looped the lantern handle onto the end of a hooked stick and held it high, alongside a steep ladder. “Up you go. Plenty of clean straw up there. The barn has several good mousers, few rodents about.”

  When Fanny hesitated, Rafe lifted her onto the first step and encouraged her to climb. “Careful.”

  After a number of rungs she looked down. “Are you coming?”

  He reached for the lamp but the small woman pulled away. “Ye’ll not get a lantern.” Flickering light fell across a few deep wrinkles and wary eyes. “I’ll not chance the likes of you or those sly characters burning the barn down.”

  “Have it your way, Mrs. Tuttle.”

  “Not saying whether I’m missus or not,” the woman clearly harrumphed.

  Rafe stared at the diminutive harpy. “There were several small pairs of boots outside the cottage. We thought there might be—”

  Tuttle cut him off. “I’ll thank you to leave the bairns out of this.”

  Rafe scaled the rungs and leaned over to pull up the slatted steps. Before he reached the top rung, the Tuttle woman kicked the ladder over. Rafe made a grab for it and nearly lost his balance.

  “Rafe!” Fanny caught hold of flying coattails and pulled him upright. Their only means of escape hit the barn floor with a high-pitched crack and clatter that hurt her ears.

  He straightened his jacket and winked at her. “Fast work, Fan.”

  RAFE PEERED OVER the edge of a crude railing. The small female he now likened to an evil troll glared up at them. “I plan on sleeping tonight. I’ll be back for you both in the morning. Good night, Detective Lewis.” She nodded to Fanny. “Miss.” The circle of lamplight disappeared behind the barn door. Rusty hinges creaked as the door groaned shut.

  Enveloped in complete darkness, Rafe reached out and wrapped an arm around Fanny’s waist. For once, she cleaved to him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Their small hostess secured the barn with a clunk. “Salty old witch,” Rafe muttered. “Do you suppose she’ll try to toss us in her oven?”

  Fanny’s chuckle was soft, musical, and evocative of their youth. He almost expected to look down and find the freckle-nosed harridan beside him.

  “I rather liked her at first.” Her voice was gentle, contemplative. “But now, I don’t know . . . I don’t trust her, Rafe.”

  Dark shapes emerged from darker shadows, as his eyes adjusted to their surroundings. “Hold on to the railing and don’t move.” He inched along the edge of the upper story.

  “Where are you going?” She rasped a whisper.

  “We could use a bit more light up here.” Rafe reached out and found the end of the barn. Gingerly, he stepped away from the loft edge and felt his way along the wall until he arrived at what he hoped was the hayloft door. Blindly, he grasped for a latch. “Ouch!”

  “What happened?”

  “A splinter happened.”

  “Oh.” A soft giggle rippled though the air.

  He lifted the crude wooden crossbar and the door swung open. An arc of pale illumination swept across the floor. He smiled at her. “There you are, Fanny.”

  She joined him to admire the view. The rippling image of the moon reflected off the loch’s surface and cast a shimmer of pale light through the loft. Rafe turned toward a nearby stack of horse fodder. “I know a little dove who needs a nest.” He sifted through the hay and fluffed up a pile of bedding. Fanny shook out a few empty oat sacks and laid them on top. She lay down and snuggled into the hay. “This will do nicely.” She rolled onto her back and sat up. “Where are you sleeping?”

  Rafe covered her with his jacket. “I’ll catch a few winks nearby.”

  Fanny nodded absently. “Odd, isn’t it? This place.”

  “The resident is odd. The farm appears normal enough.” Rafe picked at the splinter in the palm of his hand.

  “That’s just it.” Fanny scraped pearly teeth over her bottom lip. “Do you remember old Wordsworth? For a time, he lived in the grotto drawbridge housing at Craigiehall?”

  Rafe settled down beside her on one elbow. “Of course I remember the small fellow. The name was self-styled, always had a word or quote for the day.”

  Fanny sifted through a bit of loose straw beside her. “Then you will also remember he had refitted the bridge house to suit his size. The doors were altered, the knobs lowered, the seating child-sized—”

  “You noticed.” A lock of hair fell forward, blocking his view and he swept it back. Better to watch those large eyes, the color of Belgian chocolate, grow wider.

  She lowered her voice. “What do you make of it?”

  “Iona Tuttle is the only person of short stature who lives in the cottage, or this farm is not her residence.”

  She squinted at his hand. “Let me see the sticker.”

  “It will work its way out. Eventually.”

  She shot him a perturbed look. “After it reddens and festers and gives you blood poisoning.”

  He held out his hand, palm side up. “You just want to torture me.”

  Fanny turned his hand to the pale light and examined the splinter. “If the Tuttle woman is not a resident, then where are the owners?” She reached into the swirl of hair on the back of her head and pulled out a hairpin.

  Rafe shrugged. “They might be away. She could be a relative or friend of the family, for all we know.”

  “Hold your palm very flat.” She pressed on his fingers and slid the hairpin behind the embedded splinter. Her brows knitted, and her mouth tensed into a wonderful lopsided bow. She slid the pin along the skin and nudged the wooden shard out. “Hold still. Don’t you dare breathe.” She grasped the tiny stub with her fingernails and pulled.

  “Aha!” She released his hand and held up the fragment of wood.

  He examined his palm. “Dandy work. Thank you.”

  “Rafe, what if she’s in with them—the natty horrible men? And what if the family who lives here is being held hostage or worse?” She sucked in a shallow breath. “And what if there are children involved, who could be injured or—?”

  “Don’t, Fanny.” Rafe shook his head. “You must not think the worst.”

  He reclined onto his makeshift bed of straw and, quite surprisingly, she leaned back in his arms. “We need to find out what is going on inside the farmhouse.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She lifted her head off his shoulder. “Have you thought about how we are going to get down from here?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “‘Yes’ doesn’t adequately answer the question.” Fanny sighed. “And please refrain from using words like darling and kitten.”

  Rafe raised a brow and opened one eye. “I promise never to use another term of affection, if you sidle up close and use me as a pillow.”

  “I’m not tired.” She ended a gaping yawn with a growl. “Of course this means you have no plan whatsoever.” She closed her eyes and imagined his grin. Horrid man!

  Their shocking behavior at the loch stirred feelings she did not wish to think about. Nonetheless, she snuggled into the crook of his arm knowing full well this closeness was completely ill-advised. Out of the dark
void of near sleep an image materialized into her consciousness—Rafe Lewis rising from the loch like a Scottish demigod.

  The vision taunted her, setting her belly aquiver and her heart to skipping erratically. How extraordinarily beautiful he was physically. She thought of the Reclining Apollo, a life-sized statue she often admired in Dunrobin Hall. One muscular leg raised at the knee, the other stretched out from a rippled torso. The pose was angled so one could admire the Greek god’s bottom. Frontally, one was afforded the most startling view of the warrior’s sword, to put it in polite terms.

  With her cheek on Rafe’s shoulder, she rode the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He felt comfortable, familiar, and completely trustworthy. Frankly, it was hard to believe they had ever been estranged. After their failed engagement, she had quite deliberately shoved their friendship into a dusty, cobwebbed corner of memory.

  A Hogmanay celebration came to mind. An icy cold evening, the last of the year. Rafe was home from university. The Queen’s own Pipes and Drums Regiment hammered a tattoo heralding the pyrotechnics display soon to begin. She and Rafe were out with a number of school chums making merry, reveling in the streets of Edinburgh. The festivities would last well into the early hours of New Year’s Day. Rafe had materialized beside her and removed one of her mittens. Clasping her naked hand in his, he plunged both into his coat pocket.

  Her cheeks burned remembering the play of his fingers along the inside of her palm. Her heightened senses thrilled to the lightness of his caress, and she had dared to answer in kind, hoping her touch had a similar effect upon him. He turned to her, eyes dark and primal. And there was something else in those lovely green eyes flecked with copper, something more vulnerable. At the time, she read the look as adoring, perhaps even loving. It hadn’t taken much, in those days, for her naive little heart to take flight and frolic among the dazzling rockets bursting above Castle Hill.

  Rafe tempted her away from the crowd and pulled her into the niche of a building. He lifted her face in his hands and studied every feature, as if to memorize small details. A stray mole? Or perhaps the tip of her nose, reddened from the crisp cold air?