Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  “Comfortable? I would gladly have taken the chair. I’m certain they stuffed the mattress with rocks,” she muttered. “I have been trying to sleep for hours while that innkeeper is no doubt having a hearty laugh at my expense.”

  “I hate to say I told you so, but you might have had better luck if you slept in nothing more than a chemise.” Drake shifted in his chair to ease his knotted shoulders. Then he gave up on returning to his dream and twisted to face the shadowed figure on the bed. “I suppose since you couldn’t sleep you decided to give escape another go?”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “Yes.”

  Had he not thought to use those silly bells, she would have succeeded. Gad, she was exhausting.

  He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Since you are still here, have you decided what to tell me?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  The hesitation in her voice gave him pause. “You must tell me the truth,” he warned soberly. “Lies will only hurt you.”

  She nodded once as he buttoned his shirt and bent to remove a wrinkled cravat from a travel bag, holding it between his fingers with disdain.

  “You should have brought a valet,” she said with a distinct air of amusement.

  “Do you know of any who would not sell you to the highest bidder?” he asked, turning to her with a lifted brow.

  “You can’t trust your own valet?”

  Drake breathed deeply and began tying the cravat around his neck. “I find it difficult to trust anyone.”

  “Yet you expect me to trust you with my life?”

  “I can trust me,” he muttered. He was the only person he trusted completely, though since being in the company of Mrs. Tindall, there had been times he had questioned even himself. “You have no reason not to trust me.”

  “I have no reason to trust you, either.”

  If she knew who he was, she most definitely wouldn’t trust him.

  “I am the only ally you have, if you have not noticed.” He tangled his finger in the knot at his neck, growling in frustration. “I have a certain reputation for being fair and logical in difficult situations,” he said, pulling the cravat from his neck and tossing it onto the arm of the chair.

  “I don’t need someone fair and logical,” she returned, scratching her head and sending pins everywhere in an exasperated and provoking fashion. “I need someone to believe me.”

  “Believe what, exactly?” he asked as he rolled down his sleeves and clasped on his cufflinks.

  “My ship was attacked shortly after leaving the harbor in New York, and I was kidnapped by pirates. My entire family was slaughtered before my eyes, and the pirate captain demanded I submit to his every whim. The beast was ghastly. Body hair… everywhere.”

  Drake’s attention snapped to her. “What the devil?”

  “What do you think I need someone to believe, you blockhead?” she asked, pulling up her legs onto the bed and hugging her knees. “I didn’t kill my husband.”

  Drake pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the sharp pain beginning to grow behind his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered. “Do you happen to know who did?”

  “No.”

  It was worth a try.

  He pulled the chair around to face her and sat down. “Were there any notable altercations before the night of his death?”

  “I remember only one that truly upset him,” she answered. “He was furious.”

  Drake fished out a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and began taking notes. “Who was he furious with?”

  “Me.”

  He paused his scribbling midsentence. “The argument was between you and your husband?”

  She nodded, and he stared back at her, hiding his surprise behind a blank look.

  “So, you were the last person to argue with him. And, as far as anyone knows, the last person to see him alive.”

  She nodded again.

  This was going precisely how she had envisioned it. Regardless, she had promised herself to tell him everything. She had to tell someone, and that someone might as well be an intelligent man with some influence. Perhaps he would be able to see the truth, even though every bit of evidence pointed toward her being guilty.

  Perhaps, but she seriously doubted it.

  Green eyes peered back at her. She could make out their brightness now that the sun was rising. They betrayed nothing, but she knew they were assessing. She recognized when he would withdraw deeper into himself, when logic began to rule in absolute power over his senses. Her father was like this. It was how he managed to turn a small farm into the most profitable one in the state. She knew the mechanics. He would only be swayed by the facts, none of which supported her innocence.

  If he wasn’t such a threat to her life, she might admit she admired him.

  “How was your relationship with your husband, Mrs. Tindall?” he asked with not a flicker of emotion.

  “Strained,” she answered truthfully. “We barely knew each other when we wed, though I thought him friendly enough. He was pining for England, but he lacked the funds to go. I wanted to travel, but my funds were locked up in my dowry. Our marriage was a mutually beneficial arrangement, as long as we understood upfront what to expect of each other.”

  “I take it someone misunderstood the expectations?”

  How simplified that sounded. How logical. It hadn’t felt that way when it had happened.

  They had meant to separate once in England, splitting her dowry down the middle. That was the arrangement. But when he asked for a few more days, she had agreed. Then he had asked for a few more, and by the time she lost patience and demanded her share, it was too late. He had gambled through it all.

  She forced a smile. “I’m afraid that was my fault. I didn’t take into consideration him not living up to mine.”

  Saint Brides leaned back in his chair. “You don’t strike me as being naive.”

  “I shall never be again, but my naivety is not what got Frank killed.”

  She could see the wheels in his mind working. “You know why he was murdered?”

  “I believe I might have an idea. He was involved in illegal enterprises.”

  “Thievery? Gambling?”

  Her brows knit. “How did you know?”

  “There isn’t a plethora of other options for criminal activity in Barnsby. Why did he do it? Was he in debt?”

  “He made a little money robbing carriages late in the evening, but not nearly enough to support his gambling. He lost at the tables much more often than he won. One night, he lost more than he had. More than he could hope to repay,” she said, summoning the memory of the day Frank had told her they were flat broke.

  “Whom did he lose to?”

  “Mr. Gordon held most of his vowels.”

  He studied her for a moment. Then he shook his head and tucked the notepad back into his pocket. “You are accusing the only other witness. A credible witness, at that.”

  “I’m not accusing anyone,” she said. “I’m telling you what happened.”

  He abruptly leaned forward in the chair, a cold glint in the green depths of his eyes. “What you are telling me is a man sworn to uphold the law is involved in gambling and murder.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he looked away. “Though I suppose it would not be the first time.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I never said he killed anyone.”

  He raised a brow. “It was heavily implied. Did anyone else have cause for ill-will toward Mr. Tindall?”

  “All you need for that is the church register. My husband was not a well-liked man.”

  The names and faces of men who had exchanged blows with him since arriving in England were nothing more than a blur. Mostly because, when they would come for him, he would tell her to leave, and she would. Not once had she stayed to help him, to convince them to work things out peacefully. Not once had she tried to convince him to change. Instead, she had let her own bitterness and disappointment get the better of her, and now he was dead
.

  Her chest tightened with guilt.

  “Allow me to make this plain to you, Mrs. Tindall,” he said as he stood to pace the room. “If it comes down to you or Mr. Gordon, he will win. Besides the oath of his office and the dozens of character witnesses who are bound to attest to his sparkling reputation, his motive is flimsy, at best. A man who is owed a debt is not going to kill the debtor. You, however, have plenty of motive. Your husband was gambling away everything you had.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck as he watched her. She could imagine what sort of dialogue must be running through his brain. He had no doubt found her guilty, just as the courts would if she gave them the chance. It pricked at her. She didn’t want him to think her guilty. She wanted him to know the truth.

  “How much did your husband owe Mr. Gordon?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “That’s a rather large sum,” he said, still studying her. “How did your husband intend to pay up after you refused his, ah, request?”

  “He didn’t,” she said. “First he offered Mr. Gordon a night with me. He laughed as though he thought it was the funniest thing he had said in weeks. Then he threatened to expose Mr. Gordon’s dealings if the debt wasn’t forgiven.”

  “He was twice a fool, then,” he muttered. “You said dealings. What dealings?”

  “I don’t know. Frank never told me.”

  Saint Brides nodded as he turned to look out the window. “Who else knew about this?”

  “No one. My husband didn’t get the opportunity to carry out his threat.” She remembered the crazed look in Frank’s eyes when he had boldly stood up to Mr. Gordon. Either he had gone mad, or he simply didn’t care anymore. “I told him it was useless. No one would believe him over Mr. Gordon. Just as no one will believe me.”

  “Perhaps that’s the intention,” Saint Brides said. “If this is true, and you are innocent, the murderer needs a patsy no one will believe.”

  “If it’s true?” She glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There is no evidence either way. For all I know, you killed your husband and are now trying to set up poor Mr. Gordon as the murderer.”

  If she had the energy, she would have sprung off the bed, spitting fire. “Poor Mr. Gordon!”

  “I can’t say I have ever seen Mr. Gordon strike anyone. In fact, he’s been no less than cordial. You and I haven’t been together a week, and already you have struck a blacksmith and threatened to shoot me.”

  “If I had meant to shoot you, you would be dead.”

  “Statements like those are not helping you, Mrs. Tindall.”

  “It is you who are not helping me,” she snapped, grabbing fistfuls of counterpane as tears burned at the back of her eyes. He had the power and influence to help her, she knew it, but he wasn’t helping her! “You are taking me to prison to be hanged, but you have no right! You are nothing but a stuffy, self-important lord who thinks playing at law will add purpose to your leisurely life.”

  His brows lifted. “I assure you I am not playing.”

  “Of course you are!” she shot back, a hot tear escaping down her cheek. “You asked me to tell you everything on the pretense of helping me, but with the next breath you accuse me. You tell me we are going to London, then Manchester, then London. Perhaps it’s wherever you feel like going at the time. Did you laugh at me that night at Barrington Park? Was that part of your game, too? Perhaps while you’re occupying your time solving problems, you thought seducing me before I hang would be diverting?”

  He scowled. “I do not seduce.”

  “What do you call it?”

  His face darkened as he rose from his chair.

  “Stay where you are!” she warned, scooting backward on the bed as he moved toward her. “Don’t come any closer, or I shall—”

  “You will what, exactly?” he asked, standing directly in front of her. He bent down, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of her, lowering his face mere inches from hers. “Will you shoot me, Sarah?”

  She stared back in shock. She could almost taste her name on his lips and feel the roughness of his voice as the syllables rolled off his tongue like a caress. The taste of danger, of touchable power, was almost too tempting to ignore. With it swirled a completely alien feeling in her gut. It burned in her belly and tingled over her skin.

  He leaned in, forcing her farther back on the bed. The hint of cologne he had worn the day before mixed with the heady scent that was uniquely him, surrounded her. Eyes that were far too green bore into hers, intelligent eyes with a challenge looming behind them. His square, stubble-covered jaw matched the tousled tuffs of chestnut falling over his forehead and the dark slashes above his eyes.

  She remembered how easily he had carried her more than two miles and what he had done to the blacksmith, but his mind was just as threatening as his body. Now both of them were focused solely on her. It thrilled and frightened her, and in that moment, she realized how truly dangerous the man could be.

  “Well?” he murmured, his breath caressing her lips.

  “I haven’t a gun at the moment.” Her voice trembled.

  His mouth twitched. “Of course not. What sort of stuffy, self-important lord would I be if I went around handing out pistols to every violent American I met?”

  Sarah scowled. “You are laughing at me again.”

  When his glittering eyes roamed her face, it was as though the shutter had finally opened, exposing the roaring fire beneath. A fire unlike anything she had ever seen. It left a trail of heat across her skin, and deeper. She felt it twist and burn inside her, as though her soul was responding to his.

  “I have never laughed at you,” he murmured, the low timbre like warm sherry. “I have never played any games with you, either. That night at Barrington Park was merely a lapse in judgment and character.”

  He moved closer, following her down when she fell back on her elbows. His weight was pressing her into the mattress, engulfing her with his heat.

  “And what would you call this?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Another lapse in judgment and character, it would seem,” he murmured, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then down the sensitive column of her neck. “You render me unrecognizable, even to myself.”

  She swallowed hard. His hips were wedged between her thighs and her chest was brushing his with every breath. She was trembling, and her lips suddenly felt dry as autumn leaves. She licked them, and his eyes followed the action. In the next second, his mouth was upon hers.

  She gasped, grasping his lapels and falling back onto the mattress. His lips slid against hers, sending sparks of heat from her mouth to every cell in her body, and his hands were on her, caressing and massaging.

  She could feel him through the thin lawn of his shirt, every ridge and dip of muscle like a masterfully sculpted statue. He seemed to envelope her in unrelenting masculinity, assaulting her senses with his scent and taste.

  In her mind, she knew this was the most idiotic thing she could do, but her body yearned for the fire. She felt safe in his arms, as though he were an unbreakable, immovable rock amidst a tempest.

  But he wasn’t her rock. He was the wind carrying her off into the storm. She must come to her senses, and she must do it soon before he whisked her right off a cliff.

  Drake had obviously lost his mind. This woman beneath him could be a murderess… one who smelled marvelously of sweet apples. She could be a manipulative criminal, waiting for a chance to kill him. He doubted it, but that doubt didn’t stop the thoughts from bouncing about his brain as his hands roamed over the curve of her thigh.

  He wrapped her leg around his hip, shocked and pleased beyond comprehension that he had somehow managed to pull up her skirts and slide her stocking down to her ankle.

  Her bare leg was warm and soft in his hand, perfectly rounded and firm. Hers were the kind of legs a man would want wrapped around him every night.
And day. Forever.

  The chances this woman would be the death of him just shot to ninety percent, conservatively.

  Her fingers hesitantly brushed over his ear to tangle in his hair as she returned his kiss. His breathing stopped, and he was trembling. He was obviously dying right here in this inn. Then again, if he were to die like this…

  His hand flexed on her thigh.

  Hell, what was he thinking?

  She had been on the verge of a breakdown, he reminded himself.

  If she had dissolved into a fit of tears, he wouldn’t have known what to do, and so he had chosen distraction as his strategy. Now he was savoring the taste of her lips.

  God, they were full, and sweet, and soft.

  He gently sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, running his tongue along its length.

  His strategy had backfired abominably. Perhaps he knew it would. Perhaps he knew distraction would quickly turn into attraction, the kind that wrenched one’s insides and fused them with those of another.

  Even as he sucked her lip and caught it between his teeth, he wanted more. He wanted everything, regardless of the logic warning him against it, as though his mind was a slave to his body, and not the other way around.

  His tongue wound with hers, sending molten need spiraling down to his groin. He closed his hand over a generous breast, and she moaned into his mouth. A low groan rippled through his throat in an involuntary response.

  Will you shoot me, Sarah? he had asked. Ah, if only she had! Then he wouldn’t be drowning in her kiss.

  This must be the sort of desire poets write about. The kind that was physically painful to ignore. The kind that welled up from some unspeakable place inside where logic fled and raw emotion took hold. The kind that could drive an otherwise logical man to love, to give his heart and soul to another, willfully ignoring the day soon approaching when that person would be ripped from him.

  He felt that thought like a knife plunging into his heart. Drake was not a poet, and he was not nearly so foolish as to give himself to another, or wish for them in return.

  Wish for her.

  Every muscle strained as he broke the kiss and pulled away from her warmth. He drew himself up from the bed and stood, chilled and angry. She glared up at him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and all he wanted to do was kiss her again until the only taste she would ever remember was the taste of him.