Touch Me

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  She rose and returned less than a minute later bearing an oil lamp that cast the foyer in a golden glow. After looking at Baxter’s wound, Simon said, “It’s stopped bleeding. But that’s a hell of a lump you’ve got there.”

  Baxter grunted. “Hell of a headache I’ve got.”

  “Did you see who hit you?”

  Baxter tried to shake his head, winced, then said, “No. I were tossin’ and turnin’ and heard a crashing sound, like glass breakin’. Thought it might be Sophia getting into some mischief, so I came to check.” His gaze shifted to Genevieve. “Didn’t want to think of you cuttin’ yer feet in the mornin’. Next thing I know, I’m starin’ up at you with me head feelin’ two yards thick.” His eyes widened. “Bastard wot hit me didn’t hurt you, Gen, did he?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”

  Baxter’s gaze turned to Simon and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Just wot the bloody hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I was escorting Genevieve home. When we arrived, the door was open and we found you lying here.”

  “Escortin’ her home?” Baxter once again struggled to sit up, this time accomplishing the task with Simon and Genevieve’s assistance. After taking several slow breaths, he turned to Simon with a baleful expression. “She already was home. So maybe yer the one who nearly broke me skull.”

  Before Simon could reply, Genevieve said quietly, “I’d left the house. To go to the springs. Simon was walking Beauty and they happened upon me.”

  Baxter blinked. “Wot in God’s name were ye thinkin’ to be going off to the springs at night by yerself?”

  “I took my pistol and was prepared to shoot any lurkers.”

  “Ye didn’t shoot him,” Baxter grumbled, glowering at Simon.

  “I wasn’t lurking,” Simon said lightly. “But someone was.” He recalled the sensation of being watched he’d experienced at the festival. Turning to Genevieve, he asked, “Have there been any robberies in the area lately?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “You need to go through the house, see if anything was stolen. Do you have any valuables?”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “A few pieces of jewelry, but nothing worth a great deal.”

  “Let’s get Baxter cleaned and bandaged, then we’ll check to see if anything is missing.”

  While Genevieve went to gather the bandages, Simon assisted Baxter to his feet, nearly staggering under the man’s considerable weight as he helped him to the sitting room.

  “Don’t think I don’t know wot yer up to,” Baxter muttered as they made their way slowly down the corridor.

  “Up to?”

  “I seen the way ye look at her.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Like she’s a pork chop and yer a starvin’ mongrel.” Baxter halted and jerked his arm from Simon’s grasp. He swayed on his feet and slapped a beefy hand against the wall to steady himself. Shooting Simon a dark scowl surely meant to reduce him to dust, he said, “I won’t let ye hurt her.”

  “I’ve no intention of hurting her.” Indeed, Simon hoped his investigations would prove that Genevieve’s reasons for removing the letter from the alabaster box were harmless and that she was innocent of any wrongdoings.

  “Don’t matter wot yer intentions are, ye could do it just the same, and she don’t deserve it. She’s been hurt enough.” Baxter leaned forward. “If you hurt her, I’m going to hurt you. Consider yerself warned.”

  Simon didn’t doubt for a moment that Baxter could crush his skull like a walnut with his bare hands. Luckily, thanks to his training and experience as a spy, he excelled at extricating himself from dangerous situations. He’d been threatened by bigger men than Baxter.

  “Fine. I’m warned. Now let’s see to getting that head wound cleaned so you’re better able to protect her—from whoever broke into the house.”

  Baxter made a sound that resembled a growl and resumed walking slowly. “The bastard will be damn sorry when I get my hands on him. Wot I want to know is wot the hell was she thinkin’, wanderin’ around the woods at night? And why the bloody hell were you walkin’ yer dog on her property? Spyin’ on her, were ye?”

  “No, I was chasing my ill-mannered puppy whose razor-sharp teeth bit through her lead. I’m lucky I didn’t have to chase the beast to Scotland. Be glad, at least for tonight, that Genevieve wasn’t here. She might have ended up unconscious like you. Or worse.” A shudder ran through him at the thought.

  They entered the sitting room and Baxter plopped down heavily on the settee in front of the fireplace. Genevieve entered seconds later carrying a bowl of water and several lengths of clean linen. Moving directly toward Baxter, she said to Simon, “I’ll take care of him. There’s a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of the desk. Could you please pour some for Baxter? And help yourself if you’d like.”

  Simon crossed to the desk. There were two bottom drawers, one on each side of the chair. Thanks to his earlier searches of the house he knew which one contained the bottle of whiskey. While he poured a generous portion for Baxter and a fingerful for himself, he watched Genevieve gently cleanse away the blood with a steady hand. A steady gloved hand. Clearly not even Baxter saw her without her gloves, and once again, he wondered what sort of injury she was hiding. He recalled the feel of her fingers sifting through his hair at the spring, her hands caressing him, and heat suffused him. Whatever it was, it didn’t lessen the fact that her touch set him on fire.

  Carrying the two drinks, he walked to the settee and handed Baxter his glass. The giant grunted his thanks then proceeded to gulp down the potent liquor in two quick swallows. “Am I goin’ to need stitchin’ up, Gen?”

  Genevieve lifted the oil lamp to examine the wound then shook her head. “Not this time.” She offered him a soft smile. “That’s nice for a change.”

  Curiosity pinched Simon, urging him to ask how Genevieve and Baxter had come to be together, the refined woman and the ruffian, but he shoved aside the urge—for now. Better to wait until he and Genevieve were alone. Instead he asked, “Baxter gets struck on the head regularly?”

  “No,” Genevieve said, wiping away the blood that had dripped down Baxter’s face with a calm expertise that indicated it wasn’t the first time she’d performed such ministrations. “At least not recently. But he had his share of altercations in his youth that resulted in some injuries.”

  Baxter guffawed. “Other blokes always ended up lookin’ worse than me, though, didn’t they, Gen?”

  Her lips twitched. “Always.”

  Baxter’s rough features collapsed into a frown. “’Cept this time. That’s going to be one sorry bugger when I get ahold of him. Good thing I weren’t sleeping. It were better I heard the bastard and scared him off—even if me head had to pay the price.”

  He winced when Genevieve applied some ointment to his wound and she immediately asked, clearly to distract him from the discomfort, “Why couldn’t you sleep? Are you unwell?”

  To Simon’s amazement the giant appeared to blush. “Um, ah, me mind was, er, occupied.”

  A knowing glint entered Genevieve’s eyes. “I think I can guess with what, or rather, with whom. Miss Winslow is a lovely young woman.”

  Baxter’s blush extended to the top of his bald head. “Far too good for the likes of me.”

  “I disagree, and you’d best be careful what you say about my dear friend, Baxter,” Genevieve said, winding a long strip of linen around his head, “or else I’ll be forced to give you another whack to knock some sense into you.” She tucked in the end of the strip then leaned back to examine her handiwork. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a bloody idiot for bein’ caught unawares.”

  She smiled. “I meant your head.”

  “Poundin’ like the hammers of hell, but I’ve had worse headaches after a night swillin’ Blue Ruin.”

  “Glad you’re all right,” Simon broke in, in spite of his interest in the byplay between the two, which made it cl
ear they were more friends than employer and servant. He couldn’t imagine any of his staff ever speaking to him in the casual manner that Baxter addressed Genevieve. He tried to envision Ramsey or his valet or his man of affairs calling him Simon and utterly failed. “Now let’s see if anything was stolen.”

  While Baxter remained in the sitting room nursing another glass of whiskey, Simon followed Genevieve through the house, helping her straighten up things the intruder had disturbed. She found nothing missing, not even her few pieces of jewelry which she kept in a locked box in her small sitting room—a box which had been forced open.

  When they entered Genevieve’s bedchamber, Sophia lifted her head from the spot where she lay curled up on the counterpane. After offering a half-hearted yawn, she settled back down.

  Standing in the doorway, Simon’s gaze drifted to the statue in the corner and a vivid image flashed through his mind of hiding behind the marble woman and watching Genevieve—a real woman who, in spite of all the reasons why she shouldn’t, had captured his imagination and ignited his fantasies.

  He pulled his attention back to Genevieve, who was hurrying across the room to her dresser. Simon followed, watching as she yanked open the drawer where the puzzle box had been. She pawed through her lingerie which the intruder—and Simon—had already disturbed, then drew in a shuddering breath. She whispered something that sounded like bastard, but he couldn’t be certain.

  “Something missing?” he asked.

  She hesitated then said, “I…I’m just distressed that someone has been touching my things.” She looked through the remainder of the drawers, then slowly turned to face him. Her skin was pale and although she was clearly unsettled, she was also obviously angry.

  “Well?” he asked, looking into her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t lie to him, but knowing she would.

  Her gaze never wavered. “Nothing is missing.”

  Disappointment rippled through him. She had no reason to trust him—indeed, she was wise not to, even though she didn’t know that. Still, he’d hoped she would confide in him. Pushing the unreasonable feeling away, he said, “If this was merely a robbery, the intruder would have taken your jewelry. He was looking for something specific. Do you have any idea what?”

  Again she hesitated, and for a single heartbeat, he thought she might perhaps tell him. Then she shook her head. “No.” Then something that looked like satisfaction flickered in her eyes. “But whatever it was, he didn’t find it.”

  “How do you know?”

  She blinked, clearly nonplussed. Then she shrugged. “Because there was nothing to find.”

  Hope flared in him. He didn’t doubt that she was telling the truth with that statement. The letter was still here. The intruder hadn’t found it because she’d removed it from the box. Which meant not only that Simon still had the chance to retrieve the letter, but also that the bastard who’d broken in tonight would most likely be back.

  All the protective instincts that she’d aroused in him from his first look at her roared to life. She needed protection. And he would make certain she received it. At least until he had his letter.

  You want a hell of a lot more from her than that letter and you damn well know it, his conscience whispered. Bloody annoying voice. He needed to teach it how to lie. Shouldn’t be difficult considering what an accomplished liar Simon was—a skill his years as a spy had honed to a razor-sharp edge. Yet, for reasons he refused to examine lying wasn’t sitting well with him at the moment. Which was ridiculous, especially since she’d lied to him.

  Consigning his irritating thoughts to the devil, he said, “We can report the break-in to the magistrate tomorrow. In the meantime, you can’t stay here.”

  She raised her brows. “Surely you don’t think whoever did this will be back?” Even as she said the words, he could see the realization dawning on her that it was, indeed, a very real possibility.

  “I don’t think it can be ruled out. Which means that you—and Baxter and Sophia as well—are coming home with me.”

  For several seconds she said nothing, just looked at him with an annoyingly inscrutable expression. Damn it, why couldn’t she be like the other women he knew—predictable and easy to read? She moistened her lips, a gesture that drew his gaze to her gorgeous mouth—a mouth he ached to taste again.

  “That is very kind, but—”

  He jerked his gaze back up to hers. “No buts. There is ample room for all of you in my cottage, and you’ll be safe there.” He would see to it. Because the thought of anything happening to her, of her being hurt the way Baxter had been, twisted his insides into knots. “Baxter isn’t fully recovered, and even if he were, based on the amount of whiskey he’s tossed back, he’s in no condition to properly protect you. He requires rest. And you…” Reaching out, he lightly grasped her shoulders. “You require someone to watch over you.”

  She stilled beneath his hands. For an instant he believed she was going to pull away and he had to fight the urge to tighten his hold. But instead she raised her chin. “While I’m perfectly capable of, and accustomed to, taking care of myself, I cannot deny I am unnerved by what’s happened. Therefore I accept your offer, with my thanks.” She lifted a single brow. “I must say, for a steward, you’ve proven unusually capable in dealing with this matter.” Her gaze flicked to his boot. “And you’re surprisingly at ease handling that knife.”

  He shrugged. “When you work for a wealthy man, you become adept at dispatching hooligans and footpads and the like.”

  “I see. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll change my clothes so we can depart. Would you mind sitting with Baxter while I do? I hate to think of him all alone.”

  Simon nodded then released her. And was alarmed at how difficult it was to do so. He turned to go, but instead of leaving, he nodded toward the statue. “That’s a beautiful piece.” That I stood behind and fantasized about you.

  “Thank you. It was a gift.”

  “From your husband?”

  “No. From myself. I saw her in a London shop years ago and had to have her. The beauty and simplicity in her lines, in her pose, captivated me. I couldn’t resist her.”

  Simon pulled his gaze from the statue to look at her. I couldn’t resist her. “Yes. I understand completely. Baxter and I will await you in the sitting room.” With that, he turned and quickly quit the room, before he gave in to the temptation to yank her into his arms and put out the simmering fire that seemed to crackle beneath his skin.

  He strode down the corridor and dragged his hands down his face. Bloody hell! As if the searing attraction he felt toward her wasn’t bad enough, this fierce protectiveness was utter insanity. And it could very well prove dangerous. She’d lied to him, most recently about the puzzle box. She knew the box had been stolen and she knew where the letter she’d removed from it was. His every instinct should be warning him away from her; instead a small voice in his head insisted there was some reasonable explanation. And that she wasn’t in any way involved in Ridgemoor’s death.

  Damn it, and now she’d be staying in his temporary home. Close enough to touch. And, by God, he wanted to touch her, wanted her, with a raw ferocity he couldn’t recall ever before experiencing. Their interlude at the hot springs had only served to whet his appetite for her.

  He’d offered her a choice. Only now did he realize that by doing so, he may have gained strides in earning her trust, a trust that could lead to her confiding to him the whereabouts of the letter. However, at the time he made the offer, he hadn’t been thinking of his mission. Not at all. No, all he’d thought of was her. What was best for her. How best not to hurt her or involve her in any scandal.

  It was the first time he’d ever forgotten his mission. Ever allowed a woman to distract him from his purpose. And the first time since he was a green lad he had so completely lost control of himself and his passions.

  Which meant that regardless of whether Genevieve Ralston was guilty of any wrongdoing, she was very dangerous indeed.

 
11

  GENEVIEVE paced her bedchamber in Simon’s cottage. A low-burning fire in the hearth warmed the small but comfortable room, and the bed, with its forest-green counterpane and trio of pillows looked cozy and inviting. Baxter was settled in another bedchamber, asleep seconds after his head touched the pillow. Sophia, initially unhappy at the change of environment and completely disdainful of Beauty, now lay curled up in a drowsy ball on the hearthrug, allowing the fire’s warmth to worship her. There wasn’t a single reason for Genevieve not to slip beneath the covers and go to sleep.

  No reason except the whirlwind of thoughts spinning through her mind in regard to tonight’s break-in and its ramifications. And in regard to Simon Cooper.

  She’d paced the length of the room for the past two hours, trying to make sense of tonight’s events. Yet all her pacing had only resulted in a plethora of unanswered questions. She’d initially considered the break-in to be a further threat against Charles Brightmore, but she’d discarded that idea the instant she’d discovered the alabaster box missing. Richard’s note had stated he would come for the box. Had he visited the cottage tonight—or had he sent someone in his place? But surely Richard wouldn’t have hurt Baxter. Perhaps he hadn’t realized it was him—although who else would her former lover have thought would be in her house? Then again, she hadn’t believed Richard capable of hurting her the way he had, and she’d been proven profoundly wrong about that.

  If the intruder was someone acting on Richard’s behalf, that meant Richard hadn’t wanted to see her. Had he suspected she’d intended to confront him, force him to utter the words he’d been too cowardly to say to her face? Or had Richard himself come to her bedchamber under the cover of darkness to regain the puzzle box and the letter hidden inside? Her instincts told her no. Richard had proven himself too weak to do something as violent as strike someone—especially a man who outweighed him by at least five stone. And he’d made it perfectly clear he no longer desired her. Therefore why risk encountering her in her bedchamber? Unless he’d been spying on her and knew she’d left the house.