She sagged as though all remaining life had been drained from her. “You really can tell us apart. No one else has ever been able to do that. Not even Father. How can you be sure I’m not Emma?”
Releasing his hold on her, he stepped away. “Your eyes.”
“They’re the same shade of blue.”
“The same shade, perhaps, but the souls they reveal are very different.”
She released a harsh scoff. “Mine is harder, I suppose. He deserved it, you know. You’ll see. Once you’ve finished reading the journal. Emma said you want to read all of it. There’s little point. It was last summer that destroyed her.”
“I’ll handle this matter as I think best.” Dipping his fingers in the water again, he nodded toward her bandaged hands. “What happened?”
She rubbed them together. “I can’t get his blood off. I keep trying, but there’s always a little bit that I seem to miss.”
“Soak them in vinegar. It dissolves the blood.”
“Truly?”
No, but the remedy had worked after his father’s hanging, when Feagan took him in. Swindler had scrubbed his hands raw trying to get off the blood that only he could see-he and Feagan. It had been years before he realized that Feagan had tricked him into believing what he needed to hear so he’d stop scraping the imaginary blood off his hands. But the nightmares were something Swindler had been forced to come to terms with on his own. They still visited on occasion, usually on the anniversary of his father’s death.
“I’ve seen it work,” was all he said now.
“I shall try it in the morning and leave you to your bath now.” She turned to go, then looked back. “She wanted to stay in London, to be with you. I convinced her we were only safe if we stayed together. It should be enough that only one of us hangs. See to it that she doesn’t. I shan’t be able to live with myself otherwise.”
He watched her walk away. He still didn’t trust her, but he was fairly certain she loved her sister-both of them. It didn’t excuse what she’d done, but it made it a bit more understandable.
With a shake of his head, and no resolution to his dilemma, he turned his attention back to his bath. His water was too tepid now, so he set about heating another pot. Once he had the water again to his liking, he removed the remainder of his clothes and climbed into the tub. The hot water swirled around him as he sat in the cramped confines. He missed the large copper tub he’d had specially made to accommodate the length of his body. But at least the hot water in which he soaked eased away some of his tension.
He wasn’t certain what he’d expected to find when he began his journey here. The woman he’d known in London, to be sure. But he hadn’t known if he wanted her to be the same or different from the lady he’d taken to his bed. If she were different, he could rely on his anger to get him through bringing her to justice. If she were the same, each step of the journey would be hell.
He dropped his head back. It was hell.
He wanted to saddle up the horse he’d hired and leave her here. Return to London. Explain to Sir David that he, the best at solving crimes, was flummoxed and that the murder of Lord Rockberry would remain unsolved. Swindler’s perfect record would no longer be perfect.
But leaving her here meant never having her in his life again, because it would be so much harder to lie about the crime with her at his side. It was even possible that the guilt would slowly nibble away at her, destroy what he had come to love. He could see it already having its way with her in such a short time. She was thinner than she’d been in London, her step heavier, as though she carried a great weight on her shoulders now. Her eyes were hollow, ringed in dark circles, dull. She was the woman he’d known in London and yet she wasn’t.
He knew guilt’s power. It had been his companion all these years. If only he hadn’t lifted the damned watch. If only he’d tossed it aside instead of slipping it into his father’s pocket. His father had always seemed larger than life, able to handle any situation. He found work when others couldn’t, kept a roof over their head and food in their bellies. But there had never been money for extra items, only the essentials. The gold watch had looked so pretty.
Swindler shoved the dark thoughts back to the shadowy corner where they belonged. Thinking about them only served to distract him from his purpose. Besides, the water had cooled. It was time to concentrate on other things. He scrubbed off quickly. Leaving the tub, he toweled off before drawing on his trousers. He saw no need to put on anything more. Eleanor had surely returned to bed by now.
After tidying up the room, he took a lamp and walked through the house, making certain that no lamps had been left burning. Then he went up the stairs to his bedchamber.
The bed was turned down. He set the lamp on the bedside table. Stripping off his clothes, he crawled into bed, put out the flame in the lamp, and settled back. Emma’s rose fragrance surrounded him. He tried not to think of her nestled in this bed.
He focused on the window, the draperies drawn back. Lightning flashed and he thought of the fireworks they’d watched, the kiss-
Every damned thing reminded him of Emma, of how much he’d enjoyed having her in his life. Every damned thing reminded him that she was no longer a part of the joy in his life-she was now a suspect. More than that, she was the one he had to arrest.
Eleanor may have done the deed, but Emma had played a part in Rockberry’s demise. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t overlook it. And in not overlooking it, he couldn’t ignore that she hadn’t trusted him, had used him, had betrayed him.
It was so easy to forget all the wrongs when he was looking at her, studying her-when she was near enough to touch. It was also impossible to know how much of her true self she’d revealed to him in London. She’d duped him once. He didn’t intend to fall into her trap again.
James awoke to dreary skies. The rain had stopped. The sun was striving to shine through the gray clouds that remained. The house was incredibly silent. Emma had been right. It was never this quiet in London.
Abruptly he sat up. It could also be so quiet because they’d left. Getting out of bed, he quickly dressed and hurried downstairs. He heard activity in the kitchen. When he got there, he saw only Eleanor kneading the bread dough. “Where is she?”
Eleanor peered over at him. “Good morning to you, too, sir.”
“Where in the bloody hell is Emma?”
Wiping her hands on her apron, Eleanor edged past him. “Come with me.”
She led him to a back door, opened it, and stepped outside. “Follow that well-worn path. It leads-”
“To the cove.”
“Yes.”
He strode along the edge of the dirt trail where the grass made the journey less muddy. Puddles abounded. At one point he considered removing his boots, then decided that giving them a good polish would at least occupy his hands later in the day.
The path eventually led downward and into an area where the waters created a still pool. A small fire was burning nearby. But what caught his attention were the slender bare arms slicing through the water.
Emma was beauty and grace. She rolled onto her back, kicking her feet. He didn’t know how she managed to stay afloat. She wore little more than a chemise that clung to her body. He could see the outline of her taut nipples and the shadow between her thighs. He was well acquainted with the heaven her body offered. Although he knew he should look away, he couldn’t. He remembered the taste, the texture, the sight of what was now barely hidden.
But what most astounded him was her face in repose. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen her with absolutely no worries.
With a splash, she suddenly went upright and began paddling toward the shore. When near enough, she stood up. Holding his gaze demurely, she waded toward him until she eventually left the water. Snatching up a blanket that he’d not even noticed, she wrapped it around herself and sat beside the fire.
Only then did he realize that her lips had gone blue and that she was shivering uncontrollably.
“Good Lord, what have you done?” he demanded as he came around behind her and drew her up against his chest, rubbing her arms. “Are you trying to catch your death?”
“I’ve swum in the pool for years. Makes me hearty.”
He continued to hold her until her teeth stopped chattering, then he simply folded her into his embrace. She leaned back into him.
“I didn’t want to betray you,” she whispered hoarsely.
Against his will, his arms tightened around her.
“A thousand times I wished that Father had sent me first and that I’d met you last summer when I was still filled with innocence and knew only happiness. There were times when I was with you that I could forget why Eleanor and I had come to London. Afterward I’d feel guilty for not focusing on retribution for Elisabeth. Ever since that afternoon when you approached me at Hyde Park, everything became so much more complicated. I didn’t want to come to care for you, but you made that wish an impossibility.”
He was acutely aware of her trembling, but knew it had little to do with the cold. She was weeping. He heard it in the rough edge of her voice.
“After that last night…in London…as you returned me to the lodgings, I’d prayed that Eleanor had not possessed the strength to go through with it. I was going to tell her to trust you. That I did. That I thought you would see justice done if you only knew the truth. But it was too late.”
“Why didn’t you come to me afterward?” he forced out through clenched teeth. It was torturous knowing how she suffered, hearing her speak of their time together-but she’d walked away from it. He couldn’t overlook that. “Why not tell me the truth then? Why not trust me to protect you?”
She twisted around in his arms and touched his cheek. “You have so much pride. How could you not hate me for what I’d done? How could you not think that every word uttered, every touch, every kiss, were simply tools to seduce you into doing my bidding?”
“How could you have just walked away from what had developed between us?”
“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of watching it shatter. I didn’t want to see the disgust in your eyes when you realized what we’d done. And I was worried about Eleanor. She put on such a brave front, but I could see that she was devastated by what she’d accomplished.”
He wanted to believe her, he wanted to forgive her. He wanted what they’d somehow managed to capture that last night, but he knew it was in the past.
“You’re going to take us back to London, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I have no choice.”
She gave him a resolute nod. “I don’t think the storm is completely over. We’ll probably have a bit more rain.”
“We’ll go when I’m finished with the journal.”
Drawing the blanket more securely around her, she worked her way out of his embrace. “I should go to the house now, change into some dry clothing.”
“I’ll stay and put out the fire.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “There’s so much I want to tell you, but I’m not certain you’d trust the words. You might think I’m trying to sway you from your duty, but I’m not.”
“Then don’t say them.”
He saw the hurt in her eyes, but at that moment he was struggling with his own demons, not certain that he could trust himself to do the right thing.
She rose gracefully and strolled out of the cove. He sat by the fire and stared out to sea. She was wrong. It was never completely quiet here. He could hear the thrashing against the cliffs, the water tumbling into the cove, splashing against the shore. But it was rhythmic and peaceful. Gave a man leave to think.
Yet all he could think was that no good options remained to him.
Chapter 17
Emma had been correct concerning the weather. The wind picked up in the late afternoon and the rain began to fall. They were enclosed in the house. Following dinner, the three of them retired to the front parlor, the ladies with their needlework and Swindler with the journal.
Although he was reading Elisabeth’s words, he could clearly see Emma in each of them. Gathering seashells, feeding the seagulls. And he saw things that weren’t written. He imagined her running barefoot to greet their father when he returned from town. He could see her chasing chickens and laughing on a swing.
“How did you come to work for Scotland Yard, Mr. Swindler?” Eleanor asked, never lifting her gaze from her needlework.
“I would report those who committed crimes in the rookeries, give the policemen descriptions so they could arrest the offenders.”
Her fingers stilled as she lifted her gaze to his. “I see. So you’ve made it your life’s work to see the proper people punished.”
“I believe in justice, Miss Watkins.”
Nodding, she returned to her embroidery.
“Exactly how did you do it?” he asked.
Her head came up so quickly that he heard her neck pop. “Do what?”
“Kill Rockberry.”
Emma’s eyes widened with alarm. “Don’t force her to go through it again.”
“If you don’t want to hear, leave, but I have questions and I want answers.”
Emma reached across and wrapped her hand around Eleanor’s. “I’ll not leave my sister to suffer alone.”
Swindler’s gut clenched with the knowledge that she’d gladly go to the gallows with her sister-and in doing so, she’d leave him alone. She was as courageous and reckless as he’d always believed. He turned his attention back to Eleanor. “You enjoyed a glass of wine with him.”
“Yes. I caught him as he was going into the residence. He invited me in. Said I reminded him of Elisabeth, only more beautiful. No gentleman had ever told me I was beautiful before. To my everlasting shame, I began to succumb to his charms.”
“But you didn’t finish your wine.”
“No. He jerked me out of the chair and tried to kiss me, all the while saying horrible untruths about Elisabeth. I had the dagger and I used it.”
“Only one stab.”
“Yes.”
He took comfort in the fact that she wasn’t gloating. He had a feeling she was caught between remorse that she’d taken a life and satisfaction that the man who’d trifled with her sister was no longer breathing.
“Did he die immediately?”
“Must you put her through this?” Emma demanded.
“It’s all right, Emma,” Eleanor said. “No. He writhed around for a bit, then went still. And I left.”
“You should have taken the dagger with you.”
“I thought of it later, but I just wanted to leave. And I certainly didn’t want to touch him.”
Something about that crime nagged at him, something that hadn’t seemed right at the time. He was certain it would come to him.
“If you had it to do over-” he began.
“I’d do it again,” she said succinctly. “Finish reading the journal, Mr. Swindler. Quite possibly you’ll wish you’d had the opportunity to use a dagger on him.”
He returned to his reading. Rather than returning to their needlework, the ladies went to prepare themselves for bed. Based on the sounds he heard coming down the hallway, he could only assume those preparations included bathing.
How could he concentrate on the words when his mind was suddenly filled with images of Emma soaking in the tub, drops of water rolling over her skin? Lord help him, he wanted to join her, wash her, dry her, hold her.
He fought to clear his mind of everything except the journal. Each page painted a portrait of a young girl growing into womanhood with dreams of love, family, happiness. There was an innocence in her descriptions, a joy for life, and excitement awaiting each day. Elisabeth Watkins had been purity. Sweetness.
She’d been very much like Emma.
Long after the ladies went to bed and the house had grown quiet except for the storm raging outside, Swindler indulged in another bath for himself. It wasn’t unusual for him to bathe several times a week. He had a child
hood in the rookeries to constantly wash off.
He thought of Eleanor’s hands. Some things, no matter how often or how hard you scrubbed, were always there, just below the surface waiting to come forth.
Following the ritual he’d begun the night before, he grabbed a lamp and checked the house before climbing the stairs to the bedchamber.
He knew Emma was there the moment he opened the door, before he’d stepped fully inside and the lamp illuminated the room. He’d detected the presence of roses as though the petals were unfurling, not a lingering scent, but full and strong. His stomach tightened with the heady fragrance filling his nostrils.
Turning in its direction, he found her standing by the window, dressed in a night rail, her pale hair loose, inviting his fingers to comb through it. He imagined if there were no storm, she’d be limned by moonlight, but the wind and rain continued to thrash about.
“How long do these storms usually last?” he asked quietly.
“We can never predict the storms. Shut the door.”
If he were a gentleman, he’d have shut it with himself on the other side. Instead, he pulled it closed, the snick of it blocking out the rest of the world reverberating through the room like a bullet fired from a pistol. With two steps he placed the lamp on the table beside the bed. With four more he’d joined her at the window and was cradling her cheek. “Emma.”
“How do you know I’m not Eleanor?” she whispered.
“Because it’s not Eleanor who holds my heart.”
He heard her small gasp, saw her eyes widen as they filled with tears.
“Damn you, Emma, for not trusting me in London.”
Anger and frustration drove him to pull her into his arms and slash his mouth across hers. Something stronger than affection, something he didn’t want to truly acknowledge or give name to, forced him to gentle his plunder of her mouth. She’d taken possession of his heart slowly, with smiles and laughter and a touch of innocence such as he’d never experienced.
He’d known then that she was unlike any other woman of his acquaintance. She’d intrigued him. Even if he hadn’t been ordered to follow her, he’d have followed her-to the ends of the earth if need be. He could claim all he wanted that he’d searched tirelessly for her in order to bring her to justice, but the truth was that he’d been obsessed with finding her because he was obsessed with her.
Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel Page 16
