Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  She found herself frowning. “I can be nothing to the boy,” she said in protest.

  “Those are the most foolish words I have ever heard cross your lips,” he protested. The baronet watched her intently. His broad shoulders spoke of strength, and Lucinda would love to give over to the illusion of his protection, but his earlier actions had cut her to the bone.

  She swallowed hard to find a bit more resolve and set her feet in action. “Then I should tend to the child’s anxiousness. If you will excuse me, Sir Carter, I shall seek my bed. In the morning, I must make arrangements for Simon and me to return to London. I assume you will send my belongings on once when the child and I are settled.” The thought of the unknown future frightened her more than had the Baloch’s assault.

  The baronet did not step aside as she had anticipated. Instead, he blocked her exit. “Mrs. Warren,” he said so close to her ear that Lucinda felt the warmth of his breath against the shorter hair tickling her nape. “I am truly aggrieved for my earlier response. I acted unreasonably and placed my frustrations upon your shoulders. I beg your forgiveness.” He caught her hand and held it firmly in his grip.

  Lucinda heard the hitch of her breath, but she had yet to forget his offense. “It is my experience, Sir Carter, words spoken in anger are what a person wished he could say if Society did not forbid it. You thought me the world’s worst wanton. When you made your accusations, you believed every word you spoke.”

  “And what of you? Was your characterization of me as a tyrant said in frustration or in truth?”

  Lucinda enjoyed keeping the baronet off balance. “You may decide for yourself, Sir.”

  He caught the bowl she carried and set it on a small table. Her defiance enflamed him as no woman ever had, and Carter was not certain if his heated blood came from his ire or his desire. Either way, he was lost to her closeness. She was not the sort of woman to whom he was normally attracted. With the golden highlights framing her face and the changing color of her eyes, she reminded him of a pixie set upon mischief. The thought brought a wry smile to his lips, but he swallowed his thoughts when a flash of irritation crossed her countenance.

  He watched with interest as the lady pushed a stray curl behind her ear. Carter murmured, “Perhaps we should start again.” Despite knowing her mere touch would send his blood reeling, he gently brushed her hand away before catching the loose strand between his fingers. Slowly, he wrapped the hair about his finger. “There is no need for us to be ill friends.” He leaned closer, where his lips might graze her temple. His was a primal need. A slow, easy smile tugged at his lips’ corners when he heard the delay in her breathing. It was satisfying to know his presence disturbed her as much as hers did his.

  “I should go,” she said on a rasp, but rather than reaching for the door’s handle, the palm of her hand slid up the front of his jacket. He wondered whether she planned to push him away, but she fingered the thread of his badly worn costume.

  Carter turned his head to slide his lips along her cheek. “Must you?” he said huskily. “You have yet to forgive me.”

  Her eyes closed in anticipation. “Forgive?” she whispered, as if she held no knowledge of the word.

  Carter used his fingertips to raise her chin. “You are so beautiful.” Her eyes blinked several times in an unknowing response, and he used the moment to claim her mouth. Gently. Encouragingly. Testing. A soft sigh of expectation.

  When she leaned toward him, Carter slid his arms about the lady’s waist. The taste of her lips brought the blood to his erection. Although she was tentative, Carter recognized the signs of her desire.

  However, before the kiss could progress to something more pleasurable, Mrs. Warren jumped, in what could only be termed surprise.

  The movement had broken the connection, but not Carter’s desire for her. Instinctively, he tightened his hold. “What is amiss?” he asked with a bit more irritation than he intended.

  The heels of her hands pressed against his chest. “Release me, Sir.”

  Carter relaxed his grip, but he did not set her from him. He repeated, “What is amiss?” He suspected her request had nothing to do with actions. His kiss held no demands, and surely as a widow, she had known passion previously.

  She looked down with a frown. “Something bumped against my foot.”

  Reluctantly, Carter opened his embrace so they both might determine the culprit. She stepped back to reveal a torn piece of foolscap. Her heel caught the sheet, and it crinkled under the pressure. “Stand still,” he ordered as he bent to retrieve the folded sheet.

  “What is it?”

  Carter opened the sheet. “Appears to be some sort of note,” he said as his eyes scanned the page.

  Rising up on her toes, Mrs. Warren peered over his forearm. “What does it say?”

  Carter’s uneasiness rose. “Read it for yourself.” He shoved the note into her grasp before striding away to gather his thoughts. He watched as she smoothed the page against the side of her dress. “Read it aloud,” he encouraged. He hoped his eyes had failed him.

  She lifted the page closer where she might read accurately. “Heard the man who shot yer frind say he ment tu kill the weman. Thought ye shud no.” Her hand trembled, and her eyes never left the page.

  Carter whirled to face her. Hauling her to him, he wrapped his arms tightly to him. “I will never permit anyone to harm you.”

  “What if you are not near?” she asked in a dispassionate voice.

  He cupped her cheek in his large palm, staring deeply into her eyes. His heart thundered with the possibility she could know danger. “We have no basis to believe the note to be true. It is likely a poor attempt of one of Jamot’s smuggler friends to drive me from the area. Those below know me to be an agent of the Crown. I am certain my presence at this inn affects their ability to move their goods. It is a farce: Our author recognizes how a man would always remove a woman from danger.” The frown, which crossed her countenance, said the lady did not necessarily agree.

  However, she snuggled closer, wrapping her arms about his waist. It was as if the lady craved his protection. For several minutes, she remained as such, and Carter enjoyed the feeling of being of use to her. Finally, she said, “When we were arguing earlier, you spoke of possessing no knowledge of the letter I received asking me to come to Suffolk.”

  Carter caressed her back. She fit perfectly under his chin. It was a heady situation to surround her with his body. “Mr. Watkins explained the truth of your accusations,” he said, but his mind had returned to the sensation of her body rubbing softly against his.

  Her body arched, but instead of seeking more of his attentions, for a second time, the lady pushed away from him. This time, he permitted her release. “I am pleased you believe someone,” she said smartly. “And to clarify, I received a letter stating you wished for Simon and me to meet you at this particular inn.” Her voice cracked as she said, “If the letter was not of your making, Sir Carter, it means someone knew of my residence at Huntingborne Abbey and of your presence in London. The letter was franked in the capital.”

  Without her in his embrace, Carter’s reasoning returned. Solemnly, he responded, “Whomever our shooter may be, you were his true target. Someone lured you to this inn with the intent of killing you.”

  It had taken longer than Carter expected to calm her misgivings. He finally agreed to make his bed in the hall outside her door. He had sent Watkins to guard Monroe. It had been a miserable night with the sound of raucous patrons below, plus the memory of Mrs. Warren’s lips pressed to his clung to him. He had no excuse for acting upon his desires, but, thankfully, Mrs. Warren had proved the insignificance of the moment: The lady had ignored his impulsiveness, as if nothing had occurred. Carter was not certain he approved of her indifference. After all, he rarely acted without a logical end. Obviously, kissing Lucinda Warren had been the most unsound act of recent history. That is next to assuming Colonel Rightnour’s command on the battlefield. What was it about the Rightnou
r family, which robbed him of his good sense?

  Mrs. Warren had thought it best if they returned to London, but Carter had had second thoughts once he had had time alone to consider what had occurred. The lady had retrieved the letter for him to study, but he took no note of anything unusual. Whoever had written the message had been literate, which eliminated many of those below. It was written on good quality paper, indicating someone with money. The letter held only “London” as its return direction, and the handwriting resembled his slant.

  After he had convinced Mrs. Warren to retire, Carter had returned below, where he nursed two drinks. He had hoped against hope someone would approach him with more information, but even Nell had avoided him. Mr. Blackston had been the only one to offer him any conversation; therefore, Carter had spent his time learning what he could of those gathered in the common room. He had watched the gathering’s interactions previously, but now there was someone missing: the man with whom Jamot had conversed. The older gentleman who dressed beyond those who called The Rising Son home, but who had been accepted as one of its favorites. The one with whom Jamot had disagreed.

  Had the Baloch refused to do the man’s bidding? Carter easily recalled the man Thornhill had captured in London had spoken of an older, well-dressed gentleman, who had hired him. “Whom has Mrs. Warren offended?” he wondered as he stretched out on the floor before her room. The unforgiving hardness reminded him of the years of sleeping on rock surfaces and forest floors; ironically, the familiarity soon lulled Carter to sleep.

  Lucinda had shared the small bed with Simon, but sleep did not come. Someone had threatened to kill her. Her! A woman who had never known an enemy! Even her late husband had not been her enemy until after his death. Only then had she indelicately uttered the oaths she had learned from the soldiers, and even then, in the privacy of her quarters. Never to another person.

  “The threat must have some connection to Simon’s appearance,” she whispered to the room. “But why would anyone wish to hurt the boy? Could someone believe she had stolen Simon from his family?”

  She stared at the poorly draped frame of the four-poster. “The only other person who might wish me ill is Uncle Gerhard. Could the earl’s animosity toward my father be transferred to me?” Lucinda shook off the notion. “How could that possibility exist?” Despite her father’s stubborn aversion for the present earl, Sophia Rightnour had often spoken kindly of the man. Surely, her mother could not have erred so drastically.

  She would love to discuss her suppositions with someone. Naturally, she looked to the door where the baronet meant to sleep. “Oh, how shall I face him in the light of a new morning?” she chastised as she rolled to her side. No shadow of light showed beneath the door. Did that mean the baronet had made his bed in the inn’s hallway, as he had promised, or had Mr. Blackston shuttered the candles in the wall sconces? Without opening the door to look, Lucinda knew the answer. Sir Carter was built for protection: His unselfish need to see to the safety of others was why she had clung to him–why she wished to return to his embrace–why she had permitted his kiss.

  Her first kiss. Matthew Warren had always claimed a kiss would lead to other complications in their marriage. He had claimed it too dangerous for her to be with child with the war exploding all around them. “My husband did not practice such tender care with his first wife,” she said bitterly. “Matthew robbed me of an opportunity for a family. Robbed me of knowing the depth of a child’s love. Robbed me of my identity. Gave me his name, but not his devotion.”

  Her eyes instinctively rested upon the door. Oh, how she longed to open it and to throw herself into the baronet’s arms. To take up where they had left off. To feel his warmth along her body. To listen to the steady beat of his heart. To finally discover the intimacy between a man and a woman. To feel his sensual caresses streaming fire through her veins. Her cheeks heated with the possibility. It was wanton of her to think so, but as a soldier’s widow, she would hold few opportunities to discover a husband’s tender care. In fact, with her unfavorable financial straits, finding a husband of any age and status would be difficult.

  “Would Sir Carter turn away?” she wondered. Somehow, she did not think so. Lucinda closed her eyes to imagine herself brave enough to act upon her impulses. “If only…” she whispered. “If only I were a different woman.”

  After an early breakfast, Carter had hustled his rag-tag group into the let coach. He placed Monroe in the carriage with Mrs. Warren and the boy. His associate had gathered his wits enough to stumble to the carriage. He had tied Monroe’s horse to the coach’s boot and recovered Prime from where they had hidden the animals.

  “Where to?” Mr. Watkins asked as he took up the reins.

  “The Earl of McLauren’s estate in Lincolnshire,” he announced. He had made his decision while he lay awake upon the inn’s well-worn floor.

  “Why not London?” Mrs. Warren asked from the coach’s open window.

  Carter spoke for her ears only. He had not shared the suspicious note with either Watkins or Monroe. It did not seem appropriate to do so, and he relished their confidences, which created the illusion of intimacy. “In London, with its congestion, I cannot adequately protect you. My oldest sister, the Countess McLauren, resides at Maryborne Park in Lincolnshire. As the duke and I did in Kent, I can set up a perimeter about the estate. No one will access the earl’s home.”

  Mrs. Warren frowned in disapproval. “I would not wish to place Lady McLauren’s family in any danger.”

  Carter smiled easily. “Have no care for Louisa’s safety. McLauren guards her and the children from all possibilities. Little does the earl know Louisa can hold her place with any man. I have seen her ring my brother’s ears on more than one occasion. Lawrence dances to her tune. I suspect you will enjoy her company.” So as not to argue, he left her before the lady could object. “Lead on, Mr. Watkins,” he called as he mounted. Kicking Prime’s flanks, he thought, “Mrs. Warren and Louisa will get on famously, or they will butt heads repeatedly. They both possess a bit of the shrew in their personalities. Either way, the encounter will be interesting.”

  It was near dusk when the carriage rolled into Maryborne’s parkland. They had stopped twice for meals and a third time to change horses. Mr. Watkins knew when to push the animals and when to slack off to get the most from the team. “Is that the house?” Simon called excitedly from the coach as the manor had come into view. Over the evening meal, Carter had disclosed the fact his sister and the earl had a six-year-old son named Ethan and a four-year-old daughter called Lisette. The boy anticipated having new playmates.

  Carter brought Prime along side the coach. “Yes. We will be there within minutes.” When the boy’s head disappeared inside the coach, Carter had imagined Mrs. Warren straightening the child’s clothing before they disembarked. It was a very maternal picture, and he found it brought an easy smile to his lips.

  Carter rode ahead and dismounted as the manor’s door swung wide to reveal his sister. He had promised the baroness he would call regularly upon his siblings, but he had only traveled to Lincolnshire once in the past six months. He knew instant regret at having failed his mother. However, in his defense, he had visited with Maria and the new grandchild in Staffordshire three times. Harry was a delightful child, and Carter loved the role of adoring uncle. He had also joined Delia and Viscount Duff in Warwickshire twice. Their daughter Catherine was two and her father’s “princess.”

  With Maria and Delia, Carter could spend an evening or a week. Neither chastised him for always being in a rush to return to his governmental obligations. Louisa, on the other hand, rarely accepted his responsibilities as reason for his absence. Her insistence upon his tarrying with her kept Carter from calling more often.

  “Carter!” she called as she rushed to embrace him. Although Louisa was his oldest sister, she was petite, like their mother and Delia. Maria was tall for a woman, but Viscount Sheffield had not minded. “Harry will be a tall, strapping youth,” the vi
scount had declared lovingly when the brothers had teased their middle sister.

  He caught Louisa up in his arms, lifting her feet from the ground and spinning her the way he had done since he had grown six inches in one year in his early teens. “You always smell of lemons, Louisa,” he said jovially.

  His sister slapped at his chest. “Put me down,” she protested, but girlish giggles filled the air.

  “Easy with how you handle my wife,” Ernest Hutton, the Earl of McLauren, warned from where he waited his turn to greet Carter. “Those are fragile goods.”

  Carter placed his sister down gently. “Fragile, are we?” he said with a smile. “Does that mean the baroness will return early for another lying in?”

  His sister blushed, but nodded as Carter extended his hand to Hutton. “Congratulations. When might you call me ‘Uncle’ again?”

  The earl claimed Carter’s hand. “Early November.” Hutton looked up as the coach rolled into the circle. “Surely that is not your carriage, Lowery?”

  “No,” Carter said softly. “It is let. I will explain all much later, but please accept those within as your house guests.”

  “Of course,” Hutton assured. The earl reached for Louisa’s hand. “Come, Countess, your brother has brought guests to brighten our day.”

  Cater could observe the manipulation forming in Louisa’s mind the moment his sister drew Mrs. Warren’s acquaintance. His oldest sister meant to play matchmaker, but not for him. She meant to place the lady in Mr. Monroe’s way. Carter was certainly not seeking a connection, but could not Louisa plainly observe the woman held too much worldly experience for a man of Monroe’s limited insights? His assistant had not served in the war nor had Monroe traveled abroad. He had no commonality with Mrs. Warren.

  “This is wonderful,” Louisa gushed. They had enjoyed light refreshments in the yellow drawing room after Monroe had excused himself for the evening. “We received news yesterday that Lawrence and Arabella will join us for a few days on their return to Blake’s Run. I expect them some time tomorrow. It will be pleasant to have both my brothers together under my roof.”