by Heather Snow
“Perhaps I should try the median rather than the mean,” she mumbled, clicking away again, this time focusing on nothing but the math.
Her results simply reversed themselves, moving the point closer to Wallingford Manor this time.
“Emma.” Derick reached out and clasped her hand, gently prying the chalk from her fingers. He used his thumb to press circles against her palm, massaging the ache from where she’d been gripping the chalk so tightly. His touch was tender, soothing, incredibly erotic—and dear to her. “Don’t fret yourself,” he murmured. “You’ve done more than enough, more than I could have asked.”
“I’m just not sure I have enough points of data.” She closed her hand around his, turning hers slightly so that it rested palm to palm against his. “Nor do I think my equation is complex enough. I need some time to think and I’ll need to make some assumptions…” She dropped his hand, and turned her gaze from his face. Instead, she stared at her board. At a safe place. “But I’m not ready to give up.”
As she spoke the words, she realized they applied not only to the problem at hand but to how she felt about Derick as well.
Everything she’d thought she knew about him had been challenged today, stripped away like childhood fantasies when faced with the stark realities of life. She didn’t have enough data to be sure of him anymore. And her silly little Derick equation? She snorted. It wasn’t nearly complex enough to take into account everything he was, and wasn’t.
She did need time to think about all she’d learned, time to process it and yes, she would have to make some assumptions from all of the new information she hadn’t known before. Assumptions about his past, assumptions about his present…maybe even about his future. But she wasn’t ready to give up on him. Maybe she would be in the morning, but not yet.
“I’ll just keep mulling it over,” she said, knowing he would think she meant her murderer equation.
“Perfect. I’d like you to put your mind to work on something else, too. My mother kept journals, but the woman wrote like a damned gossip columnist, never inscribing a person’s name, just listing characteristics or situations to describe who she was talking about. Perhaps if you read them, you will be able to recognize people she wrote about at strategic times and we can see if she had any close associations outside of your brother who might have acted as her accomplice.”
“All right,” she agreed.
“For my part, I’ll oversee the exhumation in the morning. Maybe one of the couriers had something of value to the investigation in his boot compartment. At the very least, their identities should be confirmed so that they can be put to rest properly. Give their families some peace, perhaps.
“Then, I’ll revisit all of our possible suspects. Our priority shall be Harding. He had the best access to your brother, an association with my mother, and he was clearly here in Derbyshire during everything. Not to mention that he ran the first chance he got. We’ll conduct a search in earnest for him first thing.”
Derick had paced away from her, and now seemed all business. She was glad of it and did her best to follow suit.
“You know, if it was Harding and he did kill Molly, what if her death wasn’t what it seemed? Nothing else has been.”
Derick was already nodding. “Yes. I had that same thought.”
She looked over at her map and her equations. “Perhaps I should plug where we found her body into my formulas to see if that makes any difference?”
“If you think it will help, by all means. While I’m out hunting Harding, can you discreetly re-question the staff here and at the castle, then, regarding her murder? See if you can unearth anything new?”
Pleased that Derick had faith in her to do so after he’d shown her up at it last time, she answered, “Of course.”
“Good. Now, as to our other two suspects. Several days ago, I sent off a dispatch to have a friend look into the tourist you mentioned, Stubbins. As a frequent traveler through the Peak District, he could easily have been the man responsible for the couriers’ deaths.”
Emma frowned, trying to reconcile the kindly Mr. Stubbins as a killer. Yet, he certainly had the physical strength…
“Can you remember if he was here during the time you estimate Farnsworth was killed?”
“Well, I am no longer certain precisely when Farnsworth met his end,” she reminded him, “but Stubbins was here at some point in the past couple of months, though without a conversational or written record, I can’t be positive exactly when.” She thought back, trying to remember anything she and Mr. Stubbins had talked about that might point to a specific date. “I can’t say—no reference point comes to mind.
“Although,” she continued, just remembering, “he was here the week before your mother killed herself. I know because we were discussing how cold it was again this year. Stubbins made the point that it had been two years to the date that Mount Tambora had erupted halfway around the world, and grumbled that the weather should have righted itself by now. That would have been April tenth, and your mother was found April nineteenth. He may still have been in town, for what it’s worth.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps that’s nothing, but I’d certainly like to know where he was last month, and even tonight, for that matter, before he’s ruled out. We’ll have to wait until I hear back from the War Department on him, however. As for Smith-Barton, I’ll interview him again tomorrow afternoon.”
“Again? You visited Albert?” Emma waited for the familiar feelings of failure at the thought of her broken engagement. Instead, gratefulness bloomed in her heart that she wasn’t tied to the man. If that bounder had gone through with their marriage, she would never have had these past weeks with Derick.
Emma tried to picture the two men in the same room together. Albert was slight and pale and, in comparison to Derick at least, a little effeminate. Derick was tall, dark and wholly masculine—not in an overpowering way but in a subtle, inherently male way that stole her breath even to be near him. She realized she’d rather have had one afternoon in Derick’s arms than a lifetime in any other man’s, in spite of everything.
Didn’t that answer all of her questions? She didn’t know, but they were discussing Albert right now. “What on earth did you say to him?”
The dark half smile that lifted Derick’s lips made Emma wish she’d been a fly on that wallpaper. Albert had likely been terribly intimidated. That thought brought Emma just a touch of guilty joy.
“I told him he was a bloody fool to let you go.”
Emma caught her breath at the sudden heat in Derick’s eyes. Whatever was between them was strong, unusual. When she allowed her hurt and anger and insecurities to get out of the way, she knew that—even in all of her inexperience.
Would she be a bloody fool to let Derick go? That was the real question, wasn’t it? And one that she wouldn’t be able to answer with him in the same room, enticing her senses, distracting her thoughts. She probably wouldn’t even be able to think straight with him in the same house.
“Yes, well, it’s late and we both should find our bed.”
Derick’s black eyebrows winged high.
“I mean beds.” Emma felt her skin blotch red. “W-would you like me to meet you at the castle in the morning? It would make more sense for me to come to your mother’s journals rather than have you bring them back here.”
Derick’s eyes had gone the same mossy green as they had earlier in the forest. “I’ll escort you to the castle in the morning myself. I’ll be staying at the manor tonight, Emma.”
“Here?” A nervous thrill shot through her. “Why?”
“Someone tried to get into your house this very evening, and we now know for certain there is a killer on the loose. Maybe he will just watch and see, thinking that perhaps your finding Farnsworth will be no different than your finding the other couriers. Or maybe he’s spooked now, knowing how close Farnsworth had come to him and thinks getting rid of you will ensure he’s not caught. Either way, you can’t really think I�
��m going to let you stay alone here, unprotected.”
“But—”
“Perkins is having a room made up for me. The Blue Room, I think he said.”
“But that’s right across the hall from me!”
“The better to protect you, my dear.” The slow smile that accompanied his jest was decidedly wolfish.
Yes, but who was going to protect her from herself?
“Don’t you think you should sleep downstairs, closer to George?” she tried. “He’d be the one truly in danger.”
Derick stepped close to her, the smile fading from his face. “Station an additional footman to guard your brother if you wish, Pygmy. But your safety is more important to me.” He reached out and cupped her face with one hand, his thumb dragging slowly across her cheek.
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically, but there was no heat to it. A slow smile spread across his face, and then he turned and was gone.
Oh my. How on earth was she going to sort out any of her jumbled thoughts and feelings knowing that Derick slept mere feet from her?
And more importantly, how was she going to keep herself from going to him in the night?
Chapter Twenty-one
Derick sat in an armchair in the Blue Room, next to the crackling fire that had been laid by one of Wallingford Manor’s footmen. The unnaturally dyed blue leather had made him quite leery at first glance, but it was more comfortable than it looked. He was glad of it, as he doubted that sleep was in his near future.
He settled deeper into the cushion, slouching low as the leather creaked in protest, and raised a cut-glass snifter to the level of his eyes. Swirling its contents round and round, he watched the fire through the crystal, the flames distorted by the brandy inside his glass. The effect gave the amber liquid the appearance of being lit from within. Just like Emma’s golden eyes.
He sat the brandy down on the table beside him, untouched. He might never be able to drink the stuff again, which was a damned shame. He liked brandy. But it would forever be a reminder of Emma, and of what he was choosing to leave behind.
And leave her behind he would. She was part of his past—maybe the only good part, but part just the same. And his past was what he intended to forget, along with all of the painful memories that went with it. It had worked for him before, and it would again.
So why did the idea of departing for the Americas all of a sudden leave him feeling empty and hollow?
He cut his eyes to the snifter on the table. A drink might fill the void, at least temporarily. He may be swearing off the stuff when he left Derbyshire, but it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy a taste while he was still here, would it?
Of course not. He reached for the glass and took a swallow. It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy your last few days with Emma, either, his conscience whispered darkly.
Derick choked as the liquor burned its way down his throat. Oh yes, it would hurt. Either her or him, or both, but it would most definitely hurt.
He set the snifter aside, the heavy glass clicking against the wooden tabletop, and rifled a hand through his hair. How the hell had Emma gotten under his skin so deeply so quickly? How many years had he made it through, how many women, without letting anyone inside? And now that he was this close to putting it all behind him, one tiny, stubborn slip of a woman had burrowed her way in and he feared she might never leave, even when he did.
It must be because she’d always been there. Not consciously, or even obviously, but rather like a single gold thread woven into the tapestry of his life. When he was young, he wouldn’t have noticed it, instead drawn to the rich colors—the reds, the greens, the blues. But those vibrant shades had long been sullied, turned dark and dull, making the gold shine out even more. There all along, and all along the most valuable thread of all.
And now, as a man well aware of the preciousness of gold, he could no longer miss it—no longer miss her—and he greatly feared that now that he’d noticed her, she could never be unseen.
But he would do his damnedest.
A soft knock floated across the room, neither hesitant nor forceful. Emma. Every one of his senses shifted into sensual alert. It would be dangerous to allow her in now. He should pretend to be asleep…
But she didn’t give him the choice. The knob turned and she entered like a whisper, reaching him almost as quickly. The clean scent of lavender filled his nose as she passed by him, coming to stand before the fire.
“You’re awake,” she murmured.
Derick’s grip tightened on the arms of his chair. Emma stood before him in her night rail and wrapper, a plain, simple combination of pale green that was more alluring than even the most intricately revealing lingerie he’d ever uncovered. She’d clearly just bathed, as her skin was rosy from warm water and scrubbing, and her hair—her glorious chestnut hair—fell down her back and around her face in damp, drying curls.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he answered, aware that his voice had gone husky with the raging desire she always seemed to elicit in him.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t.” She looked around her for a moment, then dragged a stool over and settled herself on it, just in front of him. So close that if she reached out she’d be able to place her hands upon his knees. She looked directly into his eyes, holding his gaze. “But I’m not going to leave unless you demand that I go.”
He swallowed, somehow unable to say the words, even though he knew he should. And Emma saw it, he knew, saw his hesitation. Saw it and pounced on it.
“I thought not.” She did reach forward then, caressing the tops of his thighs with both hands.
At his groan, she actually smiled, a slow, sensuous thing that threatened to undo him. “Emma…”
“I have a question I must ask you. And remember, you promised earlier you’d always tell me the truth as long as I was certain I wanted to know it.” Her smile had faded, and despite her confident tone, her hands trembled upon his thighs. He felt the tiny quaking to his bones. She must very much fear the answer to whatever she was about to ask.
His heart sped. He was fairly certain that whatever she asked, he wouldn’t want to answer as much or even more than she apparently wanted him to. But he nodded his head. He had promised. “All right.”
Her trembling increased. Derick moved his own hands atop hers, pinning her palms against his thighs.
She took a breath.
“When you—” Emma swallowed, shaking her head. She started again. “When we made love, was it a means to an end? A tool of your profession, as you claimed it to be with all of the others?”
Ah, hell.
“Did you feel nothing for me?” she whispered.
Lie! his mind shrieked, like a damned scared old woman. Lie to her! It would be kinder.
But the vulnerability he saw in her eyes wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let her think she’d meant less than she had.
Derick squeezed his eyes shut and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He felt it leaping in time with his pounding heart. “I’ve never experienced anything like what I felt with you in my arms, Emma. It was like…” He opened his eyes then, looked deeply into hers, and gave the most honest answer he knew. “It was like it was my very first time.”
Speaking the words aloud broke something within him. A dam, a wall, a shell. And it hurt, a sharp, piercing pain through his heart.
“It was your first time making love,” she whispered, nodding slowly as if he’d confirmed something she’d suspected. She turned her hands beneath his, now gripping him palm to palm. “It was mine, too. But…” Her tongue came out to wet her lips nervously. “But I don’t want it to be my last.”
He choked on a cross between a laugh and the unfamiliar tightness in his throat. “It won’t be your last time. You’re an incredible, desirable woman. There will be another man, a better ma—”
“No,” she whispered fiercely. “There was ever only you. There will only ever be you, Derick.” Emma dropped to her knees between his, kicking the stool
away behind her and settling back on her heels like an entreating angel, swathed in green, preparing to pray for the soul of a lost sinner. “If you turn me away now, you will doom me to a life without love. I will awaken every day with your name on my lips. I will mourn every lonely night in my bed. I will always, always want you. And I think you will want me, too.”
He suspected he would. Every moment. But that didn’t mean they should be together. “Emma, you deserve more.”
“But what if I don’t want more?” she cried.
“Then I want more for you,” he growled. God, he felt trapped. He couldn’t bolt to his feet with her kneeling between his legs without kicking her, couldn’t yank his hands from the tightness of her grip without hurting her. Sweat popped out on his brow, and his skin began to itch. “More than a bastard, more than a deceitful cad, more than a bloody impostor with no country of his own.”
“Oh yes?” Emma rose off of her heels, as high as she could while still kneeling. Her face was very near his and her eyes blazed with indignation, or passion, or both. “Well, I want more for you, too. More than unwarranted shame, more than undeserved self-loathing, more than a bloody future with no home of your own.” And then her voice and her gaze softened. “Not like the one I could give you.”
He’d stopped breathing at her fierce avowal, whereas her breasts rose and fell rapidly as she took in great gulps of air.
She pulled her hands from his, and pressed them once again upon his thighs to help herself to rise.
Thank God. He burned to leap from the chair and put some distance between them—would as soon as she bloody moved away.
But she didn’t. She simply stood firmly between his thighs once she’d gained her feet. She reached out and grasped either side of his face between her hands and leaned into him.
“Derick, no matter what has come before, no matter what you’ve done or who you’ve been…I don’t care. You can start over. With me. Because no matter any of it, I know you. And I love you.”
