Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  He suddenly realized he was famished. “Yes, and my thanks. Bring it to my study, if you will. I have weeks of paperwork to catch up on.”

  Boots squishing all the way, he headed across the great hall to the dining room and through to the study, Rex at his heels. He briefly considered changing out of his damp clothes, but decided he couldn’t spare the time. He’d waded through less than half the mail when Vincent showed up with a platter of cold roasted chicken, sliced cheddar, and a small round loaf of bread.

  From where he was snoozing in the corner, Rex perked up and sniffed.

  “Just leave it here on the desk,” Tristan said, reading a letter from his steward in Jamaica. “And take yourself off to bed. I can undress myself.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Vincent hesitated.

  Tristan looked up. “Yes?”

  “Since your lady is asleep, I just thought you might like to know that she questioned everyone, but I don’t believe she uncovered any new evidence.”

  He set down the letter. Slowly. “What do you mean, she questioned everyone?”

  “About the circumstances surrounding your uncle’s death.” Vincent peered at him in the yellowish gaslight. “She assured me you were aware of her intentions.”

  “She did make her intentions clear, yes.” And he’d thought he’d made his clear as well. “Thank you, Vincent. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, then, my lord.”

  Tristan waited for his valet’s footsteps to fade from his hearing, then counted to ten. Then counted to a hundred. Then told himself he’d be better off eating his dinner and waiting for his anger to ebb, rather than stomping upstairs immediately to wake his new wife.

  He ate two bites of chicken, tossed the cheese to the dog, and took a hunk of the bread with him.

  Chewing savagely as he squished up the stairs, he considered the best way to wake Alexandra. A light tap on the shoulder? A whisper in her ear? Perhaps he should jerk the sheets up and thereby dump her out of the bed.

  Though he’d never actually do such a thing, simply considering it was satisfying in itself. He savored the mental picture as he squished through the round gallery and down the corridor. Having wolfed down the cheese, Rex caught up to him just in time to get the door slammed in his huge, hopeful face.

  Seated in one of the armchairs, Alexandra looked up from her book. “You’re home.”

  Tristan slumped back against the door. “You’re not sleeping.” Damn, he couldn’t dump her out of the bed. “You’re not even undressed.” All she’d removed were her shoes and stockings.

  She set her book on the side table and smiled. “I thought you liked to do the undressing.”

  “I thought—”

  Bloody hell, she looked gorgeous with that beckoning smile, her eyes glazed from lack of sleep, her cheeks rosy in the gaslight, her body’s soft curves evident in the slim dress she’d no doubt donned for dinner. His own body reacted as he wondered whether she was wearing drawers.

  Gritting his teeth, he yanked his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “I thought I told you to stay out of my business.”

  Her rosy cheeks went white. “You’ve heard.”

  “Of course I’ve heard. Every servant here is loyal to a fault.”

  “So I learned today. They were all loyal to your uncle while he lived, and now they’re all loyal to you. No one thinks you poisoned him, and no one believes any of the others were responsible, either. They all stand together and behind you, Tris.” She rose and crossed the distance between them. “It’s extraordinary, when you think of it. Servant turnover is an enormous problem on most estates. Yet everyone here, it seems, has been here forever.”

  Rain pattered against the windows while he considered her brave speech and fought to control his anger. Perhaps all was over and done with; perhaps now the matter would be closed. “You didn’t learn anything incriminating.”

  “Incriminating to whom? We both know you’re not at fault. But no, I learned nothing to incriminate anyone here. Not even Vincent.”

  “Vincent?” he snapped. “Why should you mention him?”

  He saw her swallow hard. “He was the only one new to the staff. The only one without a long-standing loyalty to your Uncle Harold. The only one, in fact, who had a reason to resent him.”

  The anger surged anew. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Your uncle owned him, Tris. Don’t you think that could have made a difference? After you freed the man and then found yourself in dire straits, haven’t you ever wondered if it’s possible he considered murder a way to both revenge himself and solve your problem?”

  He hadn’t. Not for the barest moment. “I’d sooner believe I murdered my uncle myself. Just because the man has dark skin—”

  “This has nothing to do with his skin.” Outrage brought color back to her cheeks. “I cannot believe you would think that of me. I happen to like Vincent very much. We had a nice chat. He cares about you—”

  “Then why? Why would you accuse—”

  “I’ve accused him of nothing! Shall you fault me for simply considering the possibility? For looking everywhere I can to find someone to blame so we can clear your name and get out of this mess?”

  He realized they’d both raised their voices, but he didn’t give a damn whom they might wake. “I do not want this mess, as you put it, stirred up again. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. Do you understand me this time? Or do I need to write it down on a goddamn piece of paper?”

  “What are you afraid of, Tris? That you’ll find yourself a murderer? I know that won’t happen.” She looked beautiful in her righteous fury, her cheeks red as rubies now, her hair escaping its pins and curling about her face. “All I wanted was to ask around and see what I might turn up.”

  “And all I want is for you to stop!”

  “Well, then, you have your wish,” she said, suddenly sounding defeated. “I’ve talked to every single person on this estate, and no one had anything the least bit helpful to contribute. There’s no one else to ask.” She drew a deep breath, her breasts heaving with the effort. “It’s over,” she added in a voice so dead and quiet it was startling following all the shouting.

  The silence reigned for a space of time, stretching awkwardly between them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “But I confess I’d do it again. It’s over, but if it wasn’t, I’d do anything I could to find a way to clear your name.”

  He couldn’t summon any more anger—what he felt edged closer to guilt. After all, it was his fault—his sleepwalking, his failure to leave her room—that had landed them in this impossible marriage.

  Maybe a tiny part of him had hoped she’d be successful. Hoped she’d find a way to erase the stain on the Nesbitt name. Hoped she’d prove able to keep that stain from spreading to her own family.

  Of course, a much larger part of him—the part that was scared stiff of what she might have found—overshadowed that tiny part.

  But it was there. Maybe.

  “I’m glad it’s over, then,” he said. “And I’m sorry, too.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was sorry for. Given the chance, he’d try to stop her all over again. But he did feel sorry. And guilty. And a little angry still, and he didn’t know what else.

  She sighed and moved the few inches between them to lay her head on his chest. “You’re damp.”

  “I had to ride home through the rain.”

  She snuggled closer anyway. “I guess we’ve had our first fight.”

  “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re always so composed.”

  “When something matters to me as much as this does—as much as you do, as much as my family—I will fight for it all the way.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly.

  She felt warm and yielding in his arms. Soft and alluring. Though his emotions were still running high, he’d never been able to resist her pull.

  N
ever.

  His hands wandered down lower. “Are you wearing drawers?” he whispered.

  “I don’t own any drawers,” she murmured against his chest, wiggling her bottom against his hands in a way that kicked his pulse up a notch. “If you want me to wear them, you’re going to have to hire a seamstress to make them.”

  “Bring another servant here for you to question?” he said bitterly. “I think not.”

  She tilted her chin up to see him. “Was there a seamstress here at the time?”

  She looked dead serious, which he found less than thrilling. Very much less than thrilling. Whatever had calmed in him flared again. “I thought you said you were finished.”

  “Only because there’s no one left to interview.”

  “It’s over. You said it was over.”

  “If there was another person here at the time—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. Exasperated, he could think of nothing else to do.

  He half expected her to protest, but she opened her mouth instead, immediately inviting him in. Their tongues tangled in a dance that made heat flash through him. He backed her toward the bed. She smelled like heaven and tasted like sin, and he would never get enough of her.

  He was mad for her. It seemed he’d spent his entire life mad for her. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her, and there was just enough anger swirling in him to make him too selfish to treat her like the almost-virgin she was.

  Their mouths still bonded, his fingers worked frantically to unfasten the back of her dress as he inched her ever closer to the bed. He dragged the frock down her arms, together with her chemise, breaking their kiss to shove them both over her hips and legs and clear down to the floor. While she stood slack-jawed in shock, he yanked off his boots and tore a seam in his coat in his hurry to get out of it.

  Unbuttoning his falls with one hand, he pushed her onto the bed with the other, noting the surprise in her eyes. But there was passion in her eyes, too—utter, unbridled passion. Unable to wait a moment longer, he climbed up to cover her gloriously nude body with his.

  A gasp escaped her lips before he crushed her mouth beneath his again. He wedged a hand between her legs to test her with a finger and then another. He knew he should take his time, treat her gently, but she felt slick, sleek, throbbing around his fingers, inciting desire so raw he was helpless to hold back. She gasped again as he widened her thighs and plunged home where he wanted to be.

  Hot. Impossibly tight and hot as her legs locked around him, the unschooled sensuality of that driving him to distraction. He couldn’t wait. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to lose himself in her, and she seemed to be losing herself as well. Her hands gripped his damp shoulders, and she cried out his name, shuddering, dragging him over the edge to join her in oblivion.

  When he regained his senses, he kissed her hair, her cheek, her mouth. Part of him was mortified at his lack of control, but another part, a larger part, simply marveled at the emotions she was able to rouse in him.

  No other woman had ever been capable of making him lose control. But all the anger, the raw passion, had somehow transformed into softer feelings when he’d felt her respond to him. When he’d felt her join him in the madness. And that had made all the difference.

  He hadn’t ever made love before Alexandra, he realized all of a sudden…he’d only found release.

  “Sweet heaven,” she whispered as he eased himself off of her, both of them still shaky, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “I cannot move.”

  Coming up on an elbow beside her, he ran a finger alongside her face and kissed the wide expanse of her forehead. “Give it time.”

  “I think I need until tomorrow.”

  Alarmed, he wondered whether she was serious or jesting. “I’m sorry I was so quick and…ah, rough.”

  “I liked it.” Her eyes drifted shut. “It was exciting.”

  Jesting, then. Although she couldn’t see him, he smiled. “And last night wasn’t? And this morning?”

  “Every time is exciting. Every time you kiss me, every time you touch me. Every way…” She lifted her lids and met his gaze. “I love you, Tris. Even though we don’t always agree, I love you.”

  The only answer he could give her was a kiss. He poured his heart and soul into it and still knew it wasn’t enough. Anything more, though, was beyond him.

  He couldn’t say words he didn’t believe.

  “I’ll get the lights,” he said finally and rolled out of bed.

  He quickly finished undressing and then walked around the room, dousing the gaslights one by one, his gaze fastened on her as he went.

  She still hadn’t moved. Sprawled atop the sheets, ravishingly bare, she was every man’s dream. He still didn’t believe she was his.

  He still didn’t believe he wouldn’t lose her.

  If he woke in the night, he wanted to be able to see her. He left the last light burning.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  *

  TRISTAN WOKE IN his study.

  At first he just blinked, disoriented. Slowly he noticed the light coming in through the shutters, the ticking of the clock on the desk. The dog snoring in the corner, rattling the windows.

  He swung himself upright on the leather sofa and rubbed his face. The sofa was too short, and his legs ached. He stretched them out before him, wondering how many hours he’d slept cramped in that position.

  Hours. Hours. Holy Christ. He must have sleepwalked here during the night.

  Thankfully, his sleeping self had drawn a dressing gown around his naked body. He wrapped it tighter and tied the sash. Yawning, he stood and left the study, intending to head upstairs.

  No sooner had he stepped foot in the dining room, however, than Hastings popped in. “Good morning, my lord. Will you be wanting breakfast?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Half past eight.”

  Bloody hell. He needed to get back to the gasworks. He’d promised to arrive with the sun. “Yes, breakfast, please. Is Lady Hawkridge up and about?”

  Hastings looked at him curiously. “No, my lord. She’s yet to make an appearance.”

  “I’ll let her sleep,” he decided, amused. He must have worn her out. Rather than risk waking her, he’d have breakfast now and then quickly dress after she’d arisen.

  When he’d downed his last bite of eggs and drained his second cup of coffee and she still hadn’t appeared, he returned to his study to finish going through his mail. An hour later, he sent a footman to the gasworks with a note. An hour after that, he hurried upstairs, concerned.

  No matter how wild the night, a woman who habitually rose at six didn’t sleep until after eleven.

  “Alexandra?” He knocked softly. “Alexandra?”

  He opened the door. Curled up under the covers, she looked so peaceful he had to smile.

  He walked closer and shook her shoulder. “Alexandra, it’s time to wake up.”

  She slumbered on.

  “Alexandra.” He shook her harder. “Alexandra!” Still no response.

  At his wit’s end, he drew a deep breath. And suddenly felt lightheaded.

  For a moment he just stood there, a vague prickling in his brain suggesting the woozy feeling should mean something significant. Shifting uneasily, he glanced around the room. And noticed the gas lamp he’d left lit.

  Only it wasn’t.

  His pulse stuttering, he rushed over and twisted the key, hoping it wouldn’t move.

  It did move. The gas line had been open. It had been open with no flame, and Alexandra had been breathing gas for God only knew how long.

  He prayed to that God as he scooped his wife and the covers from the bed, ran down the corridor, and turned into the Queen’s Bedchamber.

  “Alexandra!” He laid her on the turquoise and gold counterpane and crawled up beside her, his heart pounding so hard he had to yell over the roar in his ears. “Alexandra, wake up!” Kneeling on the mattress, he gathered her into his arms. “Oh, God, please,
wake up.” He rocked her back and forth. “Wake up, God damn it!”

  Her lids fluttered halfway open, then closed.

  He held his breath. His heart seemed to stop. “Alexandra?”

  “Just…”

  Had he imagined that single, breathy word? He’d had to strain to hear it.

  “Just…wait a moment.”

  A moment. Wait a moment.

  He’d wait, right here with her in his arms, for minutes, hours—days—if only he knew for certain she’d be all right.

  He waited.

  “You’re holding me too tight,” she finally said.

  His heart started again.

  He was shaking all over.

  “I mean it,” she murmured, her eyes opening at last. Warmed brandy. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  She blinked up at him. “Let go of me, Tris.”

  “I can’t.” He did loosen his hold, though even that small compromise seemed difficult. “I think I’m going to hold you for the rest of our lives.”

  Her little chuckle was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard. “What happened?”

  “God, I could have lost you.” He sent a little thank-you up to heaven.

  “What happened, Tris?”

  “The gas. The lamp I left burning last night. The flame went out, so gas leaked into the room, and you were breathing it.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I know. You were breathing it, and you could have died.”

  She struggled to sit up on his lap. “Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m fine.”

  “Thank God that room isn’t airtight. It may have been leaking for hours.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk so much of God,” she said with a little smile. “Christ, yes, especially Holy Christ. But—”

  “Hours,” he repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  “Tris?” She levered off his lap and knelt facing him on the bed, drawing the covers over her shoulders and around her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No.” His heart was pounding again. “Oh, God, I must have extinguished the flame.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I sleepwalked again last night. Woke up this morning in my study. Before I left the room in the night, I must have extinguished the flame in my sleep.”