“It isn’t a bloody flaw,” he said into her hair. “Youaren’t flawed. You are clever. Kind. Mrs. Bartle declares you to be the daughter she never had.”
And I love you.
Harry pressed his mouth to hers gently, wishing he could convey what was in his heart. He wasn’t good with words unless he was negotiating for an ironworks or coaxing a woman into his bed. But he could show Lucy. He’d get her a kitten. Maybe two.
Lucy moaned into his mouth as his hand stole between her thighs, stroking along her slit until she sputtered his name, spilling what was left of the brandy across one breast.
“Don’t worry,” he turned his wife to face him, settling her atop his lap, groaning as his length brushed against her. “I won’t waste this expensive brandy.” Catching a drop of the amberliquid hovering at the edge of one nipple with his tongue, he thrust inside her warmth.
“Harry…” His name came out in a breathless whisper. “It would be a shame to squander it.” Lucy sank her fingers into his hair.
“Not a drop.” His teeth grazed the small peak as he cupped her backside, rocking their hips together. Bathwater splashed out of the tub, cascading over the floor in a wave. Harry’s fingers dropped between their bodies, touching Lucy in a way that made her writhe atop him. She panted. Begged. Tugged on his hair.
I love you. Harry’s heart whispered to hers, feeling her body clench around his own. He choked out her name as he lost himself to pleasure and his lovely girl.
I love you.
27
“Lock broken,” McAddle said to Harry, pointing into the dim confines of Pendergast. “Must have come in that way. Looks like they used a hammer of some kind.”
Harry stepped around the small pile of debris at the corner of the main floor. A tiny explosion from one of the forges, contained for the most part. The damage was minimal, thanks to the quick thinking of his new ironmaster. “It could have been much worse. Were there any injuries?”
“A few scrapes and bruises.”
Nodding, Harry’s eyes ran over the mess before him. “So our friend breaks into Pendergast, manages to put a sphere filled with metal bits and gunpowder into one of the forges hoping it will go unnoticed until it explodes, raining down bits of metal and embers on the main floor, causing perhaps death and destruction. Chaos, at the very least.”
“Aye, Mr. Estwood.”
“Yet, it didn’t. And not solely due to you. No offense, McAddle.” Harry looked at his ironmaster. “Whoever placed it, miscalculated.”
“None taken, Mr. Estwood. A prank, perhaps? Even the lads running about the floor would have known to place the sphere in a forge closer to the center for maximum impact,” McAddle said. He was a big, barrel-chested man with the face of a cherub and a ruddy complexion.
Harry’s first inclination would have been to suspect Colm, but the man had worked at an ironworks for years; he knew explosions. Fire. Heat. Also, while he wouldn’t put murder past Colm, his former employee had little to gain from killing Harry except satisfaction.
But Dufton? Or Waterstone?
“Thank you, McAddle.”
Either could be behind today’s incident—and the attempt to strangle Harry with a length of chain. Dufton certainly had the resources to hire an assassin. Both men would profit greatly from his death. Once Lucy was widowed, Waterstone could force her into marriage with the earl.
Harry walked back to his office, thinking it would be best if he kept a pistol on hand. He generally liked to solve matters with his fists, but he had a wife to think of now. If Dufton was behind the two attacks, and that seemed likely, Harry wanted to make sure she was protected. He made a note to inform Bartle. Hire some good lads to watch the house. Keep Hammond, in the stables, armed as well.
“Mr. Estwood.” One of the younger men, Wist, stopped Harry. “Sorry to bother you, sir, what with…” Wist looked at the mess on the main floor. “But there’s a gentleman outside with a basket for you. Says he has what you ordered.”
“Thank you, Wist.” Harry smiled for the first time that day. “Tell him I’ll be right out.” He grabbed his coat from the office, pausing only to let McAddle know he was leaving. “Have the mess cleaned up. Don’t let on this was anything but an accident.I’m leaving for the day. There’s something I need to give my wife.”
A broad grin crossed McAddle’s features, and he winked. “Well then, please give Mrs. Estwood my best.”
“I will.” He nodded. McAddle had been wed for twenty years and still mooned over his wife. He assumed Harry did the same.
Youaremooning over her.
Harry whistled as he stepped outside. “Mr. Acres.”
Acres had worked at Pendergast with Bartle once. The two still met at the Goat’s Head regularly for an ale, and when Bartle had casually mentioned what Harry was seeking, Acres had said he could help.
“Sir.” Acres doffed his cap. “I have two, just as Bartle said you wanted.” He held up the basket. “A lovely gift for your new wife.”
