She came closer, first one tentative halting step, then another. “No. Why didn’t you hand me over to my stepfather?”
“Hand you over to that cretin? Why would I?”
“You had to.”
“Yet I didn’t.”
“But he’s my stepfather.” She paled, shivered, swallowed. “He owns me.”
For now,Gavin almost added. Where had that come from? He was in no position to change her legal status. Even if he wished to marry her—which he neither admitted nor denied—he couldn’t protect his own neck, let alone hers, too. Plenty could happen between now and whenever he might have the opportunity to petition for a license. If he couldn’t promise to stay alive for the wedding, then he could promise her nothing.
“I don’t care if he owns you,” Gavin said instead. “I sent him away.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Not until he recovers from those black eyes,” Gavin assured her with as much flippancy as he could muster. How long would a blackguard like her stepfather stay away, when she was right—he was her legal guardian. How long before he did write his letters, make good on his threats, summon the magistrate? A month? A week? “We’ll make sure you’re gone by then,” he said, hoping she couldn’t detect the bleakness in his tone. Not because he feared her worthless scab of a stepfather, but because in order to rid herself from one man, she’d have to rid herself of them both. “Shall I summon you a carriage?”
She started, as if assailed by the same thoughts. “Now?”
He forced himself to say the words. “It’s yours when you wish it.”
She fairly leapt the distance between them until she was but an arm’s breadth before him, his boots on either side of hers. “But I haven’t determined the murderer’s identity.”
“Nor will you be able to help under your stepfather’s captivity. I prefer you safe somewhere unknown than unsafe somewhere known.” He rubbed his face with one hand, cursed himself for its smoothness. Had he the slightest inkling she preferred his kisses the way he’d been giving them, forceful, scratchy, rough, he’d never have put razor to chin before the picnic. Now their farewell kiss—for surely she would allow him a farewell kiss?—would be inadequate, disappointing, unsatisfying. And, oh, how he longed to satisfy her. Her safety, however, was his primary concern. “Given the choice, I admit to disliking the thought of you going anywhere at dusk. Twilight is a dangerous time to begin a journey. Can you wait until morning?”
She edged closer, her gown brushing against the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs. “But…but I haven’t determined the murderer’s identity.”
“So you’ve reminded me.”
“If I fail to help before I go, will—will you hang?”
Probably. Then again, he might hang even if she stayed. Gavin lifted a shoulder as if the thought held no sway. “Would you miss me either way?”
Her breath hitched. Her palms cupped his face. Her forehead touched his. “I would. You know I would. I miss you already.”
As did he. Knowing she felt the same seemed to worsen the feeling of dread, to tighten his already tight muscles, to speed up his already racing heart. Gavin pulled her into his lap, clutched her to him, breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. Her hip curved against his uninjured side. Her knees tucked between his legs. The side of one silk-covered breast pressed against his chest.
She would have to leave him.
He would have to let her.
But not yet.
She tilted her face up at the exact moment his slanted down. Their breath came together first, then their mouths, then their tongues. She tasted like fear, like loneliness, like desire. Or maybe that was him. Maybe that was both of them. She, the woman who couldn’t risk touching, who couldn’t risk loving, who couldn’t outrun her past.
And Gavin, the man who…what? Was he any different? He either didn’t know or didn’t want to know, just like he didn’t want to stop kissing her, just like he didn’t want to let her go, to put her in a carriage and send her away where he’d never see her again, smell her hair, taste her mouth and tongue and skin. But what else was he to do? What else was she to do? Her stepfather would be back, and the law would side with him.
Gavin wrenched his mouth from Miss Pemberton’s.
“Tell me,” he said, brushing his lips across the soft skin of her forehead. “Why did you run from him?”
She shuddered, but remained silent.
At first, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she leaned the side of her head against his shoulder and let out a long, slow exhale.
“First,” she said, “I’ll tell you why my mother didn’t run. Me. A woman of her position—which is to say, none—can’t even aspire to become the lowliest of scullery maids or the cheapest of prostitutes. Not without suffering visions and their consequences. Add to that limitation a child who showed every sign of the same affliction, and she was trapped.”
He hated the pain in her voice, the anger, the self-loathing. “You didn’t trap her. You didn’t. She married that dilberry maker of her own free will.”
