“I…suppose I must tell you that you are welcome,” he offered in return, hoping to earn a smile from her.
He did not.
“You should get out of my chamber.” She was as serious as ever, her face pinched with worry.
Roland suppressed a sigh. Why had he expected anything different from her? Why had he supposed she would offer him warmth instead of ice? And why could he not seem to stop noting how very lovely she was, even looking at him as if he were the intruder who had forced his way into her home and knocked her over the head instead of the man who had done his utmost to help her and keep her safe from further harm?
“The hour is early,” he said, doing his utmost to keep the irritation from his voice. “I have yet to hear any servants moving about. You need not fear I will be seen.”
She had been through a traumatic attack the night before. She was likely not feeling herself. And there was much they needed to discuss. Doing so whilst they were at odds seemed inadvisable.
Then again, when were they not at odds?
“No one saw you coming into my chamber last night?” she asked.
“I made certain they did not.” And he had. But if he had his way, it would hardly matter when they were wed. He had already secured a special license. It was ready, as was he. “As much as you might like to think me a villain, I can assure you that where you are concerned, I only have your best interests at heart.”
“Forgive me,” she said, surprising him then by relenting. Her composure crumpled, like a linen handkerchief clenched in an unforgiving fist. “I am…not myself. I was unprepared for everything that has happened since the discovery of my husband’s letters. I never could have expected…”
“Nor could I,” he reassured her, his heart clenching in his chest at her distress. Dressed decently enough now, he moved toward her in slow, easy strides. If she told him to stop, or if she shrank away from him, he would retreat. But the urge to comfort her supplanted propriety, his own pride, and all else. “If I had possessed an inkling of all the trouble the letters would have brought down upon you, I would have taken greater care to protect you before going to Scotland Yard.”
He meant those words. Lord, how he meant them. Chief Inspector Stone was a good man, honorable and trustworthy and above reproach, but there were men within his ranks—unknown, rotten apples—who put the entire bushel in danger of being spoiled. Roland could not help but to feel responsible, in part, for everything that had befallen her. He never would have willingly brought peril to her door or lured in criminals who had no compunction about doing her injury.
She winced as he reached her bedside. “You could not have known. Besides, whatever happened, and what shall come to pass, it is my burden to bear. I should have known George was not being honest with me. I should have questioned him.”
“How is your head feeling this morning?” he asked, wishing he were free to touch her. To sit on her bed at her side and inspect the lump himself.
But he would not push her.
His presence alone was sufficient.
For now.
“It feels as if someone dealt me a terrible blow.” Her hazel eyes searched his.
That was because someonehaddealt her a terrible blow. And he hated the knowledge, the person or people responsible.
She was dressed in a prim night rail with pearl buttons up to her throat. Nary a hint of flesh, beyond her face and hands. Her unbound hair draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back. By the early morning light, even looking exhausted and pale, she was achingly beautiful. Every bit as lovely as she had been that long-ago day in Oxfordshire when their gazes had first met.
“I am sorry,” he said hoarsely.
His apology was not enough, and he knew it. He ought to have kept her safe. He should have damn well made certain what had befallen her last night could not happen. She could not remain a widow alone, with nothing but a diminished phalanx of servants and a small child. He did not doubt the fiendish criminals responsible for attacking her and tearing apart her library would think twice about infiltrating his home. And if they did, he would be waiting for them. Not an elderly, if well-intentioned butler. Not two scrawny footmen. Not a nursemaid.
But a man who had very carefully honed his strength over the course of years. A man who could take on half a dozen such predatory cowards and emerge the victor.
“You are not responsible for what happened, Northwich,” Pippa said softly.
Surprise shook him from the severity of his thoughts. He had been certain she would grasp at yet another reason to detest him.
“You must see that this cannot continue,” he said, sensing that now was the time to pursue his objective. Tired, with an aching head, and confused—this was the softest Pippa Shaw would ever be.
Shaw.
Roland could not wait to replace that hated name with his own.
And to chase all the evil and the damage that charlatan had wrought.
“Of course it cannot,” she said, her tone solemn. Her gaze searching. “But how am I to make it stop? I can search for more evidence George left behind. But what if I do not find it? What shall satisfy these fiends?”
