“I had overturned a lamp in Papa’s workshop just before you arrived,” she admitted.
His arms tightened around her. “Damnation, woman. You are fortunate you did not light yourself on bloody fire.”
Her lips twitched, but she suppressed her smile, for she was still vexed with him. “It was not lit.”
“Thank Christ,” he muttered.
“You see? I did not need a protector then, and I do not require one now,” she countered, pleased with herself for drawing the parallel. “I am accompanying you, Papa, and Royston at dawn.”
He sighed. “Your father is the one who suggested you remain here with your mother and sisters. He feared a second look at all the…the evidence would prove too distressing. I did not disagree with him, because I understand from my own experience that often, the first time someone is confronted with the aftermath of violence, it is easy to be so shocked, that you fail to realize what you are seeing.”
She should not be surprised the idea had belonged to Papa, and yet she could not deny that the realization caused a splinter of hurt to burrow its way into her heart. She considered the water’s glistening surface, the low lights reflected on it, her body entwined with Hudson’s. He made her feel so safe, secure, and wanted. Just as she was. Just as she had always longed to be seen.
“I understand how Papa is,” she said slowly. “He wants to protect me, and he is still somewhat gripped by the old thoughts of what a woman’s role must be. But I’ll not be coddled, Hudson. I want to be by your side tomorrow.”
His lips brushed her ear. “I would never dream of coddling you, love. I was only attempting to appease your father and spare you further anguish. You have no notion of how much I hate embroiling you in this godforsaken mess.”
“This is my fault as much as yours. I wanted time to perfect my electrical frying pan, and all I did was push you away,” she confessed on a rush, relieved to be free of the guilt which had been eating away at her. “If I had not requested three months, you never would have left me at Brinton Manor, and if you had never left Brinton Manor, this horrid Chief Inspector O’Rourke could never have attempted to see you wrongly accused of murder.”
“No.” His wet hand cupped her face, turning her toward him. “You do not bear any of the responsibility for this, Ellie. I am the only one to blame. If I’d possessed a single bloody wit, I would have stayed with you in Buckinghamshire. Instead, I followed a trail of crumbs all the way to my own downfall.”
She was not so willing to admit defeat. “This has not been your downfall, Hudson. You are a duke.”
“Dukes are not protected from the law or charges of murder.” His counter was soft and hushed, though steeped in a subtle hint of reproach.
He was reminding her they had yet to beat O’Rourke at whatever evil game he played. That Reginald Croydon remained free from prison. That the dangers facing her husband were as real as the scars marking his abdomen. But he had survived that terrible wounding, and he would survive this as well.
“You are an innocent man, and we will prove it in every way we must,” she vowed, searching all the wonderful planes and angles of his face.
On any other man, his features would have been described as harsh, and yet there was something about his brooding sensuality, and perhaps the plush fullness of his lips, that softened the effect. He fascinated her in a way she had never imagined anyone could.
He kissed her cheek. “Sweet Ellie. Your loyalty is humbling.”
“I am your wife.” But that was not the only reason for her allegiance. She loved him, too. The emotion was there, burning and brilliant and real.
It simplywas.
But she was not prepared to confess that to him now, with the feelings so new, coupled with the uncertainty of whether or not her love was returned. They had enough to face on the morrow.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, he kissed the tip of her nose. “The hour grows late and we have an early start to the morning. We ought to finish our bath and then get some rest.”
She had a suspicion rest would not be easily achieved.
* * *
Hudson joltedawake before dawn to darkness and the silken heat of his wife curled against him. His heart was thudding in his chest, and he experienced a sudden, swift relief. The nightmare gripping him in its relentless clutches had been nothing more than a chimera.
But then, reality returned with the grim portent of a death knell.
He had exchanged one nightmare for another. His dream had been filled with blood and chambers from which there was no escape. There had been screams surrounding him, echoing in his mind, and he had been bound with rope at his wrists and ankles, immobile. Helpless to save whoever it was that had been screaming for his aid. Trapped in a prison of someone else’s making. Knowing he was stuck, writhing and flailing and doing everything in his power to free himself, yet still incapable of escape.
But the hush of the night surrounding him was scarcely any different from the nightmare. It, too, was inky black. And there was danger beyond his reach, waiting for him. There were no screams in the night, and he was free of the ropes and locks which had subdued him in his dream. But he may as well have been just as hopelessly bound. O’Rourke would not wait long to pounce on him, and the knowledge filled him with an ever-blooming dread.
He had failed to find Reginald Croydon.
He had not been able to keep Maude Ainsley from being killed.
And now, O’Rourke was hellbent upon pinning her murder on him.
