“What is it that worries you so much tonight?” she asked. “Beyond the obvious fact that we are hunting a killer, of course.”
He took his attention off the fire and met her eyes. “Damned if I know. But there is something about this affair that I am not seeing.”
“It will come to you in time,” she assured him.
“I fear that time is the one thing that we do not have in great measure.”
“We have tonight,” she said.
Benedict smiled. It was a wry smile but a real one.
“Yes,” he said. “We have tonight.”
He gazed at her as if he was in some sort of trance. She understood that he was waiting for a response from her, but she was not sure what to say. When she just looked at him, mute, he stirred and pulled himself out of the stillness.
“I got the bed the last time we spent a night together,” he said.
“The bunk in your stateroom, do you mean?”
“Yes. It is only fair that you get the bed tonight. I’ll sleep in front of the fire.”
A sinking feeling came over her.
Well, it had been a rather long and difficult day, she reminded herself. What else could one expect except a sinking feeling?
Thirty-two
Soft, rustling sounds and the scrape of wood on wood brought her out of a fitful sleep. She opened her eyes and watched Benedict add another log to the low-burning fire. He had removed his boots, coat and tie before wrapping himself in the quilt and stretching out on the floor. She could not help but notice that at some point after she had settled down on the lumpy mattress, he had also taken off his shirt. The garment hung over the back of a chair.
She held herself very still, pretending to be asleep, and contemplated Benedict with a sense of wonder and deep, feminine pleasure. The flames illuminated the lean, sleekly muscled lines of his body. His shoulders were broad and strong. He handled the firewood with easy competence and an economy of motion that was at once graceful and masculine. She remembered the feel of his hands on her skin. A rush of longing swept through her. She yearned for him to touch her again.
At that moment he turned toward her. Firelight revealed the scar just below his rib cage. The wound had healed but he was marked for life.
“You’re awake, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. Just putting another log on the fire.”
She sat up slowly. Earlier she had removed her cumbersome petticoats and unfastened several of the hooks at the throat of her traveling gown. But even though she was not wearing a corset, the stiffened bodice of the dress did not allow for any degree of genuine comfort or relaxation.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I wasn’t getting much sleep. I keep seeing Mrs. Dunning’s body and hearing that click that we heard just before the fuse on the explosive ignited.”
“What a coincidence. I’m having the same visions, except mine include the sight of you struggling to run in that cumbersome gown and cloak you wore today.”
She made a face. “I can only be grateful that as a member of the Rational Dress Society, I don’t wear a corset and I limit my underclothing to no more than seven pounds.”
“Good lord. Seven pounds of undergarments?”
She shrugged. “A lady dressed in the first stare of fashion can find herself wearing over thirty pounds of clothing. Fabric is heavy when it is gathered into a great many drapes and pleats. To say nothing of boots and cloaks.”
He smiled. “You don’t dress like that when you travel abroad.”
“No. Only when I am home in London.”
She could see the stark hunger in his eyes. Like some psychic power it elicited a response deep within her. There was a palpable tension in the atmosphere between them. Her pulse beat a little faster. She knew he would not make the first move, not unless she let him know that she would welcome it.
She got to her feet. The skirts of her dress, no longer reinforced with the petticoats, collapsed around her legs.
