“You’re certain you want to do this?” she said as the Scotsman waited for Gabriel’s nod before opening the door and lowering the steps. “I fear once we leave here, our lives will be inextricably woven together.”
The thought of their lives bound stirred something dangerously close to desire. Yet he would do well to remember she had been keeping secrets for months, lying to her closest friends. That her kindness might be an illusion.
“There is one thing you should know aboutme,Miss Woolf. I have a passion for puzzles. Now show me what you’re hiding in that damned mausoleum.”
Chapter Five
She had told him more than she ought, yet he was easy to talk to, and one question had led to another. How long before all her secrets came tumbling out? Not long, she feared, because her thoughts kept straying to the memory of his broad chest, and the subtle intimacy that lingered between them.
It did not bode well for the future.
Friends did not look at one another’s mouths while eating French pastries. Friends did not draw a sharp breath every time their knees brushed. And anyone who had spent time in a carriage with Lord Rothley knew his thighs left no room for escape.
The man in question turned to his coachman, a fellow who matched his master in brawn but lacked his finesse. “Follow us into the graveyard, but be on your guard.” He scanned their surroundings, gaze narrowing. “There’s a chance we’re being watched.”
“Aye, if there’s anyone lurking, I’ll haul them out by the scruff.”
“Should you encounter the fiend, I need him alive.”
“But I can rough him up a bit, so long as he’s breathing?”
“Aye,” Lord Rothley teased. “But dinna break him before I get my answers. Leave him a face his mother would still ken.”
They spoke like comrades-in-arms, not master and servant. For Olivia, it was a revelation. She had always seen Lord Rothley as strong, intelligent, and possessed of a wry sense of humour. But here was something new. A playful side she had never witnessed before.
“We need to enter the cottage to retrieve the key to the mausoleum,” she said, making for the rickety gate. “And I’d like to pack my things first in case we’re forced to leave in a hurry.”
Lord Rothley jerked his head. “You left the key behind?”
“I was in nightclothes, and the villain would have searched me, expecting to find it. Better to hide it in plain sight.”
His brow lifted, as if faintly impressed by her reasoning. He drew an iron key from his waistcoat pocket. “You’ll need this. I locked the back door when I left last night.”
Something in his tone betrayed him.
“My attacker has been in the house, hasn’t he?” She shuddered, fearing it wasn’t a question but a grim certainty. What had he touched? What had he taken?
“Yes.” His fingers closed around her arm, the gentleness at odds with his words. “We found drawers and cupboards ransacked, chairs overturned. He was likely searching for your mysterious object.”
Doubtless, the place was a shambles. But the thought vanished beneath the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his touch, and the unsettling truth that she didn’t want him to let go.
“There’s a cart approaching,” Mr Kincaid said, sounding like an escaped felon hiding from the watchmen. “Best get the lady out o’ sight.”
The marquess released her, and she felt all the colder for it. He steered her along the narrow path to the rear of the house and stood guard as she opened the cottage door.
She braced herself, barely able to look as she passed through the small kitchen. But the chairs were pushed neatly against the table, the cupboards closed, the stone floor clutter-free.
Lord Rothley cleared his throat. “The intruder was almost mindless in his destruction. We put right what we could, in the hope of sparing you any distress.”
She pictured him, weary in the dead of night, fixing a problem not of his making.“I’m extremely grateful. I must thank your coachman.”
“Kincaid tidied the rooms below. I dealt with the disorder in your bedchamber.”
The confession hung in the air for a heartbeat. How long had he been there? Folding her nightgowns, fingertips grazing the silk that warmed her skin.
“I ought to blush, but you’ve already rifled through my stockings.”
His mouth quirked. “You might rephrase that. It gives quite the wrong impression to anyone listening.”
