She thought about him as she entered the mill. These men certainly didn’t waste any time when it came to finding women, did they. Why, the investigator—
“Miss Whimsey?”
No. Not him. Why was he here? Colin of Ipswich and Liam, the smith’s apprentice, were with him. They both had pistols. Why did he have to ruineverything again?
She kept her voice light, though she wanted to growl. “Investigator.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She had to think fast. “I was looking for you. I suspected you would be here with your prisoner. I did not want you to face my father without me. He would be very disappointed.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Liam nod his head.
“Yes,” the detective murmured. “I had considered that.”
One side of her lips quirked upward. “Did you?” she asked when he nodded.
“Before I came upon you and your friend,” he said in a low voice.
Liam moved away and disappeared into one of the small gated rooms.
Was that where John was?
What did the investigator just say? Before? Then…he knew the consequences of leaving her with Preston, and he still released her.
Her smile brightened a bit. She would remember that. And the fact that he was not with a woman.
But first, she had to free John.
Chapter Eight
Charlotte tried tosee past the mask of indifference the detective wore. She knew much about masks, for she wore one every day. The more she looked at him, the more she wanted to see him feel something, to express it in his eyes, in the dip or the lift of his chiseled upper lip beneath his scruff. She didn’t usually like a man with a mustache and beard, but his added to the air of darkness that covered him. How would she gain his affection if he wasn’t affected by her? How would she mold him? Did she want to tamper with something so feral, so indifferent? What if beneath the mask there was something far more broken, something volatile and ugly just waiting to come out?
She breathed in and smiled at Colin. What were they doing here?
“What are you doing back here, Detective Pendridge?” she asked as lightheartedly as she could.
“I’ve come to interrogate my prisoner.”
“Oh.” She grew serious. “Will it be painful for him?”
“That depends on him.”
“Shall I wait?” she asked, looking around, then giving him a wide-eyed stare. “He’s not going to scream, is he?”
His gaze on her grew intense. He studied her for a moment, making her feel as if he were looking through her. “What are you looking for, Investigator?”
“The truth,” he answered, and waited while she blinked and breathed.
“The truth about what?” Could he hear her frantic heart beating?
“Who’s your friend? The peacock I shot in the leg?”
“Preston Bristol III, Viscount of Sutton.”
“Why were you fleeing to him? What could he do for you?”
“Do I get to ask questions next, Investigator?”
“If you call me Michael. What’s your question?” he asked.
