Her knees gave out. And before she could hit the dirt, Mr Hawke’s strong arms were around her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dominic had heard many women cry.
Usually because they’d forgotten a vital piece of their costume. Drunk too much wine. Realised their lewd antics weren’t nearly as thrilling in the light of day. Or their husband hadn’t returned to their bed.
Only once had he heard a woman sob from the depths of her soul. A wracking sound that didn’t rise from her throat, but from some hollow place grief had carved inside her.
He’d been eighteen. His mother too thin, too frail to support her own weight. Her skin as cold as winter marble.
Miss Harland was soft and warm, every curve a delicious temptation, but her cry reminded him why he filled his corridors with music and laughter. Why he’d rather hear beds banging and pants of pleasure than the sound of someone breaking.
He wished he were standing in the midst of an orgy, just to drown out her heartfelt whimpers. Wished he wasn’t holding her in his arms, something he’d sworn never to do again. Wished he didn’t feel every inch the devil.
“If you want to leave Shadowmere, I can make thearrangements.” His tone was as blunt as ever, the offer more than he’d give to another living soul.
Miss Harland straightened, blinking tears from her dark lashes onto her cheeks, though she didn’t step out of his hold.
“You said I couldn’t leave.”
“Whoever killed your father may come looking for you.” He didn’t add that he was afraid she might meet the same grisly end. Or be made a scapegoat by a Bow Street sergeant desperate to make inspector. “Trust me. There’s nowhere safer than here.”
He glanced at the rundown cottage, half convinced she might perish from the cold within the week. But he couldn’t have her in the house.
She gathered herself and stepped back to a respectable distance. “Can you prove you didn’t murder my father?”
He gave a mirthless snort. “Would I waste my time creating a scene if I’d planned to kill him? Half the staff at Mivart’s can confirm my whereabouts. I never left the hotel room.”
Her gaze dipped to his mouth. “You had company?”
Did she think he used pleasure the way other men used opium? “No. I didn’t invite a woman to my bed.”
“I wouldn’t care if you had.” She dashed a tear from her cheek and lifted her chin. “I’m merely trying to decide if you killed my father.”
He’d wanted to—every day since receiving the letter.
“As a logical woman, you know I’d have done it without leaving a trace. I have no reason to spare you the truth.” He met her gaze, unflinching. “I’ve dreamt of driving a dagger through his heart more times than I can count.”
She searched his face. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. If I’m to stay here, I need to understand your motives. How else are we to find the real culprit?”
That should have been his cue to step back.
To deliver a line that cut to the bone.
He didn’t care who had done his dirty work for him.
He should get rid of this woman. Hand her a thousand pounds, send her away, and put the past behind him.
“You said it was retribution. That his cruelty knew no bounds.” She laid a hand on his upper arm. “He did something to your mother. Mine hated the ground he walked on.”
He stilled, every muscle rigid, his face a mask of stone.
He could have shaken her off. He didn’t.
