She hadn’t said this part aloud before, and sheliked the sound of this. She wanted to be necessary to someone, and she thought it safer to tell one man that another cared about her and needed her and expected her.
He took this in wordlessly.
He paused to tap an ash on the little saucer on the table next to him. “I should think Bolt of all people would appreciate a little rule breaking,” he said half to himself again.
“I could not say,” she found herself saying primly. “I have not known him long. He is married to Mrs. Angelique Durand.”
He smiled slightly even at this. As though she were a source of continuous quiet delight, like a fawn.
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Durand. I’ve heard of her,” he said ironically.
“Yes. And Mrs. Hardy, our other proprietress, is married to Captain Hardy.”
“Captain Hardy, did you say?”
While his words were all but uninflected and his face betrayed nothing, the quality of his interest had sharpened so intensely she could feel it.
“Yes. They have been all that is good and proper and I feel safe and welcome here. I expect you will, too. I will go and tell Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand and everyone who helped you up the stairs you lived through the night, so that they may rejoice, too. But I passed the interview for admittance, Mr. Hawkes, and you have not yet had yours.”
It was both a dare and a bit of a tease.
He tipped his head thoughtfully. “An interview is the price for the pleasure of staying here?”
“A rather exacting interview.”
“Splendid . . .” he paused to exhale an elegant ribbon of smoke “. . . as I always make an excellent impression.”
His smile this time was crooked, wicked, and self-deprecating.
He had more confidence than any human she’d ever met. Part of it was because he was male, another part of it was because he was gorgeous, and the rest was clearly born of something she could not possibly guess at. Because by rights being stabbed would have given most men pause. He behaved as though surviving getting stabbed was something he simply knew how to do, the way he knew how to get his shirt on.
But he was too sure of her, and too sure of his charm, and she thought he deserved to get a sense of her, too.
She pivoted and made for the door, then paused. “You called for your mama last night,” she said softly.
She held his shocked gaze for a moment, then she arched a single eyebrow and gracefully backed from the room and closed the door.
Chapter Twelve
Hawkes remained frozen, staring at the closed door.
And after a moment he gave a soft, stunned laugh.
If they’d been fencing, that was the moment she’d flipped the épée right out of his hand.
He was frankly winded. By both her precise, gentle piss-taking, which he loved and deserved, and the implication of what he’d apparently muttered last night.
As it turned out, he could be hurt. And therewerepeople he’d loved, and that’s what he’d called out for at his weakest.
He missed his bloody mother and she’d died while he was in prison.
Odd how Mrs. Gallagher witnessed more of his wounds just last night than any other human had in the last several decades.
Brundage had used many of the right words to describe her. She was beautiful and charming and she had wit. She seemed clever. But never from what Brundage had said would he have conjured the woman in his room this morning, any more than the word “blue” could fully conjure the sky.
Why had he done it—given her his real name? He’d a mere heartbeat’s worth of time to consider and he’d decided it worth watching to see whether her face betrayed suspicion. Or if at any time she’d heard of Mr. Hawkes in association with Brundage.
It remained possible she would have heard of a certain Christian Hawkes somehow, despite the fact that he’d been in prison when Brundage had courted and won her. But Englishmen named Hawkes were hardly scarce, and he certainly wasn’t related to all of them.
