Page 27
“I don’t wish to impose upon our friends or endanger them,” she murmured against his shirt.
That he well understood, hence his disappearance into England’s unsavory underbelly. “I don’t either, but we don’t have a choice at this juncture.”
The urge to kiss the crown of her head overwhelmed him, and Shelby fisted his other hand into his thigh.
She smelled like clean linen and lavender, with a hint of warm spices–cinnamon and nutmeg–clinging to her skin, as if she had just pulled a fresh batch of cakes from the oven. They mingled with her soft warmth.
Soon, her even breathing revealed she had fallen asleep.
Closing his eyes, Shelby indulged in another kiss. He gently pressed his mouth to her silky hair. Just for an instant lest he wake her.
A vice tightened his chest.
How long had he wanted to hold her like this?
Too bloody long.
And he may never have the chance to do so again.
He swallowed hard, his breath uneven as she sighed against him, soft and trusting.
The moment slipped by too quickly, too fragile to hold.
He must protect her—not just from Desmond but from himself. No fool, he recognized the extreme danger surrounding them. And the truth gnawed at him.
Shelby did not know how to keep Roxina safe.
NINE
Mrs. Beale’s cottage
Montpelier Row, Blackheath
That night—half-past nine
One misstep, one wrong move… and everything would be lost.
Slouching and still wearing Shelby’s sailor coat with the collar pulled high, Roxina tucked her chin to her chest, swiftly unfastened Mrs. Beale’s gate, and slipped inside. The latch gave a soft metallic click, loud in the night’s hush.
A few random raindrops speckled her and the ground, as if the fickle sky could not decide if it wanted to release a deluge or simply tease with a sprinkle once in a while.
Certain Desmond or his men watched her every move, her pulse thrummed a frantic rhythm as she hurried across the pavers, the chill of the evening seeping through her gown. She knocked softly on the door, her fingers trembling inside her ruined gloves.
Roxina silently prayed that Mrs. Beale wouldn’t slam the door in her face. She had, after all, promised to dine with the elderly woman—only to abandon her plans. Though their friendship had strengthened, Roxina’s impending request was so outrageous it teetered on the edge of lunacy.
Still, what choice did she have?
None.
Somewhere in the night behind her, Shelby hid among the shifting shadows, a silent sentinel, waiting to see if Mrs. Beale would take part in their outrageous scheme. Laced with the heady fragrance of lilacs and the faint, wild tang of hawthorn, the darkness curled around Roxina, both friend and foe.
Though soft lamplight glowed beyond Mrs. Beale’s curtains, no answer came, and despair scratched at Roxina’s chest. Hunching lower into the coat, she knocked again, a little harder this time.
Taut with silence and dread, each second crawled by as she awaited a reply.
“Who’s there?” came Mrs. Beale’s cautious query, the voice muffled and warbled through the wood.
Oh, thank God.
