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He covered her mouth. But this time his kiss wasn’t gentle or soft. It spoke of a man’s desire. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and angled his head so that his lips all but enveloped hers, and her silly body arched into him. She wanted this. She craved this. Intellect and reason fled her brain.
He stepped back so suddenly she nearly fell. His face was hard and flushed. “Let me in tonight, Emeline.”
He left her room before she could reply.
As she sank into her pile of ruined clothes, she had a blinding realization. She’d lost whatever control she’d ever had over this affair.
“CRADDOCK HUNG HIMSELF a month ago,” Lord Vale said later that afternoon.
Sam dragged his thoughts away from Emeline—her skin, her breasts, the fact that she didn’t want to see him again—and focused on the problem of the 28th. “You’d think that Thornton would’ve known that Craddock was already dead.”
Vale shrugged. “Thornton didn’t say when he’d last seen the man.”
“True.”
“Who’s next on your list to question?”
Sam grimaced. “No one.”
It was raining outside, which had sent their hostess into a flurry of despair. Apparently, Lady Hasselthorpe had planned an afternoon expedition to view the ruins of an abbey, a famous local sight. Sam was privately relieved at the rain. He would never have been able to hike over the hills today, not at least without a good deal of pain, and making an excuse would’ve drawn Rebecca’s attention. He was beginning to realize that his sister saw much more than he’d given her credit for. Having to explain to her why his feet were in ribbons would’ve been awkward indeed.
But instead the majority of the house party had retreated to a large sitting room at the back of the house. Emeline was noticeably absent, of course—she was obviously avoiding him—but most everyone else was in attendance. Some of their number amused themselves playing cards; others were reading or talking in small groups.
Like Vale and Sam.
“You don’t have anyone else to question at all?” Vale looked incredulous.
Sam grit his teeth. “I’m happy to take suggestions.”
Vale pursed his lips. “Ah...”
“Assuming you have any ideas of your own?”
“Well...” Vale found a sudden interest in the rain-drenched windows.
“Thought not,” Sam muttered.
Both men gazed at the windows as if transfixed by the terrible weather. Vale drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in an incredibly annoying manner.
Finally, the viscount inhaled. “If Thornton was the traitor, he’d have to have a reason to betray the 28th.”
Sam didn’t take his eyes from the window, strangely unsurprised that the other man’s thoughts had run along the same lines as his. “You definitely suspect him, then?”
“Don’t you?”
Sam thought of the unease he’d felt since meeting Thornton again in London. He sighed. “I might suspect him, but I can’t think why he’d betray the entire regiment. Any ideas?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Vale said. “Perhaps he was growing weary of all the peas porridge we had to eat on that wretched march.”
The viscount seemed to like him. There was something villainous in pretending friendship with a man when you’d just made love to that man’s fiancée. Sam would’ve avoided him, but Vale had sought him out as soon as he’d entered the sitting room.
“There’s always money, I suppose,” Vale mused, “but I don’t see how killing an entire regiment would benefit Thornton unless he was paid by the French.”
“Does Thornton speak French?” Sam asked idly.
“Haven’t a clue.” Vale drummed his fingers for a moment, apparently considering Thornton’s linguistic abilities. “Not that it matters—the note was written in English, you said. And besides, plenty of French speak English.”
“Was he in debt?” Sam watched as Rebecca tilted her head to listen to another girl. She’d found at least one lady to talk to.
