“Violante.” He brushed the braid aside and shoved away the layers of fabric until he found her.
She laughed, one hand on her belly.
He touched her chin. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no.” She laughed so hard her words came out like a hiccup.
He didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. Watching her laugh so freely and feeling her soft, warm body while he was on top of her was no laughing matter at all. He dared to brush a wayward golden curl from her flushed face to tuck it behind her ear. She smelled of lilies and lavender, and he wished to drown in her sweetness.
She stopped laughing. Her violet gaze was fixed on him. She was so serious and quiet he swore he could hear her heartbeat thumping against his own chest. Or maybe it was his own heartbeat. She parted her plush lips as he stroked her chin with his thumb. None of them moved because something between them had changed forever in a split second. They were no longer playing. No longer joking. No longer friends.
This—whatever the flutter in his chest was—was serious. When had things changed between them? He couldn’t tell. Or maybe they hadn’t changed. Maybe it was he who started to notice something different. He’d always been attracted to her, but there was a new depth to his feelings, a new type of ache. Hellfire. He wasn’t making any sense.
He stroked her cheek again with his fingertips. The delicate curve of her jaw was tempting as well. Every curve of her body was tempting. He could spend the night tracing each one of them with his fingers, lips, and tongue.
She drew in a breath that pushed her breasts against his chest, sending a jolt of heated sensations throughout his body. Their lips were half an inch away. He tilted his head and brushed the softest of kisses against her pretty mouth. The ache that had tormented him for weeks burned more fiercely. She kissed him back, pressing her velvety lips against his. A shiver went down his back as she caressed his jaw with gentle fingers. The tip of her tongue teased his bottom lip.
He wasn’t prepared for the intense pleasure shooting through him. The shock was so intense it broke the spell. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t touch her. He shouldn’t be on top of her.
He scampered off her, careful not to hurt her with his knees and elbows. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t…”
She put her hands on his biceps as if to stop him from moving. “Keith?—”
“I’m sorry.” He rushed out of her room and closed the door behind him for good measure. What the hell was he thinking?
He owed Mr. Sharpe his life. The least he could do was to respect him and his daughter in their own house. No more reading sessions. No more unchaperoned walks through the forest. No more time spent together alone. He would stay away from her. The thought was like a dark stiletto blade twisting inhis soul, but he had no other choice. If Mr. Sharpe had entered Violante’s room and seen them, he would have been furious, and rightfully so.
Restless, Keith thudded downstairs and left the house through the back door, not caring about grabbing a cloak. The chilly night air did nothing to lower his rising temperature. He sped up along the gravel path although he didn’t have a destination. Any place that was far from Violante’s scented bedroom and her warmth was fine. Mr. Sharpe would kick him out if he knew. Whatever feeling Keith harboured for Violante needed to be restrained.
He slowed his pace when the orange glow of the oil lamps from the old barn flickered through the darkness. He hadn’t realised he’d gone that far. Hearing about lost sheep and farmers’ disputes sounded like a good idea to get distracted from the tingle in his body. He stopped as he spotted a cart burdened with barrels. It was odd that a farmer brought a heavy cart to a meeting. What was inside the barrels? Ale? The armed man and the loaded cart didn’t bode well.
He paused next to a corner of the barn where two wooden boards formed a gap wide enough for him to see without being seen. Mr. Sharpe stood in the middle of a circle of men. All of them carried guns. All of them were strangers. Aside from Mr. Sharpe, Paul, and a few other men who worked on the farm, the others were men Keith had never seen. Paul sat in a corner. Deep worry lines marked his brow.
“This is an opportunity we can’t let go,” Mr. Sharpe said, shaking a fist. “It won’t happen again. It’s a risk, but we must act now.”
The scarred man Keith had seen in the hallway rose. He had the same stance as Mr. Sharpe’s, perhaps another former soldier. “Time is of the essence. Sir Howard will start the celebration at noon. Twelve members of parliament haveconfirmed their presence. The Duke of Devon and his family will be present as well.”
Murmurs spread. The others nodded.
“We’re delivering justice,” Mr. Sharpe said in a hard voice Keith had heard only when Mr. Sharpe had talked about Sir Howard.
Keith inched back. The nagging feeling he’d experienced a few times when in the presence of Mr. Sharpe became a certainty. It seemed impossible, but it was the only explanation.
“How much are we carrying?” another man asked.
The scarred man took his time as if pausing from a dramatic effect. “Thirty-six barrels in honour of Guy Fawkes.”
A round of raucous laughter spread. Thirty-six barrels. Guy Fawkes, the man who had plotted to blow up the parliament two centuries ago in the infamous Gunpowder Plot.
“Finest quality,” the scarred mad added. “This is French white powder. Ten times more powerful than the normal gunpowder. Getting it has been difficult, but we have it now.”
A round of laughter swept the barn as a chill dipped into Keith’s bones. Ten times more powerful than normal gunpowder? He didn’t remember his mother, but she would be alive and with him if it hadn’t been for the Fenians and their obsession with blowing things up. They hadn’t solved any of their problems with their bombs. They’d only fabricated orphans.
If he were going to be honest, he’d never really hated the Fenians. His mother’s death had been a tragic fatality, and he’d been too young and too busy surviving to care about politics. But the situation was different now. These people planned to blow up a mansion full of people in cold blood, aware that innocents like his mother would die. The story of his life would be repeated for others. Orphans, widows, widowers, desperateparents, loved ones dead. The ripples of the consequences of a bombing reached places no one could foresee.
He didn’t realise he’d dug his fingernails into his palms until blood trickled through his fingers. Murderers. These people terrorised England with their bombs and attacks. Whatever rightful claims they had, they’d forfeited the moment they started killing innocent people. But…Keith rubbed his eyes as if wanting to wake up. Mr. Sharpe would never, ever get involved with the Fenians. It wasn’t possible. Mr. Sharpe wasn’t a murderer. There had to be another explanation. Perhaps Mr. Sharpe was only pretending to support them.
Paul was the only one who didn’t laugh. He stood up on trembling legs. “Gentlemen.”
