Page 109 of A Convenient Fiction

A glint of heat shone in his gaze. “Come here.”

She moved closer to him, her pulse quickening.

He curved one large hand about her waist before bending his head and kissing her. Heat flared between them as it always did, weakening her knees and flooding her veins with warmth.

And suddenly it didn’t matter that he hadn’t said it back. That he might not love her as she loved him. All that mattered was that she was his wife, and that she was in his arms.

Sometime later, she rose from their bed and slipped back on her clothes. Alex was asleep on his stomach amid the crumpled sheets, the bare skin of his muscled shoulders and back rendered golden by the sunlight that filtered through the curtained window. He looked vulnerable in sleep. No longer wolfish or dangerous. His body was relaxed, his dark hair wildly disheveled.

She brushed her own hair into some semblance of order and pinned it at her nape before returning to the sitting room desk to compose a letter to her aunt and brother. It wasn’t a lengthy missive. She’d already written Teddy from Paris, telling him all about the channel crossing and the railway journey through France. Now, she simply needed to inform him of what they’d discovered at the distillery.

It didn’t come easily. Her every instinct told her to protect her brother. To cast events in a positive light in order to save him from distress.

But Alex was right.

Despite his infirmity, Teddy was no longer a boy. He was a man. She must begin to treat him like one. And if that meant upsetting him on occasion with the grim facts of the family finances and business, then so be it.

When she’d finished her letter, she sealed it and carefully wrote out the family’s address at Bramble Cottage. It was nearly three o’clock. Still early enough to catch the post.

She ducked back into the bedroom and leaned down to whisper into Alex’s ear. “I’m going down to the front desk to post a letter.”

He turned his head on the pillow, his eyes opening a fraction. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”

“There’s no need.” Laura pressed a quick kiss to his stubble-roughened cheek. He reached out for her, but she evaded his grasp. “I’ll be back directly.”

Their hotel was small but fashionable. It was run by an Englishman and his French wife, and appeared to be patronized primarily by well-to-do couples on summer holiday. There were several already waiting at the front desk when Laura entered the lobby, some to check in and others to check out.

She squeezed into an empty spot beside a bespectacled gentleman who was signing the register, and set her letter on the counter.

“Is that for the post, madame?” the clerk asked.

“It is.” Laura pushed the letter to him with her fingertips. “I’m not too late, am I?”

“No, madame.” He took her letter, bowing to her before moving off to help another guest.

Laura turned to leave.

The gentleman at her side cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

She gave him a questioning glance. He was a respectable-looking man. Even handsome, after a fashion, with a slim build, brown hair, and light blue eyes. He regarded her solemnly from behind his silver-framed spectacles.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I couldn’t help but notice your ring.” His gaze dropped to her left hand, where her ruby glinted against her skin. “That’s a very distinctive stone.”

A lady came to stand beside him. She was tall and svelte, with magnificent auburn hair. Her blue-green eyes followed his. “Yes. Quite distinctive. And very beautiful.”

Laura felt a flicker of unease. There were thieves on the continent. Alex had warned her to keep her wits about her. She took a step back. “Thank you. I certainly think so.”

“Are you English?” The lady had a voice like a crisp apple. Rather like a schoolmistress. A British schoolmistress, at that.

“I am,” Laura said. “As are you, I presume.”

“Indeed,” the gentleman replied. “We’ve recently come down from Paris, by way of London.” He paused before introducing himself. “I’m Thomas Finchley. And this is my wife, Jenny. We’re here on our honeymoon.”

Laura stared at him. “Thomas Finchley? Of Finchley and Fothergill?”

Mr. Finchley didn’t look at all surprised that she knew who he was. “That’s correct.”