Page 44 of Who’s That Earl

Instinctively, Thomas groped the boots he held. Empty. Damn and blast. The weapon must have fallen out when Jane had tossed his things to him, in the mad dash to hide all evidence of what had really transpired in that room.

“Mine.” Jane reached out with her free hand and plucked the knife from Dougan’s grasp. Thomas sucked in a breath, fearing one or both of them might slice off a few fingers in the exchange. But once more, Jane surprised him. Though he still could not see her face, he watched her handle the blade with surprising dexterity. “I thought it best to arm myself and lock my chamber door, under the circumstances.”

Thomas relaxed, just a little. Dougan seemed entirely satisfied by Jane’s explanations, and if the same could not be said for Mrs. Murdoch, she appeared ready to give up the interrogation for now, assured that Jane was at least temporarily safe. Gesturing impatiently at Dougan, she turned toward the door, intending to leave the room.

Two things happened, not unrelated, which evaporated that momentary illusion of triumph.

The wardrobe door creaked open, seemingly of its own volition. Startled, he looked down to see Athena nosing her way into the crack. When he flicked his fingertips to shoo her away, a low growl rumbled in the dog’s throat.

Mrs. Murdoch, her attention evidently caught by either the movement or the sound, paused on the threshold and frowned. “’Tis all well and good to have another man on hand to keep watch o’ things. But where is Mr. Sutherland now?”

Jane’s head turned as she followed the housekeeper’s gaze to the wardrobe, giving him a glimpse of her worried expression. If Mrs. Murdoch took it upon herself to investigate what the dog had found, that would be the end of it. Though his Jane was unquestionably a creative genius, if the housekeeper opened the wardrobe to find a naked man hiding there, a pair of boots clutched to his chest and the voluminous skirts of Jane’s dresses covering what they could of the rest of him, even the famed Robin Ratliff could never concoct a story that would mollify her.

“Athena, come,” Jane ordered, though the dog paid her no mind. “He wasn’t in his rooms when Esme brought his breakfast, you said? Have you checked the kitchen, Mrs. Murdoch?” She glided between the housekeeper and the wardrobe, ushering both her and Dougan toward the door. “A man of his size, up all night...I’m sure he must’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

His belly had the nerve to rumble loudly in confirmation, at which sound Athena gave a startled yip and flattened her ears.

Finally, he heard the door latch behind Dougan and Mrs. Murdoch. To his surprise, Jane did not turn the key in the lock but collapsed against the oak panel, barely containing her laughter. After studying her mistress for a moment, head cocked to the side in a quizzical pose, Aphrodite trotted over to aid Athena in the investigation of the wardrobe.

After counting to three, Thomas pushed open both doors of the wardrobe and stepped out into the room. The dogs skittered away at first, then snuffled past him into the wardrobe, and before he could stop them, they had found the breeches he’d dropped on the floor of the cabinet and begun a vigorous game of tug-of-war.

“Here, now. Here.” Jane managed to choke out the admonition as she pushed away from the door and came to his rescue. With a sly glance at his person, she slipped past to snatch the dogs’ prize from them. “Maybe you’d better put this on for now,” she said, tossing his greatcoat in his direction.

He had to drop the boots in order to catch it. They landed on the floor, thud-thud, narrowly missing his toes. The noise earned him a reproving frown, though it quickly softened.

“A little worse for wear, I’m afraid.” She poked her fingers through a row of holes in one thigh of the breeches, made by sharp canine teeth. “Esme’s quite skilled at mending,” she reassured him. “But they’ll have to do for now.” After depositing them on the rumpled bed, she began to walk toward the door, re-braiding her hair with brisk, methodical movements as she went. “While you put them on, I’ll go down and try to keep Agnes busy long enough for you to sneak back to the gatehouse and get properly dressed. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

“Late?” Properly dressed? He’d been thinking rather fondly of the prospect of collapsing facedown on a bed for a few hours. Preferably not alone.

She glanced over her shoulder and this time did not look away. “For church. It’s Sunday morning—or had you forgotten?” He must have grimaced, for a wry smile turned up one corner of her mouth. “I daresay it will do us both good.”

Was she that eager to put the night’s activities behind them? He gave a curt nod, not precisely intending to convey assent. “I’ll have my knife back, before you go.”

She stepped closer and laid the deadly instrument on his outstretched palm. “I hope you don’t intend to do anything desperate.”

Last night, yesterday, she’d opened herself to him, showed him parts of herself she’d never shown another soul—and for once, he wasn’t just thinking of her body. He thought he’d been prepared for the trouble this morning would bring. The inevitable awkwardness. The realization, however painful, that things between them had changed.

But this playfulness was worse, far worse than he had let himself imagine. The Jane he remembered—silly and witty and clever—was still inside her, waiting to be set free. And he was more than halfway to falling head over heels in love with her.

Again.

“That depends,” he said, twisting the blade to catch a beam of sunlight. “How dull are the parson’s sermons?”

She laughed and shook her head, charmingly torn between honesty and irreverence. “Deathly.”

Chapter 17

Standing in the otherwise empty Great Hall, Jane raised a gloved hand to the hair tightly coiled beneath her hood, then smoothed that same hand down the soft drape of her black woolen pelisse, taking stock after the night’s adventures.

Her body was as sound and stout as it had ever been, perfectly unchanged...except for the mark left by one of Thomas’s more fierce kisses, which was thankfully hidden beneath her bodice, and the not-unpleasant ache between her thighs. If her mind was not exactly sharper this morning, as she had hoped—she had not reckoned with the effect of very little sleep—neither had her wits flown entirely.

As for her heart? Her fingertips settled over her left breast. Perfectly steady, thank God. Last night’s worries had been for naught. Last night need have nothing to do with today.

Or tomorrow.

She drew a deep breath and strode across the flagstone and through the inner bailey to the courtyard, where the castle staff had assembled beneath gray skies for their weekly march down to the village for Sunday services: Dougan in his much-patched kilt, and Mrs. Murdoch still reproving, Esme anxious to be reunited with her family, and Cook and the scullery maid shivering in the January air, missing the heat of the kitchen. Dougan had already raised the portcullis, so Jane gestured for the little band to start on its way.

Just then the door to the gatehouse grated open. Ducking his head beneath the lintel, Thomas stepped out to join them, the scarlet of his uniform stunningly bright against the gray stone and wintry landscape. Jane’s fingers curled into the skirt of her pelisse, and her previously steady pulse kicked up a notch, just as it had when she’d been seventeen. He hadn’t any right to look so handsome.