Page 30 of The Right to Remain Single

“For what? He doesn’t care about Christmas, and his allowance is paid directly into his bank.” Thomasina sat up, wrapping the coverlet around herself. “Brother Antoine seems worried, don’t you think? Even frightened. I thought he was just a nervous sort, but maybe it’s because Sam is up to no good, and he doesn’t want to be involved.”

“Could be. There’s no legend of buried treasure under the wall, or anything of the sort?” James asked.

“There was a hoard of Roman coins, but it was dug up a hundred years ago. It belongs to a collector in York.”

“Max didn’t kill anyone to guard it?”

“No, for what use would it be to him? Besides, he guards women,” she said. “Right now, he is guarding me.” Not from you, though. You’re taking care of that just fine yourself. She was doing her best not to be annoyed, but she wasn’t much of a wanton temptress if a man ignored her in favor of either sleeping or pondering Sam Furbelow’s motives.

She must simply harden her heart against disappointment.

“You’re a treasure for certain,” James said, and her heart melted again. “Well! That makes our next step clear.” He stood, went over to the mantelpiece for a candle, and lit it with a taper from the dying fire.

She sat up. “What next step?”

“To talk to Brother Antoine.” His nightcap had fallen off, and his hair stuck out every which way in the flickering candlelight.

“In the middle of the night?”

“What better time? We’ll get him alone without Furbelow knowing.” He tugged his breeches on and stuck his feet into a pair of slippers. “Come on, get up.”

It suddenly occurred to her that he’d said we. “You want me to come with you?” It was just the sort of thing a Warren woman would do, but not in the least like a man—any man—to suggest it.

“Your presence will make mine seem less threatening to Brother Antoine. I hope to persuade him to cooperate with us.” He came over to the bed, flashing a grin in the darkness. “Worried about the proprieties, Miss Not-So-Good Warren?”

“No!” She threw off the covers and slid off the bed. Her nightdress rode up, showing her bare legs.

He chuckled. “You should be. Where’s your wrapper?” He snatched it from the end of the bed and held it up for her. She put her arms through. He tugged on the sash, pulling her close, and kissed her—then released her to tie the sash. “Come, my darling temptress, lead the way.”

* * *

By now, James had acknowledged to himself that he would give in to temptation sooner or later. She was simply too lovely, too desirable to resist. And, he reasoned, he would do more harm than good by refusing. She wanted him, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings again.

That he would hurt his own badly by giving in was obvious. She didn’t wish to marry, and he intended to honor that wish, no matter what—unless, of course, he got her with child, but he would do his utmost to prevent that.

They tiptoed hand in hand down the dark corridor, halting at the last door before the service stair. Evidently, Mrs. Day had a poor opinion of French monks, putting him in a tiny room of the sort used for unimportant guests. Fortunately, Samuel Furbelow’s was in the other wing, so they needn’t fear waking him.

James put an ear to the door. “I hear his voice.”

Her eyes widened. “Are they plotting together?”

“I don’t think so. He’s speaking French.” Slowly, James opened the door a tiny crack and listened.

It dawned on them both at once. They shared an astonished glance.

James sighed and pushed the door open. The monk was kneeling on the bare floor by the bed, and now he had switched from French to Latin: the Lord’s Prayer.

Standing at the end of the bed with a bemused expression was Max. His ghostly gaze took in their clasped hands, and his spectral mouth broke into a smile.

James waited, unwilling to interrupt. The monk repeated the phrase about delivery from evil several times before finally finishing the prayer.

“Brother Antoine,” said James.

The monk whirled and lurched to his feet. “Ah, mon Dieu! Why are you here?”

James motioned Thomasina into the room and shut the door behind him. “We apologize for the intrusion, but we must speak to you without the possibility of interruption by Mr. Furbelow. This seemed the most practical way.”

The monk’s appalled gaze took in the sight of Thomasina in her nightclothes. “This is improper,” he said, and then, looking from one to the other of them just as Max had done, came to the obvious conclusion, which was more improper still.