Page 24 of The Redemption of the Shrew

She kicked him again, weakly now. He was a Catholic. He wouldn’t swear in such a way unless he truly meant it, would he?

“Do not kick me. Upon my immortal soul, Gloriana. I swear.”

She subsided against his chest. She had to believe him. She had no choice.

His arms came around her and held her, comforting and warm and safe.

What was wrong with her? Nothing about him comforted her. She mustered her will and pushed away.

~ ~ ~

Regretfully, but relieved she had initiated this withdrawal, Philippe released her. He would gladly have held her forever. No half-measures would do. The alternative to permanent possession of Gloriana Warren was never to see her again. He had chosen that option and preferred to stick to it, but it wasn’t easy to resist a woman who shot her way into one’s bedchamber. Ah, she was magnificent.

But she was not for him. He fetched a handkerchief from his dressing table and offered it to her.

The last time he’d tried to give her a handkerchief, she’d slapped his hand away. This time she accepted it and blew her nose.

He refused to let it encourage him in any way. He was used to shedding the pain she caused—like water running off an oilskin and disappearing down a gutter. He tugged off the cravat, which her rain of blows had crushed.

“I’m sorry,” she said thickly. “I apologize for accusing you.” She wiped her eyes and sniffled.

He had never seen Gloriana so abject, but it wouldn’t last long. He might as well take advantage of this rare contrition. “I shall treasure this rare occurrence—an apology from Gloriana Warren.”

Immediately her head came up. “I had a valid reason for suspecting you.”

He couldn’t suppress a chuckle. The old Gloriana was back. “True, I used to be a thief, and I had an opportunity to take your so beautiful book.” He tossed the crumpled cravat onto the floor and gestured her to one of the bergère chairs before the fire. “And you dislike me so very much.”

Crossly, she sat down. “I didn’t want it to be you.”

He took the other chair and disposed himself at his ease—or the appearance of it. He gave her a look. “No?”

“No, of course not. Despite our differences, I would rather not hate you.”

He didn’t believe this, but he let it pass. He wished he didn’t want, oh so very fiercely, to question her about their supposed differences, but he had sworn to sever all contact with her and must keep to that decision or go mad.

“Hatred is pointless and exhausting,” she said. “Not only that, Julian cares for you, and Miles and Melinda value your friendship.” She sniffled. “I wonder if Sophie will still be friends with me.”

Most probably, but Gloriana didn’t deserve reassurance. “You should have thought of that before you came storming in here to accuse me.”

“And you shouldn’t have given me the cut direct,” she shot back.

True, it was a wasted gesture, because it hadn’t succeeded in getting rid of her for good. “So. Now that we have traded compliments, let us pass to identifying the true culprit.”

“How?” She sniffled again. “I trust all my servants, and Miles questioned his and got nowhere, but perhaps it was one of them.”

“No, no. It is obvious who stole it. If you did not dislike me, you would have seen it immediately.”

“What do you mean?” She twisted her hands together. “The only obvious culprit was you.”

“Come now,” Philippe said. “Who else was in the room? Who else saw you put the book away? Who is a collector of antiquities? And who doubtless wants his revenge?”

Chapter 6

“Lord Hythwick.” Gloriana stared. “No, he was unconscious.”

“I do not think so,” Philippe said. “He rolled over. He was facing you when you put the Book of Hours away.”

Gloriana thought back, remembering with a shudder the gleam of hatred in Lord Hythwick’s eyes. “But . . . but he’s a wealthy man. He could buy a similar Book of Hours if he wished to. Why take the risk of stealing mine?”