Page 60 of The Smuggler’s Escape

Chapter 14

Richard Boltwood was an inconsiderate brute, and he knew it.

Unfortunately, he had no notion what, to Noelle, would amount to consideration, except perhaps leaving her alone. He had no intention of doing anything so contrary to his own desires, so he wrapped her in his arms instead and held her close, stroking her back and making what he hoped were soothing noises.

He had been quite appallingly rude to her at luncheon. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have bothered her, but she had become ridiculously sensitive in his absence. She had hardly sparred with him at all, and as for that hilarious comment about prostitutes . . . Not that he had any objection to such an ambition, but she had no idea what she was talking about.

Perhaps doing something mannerly would help, if only a little.

“By the way,” he said, when her paroxysm of sobbing had abated somewhat, “I owe you an apology, Noelle.”

That quieted her even more, thank the Lord.

“I was rude to you at the Crown. I shouldn’t have let my anger govern me, and I apologize.”

Noelle pulled away and wiped her eyes with her gloved hand. Richard gave her his handkerchief. She blew her nose, handed it back to him, and took his arm willingly enough.

“What earthly reason did you have for being angry?” she demanded. “I had offered myself to you for a paltry necklace. You should have been in transports of glee!”

“Once I realized the advantages to me of your willingness to demean yourself, I was transported.” He shouldn’t have said that. “Gleeful doesn’t begin to describe it.” That probably made it worse.

But she was regaining her fighting spirit. “You deserve to roast in hell.”

That was more like it. “I know, I know, and now that you are to become steeped in sin as well, you will be permitted to accompany me there.” He supposed he should pay her a compliment. “I’m sure you’ll fit right in. All the truly entertaining people are to be found in hell.”

The jest didn’t take well. By the look on her face, she contemplated turning the spit on which he roasted. Should he have termed her enjoyable instead? Probably not. She would take that amiss, too. This politeness and consideration business was not only tiresome, but dashed difficult. Richard hoped he wouldn’t have to go on doing it forever.

That thought sobered him. If he didn’t succeed in tying the traitor’s hands without causing a scandal, there might not be much of a forever for himself and Noelle. He could remove her to Amsterdam, he supposed, but soon enough the French would march in and take it. Austria? Italy? All very well, but . . .

If only she would confide in him. Unfortunately, the only reason he could think of for her reticence—for her plan to flee—was that she was indeed a spy.

He sighed. “As for my reaction to your flirtation with Lord Harry, that was churlish of me. I know you’re not in love with him.” He didn’t, not really, but he saw no point in confessing to that particular weakness.

“I flirted with him because you deserved it,” Noelle said scornfully.

Richard let out a breath. “You may have noticed,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound so stiff, “that when I am hurt or angry, I become inconsiderate and rude. Not to suggest that I’m not already ill-mannered, but under certain circumstances I become worse. I will try to mend my ways.”

Noelle flapped her hand. “No, no, you needn’t change.”

“I have it on the best of authority that in order to win you, I must become considerate and polite.”

Noelle shook her head. Her curls danced against her cheeks. He lifted a finger to flick a curl, to caress that soft skin, but reluctantly withdrew his hand. Soon enough, he would get to enjoy her physical attributes again.

Noelle frowned. “What authority?”

“My mother and Johnny, the two people whose advice I value most.” Which wasn’t saying much, but at least he listened to these two before going his own merry way.

Usually merry, that is.

Noelle’s sigh echoed his sentiments. “That’s thoughtful of them, but it won’t make a difference. Be as rude as you like. Usually it doesn’t bother me, in fact I rather like it, but now it might make me angry, and I’d rather stay angry at you. It will make the inevitable—the inevitable—”

Damn it all, was she choking up again?

“Noelle.” He spoke softly, patiently too, he hoped. He thrust his handkerchief at her again.

“I’m not crying,” she said, refusing to take it. “I am not a watering-pot.”

“I know,” Richard replied caustically. “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”