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He answered with a groan of frustration. “I can’t.” The words sounded harsh in her ear but she understood the purity of the intent behind them. “I will not let you take such a risk, not when I can’t give you more than… than this.”
Knowing what it cost him to make such a sacrifice, she clung to him until the intensity of the moment subsided. Then she thought she should leave. She guessed it might make his recovery easier. But every time she tried to get up, he pulled her back into the warmth of his bed and his embrace and told her not to go quite yet.
“You’ll only drive yourself mad,” she told him, but eventually the tension in his body eased, and he fell so deeply asleep she didn’t want to move for fear she would disturb him.
She could have nodded off too. She’d been up most of the night. But she didn’t want to waste one second of their time together. Knowing she might never have this opportunity again, she was far happier watching him sleep.
She must’ve succumbed to exhaustion at some point, however, because the next thing she knew it was morning, and the sun seemed especially bright. When she felt the earl stir, she couldn’t help wondering how he was going to react to what they’d done—and what they hadn’t done. But she never got the chance to find out. Someone startled them both by banging on the door.
“My lord, Mr. Linley asked me to bring you word that he has fetched Mr. Tyndale from the mine, as you required. They are in the parlor.”
Cringing at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice, Rachel dared not move for fear she’d give her presence away.
The earl seemed far less fearful, of course. He rubbed his face and yawned before opening his eyes. “Thank you for alerting me,” he said. “I’ll be right down.”
When Mrs. Poulson’s steps faded, Rachel hopped out of bed. “I’m sorry. I-I fell asleep.”
He watched her pull on her nightdress and head to her own room.
“You will sleep in my bed from now on,” he told her before she could reach the door.
She gaped at him. “Don’t you think that will be… tempting fate?”
His gaze felt like a caress when it fell to her br**sts, and that caused a corresponding tingle.
“I will have as much of you as I can—while I can,” he said simply.
Her body grew warm, as if he were already touching her. “Yes, my lord.”
“And if I choose to give you gifts, to… do what I can, you will take what I offer, regardless of the cost.”
She felt her face heat as he got up, completely naked, in front of her. A respectable woman would glance away, but she’d grown brazen overnight. Remembering every kiss, every touch, she made no effort to hide the admiration or the longing that had brought her to his bed in the first place. “Don’t bother giving me expensive baubles, my lord. You are the only thing that matters to me,” she told him and fled.
After being singularly devoted to finding Katherine’s killer for the past two years, unable to think of anything else, Truman couldn’t concentrate on his conversation with Mr. Tyndale. Maybe he’d been dealing with the mystery for too long, had begun to despair of ever finding the answers he sought, but his heart wasn’t into yet another interview, even after what Rachel had told him about Wythe and Cutberth acting “secretive.” That could be nothing, so what would he find that he hadn’t found already? He’d followed up on so many false leads—and this one didn’t seem to hold much promise. Maybe Cutberth had played him false by trying to start a union behind his back, but that didn’t make him a thief. If he’d sold the Bruegel paintings, where was the money? Why was he still working at the mine?
Linley, sensing his distraction and probably attributing it to his having just got out of bed, took the lead, which allowed Truman to stand off to one side and gaze out the window as his mind wandered back to what had so recently transpired in his bedroom.
I love you. I think I’ve loved you since that day in the shop.
He’d made a mistake allowing Rachel into his bed last night. After what she’d been through, of course she felt like she loved him. He was the only stable thing in her world right now. He should never have given those emotions a physical aspect, should never have taken advantage of her innocence.
But she created such hunger in him. Even now, he felt a certain amount of frustration that he hadn’t been able to completely possess her since that one brief encounter—when her virginity had come as such a shock. He couldn’t give her up too soon, wouldn’t give her up.
“I-I haven’t noticed anything strange, Mr. Linley,” Tyndale said. “Mr. Wythe seems quite satisfied with Mr. Cutberth’s work.”
Mention of his cousin finally drew Truman’s attention to the conversation, especially when Linley, looking somewhat ill at ease, cleared his throat. “I’m not asking how Mr. Stanhope feels about Mr. Cutberth,” Linley explained. “I’m asking what you think.”
“Me? But I’m just the Fore-Overman. Surely the steward would be better able to assess Mr. Cutberth’s performance, given he deals with him on a more regular basis.”
“You work out of the same office, do you not?” Linley asked.
He twisted his hat in his lap. “Yes, sir.”
“I would say you have had more than enough opportunity to observe how he behaves, who he talks to, when he comes and goes.”
“Indeed, but…” Tyndale’s words dwindled off as he glanced toward the door.
Giving up his vigil at the window, Truman turned and stepped closer to him. “Is something wrong, Mr. Tyndale?”
“No! No, of course not.”
“I assure you that we are quite alone. As you know, Wythe is now living with you.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see Mr. Stanhope.”
“Who then? You seem concerned that you might be overheard.”
He adjusted his waistcoat. “Not really, sir. I just… I wondered if Mrs. Poulson was about. That’s all.”
“My housekeeper.”
“Yes. She visits us quite regularly, you know.”
“I see. And she carries tales of what’s going on at Blackmoor Hall, does she?”
When he didn’t answer, Truman knew it was true. He should’ve been able to guess she would. Mrs. Poulson had always been devoted to Wythe, had been supremely unhappy when he’d had Wythe move to Cosgrove House.
It made Truman uneasy to have such a high-level servant so devoutly loyal to someone else. He would like to be able to rely on his own staff. But Wythe had saved his life. Truman couldn’t be thankless enough to sack Poulson.
