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It was time to haul himself ashore.
Squaring his shoulders, Julian turned, crossing over and perching on the edge of the bed—intentionally waiting for Aurora to set the tenor of the conversation.
"Your friend seems a most interesting man," she began, drawing up her knees and propping her chin atop them. "Quick, effectual, and loyal."
"He is."
"You're not going to tell me anything." The blunt assessment was issued as calmly as if she were commenting on the weather.
Julian frowned, taken aback by his wife's unexpectedly calm demeanor. He'd expected anger, defiance, maybe even resentment. But not this tranquil appraisal of the obvious.
What the hell was she up to?
"No, I'm not," he responded, using the same straightforward delivery as she.
"Why not?"
"Because this is one of those situations I alluded to when I warned you there'd be exploits you were prohibited from taking part in. Exploits that involved danger—danger I intend to protect you from."
"On the contrary," Aurora countered, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "When you spoke of the exploits you intended to protect me from, you said I'd be excluded only when leaving me behind would keep me safe. Obviously such is not the case this time. 'Twould be impossible to leave me behind; Mr. Camden wouldn't turn over anything belonging to my great-grandfather to anyone but a Huntley. Further, there's been no real journey involved—we've traveled but one shire away. Yet, although we're still in England you're plainly at risk. Which, as I've learned from my own past experience, puts me at risk, too, simply by virtue of the fact that I share your name as well as your proximity to the danger. Thus, this is nothing like the situations you described when you offered for me. Therefore, you have no choice but to keep your promise to protect me by telling me what—or who—is threatening us. Because in this instance, whether you like the idea or not, the status of your future directly affects mine."
For a long moment Julian simply stared. Then he began to laugh.
"Is that your way of saying you still refuse to tell me anything?" Aurora demanded.
"No. This is my way of saying your logic is infallible. In fact, had Napoleon been lucky enough to have had you for an advisor, I shudder to think what England's fate might have been."
Aurora's whole face lit up and she leaned forward, excitement dancing in her eyes. "I'm bursting with curiosity. Who is Macall? Why is he after you? Why is he so hell-bent on exacting vengeance?"
Julian's laughter intensified. "Eavesdropping, were we?"
"I'm quite good at it."
"You're quite good at many things."
"Yes I know."
Abruptly Julian's laughter vanished. The flush on Aurora's cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes—damn. There was that bloody uncontrollable urge to drag her to the sheets and make love to her again.
Aurora perceived the direction his thoughts had taken. He saw the realization on her face, heard it in the slight catching of her breath. Teasingly, she leaned closer, giving him a siren's smile. "Soon," she promised, echoing the vow he'd made earlier. "First, tell me about Macall."
"Blackmail, soleil?"
"Incentive, Merlin."
"Fair enough." Julian captured her fingers in his, sobering as he contemplated what he was about to say. "Gerald Macall and his brother Brady were lowlife privateers. They made their money stealing goods and smuggling them to whoever paid the most."
"Were?" Aurora asked, brows raised.
"Yes. Brady is dead. I killed him."
"Why?"
"Ten months ago the two of them seized a painting—one that would have brought them a huge sum. I intercepted it and returned it to its rightful owner. The Macalls came after me. Brady drew his sword, tried to run me through. My pistol was quicker and far more lethal. The bullet pierced his heart, killed him instantly. Gerald swore then and there that I'd never live out my days—he'd see to that. Evidently he's chosen now to realize his threats."
"To whom did the painting belong?"
"To a very gracious Italian count who, unfortunately, had become a touch feebleminded in his old age. Unbeknownst to him, his butler was a disreputable cur who stole the painting—never thinking the count would notice its disappearance—and sold it to privateers for a handsome sum. The count turned out to be less feeble than his unsavory butler had thought. He not only figured out that his painting had been stolen, he also deduced the identity of the thief. His butler was thrown in prison and a huge reward was offered by the count for the painting's return. It evidently had sentimental as well as material value—his deceased wife had presented it to him upon the birth of their first grandchild. It was the pride of his collection, not to mention being worth a small fortune. The Macalls were hired by some dishonest bastard here in England; I have no idea who. From what I later learned, he promised to double the reward if they found the painting and brought it to him, rather than returning it to the count. Whether he intended to do that or whether he was just falsely enticing two greedy scoundrels is something we'll never know."
