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That brought Breanna's head up. “What possible reason could you give her for making that request?”
“Discretion.” A corner of Royce's mouth lifted. “I told her you'd chosen that particular room because you wanted to be near me.”
Breanna stared at him for a moment, a pink tinge spreading up from her neck to her throat. Then, she began to laugh. “You're the most outrageous man I've ever met.”
“I know.” His thumbs caressed her cheekbones. “And you're the most extraordinary woman I've ever met.” He lowered his head, brushed her lips with his—and broached a subject he'd vowed to himself to avoid. “I'm sorry if my actions last night hurt you. I didn't mean for that to happen.”
“Which part are you sorry for?” Breanna murmured, making no attempt to pull away from his embrace. “Are you sorry for what we did? Or for the way you behaved afterward?”
“That depends on when you ask me.”
Breanna lay her palm against his jaw. “I'm asking you now.”
“Now?” Royce savored the pleasure of her touch, fought the urge to drag her against him. “Right now my conscience is warring with my instincts. My conscience is sorry I let things go so far. And my instinct are sorry I stopped when I did, that I didn't make you mine as I've wanted to do from the moment we met” A teasing smile. “I prefer your instincts to your conscience.”
“So do I.” He kissed her again, a slow, dizzying exploration of her mouth. “We'll talk about this when I return. In the meantime, be careful. Stay inside. I'll be back by the morning after next, at the latest.”
Slowly, Breanna nodded, her fists clenching in the folds of his coat. “I will. But Royce?”
“Hmm?”
“Hurry.”
15
H e lu rked in the brush, wa i t i ng until Chadwick's carri age had pulled away.
It was no surprise that H i bbert wasn't i n i t. As he'd suspected, Chadwick had left h i s fa i thful manservant behind, no doubt instructing him to safeguard Lady B reanna's life.
How noble.
The rage he'd hoped to assuage boiled up inside him once again, stronger, more relentless, than it had been before he pulled the trigger, ending Hart's life.
And that rage was aggravated by Royce Chadwick.
The man was an unwelcome complication. He was too inferior to be a threat, but not too inferior to be a nuisance. He was delaying the inevitable, helping to ease Lady Breanna's terror.
He was involving himself in a war he'd never win.
Clearly, he thought himself clever—leaving Medford Manor as scheduled, heading off to Berkshire to tr y finding Ryder's daughter. He believed it would convince his adversary that he wasn't acting as Lady
Breanna's protector. But the fact that he'd left Hibbert behind said otherwise. It said that Chadwick was corning back.
So the fool hoped to match wits with him.
He was doomed to failure.
It was time to demonstrate that fact.
His mind racing, he massaged his hand, which throbbed beneath his glove after all the hours spent outdoors in the cold. The pain was worsening. He needed to warm it away, to soak his hand beneath some hot compresses in order to ease the knuckle that supported his wooden replica of a finger.
Not yet. Not until he resolved this issue.
But how?
In a flash of insight, he had his answer. Not just any answer, but a brilliant one—one worthy of great genius—its ramifications as exhilarating as its goal.
What a splendid way of putting Chadwick in his place, and furthering his own ends in the process. It would send Chadwick a message and, at the same time, divert the fellow's energies elsewhere—probably straight to Bow Street. Of course, that would mean a greater risk of discovery. Then again, greater risk meant greater excitement. No battle was worth pursuing if the opponent was totally unworthy or the odds of losing nil By giving Chadwick this demonstration, leading him to a whole different set of answers, it would even the score-It would also enhance the next shipment by one. And why not deliver that shipment himself? Instantly, rage was transformed to anticipation, the thrill of battle mingling with another, equally enticing thrill.
