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And just like years ago, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
Including complicating his life tenfold.
He now had to find that blasted box somewhere here in London—possibly already on a ship leaving port. The box would surface again—it always did—but he wasn’t looking forward to what he’d have to do to get it into his possession.
Wes closed the front door to his townhouse, watching the slump of Laney’s shoulders as she shuffled into his lower drawing room and sank onto the settee, tugging off her pelisse and bonnet with trembling fingers.
All he had wanted to do since she went over the side of the bridge was to get her back here. Get her back to safety. Get her to where he had control of their surroundings.
A breath to steady himself and he followed her into the room, going first to the windows that faced the street and pulling the gauzy curtains, then to the sideboard where he poured himself a healthy dram of brandy. Then another.
He stripped off his coat, hanging it from the edge of the sideboard, then paused. Still too constricting. He fought best with maximum movement, and his body was still vibrating with the need to crush the man that had shoved Laney over the side of the bridge.
A growl stuck in his throat, he yanked off his waistcoat and cravat.
Three more swallows of brandy and his hands splayed wide on the sideboard, his grip fisting the edges of the marble slab.
Claret.
His eyes crept up the foreign bottle. Sitting in front of him—as instructed—his cook had left a bottle of claret. He’d forgotten he’d asked for it. He poured a full glass for Laney.
He turned from the sideboard to study her profile. Her breath shallow, her face still ashen, she looked to him, her amber eyes wide. “Why? Why would someone do that? Kill me over my reticule? A stupid purse? Toss me over a bridge for a few scraps of material? Why?”
“It wasn’t for a reticule, Laney.” Wes took three steps to her and pressed the glass of claretinto her hand. Her fingers trembled against his and the quiver of them sent a shot of visceral rage through his bones.
If only he could have gone after the bastard.
The deep red wine in the glass quaking, it sloshed along the sides, near to spilling out as she lifted it to her mouth. She took three sips, barely keeping the glass to her lips. “Why, then?”
“That man was after the box.”
“The box? Why on earth would he steal my reticule?”
Wes’s head tipped to the side. “It was the easiest way to get it.”
She leaned to her right, her left hand patting along the side of her thigh. “No, I put the box in the pocket of my skirts at the park. I was picking up rocks to toss them into the pond and it was swinging about.”
He stilled. “You still have the box?”
“Of course—I would have been far more upset if it had been stolen. I would have been running after the blackguard myself had he gotten the box.” She scooted to the right on the settee, setting her glass of claret on the side table, and then she reached into her pocket and pulled the Box of Draupnir from the folds of her skirt. She held it up to him.
He laughed, hearty and full.
She had the damn box—the crafty minx had managed to keep it. He collapsed down onto the cushion next to her, his hands clasping the sides of her face, the laugh still on his lips. “You are a constant surprise to me, Laney.”
“I am?”
He nodded. “One after another. I swear I will do nothing but hate you, but then time and again you force the exact opposite from me.”
She froze, her amber eyes huge. “You don’t hate me?”
He shook his head, his tone sobering. “I want to. With every bone in my body.” His look dropped to her lips. Those damn lips, full and pink with the mounds of a heart centering them. Lips that had taunted him for days. “But I fear I am incapable of it.”
Her mouth dropped open for a long breath, her full lips pressing together once, twice, before she managed to whisper words. “So, what are you capable of?”
His lips met hers, primal instinct driving him forward. She was his—she’d always been—and he’d been denying that fact for far too long.
She didn’t pull away, didn’t protest, and his hands along her face slipped backward, threading into the blond locks of her upsweep, brushing pins out of place. He tilted her head, and her mouth opened to him, a breath, an invitation.
