Olivia didn’t move from her spot on the side of the house. She’d stepped out to toss out dirty water and thought she’d peek at the progress the men were making in the garden. She’d heard most of the conversation, her heart breaking into tiny pieces so painful she had to put a fist against her chest. She’d known Richard wanted a father. She’d known he had questions, but she didn’t know the answers to give him. And now he’d asked Lord Jasper to be his father. Lord Jasper had pivoted gracefully without saying anything that might allude to the boy’s real father. She’d approved when he’d offered friendship, smiled when he’d held out a hand, and then couldn’t hold back the tears when Richard hugged Lord Jasper.

And Lord Jasper had hugged him back.

Watching that scene had made it all so painfully clear. She’d given Richard all of her love, but she was deluding herself if she thought that would be enough. Of course, the child needed others in his life. Keeping him here, hiding him away, protected him but also deprived him of grandparents, cousins, friends, teachers. He was almost five years old. She couldn’t stop his questions for much longer. She couldn’t rob him of a normal childhood.

Leaving Lord Jasper and Richard as silently as she’d come upon them, she returned to the cottage. But instead of sweeping or beginning the noon meal, she sat in a chair and stared out the window.

She couldn’t deprive herself either. For over five years she’d been running and hiding. She’d given up everything and everyone she loved. She didn’t regret it because it had kept Richard safe. She’d die before she allowed Withernsea to touch her or her son. But perhaps it was time to stop allowing the duke control of the field. How many other women had he hurt while she hid away in silence? How many balls and dinner parties and days in the park had he enjoyed while she’d fought just to keep food on the table for herself and Richard?

She missed her parents. She missed her cousins and friends and aunts and uncles. And she didn’t want to allow Withernsea to take any of it away from her or Richard any longer.

But if she returned to London, she’d need help. Withernsea would try to make her his again. He’d claim Richard was his and try to take him away. She had to show everyone what the duke really was. She had to stand up to the scandal of returning unmarried and with a child. Her parents hadn’t been able to protect her before.

But she knew someone who could.

***

AFTER DINNER, OLIVIA tucked Richard into bed and kissed his forehead. All the time in the sun had tired the boy and she hadn’t even needed to read to him before his eyes drooped. She climbed down from the loft and took a deep breath, not certain where to begin.

And then she forgot all about what she’d wanted to say because when Lord Jasper turned to face her she saw he’d removed his mask. He trusted her. He trusted her enough to remove it in front of her again. And she’d forgotten how very handsome he was.

“I can put it on if looking at my face offends,” he said.

Olivia realized she’d been standing there speechless, and he’d taken her reaction the wrong way. “Please don’t. I was surprised you felt comfortable enough to remove it, that’s all. I promise, your face is far from offensive, my lord.”

He winced. “You overheard us. I didn’t mean to gainsay you, but it seems ridiculous to call me lord when I’m mucking out the stable.”

“Not to mention you are such good friends.”

“I’d like to be your friend,” he said in a way that made warmth spiral into her belly. “I’d like for you to use my name, Olivia.”

He was probably right. What she would ask of him tonight was an act of friendship. “Very well, Jasper. We’ll be friends.”

He smiled, but the smile was wary. She turned away from him and reached for the shirt she’d hung on a peg. “I finished your shirt. I thought you might want to try it on.”

She held it out to him and he took it, holding it out to inspect it. “I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t learn much as the daughter of a viscount, but I did master embroidery and from there I taught myself to sew. It won’t be the quality you’re used to—”

“You have no idea what I’m used to. This is perfect.” He stripped off the blanket, and she had to remind herself not to stare. More heat pooled in her belly. He pulled the shirt over his head then paused and flinched.

“What’s wrong?” She went to him.

“I can’t reach up on the wounded side. I’m not certain how to get my arm in.” He started to slip the shirt off again, raising the arm on his good side, but she put her hand on the garment, holding it in place. He was remarkably warm underneath the fabric.

“I’ll help you.” She moved before him and helped guide his arms into the sleeves. She took each cuff and secured it, noting goosebumps where her fingers brushed. Was he merely cold or was he attracted to her? Did she even want him to be attracted to her?

Not certain what she should do and a bit flustered, she began to tie the neck closed, but he caught her hand. “I’m sorry. I always do that for Richard.”

“I’m not a child.” He didn’t release her hand nor did he hold it tightly. She could have pulled away.

“I can see that.”

“I told myself to stay away from you.” His finger stroked the inside of her wrist, making her tremble.

“Why?”

“Because I knew if I was close I’d want to kiss you again.” His gaze moved from her mouth to her eyes, and she knew he was judging her reaction to that. She wondered what he saw—not disgust, as he probably expected—but perhaps a bit of the fear that leapt into her heart.

She should move away, snatch her hand back. But he didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t move to force her. “You want to kiss me?” she asked, pressing her luck.

“Can’t you tell?”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand men.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I don’t understand women, and since I don’t want a misunderstanding between us, I’m telling you I want to kiss you. That doesn’t mean you have to allow it.”

Her head swam at his touch and his words. “Why?” she blurted. “I mean, why do you want to kiss me?”

He looked puzzled, as though he hadn’t expected that question. “I suppose I first wanted to kiss you because you were pretty and smelled...” He looked at the fire then back at her. “I liked how you smelled. But after that it was because you were kind.”

“And now?” she whispered.

He looked back at her and released her hand. “Now?” He touched her cheek briefly, and her breath hitched in her throat. Seeing she didn’t object to his touch, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “I suppose because I like you. You’re brave, resourceful, intelligent, and on top of all that, a brilliant mother.”

She shook her head. She was a coward. “I’m not brave.” And she’d made so many mistakes in her life. “And I’m not smart.”

“You’re both, although if you allow me to kiss you, I’d definitely not call you wise.”

She shivered when he touched her cheek again. “Because it wouldn’t be wise to kiss you?”

“Not at all. If you kiss me, then you’ll want more.”

She laughed nervously. “I’ll want more?”

He nodded. “And we should remain friends.”

“And what if I want you to kiss me?” her voice sound low and husky, and she couldn’t quite believe she’d said the words aloud. Blame it on her racing heart, that heat in her belly, and her shaky legs.

“Then put your arms around me, and I’ll oblige.”

Her arms felt heavy and almost impossible to lift. Fear rippled through her, but there was curiosity too. She’d liked the kiss they’d shared the night before. Would this be the same? And what if she kissed him and he took it as a license to go further?

She cut her gaze to him, and he looked steadily back at her, his head turned slightly so the scar was in shadow. So he felt unsure and vulnerable as well. Somehow knowing that erased her fears. She could trust him.

Her arms lighter, she raised them and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“May I?” He lifted his own hands and gestured to her waist. She nodded, cutting her gaze up to make certain Richard hadn’t awakened and decided to spy on them. If he was confused about his relationship to Jasper now, he would be more so if he saw his mother kissing the man.

Jasper’s hands settled on her waist, light but warm.

“And now?” she whispered.

“Close your eyes.”

She let her lids drift closed, and when his grip didn’t tighten, she relaxed slightly. One hand rose, and she felt his finger under her chin, notching it up. Then there was the slightest brush of his lips over hers. She waited for more, and when nothing else happened, she opened her eyes. “Is that all?”

“Do you want more?”

She had to smile. He’d said she’d want more, but he’d given her so little that she needed more. “Yes.”

He touched her chin again, this time taking it between two fingers, and lowered his lips to hers. She closed her eyes, feeling a tingle when his lips brushed hers once then twice. Before he could pull back, she tightened her hands on his shoulders, and pressed her own lips against his. She mimicked what he’d done to her, lingering a bit longer.

When they parted, she didn’t open her eyes.

“More?” he murmured.

She made a sound of assent and his lips slid over hers again, tasting her this time, seeming to learn the curves of her mouth. Her heart beat faster as heat pulsed through her body after each of his touches. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his neck, bringing their bodies closer. At the same time, his kiss deepened as he parted her lips and slanted his mouth over hers. The kiss was gentle, but it woke something primal in her, a sharp need she hadn’t felt before. She made a low sound in her throat she would have sworn she’d never made before and his hands slid to her back and pulled her against him.

His body pressed to hers felt delicious. He was all muscles and hard edges, the feel of him hot and solid against her softness. Her head spun and she was dizzy with what she knew must be desire. In the back of her mind, she realized the kiss had gone on for several minutes and she should put an end to it, but she couldn’t conceive of ever ending it. She couldn’t imagine not touching him, not kissing him, not basking in his warmth. And then he slid his tongue across her lips and she froze, her heart skipping. She’d liked the sensation, but it also stirred up old fears. A memory of Withernsea forcing his tongue between her lips flashed in her mind, and she stiffened.

Immediately, Jasper stilled, his hold on her slackening. “What’s wrong?”

She opened her eyes and pushed him back. He released her without hesitation. “I want you to stop.”

“Then I’ll stop.” And he stepped back, giving her room. She put her hands to her flushed cheeks and turned her back to him, embarrassed that she had allowed the kiss to go on so long and also embarrassed that she had ended it to abruptly.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for whatever I did to upset you. As I said earlier, it might be best if I kept my distance.”

She didn’t want him to blame himself. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d been the perfect gentleman.

She turned, hands still on her warm cheeks. “It wasn’t you. I...I liked the kiss. Very much.”

He raised the brow on the unscarred side of his face. She’d imagined the expression before, but seeing it now made her wish he still wore the mask. He was almost irresistibly roguish when he did that. “Let me know if you’d like to try it again sometime.”

“I thought you planned to keep your distance.”

“I could be talked out of that.”

Her throat went dry, and she had to clench her fists to keep from going to him. She wanted to be in his arms again. She wanted him to kiss her again. But when she remembered Withernsea’s cold, wet lips on hers, she felt ill.

Olivia looked at the supper dishes. “Well, these won’t clean themselves.” And without another word, she went to work. Keeping busy would distract her from the man nearby. She wouldn’t have time to think about how his shoulders had felt under her hands or the softness of his lips or the way his breath had smelled of tea and sugar.

“The shirt fits well,” he said, his voice surprising her. “I appreciate it.”

She nodded. She hadn’t made it for thanks or even out of kindness. She did it because looking at his bare chest was too tempting for her.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“No. I’m almost done with these and then I have some of Richard’s clothes to mend.”

“I can keep you company while you sew.”

“If you like.” Wouldn’t that be cozy, the two of them chatting by the firelight? But not kissing. Because he’d been right. If she kissed him again, she’d want more.

Much more.

***

JASPER WATCHED HER dry the plates before he went to stoke the fire to add another piece of wood. He should collect more tomorrow. The supply was low. He didn’t like fire, preferred to keep well away from it, but he didn’t want his weakness to mean more work for her. And when he had the fire poker in his hand, it kept him from reaching for her waist again. She might be petite and slender, but he’d felt the flare of her hips when he’d put his hands on her. She had curves where a woman ought to.

He poked at the fire again, trying not to think too hard about the softness of her breasts when he’d pulled her to him. They were small but firm, and since he’d only worn the thin homespun shirt, he’d been able to feel her pressed against him.

And then she’d stiffened. He’d done something wrong; that much was obvious. He’d used his tongue to trace her lips, and that must have upset her. He considered the action more of a prelude to a real kiss than anything else, but he understood he had to move slowly with her. She was like a newly lit fire. One had to coax the flame and make it grow into something hotter and brighter.

But had it been his kiss or was it something else? Had she opened her eyes and seen his scars close up and then lost her appetite for his mouth on hers? There was a reason he’d told her to close her eyes. If she didn’t look at him, perhaps she could imagine she kissed someone who didn’t resemble a child’s nightmare.

And yet, she had looked at him before the kiss. She hadn’t balked at kissing him, though she’d certainly seen the scar and more than once now. She was the first woman he’d kissed since he’d returned from the war. She was the first woman who had been willing to look past that scar and touch him. He’d forgotten the simple pleasure of kissing. He’d forgotten how much it could stir him, how much a kiss could make him want.

There had been women before the war, but he hadn’t kissed them as he’d kissed Olivia tonight. Then a kiss had merely been something to push through on the trail toward more stimulating terrain. Now he wondered if all of those years he was actually missing the best part? He smiled—or perhaps since the path to anything more than kissing was closed with Olivia, he was making the best of the options available. But somehow kissing her didn’t feel like settling. Kissing her felt like a rare privilege.

He glanced over and saw she had finished with the dishes and now sat with her sewing basket beside her. He sat across from her at the table. “Do you ever rest?”

She looked up. “Not often. There’s much to be done here, especially if...” She trailed off, looked up at him, then back down at her sewing.

“If?”

“If I’m to restore everything to the condition it was in before the storm.”

He thought about mentioning that she could not possibly think it would be safe here after he left, but he didn’t want to raise such a contentious issue tonight. Her cheeks were still pink from their kisses, and he didn’t want to see her face drain of color or the lines appear at her eyes that came when she was afraid. Tomorrow would be soon enough. And perhaps she’d come to that conclusion on her own. Unless he was mistaken, she wasn’t saying all that was on her mind.

“Tell me about the war against Napoleon. I heard so little about it when I was in Town, and then I”—she glanced at the loft where the lad slept— “I was otherwise occupied. Did you serve under Wellington?”

He didn’t like to talk about the war. Most soldiers who’d seen real battle didn’t, but she likely hadn’t been around any of them to know this. “Not under him directly, but yes, we were under his command.”

“Did you fight at Waterloo?”

“No. My troop didn’t fight any battles, not that sort, at least. We were more of a—” He might say suicide squad, but he opted for another explanation. “A special troop, carefully selected by Lieutenant Colonel Draven for our talents and skills.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with interest. Clearly, she hadn’t heard of Draven’s troop or the Survivors. “We had special missions—reconnaissance, sabotage, ambushes. We spent time all over the Continent, going wherever Wellington needed us. I didn’t see any major battles, but I fought plenty of smaller ones. Sometimes it was a matter of ascertaining the strength of the enemy. Other times we stole arms or passed along misinformation. Sometimes we engaged the enemy in order to prevent them from joining forces with their comrades and thereby attacking the British in greater numbers.”

“It sounds dangerous.”

Jasper glanced at the fire. “All war is dangerous. Besides, as the third son of a marquess, it’s expected of me. I could be a soldier or a clergyman. I never really liked sermons or sickbeds.”

She nodded as she examined her stitches and turned the small shirt she worked on over. “How many are in a troop?” she asked.

“We had thirty in ours.” Before she could ask, he said, “Twelve of us came back.”

She looked up sharply. “You lost that many?”

“We would have lost more, if we hadn’t had so many with specialized skills.”

She swallowed. “What was your skill?”

“I find things—people, objects, even information. It’s a natural ability, I suppose. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

She frowned at her work. “What sorts of things?”

He tried to think of something not related to the war. He didn’t want to tell her how he’d found a French captain in a whorehouse or a cache of rifles in the basement of an orphanage. Then he might have to say what had happened to the captain after he’d been found or how they’d terrified the orphans by stomping in at night to confiscate the weapons.

“When I was about three my mother lost a brooch she loved. It was a family heirloom, something passed down from generation to generation. I’m told she searched everywhere for it to no avail. I suppose I saw how distressed she was and decided to find it on my own. I don’t remember any of this. I was too young, but it’s a story my family likes to repeat.” Or at least they had when he could still bear to spend time with his family, before his mother’s eyes filled with tears every time she saw him in his mask. “No one knows how I did it, but apparently I toddled up to my mother one afternoon when I was supposed to be napping and told her I’d found the brooch. Of course, I couldn’t say brooch clearly, and she thought I said coach. She tried to send me back to the nursery, promising to take me in the coach later, but I wouldn’t go. Instead, I took her hand and led her to the servants’ wing. I stood outside a chambermaid’s room, pointed, and said coach, coach.

“My mother didn’t know what to make of all this and was about to have me carried back to the nursery when the housekeeper suggested I might be saying brooch. She asked if I’d found the brooch and I nodded, opened the door, and took my mother to a dresser.”

“And the brooch was in the dresser?” Olivia asked. She’d dropped her sewing and was watching him with unabashed interest.

“Yes. The chambermaid was sent packing without references, and I was a hero. But that wasn’t the last time I searched and found what seemed impossible for others to find. I can’t describe exactly how I do it, but I seem to have a knack.”

“And what sorts of things did you find during the war?”

“People, locations, weapons, maps—anything you can think of. I’m good at finding signs and asking the right questions. That’s how I found you.” He expected her to ask for details, but she picked up her sewing again. He would tell her them before she left. Maybe she could avoid leaving signs for the next person who came looking.

“The war is over, but you’re still searching for the lost.”

He shrugged. “It pays well, and I enjoy it. I find a missing ring, a stolen horse—”

“A missing woman.”

He inclined his head. “And I’m paid for my efforts.” The Bounty Hunter had been his sobriquet among the Survivors. They knew he didn’t like it, and they didn’t use it freely in his presence, but Jasper accepted it. He was a hunter and he took his bounty for what he found.

“And do you always give the item found back to the person who hired you?”

“I always have before.”

“And this time?”

“This time is different.” How could she think she was the equivalent of a brooch or a criminal?

“And if I asked you for a favor?”

His brows went up. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you.” She put her sewing back in the basket and rose, apparently not willing to raise the topic yet. “Good night, my l—Jasper.”

Jasper watched her walk away and knew he wouldn’t sleep much. That kiss was still on his mind. He’d said she’d want more, but he was the one dying for her to touch him again.