CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BARNABAS DIDN’T TRUST HIMSELF to move. Henry didn’t know what she was doing. She was probably afraid to sleep alone under the same roof as Coleraine. She’d believed all along he was a murderer. She might very well be right, although Barnabas no longer knew. But what he knew was that if he touched her, kissed her, or climbed onto the bed with her, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “You don’t understand. If I kiss you I won’t be capable of restraint.”
She blew out of a rounded mouth and her eyes closed for a second, as if in relief. “Thank God, for I was beginning to think it was only me.”
She moved off her knees, pulling down the covers and sliding her legs between the sheets. Her feet were bare. Her white nightgown was demure with ruffles along the cuffs and hem, as well as down her front around the buttons, but it could have been all sheer lace for what the sight of her in it was doing to him.
His pulse thrummed and his breathing had grown heavy.
“You do still want me, don’t you?” she said in a small uncertain voice.
“More than anything.” Still he didn’t make a move toward the bed. She confused him. She’d been so adamant about no kissing or touching in the byre house. “You can’t sleep with me just because you’re scared to be alone.”
She paused in her effort to plump up her pillow. “I’m not.”
Ignoring the fire pumping through his veins, he thought of all that had transpired during the day. She’d learned about her sister’s pregnancy, he’d threatened to leave her in the middle of the Irish countryside, and she’d wanted to go home rather than stay in Coleraine’s house. “It has been an emotional day for you. Are you certain you want to decide this now?”
She pushed back the covers and swung her legs off the far side of the bed. “If you want me to leave, all you have to do is say so.”
Before he knew what he intended he was scrambling across the bed and hauling her back against him. “I can’t let you go.”
He was burning with desire, but there was more to it than his physical needs. Until today he’d been certain of himself, but now he wasn’t.
She turned and tucked her head into his shoulder. “I never know what you are thinking.”
“Likewise.” He stroked her hair. But did it matter? She was here in his arms, in his bed, and for the first time today he felt all right. Better than all right. Like a whole man. “You know this will change everything.”
“I know,” she whispered. But then she reached up and pulled his head down towards hers.
Her lips were like the finest of berries, plump, sweet, and so delectable he couldn’t resist. But they were just an appetizer to the feast before him.
He rolled back, taking her with him. Shoving sheets and blankets down, he lifted her on top of him. He pulled her thighs up so she was straddling him.
She made the slightest sound of protest, but he nipped her lower lip. She pulled back and stared down at him, until he guided her head back down.
Her lips were warm and her mouth so deliciously wet, her kiss as enthusiastic as it had ever been. Still he didn’t want her misunderstanding. So as soon as he had her fully engaged in kissing, he caught her nightgown, inching it up until the ruffles were bunched in his hands. Then he swept up the material, baring her from the ribs down.
She reared back and looked over her shoulder as he smoothed his hands over the bare globes of her bottom. A hot spurt of desire rolled through him. He was half surprised she wasn’t wearing pantalettes, but pleased. He cupped her and squeezed, then slid his fingers along the backs of her thighs as far as he could reach, then back up, moving them farther in.
She went rigid.
He eased his hands apart and brought them around to the placard of her nightgown, reaching for buttons. “Are the cuffs buttoned?”
She jerked back around, her blue eyes wide.
“This is coming off.” He unbuttoned another button.
“But you’re fully dressed,” she said.
“So undress me.”
She stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“Scared?” he asked.
For once she admitted it with a jerky nod. “I’m not ready.”
“You will be.” He pulled her with the nightgown so he could kiss her again. He slid his hands down her arms, found the cuff buttons and unfastened them.
“Barnabas.” His name was an objection and a plea. “Do you think you could muster a little restraint?”
“None,” he said as he lifted the nightgown.
She wasn’t cooperating, which made it a little more difficult to get it off. He was half sitting as he wrestled the material free. She huddled against him.
“I just want to see you.” He ran his hand down the velvety skin of her back. Her hair slid over his hand as he touched each knob of her spine and then the small of her back and then trailed his hand back up to circle between her shoulder blades. With his other hand he tucked the silken strands of her hair behind her ear and whispered in it. “Then I want to kiss you...everywhere. Touch you everywhere. And hold you with your skin against mine. Then when you’re ready, when you can’t wait any longer, I want to take you and make you mine.”
She fumbled with his vest buttons.
A laugh bubbled in his throat as he paid homage to her neck, her shoulder, slipping her glorious dark hair out of the way.
*~*~*
Henry wasn’t certain how it happened, but she ended up on her stomach and Barnabas was pressing nipping kisses against the skin of her back. Each one made a little shudder run through her. Or well, she’d likely ended on her stomach because most everything he said sounded nice except the looking at her part. Somehow, if he didn’t look at her, it wouldn’t matter that she was fat.
She reached for the sheet. He pulled it out of her hand as if aware of her intent.
He kissed the base of her spine and she arched. As if he’d known she would, his hand slid under her and cupped her breast. She was breathing like a hard worked horse and couldn’t seem to stop, except when she gasped or made some funny kind of sound that was half moan and half coo. And well, her nether regions were growing embarrassingly damp.
“You didn’t really mean everywhere, did you?” she asked. Her voice was husky and thick, almost unrecognizable.
“Yes,” he answered, pressing a kiss on her rump where she’d never expected to be kissed. “Or as close to everywhere as I can.”
A fresh shudder rolled through her and his fingers were dangerously close to her nipple.
“But you’ll have to turn over for some of it,” he whispered against her hip. Then he was sliding down and his tongue ran down the back of her leg, stopping at the back of her knee, which tickled in a peculiar way.
Then he pulled away and slid his hand out from underneath her breast. “Time to turn over, my little duckling. I want to look at you.”
Her heart did a jig step. “No, you don’t.”
“Henry,” he whispered as he stretched over her. “Why are you afraid?”
His bare chest touched her shoulder and she could almost hear a sizzle to accompany the sparks that flew. His leg was against hers, the hair of it rough. At least she wasn’t the only naked one. She’d known he’d removed his vest and shirt in between kisses, but he must have just removed his trousers—and smalls.
If she turned really fast, she could pull him to her.
She rolled and tugged on his shoulders. He landed on top of her and then shifted so he was more centered on her. His skin against hers was an incredible thing, sensual and so electrifying. His weight pressed her down into the mattress, but it was a pleasant pressure.
“I’m ready,” she said with determination. Her body was awake and tingling all over, but especially down there. She must be ready.
He tilted his forehead against hers. “Think so?”
She gave a little nod.
“But, duckie, there is so much more I want to do.” He slid his hand up her side and curled around her breast.
His thumb flicked across her nipple and sharp stabs of pleasure made her gasp. His lips curled.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
He kissed her nose. “I will look at you.”
She clutched him tighter.
He brushed his lips across hers a couple of times as if he meant to soothe her.
“But I’m fat,” she whispered.
His head tilted just a little and he shook it. “No, you just pack a lot of curves on a short little body. But, even if you were plump, I’d still want to look at you.”
He loosened her arms and pushed them above her head, running his palms along the sensitive skin on the inside of them. Then he kissed her long and slow.
Her heart hammered against her ribcage. But she felt herself melting into his kiss. Her body felt boneless, yet one mass of need that craved his touch all over.
“You’re the bravest woman I know,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
Then maybe she wanted him to look at her—a little. “Fine look, but don’t say you weren’t warned.”
He did far more than look. He kissed until she was twisting on the bed and practically begging him to finish it. He adored her with his eyes. He caressed her with his hands and then he complimented. “You’re so magnificently beautiful, my love. How do you not know that?”
Then she did feel beautiful and wanted. And he kissed her breasts until she cried out. He dipped lower and kissed her in that damp place that he said was like a beautiful flower and she nearly did scream as he flicked her with his tongue and made her body go tense, shaky, and hot as a fire. She came apart as if flying in all directions and in that moment when her body was pulsing, he pushed inside her.
There was a pang so tiny it wasn’t worthy of being called pain. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her and then his hips rocked. She shuddered and mewed as their bodies came together. He groaned low in his throat and she held him tight.
*~*~*
Barnabas could have easily fallen asleep, but he needed to make certain Henry was all right. That he hadn’t hurt her too much. Her gasp as he penetrated her had been both arousing and alarming.
“Are you all right?” He was probably crushing her.
“Mmm, better than that.” She ran a languid hand down his back. “I feel kind of floaty.”
He leaned up on his elbows. “Is that a word?”
She made a snort of protest. “Now it is. We journalists do that sometimes. Make up new words.”
A shaft of cold splintered the afterglow. Why was she reminding him of her occupation now? He pulled back and out of her.
She whimpered a little.
His concern shifted back to her. “Sore?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
He looked down at the body she termed fat. “You don’t even have a pot belly, beautiful.” Then he looked lower because she was his to look at now, and she really was magnificent. “There’s a little blood. Let me get you a cloth.”
She sat up, looking flustered, and her cheeks flushed. “Oh! There shouldn’t be for three or four days, yet. I thought it would be safe.”
“Not that kind of blood, my duckling.” He frowned at her. She was a virgin, he was certain of it. “No doubt it’s stopped.”
“Oh?” She paused. “Oh,” she repeated with more understanding.
He pulled a hand towel from the dresser and walked back to the bed.
She averted her eyes and reached for the sheet. He caught it and pulled her to the edge of the bed and pressed the towel between her legs.
“I like looking at you, duckie.”
“Why are you calling me that?”
“Because you’re soft as a duckling—and yet—I have a feeling you could peck me to death if you wanted.”
She stared at him, her blues eyes wide, as if uncertain what to make of his term of endearment.
“You’re too tart for sweetheart,” he said with a kiss to take the sting out of the words. “I could just call you hen. I imagine chickens are soft, too.”
“I think you’re insulting me.”
“Nah, I’m not all that fond of sweet things. Too cloying.” He lifted her legs back onto the bed and climbed in beside her.
“Are you fond of me?”
“More than fond, duckling.” He paused in pulling the covers over them. He wasn’t good with the words. He should tell her he loved her, that they’d be married as soon as he could arrange it.
“So we’re lovers now. The inspector and the journalist, together. Who would have imagined that?”
“Let’s not talk about work.”
She twisted to face him. “I want to help you.”
“Great. Go to sleep.”
She frowned at him.
He stroked her hair because it was so incredibly soft. And he had a forlorn hope that it would relax her into sleep.
“Well, Mr. Gilvaroy has a woman in his room with him. I thought you might want to use that when you questioned him.”
His senses on high alert, he leaned up on his hand and looked down at her. “You’re certain?”
“I heard her. They had a conversation after he returned to his room. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Is that something you could use?”
He breathed in deeply. “I already questioned him.” Of course he would have to verify that the man was working when he said he was. He could send Murdock to do it, but Aidan Gilvaroy didn’t seem to want to be the next earl and had some reservations about his cousin’s guilt.
“Did you learn anything useful?”
He narrowed his eyes. Was she trying to pump him for information?
She bit her lip. “When I question people, I’m just looking for the story, but when you do it, you look for facts that can be verified—to see if the person will confirm a secret you already know. You’re looking for reactions that don’t match what the person is saying. I could do it more like you do if you want me to help you question the servants tomorrow.”
“You’re not interviewing people.”
Her expression turned mulish. “Yes, I am. It is my job. The only question is whether I’m trying to help you, too, when I do it.”
He breathed in, trying to defeat the sourness in his soul. “You don’t need to work anymore. You’re mine now.”
She shook her head. “You don’t own me.”
What he should have said was, I’m yours. Instead he said, “I do. You gave yourself to me. Completely. You could be carrying my child.”
“No. That isn’t at all likely and in the future we should use a device.” She turned a fiery red, but continued on blithely. “But this week before my menses, I shouldn’t be able to conceive. I’ve read the literature.”
Had she waited until she wasn’t likely to conceive to lie with him? He stared at her. He didn’t know her at all. “You don’t want to have my child?”
He felt thick and slow as a dullard.
Her mouth flattened and she stared at him as if he were a simpleton.
Maybe he was. “No,” he answered for her. She didn’t want to have his child. Or maybe she only wanted to wait until they were married. That would be sensible. Henry was rarely sensible.
She huffed out and rolled her eyes. “Surely you don’t object on moral grounds.”
He didn’t. “Did you lie with me just to get me to tell you what I learn?”
She pushed up on her hands. “No. I’m trying to help you.”
“Don’t.” He rolled away from her and tried to breathe. “It is bad enough you write for a newspaper.” He reached for the lamp to turn down the wick and then blew it out. “Just go to sleep. I don’t want to fight with you now.”
He should have asked her if she was fond of him, but he was afraid of what she might answer.
*~*~*
Henry stared at the canopy over Barnabas’s bed for a long time. She finally slid to the edge of the bed, but her hair was caught. She turned around to see if Barnabas was lying on it, but he had it wrapped around his fingers. She unwound it and he only sighed deeply. She found her nightgown and pulled it over her head.
She could have crawled back in with him. He rolled toward her side of the bed and threw his arm out over her space—or rather the space she’d occupied.
In the morning there would be servants about. She grabbed her pocket and tiptoed back to her room. Sliding the bolt she crawled into her cold bed and tried to understand what had just happened.
How pathetic was it that she’d asked him if he was fond of her? Half the time he said the right thing. The other half—she huffed out a shaky breath—he wasn’t saying anything or it was wrong.
The next thing she knew, the sun was glaring into her eyes. She dressed and tied on her pocket under her skirt. She hesitated in the hallway, wondering if she should wake Barnabas, but she decided against it. While she had little sleep while traveling, he’d had little while they were locked in the farm house.
The breakfast room was supposed to be on the ground floor, but Henry had no idea where. Was she just supposed to start opening doors? She stood in the entry hall waiting for a servant to ask.
“There you are,” Barnabas said from the top of the stairs.
Her face caught fire. Everyone would know what they’d done if she didn’t stop blushing. But the things he’d done to her...
“Good morning,” she said in a slightly strangled voice.
He skipped down the stairs.
She clasped her hands in front of her, then dropped them by her sides, then clasped them in front of her again.
He touched her elbow and leaned to whisper in her ear, “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she said in a voice that was too loud.
His forehead furrowed.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she repeated in a whisper.
“I woke up and you were gone,” he said gently.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Shh!”
He gave her a tilted smile. “Are you afraid, duckling?”
She curled her nose at him. “That’s not going to work forever.”
He arched an eyebrow and circled around her. “Were you waiting for me?”
She kept turning her head to watch him. “No. I don’t know where the breakfast room is. I thought a servant would be along sooner or later.”
“You could have rung for one.” He put a hand on the small of her back and heat went rushing through her. “Should be on the east side.”
He picked a door, opened it, and guided her through to a room with a sideboard. Mr. Gilvaroy—his dark hair and height marked him as one of the clan—was heaping food on a plate. More food than most men could eat in one sitting.
He looked up at them and winced. He put the plate on the table and stared glumly at it.
They exchanged good mornings and Barnabas introduced them.
Henry took pity on him. “If you wanted to take your plate to eat elsewhere, don’t let us stop you.”
He looked between them with a startled expression on his face, then picked up the plate and muttered, “Excuse me,” as he headed out the door.
“Told you,” whispered Henry.
“You did,” said Barnabas, gesturing toward the steaming trays still holding mounds of buttered eggs and kippers as well as fried potatoes and slices of ham.
She dished up some eggs.
“You may have been right about the earl all along.”
Her ears rang. She swiveled to stare at Barnabas, who was nonchalantly serving himself.
The door opened and the earl stepped in the room. She stared at him. Barnabas moved to her side, tilting up her plate to keep her eggs from sliding off.
The earl gave a slight bow and backed out of the room.
She looked at Barnabas. “Did you say what I think you did?”
He set his plate down on the table and reached to a chair beside him for her. “I just don’t know anymore. I don’t like that his wife’s relatives have never heard from her.”
“They weren’t all that happy with her marriage to a foreigner.” She put her fork down. “There is another explanation for her never going back to France.”
“Coleraine killed her,” Barnabas said tightly.
“Or she committed suicide.”
Barnabas shoved his plate back. “Are you mad? You’ve never given him the benefit of the doubt before.”
“It was just the way he talked about wishing he could have done more for Rachel and feeling like he failed. He didn’t say it, but I really sensed failed again was what he meant.”
Barnabas shook his head. But then he changed the subject, “We need to talk about our future.”
The eggs she’d eaten thus far congealed in her stomach. She shook her head. He wouldn’t want to hear what she had to say, and she didn’t want to say it yet.
He reached for her hand and tilted toward her. “I love you, Henry.”
Her knees nearly buckled. He loved her? But that only made what she had to say worse. She looked at her plate and it shimmered in front of her. “I don’t think you do.”
“Christ, what do I have to do to prove it? I want—”
She held up her hand stopping him. “I am a newspaper reporter. It is more than what I do, just as being an inspector is more than what you do. You don’t like that about me. I can’t give up what I am to be with you.”
The door opened and Miss Hall walked inside.
Barnabas stood, but gave her a sour look as if he meant to dispute what she’d said.
Miss Hall waved her hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to fix a plate for his lordship. He’s decided to eat in his office so he can get more work done.”
She moved to the sideboard and picked up a plate.
Barnabas’s mouth tensed. He took his seat, but he didn’t resume eating. No doubt—he was waiting for Miss Hall to leave to tell her she was wrong.
Henry decided she didn’t want to hear what he would say—not right now. She couldn’t right now—so she followed Miss Hall out of the room. No one would call her brave after her cowardly escape, she thought—not even Barnabas.
*~*~*
By the time they were headed downstairs for dinner, Barnabas had a roaring headache. He’d managed not to demean himself by chasing down Henry and demanding to know what last night had been about if she didn’t see a future for them. Damn her.
He’d had one day to tie up loose ends. Question the servants. Question the heir and see if his story shifted. Figure out if Coleraine had been fooling him or if his first instincts were right. But the man seemed bloody well resolved to hanging. Then he’d disappeared.
After some questioning, Barnabas learned that the cook had prepared a picnic basket for Coleraine, the housekeeper, her son, and a stableboy. Only that they’d included the other child made him think they hadn’t run. Nonetheless he had to waste time searching the shoreline until he’d seen Miss Hall and Coleraine walking an arm’s length apart, while the boys chased waves and were chased back by them. Between that and the walk to town to send the telegram, he’d lost hours.
When he’d finally started questioning servants, half of them reported Henry had already asked that of them. She’d pinned Aidan down in the library and the man had looked thoroughly beleaguered when he left.
The day was almost gone. He doubted he’d get much questioning in at the dinner table. Henry caught his arm and held him back on the stairs. He had to think dismal thoughts to keep his body from responding to her touch. He wasn’t happy with her.
“What?” he said shortly.
“The woman Mr. Gilvaroy brought—she’s clairvoyant. He didn’t want to bring her, but she insisted she had to come because there was a dead woman calling her.” Henry’s eyes sparkled as she whispered.
“Really?” he asked dryly. “Just what this case needs, a woman who gets information from ghosts.”
Henry scowled at him.
“I have better news,” he told her.
“What?”
He made certain no one was close enough to overhear. “I purchased several French letters in town.”
Henry went bright red, which made him smile.
“You shouldn’t have.” She said in a forceful whisper. “You won’t need them.”
She sauntered off, oblivious to the social niceties that dictated he should lead her into dinner. Once again she had him seething. Was the night before a one-time thing to her?
He caught up to her as she stood looking at all the doors, no doubt wondering which one led to the dining room. He opened one of the double doors and guided her through. Coleraine’s baseborn sister joined them and trailed in behind them.
Henry ignored him as she took her seat. She ignored him as the soup was served. She was probably stubborn enough to ignore him all evening.
He concentrated on keeping his expression impassive, although he needn’t have bothered. No one was paying him any mind when a young girl burst through the double doors and exclaimed, “I found her.”
His surprise quickly fell under the realization that she must be the clairvoyant. He’d been expecting a full grown woman, but this girl was a slender waif-like thing with masses of spiraling red hair falling from the ribbon she’d tied it in.
Because everyone else seemed struck mute, he asked, “Who?”
She lifted an arm and pointed to the head of the table and Coleraine. “I found his wife.”