Chapter Seventeen
Althea woke to bright daylight flooding through a break in the curtains. She turned with a gasp to find Flynn lying beside her. He lay on his back, in a deep slumber. Not wishing to venture out into the cold from the cocoon of warmth, she studied his handsome face in repose. His features softened in sleep, his mouth more vulnerable. A shadow of a beard darkened his angular jaw. Her senses spun, and a searing need built within her, so strong it shocked her.
She reminded herself that he was not here just for her; he had a job to do. Whatever his protestations, he’d led a life she couldn’t approve of. If she managed to maintain some distance between them, it would be far easier when they parted. Difficult, when she had come to like him and wanted to learn everything about him, good and bad.
A thought suddenly struck her and she lifted the coverlet. She sighed with relief. He still wore his trousers. Was that part of his gallantry to spare her embarrassment?
“Are you searching for something? Can I help you find it?”
Althea blinked; his eyes were warm and compelling. Her hand went to her heated cheek. “I merely wondered what you slept in.”
His mouth curved in a grin. “And you’re disappointed?”
She ignored him. “I gather nothing occurred downstairs during the night?”
“Not a thing.”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
He turned on his side facing her and supported his head on his hand. “It was dawn. You were asleep, with your hand tucked so sweetly under your cheek.” He smiled. “Just like a babe. And you thoughtfully left enough room in the bed for me. That sofa in the salon was devilishly uncomfortable. I had to share it with your cat.”
She smothered a laugh. “Oh dear.”
“Your beloved animal purred nonstop and kneaded me with its claws.”
She firmed her lips, but a chuckle escaped. “I am sorry.”
“You’re quite obviously not.” His foot touched hers.
She hastily moved it away. Unnerved by his proximity, she gazed at the clock on the dresser. “Ten o’clock! Goodness, I had no idea it was so late. It’s a wonder Sally hasn’t knocked.” She threw back the coverlet and turned to leave the bed.
His hand on her arm prevented her. “The girl has sense,” he said in that silky tone she distrusted.
“What are you up to, Flynn?” She tried to wriggle out of his hold, but he refused to release her.
“Don’t I rate a good-morning kiss after my night spent in purgatory?”
“I thought we had an agreement.” The knowledge that a kiss would completely undo her sharpened her voice.
“I don’t recall any such agreement,” he said, sliding closer. “Did I sign it?”
She attempted to rise and found herself on her back with Flynn leaning over her. His sleepy eyes held a gleam of intent.
Her unreliable body responded with heat and an unfamiliar throb of desire in her lower regions. “One kiss,” she said, her voice faint.
“Who’s counting?” He cradled her chin in his large hand and pressed his mouth to hers. She expected to be manhandled, and grew rigid, every muscle tense. But Flynn’s kiss was slow, thoughtful, as if he was learning the shape of her mouth. Her taut limbs slackened, her thoughts scattered, and her fingers found his hair, sliding through the silky waves.
His hand promptly settled on her hip while his tongue traced her mouth, lingering over the fullness of her bottom lip. When her lips parted, he explored the recesses of her mouth. Mindless, she gave in to her body’s reaction to his invasion. Her hand at the nape of his neck drew him closer, and she sighed into his mouth.
Flynn groaned. His lips left hers to nibble at her earlobe and bite gently on the tender part of her neck. A moan escaped her lips when his hand swept over her ribs to cup a breast, warmth spreading through her nightgown.
Her nipples throbbed with the need to be touched. Despite a voice in her head warning her that this was a terrible mistake, she found his assault on her senses impossible to resist. He searched her eyes and knew it, kissing her with increased hunger.
He broke away, raw heat in his eyes. “Althea.”
A knock came at the door.
“Sally,” she whispered.
“Send her away.” Flynn’s voice was hoarse.
She wanted to, terribly. But reality dawned like a splash of cold water. She was afraid. He was masterful and practiced at seduction, and this would lead to nothing but trouble. “No, Flynn. This is a fake marriage, not a real one.”
“Blast!” Flynn rolled away onto his stomach.
Althea left the bed, almost staggering as her knees gave way. She snatched up her dressing gown and threw it on.
“Come in, Sally.” She tied up her sash while Flynn rolled over and contemplated the ceiling with a scowl, a pillow across his stomach.
“I have brought your hot chocolates, my lady.” The maid entered with a tray as Althea drew back the curtains.
A heavy sensation nestled in her lower stomach, a sort of disappointed yearning. Convinced that Flynn felt even worse, Althea bit her lip. This was unfair on both of them. She would avoid such intimacy in future. “The rain has gone. A walk to the village after breakfast would be pleasant. Are we in accord, Flynn?”
“We may as well,” Flynn muttered ungraciously.
Sally curtsied and left the room.
“Come back to bed.” Flynn’s smile was inviting, and he lifted the covers.
She handed him a cup of steaming chocolate. “We need to find out where Cecil Hazelton lives, do we not? And I must question my servants as to what they will do after I close the house.”
He took a sip and shuddered. “Gad, that’s awful.”
“You don’t like chocolate?”
“Thick as mud.”
“Tea then?”
“I prefer coffee.”
“I shall arrange for you to have coffee at breakfast.” She watched his big hands around the cup. Hands that had cradled her face and touched her breast with gentle fingers. Her body felt heavy and warm. “Would you like bacon with your eggs?” she said in a placatory tone.
Flynn put the cup of chocolate down, barely touched. He pushed out of the bed. “Sounds good, Althea. I’ll bathe first.” He rasped his hand over his jaw. “And put on fresh clothes.” He looked rueful, but she was pleased to see a smile lurking in his eyes. “These trousers look as if they’ve been slept in.”
*
Flynn walked with Althea to the village where she would question the vicar while he consulted his coachman, Ben, who had been sent to lodge at the Crown Inn, along with the carriage and horses.
Once Althea discovered where Hazelton lived, they would pay the man a visit, although what he might learn from such an exercise defied his imagination. The whole business grated on his nerves. He expected Barraclough’s men to have contacted him by now. They must be in place to watch Owltree Cottage soon.
Perhaps he should apologize to Althea for this morning. But it would be insincere as he wanted to take her straight back to bed. His body tightened at an image seared in his brain of her delectable mouth, the pleasing shape of her soft breast beneath his hand, and the scent of a warm, aroused woman. She had wanted him, too. Who needed a bed? A field would do.
She was staring at him. “Flynn? I just spoke to you.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What were you thinking about? I suggested we go on horseback to see Mr. Hazelton, instead of in your carriage.”
He caught the hint of disapproval in her gaze. “Do you need to know my every thought?” he responded, more annoyed with himself than with her. He didn’t understand this desire that drove him. He was behaving like a lovesick schoolboy. He was not one. He was merely a man suffering from a deplorable lack of sex while thrown too close to a delectable female. It could send a man to Bedlam.
“We must not allow ourselves to become distracted,” she said.
His gaze settled on her mouth. “I have no intention of it.”
“Are we talking at cross-purposes?”
He grinned. “It’s entirely possible.”
She stopped and put her hand on his arm. Her pretty face bore a frown beneath her fetching hat. Definitely cross-purposes. “We can return to London soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow.”
Although he planned to do precisely that, he suffered a swift rush of regret. “Good.”
“Sally can seek employment with a relative who runs the inn. Cook wishes to retire to Plymouth and live with her brother. Mrs. Peebles shall return to my London house by stage. The stable boy assures me he can find employment at the village inn, and the gardener will continue to tend my garden.”
He admired how she cared for her servants. Once back in London, their lives would take them in different directions. He searched her face for a sign that she was as disappointed as he was to leave so soon, but she lowered her head, and her hat blocked his view.
“Have you discovered who killed Lord Churton?” she asked.
“Not as yet.”
“I would have expected Bow Street to investigate. Why are you involved?”
“Our monarch wishes it.” He took her arm to cross the road. Ahead, a square Norman tower rose above a copse of yew trees.
“The king?” Althea’s eyebrows rose in amazement. “What interest does he have in this?”
Once they’d gained the footpath, Flynn paused. He stared into the distance. While he and Barraclough had been searching fruitlessly, the Home Office had been caught up in another plot against the government and Viscount Sidmouth displayed little interest in this affair. Flynn doubted the truth of King George’s conspiracy, which made the whole matter sit uncomfortably on his shoulders. He had to find this tricoleur. Before these plotters did.
“Flynn?”
“If I knew, I would tell you, Althea,” he said, frustration deepening his voice.
She withdrew her arm with a sharp glance. “I understand if you can’t tell me, but please, don’t treat me like a peagoose.”
Flynn shook his head. “You are hardly that, Althea.” He moved to the road edge and drew her arm back through his.
They walked on in silence as his mind wrestled with the mystery. He had always wondered why King George had involved him when there were men with more experience to be had. Unless this was something the king did not want commonly known. Flynn took that idea and ran with it, for it made perfect sense. If only Churton had left a letter or a diary. Perhaps his wife? He would call on her when he returned to London.
Flynn left Althea at the door of the ancient church, which appeared to be in sore need of renovation, the pudding-stone walls beginning to crumble. In the bustling village, the second stage to change horses out of London, traffic was backed up on the Great West Road. He crossed behind a heavy cob pulling a cart laden with coal, his master walking beside the horse, one hand on the harness. Flynn gained the pavement, dodged around a peddler, and strode toward the Crown Inn.
“Lord Montsimon.”
Flynn raised his head from stepping over a puddle to find Sir Horace Crowthorne standing before him. He touched his hat. “Crowthorne.”
Crowthorne raised a shaggy gray eyebrow. “It’s a surprise to find you rusticating in Slough. Or are you passing through?”
“A brief visit,” Flynn said, refusing to elaborate. “I wonder what has brought you from London when parliament is in session.”
“Urgent estate business.” Crowthorne shifted his gaze to a passing carriage. “You must come to dinner tonight. It’s difficult to find good company in the country this time of the year. My wife particularly enjoys your conversation.”
“Unfortunately, I must refuse. Please offer my sincere apologies to Lady Crowthorne. Another time perhaps.”
Crowthorne hesitated; manners did not permit him to question Flynn further. “Lady Crowthorne will be disappointed. We shall send you an invitation when we are next in town.”
Flynn bowed. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”
He could sense Crowthorne’s hawkish gaze on his back as he continued along the street.
News would travel fast in a small village. The man must know that Flynn stayed at Owltree Cottage. And it was unlikely to be a coincidence that Crowthorne came across him here in the street. He no doubt wanted to find out what Flynn was doing there. Had coming to Slough done its job and made Crowthorne’s cohorts nervous enough for him to desert London while Parliament was sitting, a time when the business-minded Crowthorne would be fully occupied? Flynn sensed these men were growing dangerously impatient. Time for Althea to return to London.
He located Ben and gave him his instructions, then returned to the church.
Althea rushed to meet him in the street. “I’ve discovered where Hazelton lives.” Her eagerness brightened her eyes, reminding him of bluebells in his woodland in Ireland. “It’s not so very far, and the rain seems to have gone,” she said. “We can hire horses in the village.”
In the crisp daylight, she looked incredibly beautiful. And Flynn enjoyed having her around a little too much, which was dangerous for them both. He must send her back to Mayfair tout de suite where they could continue this later. “We might economize by hiring one horse.”
She shot him a withering glance. “Thank you, but I shall ride my own. I don’t recall much pleasure in sharing a horse with you.”
“No?” He rubbed his chin. “That’s strange, for I remember the pleasant aspects of it quite clearly.”
“Oh, Flynn.” She regarded him with amusement. “Let’s return to the house, have luncheon, and change into riding clothes.”
His heart gave a leap of pleasure to find she enjoyed their gentle sparring as much as he did. He offered his arm, and they turned back along the road to Owltree Cottage. “I met Crowthorne in the village,” Flynn said. “Wanted to know what I was doing here. Of course, I didn’t oblige the fellow.”
Her eyes widened. “I wonder what he plans to do.”
“I suspect we’ll know soon enough,” Flynn said grimly, “after we leave the house empty for him. It’s good that he’s aware of me. We need to apply pressure rather than be the subject of it.”
Althea grimaced. “I hope they don’t damage the house after we leave.”
He thought of Barraclough. Where the devil were his men? “They won’t get the chance.”