Two

Three days later…

Genevieve punched bread dough, the lumpy mass squishing between her fingers. These rustics didn’t know how good they had it. Peace and quiet came at a price in London, an indulgence she could never afford. Squabbles wafted through walls. Bed ropes creaked from partners racing to a lusty finish. A girl grew up fast living above the Golden Goose.

The price of her new venture stretched across the table: her housekeeper’s apron.

She picked up the plain white piece and pinned it to her russet bodice. It was time she got in the habit of donning the apron upon rising. It’s what a proper housekeeper would do.

Despite growing up among actresses, she’d never once taken a turn on the stage. For her new life to succeed, she’d have to play a housekeeper’s role exceedingly well. That meant putting on her apron before cooking. Men were another kettle of fish too. Flirtation with a man above her station no longer fit. Even that harmless bit three nights ago on the empty road with Lord Marcus Bowles had been unwise.

Rules were different here. She’d best abide by them.

She plopped in a chair and rubbed her forehead. With the Beckworths gone for the next few hours, the cottage was hers—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Except for the bothersome person pounding on the cottage door.

Her eyes opened. That someone banged again, hard enough to jangle the iron latch. She wound her way through the small dining room to the entry hall and cracked open the front door. Peter Dutton held out the post, his blue eyes filled with cheer.

Her hand slid through the opening to accept the delivery. “Good morning, Mr. Dutton.”

“Miss Abbott. Good morning.” He doffed his hat. “And how are you finding your new position?”

She fished for coins from the entry table and gave him a cursory smile. “The same as yesterday, thank you.”

As the newest unmarried female in Cornhill-on-Tweed, she was fodder for the curious. Yesterday, she’d made the mistake of inviting Mr. Dutton inside, where he dawdled overlong.

She absently dropped payment into his outstretched palm. As she fanned the letters, one missive caught her eye, the elegant lines looping just so. Elise Sauveterre had written to her? Genevieve’s thumb pinched a new crease on the foolscap.

For Elise to write this soon…

A brown leather shoe scraped the front step. “Miss Abbott, I wonder if…”

She pressed the letters to her chest and peered at Peter Dutton through the slivered opening. “Good day to you, sir. Godspeed with your deliveries.”

Head bent, she nudged the door shut with her hip. She dropped the other letters on the table and tore open Elise’s missive. Words swarmed like insects scattered over fallen fruit. Her brows knit together. She needed to say the words aloud…to hear them. A glance at the quiet cottage assured her of what she already knew. No one was here to witness her private struggle. She could stumble over the syllables, and none would be the wiser.

Her mouth opened for a deep breath, and slowly she sounded out the words.

Dear Genevieve,

Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade.

An icy shiver touched her spine. “Avo.”

His soulless black eyes haunted her. Why was the Frisian looking for her? Of all men, he should be glad to see her gone.

Unless…

Sifting through the words, another name leaped off the page. Reinhard Wolf. She swallowed hard, her back flattening against the door. The walls closed in as though he’d cornered her again, his broad-shouldered presence overpowering her. Besieging her. Until she said yes. Eyes squeezed shut, she couldn’t block him out. Reinhard loomed large, steely in his determination.

She crumpled the letter, coaxing herself to calmness. England was a big place to search for one woman. Surely he’d give up. To know his plans, she’d have to soldier on through Elise’s letter.

He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you—

Thump! Thump! Thump!

She sprang away from the door. Mr. Dutton. This time she’d send him on his way with a firm word. She yanked the door wide open, blinking at bright sunlight and an even brighter man.

Her breath caught. “Lord Bowles.”

“Miss Turner, how nice to see you again.” His greeting alone could be a proposition, the way his voice caressed her name.

She stood mutely, the floor uncertain beneath her feet. Behind him the Beckworth geese waddled through the yard, their orange beaks poking the ground. The rogue had followed her?

Her mind spinning, she blurted, “What are you doing?”

Hazel eyes glinted beneath his black tricorn hat. “I’m standing on your doorstep. Will you let me in?”

“No.” She stuffed the crumpled letter in her pocket. “Mr. Beckworth and his brothers aren’t here. They have business in Learmouth village.”

Creases deepened at the corners of his friendly eyes. Lord Bowles wasn’t put off. There had to be a social nicety for this, but where she came from, if you didn’t want someone at your door, you told them.

“I know they aren’t.” His voice dropped lower. “I came early to see you.”

What was she supposed to do about this? A polite refusal formed, but his lordship’s vision snagged on her cleavage before popping back up to her face.

A scoundrel always showed his true colors.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, all pretense of a proper servant gone. “And who’d be calling? The honorable vicar?”

Lord Bowles chuckled. “I apologize for the surprise. Mr. Beckworth and I are longtime friends. I started to tell you about the connection while we repaired the coach brace.” He paused and took a measured tone. “But our roadside conversation went in a new direction before I had the chance.”

She smarted when he said a new direction, a stinging reminder that she’d pleaded with him to hide her true identity…from his friend no less. What a neat bit of trouble this was! Did his lordship think she was here to steal the family silver? A laughable thing since the humble Beckworth cottage had none.

“Then you would be the old army friend coming to dinner,” she said flatly.

“I am. The worse for wear but not…so old.”

She shoved off the doorjamb, her mind assembling all the pieces. His lordship’s gentle humor was a balm in this clumsy moment. Lord Bowles was tonight’s honored guest and the reason for the small feast she was preparing in the kitchen. It was late morning. Almost noon. She wanted to tell him to come back later, but Mr. Beckworth might take offense if she did. What would a proper housekeeper do? There was also the matter of her character, such as it was. She didn’t want Lord Bowles thinking ill of her.

Mildly chastened, she clasped dough-flecked hands together. “I am not a thief, milord. If that’s your concern, please know I’d never cause harm to Mr. Beckworth or his family.”

“I believe you.”

Never had three words sounded so lovely. They’d rolled off his tongue with ease. She hesitated. Shutting the door on Lord Bowles wouldn’t be wise. Letting him in didn’t work either.

“I knew there was a possibility our paths might cross,” she said, stalling in hopes that wisdom would strike.

“And you thought I’d pretend we’d met for the first time, should we be introduced in the village.”

“Yes.”

Lord Bowles nodded, hands clasped behind his back. “While I don’t believe you’re out to harm Mr. Beckworth, this still makes me complicit in your deception…against my friend.”

Her status hung in the balance. Did he have concerns about her circumstances? Or was he in search of a dalliance? The power was his.

“Does that mean you’ll not mention my real name or the Golden Goose to Mr. Beckworth?”

“I already gave my word.” He flashed a disarming smile. “Now, will you let me in?”

She was doomed. Lord Bowles was trouble on two legs. He knew how to open doors with his smile alone. A sculpted lower lip balanced his thinner upper lip, a scale of sensuality and wit. Her solitude and better judgment were about to be breached by a consummate flirt wielding his version of honor. Men were by no means a novelty. She was skilled at brushing them off or remaining unnoticed when the mood struck, but she’d have to face facts.

London allowed obscurity. Cornhill-on-Tweed would not.

“No harm in showing you to the parlor. Mr. Beckworth and his brothers should return within an hour.”

He stepped inside and passed his hat to her, sunshine crowning his chestnut-colored hair. “Any chance you’ll sit with me awhile?” He stretched free of his black redingote, the collar brushing curls at his nape.

“None. I clean the parlor, milord. I don’t sit in it.”

He laughed at her bald rejection, and a single lock slipped free of his queue’s black ribbon. The curl hid behind his ear, the strands a sun-kissed contrast to the rest of his brown hair. The vulnerable lock of hair begged to be neatened. She hung his hat and coat on pegs, glad for her hands to have something to do. Lord Bowles stood less than an arm’s length from her at the crossroads of proper and intimate, a winsome smile on his face.

And her wish to be a respectable domestic slipped a notch.

She tipped her head toward the parlor. “You can wait in there, milord.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Alone,” she said, getting a whiff of pleasant soapiness from him. “I am the housekeeper, remember?”

The notion struck that he’d addressed her by her real name when she’d opened the door. The shock of seeing him and his attractive pleasantness had relaxed her guard, surrounding her, warm as a summer day. Lord Bowles must’ve shaved before riding here. His angular jaw appeared silky smooth, a contrast to his rumpled cravat and dirty leather spatterdashes wrapped around his calves. Clumps of grass and dirt clung to the spatterdashes’ horn buttons. No one, not even a high and mighty lord, was going to muck the floors she’d scrubbed that morning.

She pointed at the messy spatterdashes. “Those must come off.”

“Anything else you want removed?” he teased, taking a seat on the entry hall’s bench. He started on the buttons at his left knee and nodded at his other leg. “I could use some help. My hands are stiff. I raced Khan this morning, and I neglected to wear my gloves.”

He held up chafed hands. Careful not to touch him, she leaned in, peering at the redness on his fingers. A few spots showed minor swelling.

“Chilblains, milord. I’ve a salve for that.”

Fingers splayed, he examined the marks. “Is that what those are? No wonder my hands ache.” He flashed a dazzling smile. “You can rub your salve on me. I’m an amiable patient.”

Amiable patient, indeed.

She crouched on the floor, her hands working efficiently on the sturdy buttons. “I’ll give you the salve, and you can rub it on yourself.”

He chuckled above her head. “You have a talent for putting me in my place. A man could believe he’s lost all sway with the fairer sex.”

“I’ve a new life here, milord,” she said, concentrating on the spatterdash. “I’ll not ruin it.”

Little by little, the leather parted. Her fingers grazed his leg, brushing warm wool stretched over flexed muscles. His stocking’s intricate weave was inches from her nose. Masculine body heat seeped into her, bringing with it earthy aromas of grass and soil.

Kneeling at his feet, she was fascinated by the play of sinew and muscle, evidence of a man who spent much time in the saddle. His calf muscle curved out and flattened high at the back of his leg. How nice it would be to explore him there. To explore all of him.

Cheeks warming, her chin dipped lower. Women at the Goose were known to bicker over Lord Bowles, wanting a few hours on his arm—or other parts.

She stole glances at his striking profile. Sunlight caught his long, brown lashes tipped with gold. Head bent, he unclasped the other spatterdash, his lips pressing together from the effort. This was like being backstage two years past, sitting near him but hardly noticed.

Considering her reasons for coming north, this was for the best. Yet, today he had come early.

For her. Why?

Her tongue moistened her lips, and she bent to the task. One thick button by his ankle proved especially trying. Her hand slipped inside the leather’s sultry warmth.

The bench bumped the wall.

She looked into hazel eyes bright with greens and golds among rich browns.

Heat shot hard and fast inside her. Her nipples pinched against her stays.

“Is this part of your housekeeper’s duties?” he asked.

Daylight caught tiny dust motes drifting between them. The floor was cold on her legs, but her palm grew hot. The corner of his lordship’s mouth quirked. His attention traveled downward, and she followed his sight line.

Her hand was inside the spatterdash, curving possessively around his calf.

Heat crept up her neck. Her fingers straightened, and she removed her hand, making every effort not to touch him. “My apologies for the familiarity, milord.”

“Perhaps now’s the time to ask again if I can sit with you awhile.”

His raspy voice played on her, poking holes in her wish for solitude. Her plans, her future depended on her staying a properly focused housekeeper.

She fought the last button, and the spatterdash gave way. “No, milord. I’ve work to do in the kitchen.”

Skin peeked through a hole the size of a ha’penny in his stocking. She sat back on her heels, her fingertips touching her lips. Even beautiful men of high birth got holes in their stockings.

“Then you won’t mind me helping you.” Grinning, Lord Bowles stood and angled his head at the wide-open front door. “Starting with closing the door. Most domestics do that.”

She’d left the door open, and two geese were waddling around the front step, their webbed feet inches from the threshold.

Lord Bowles set one hand on the dark-stained oak and pushed, all the while watching her with gentle determination as she rose awkwardly from the floor. Iron hinges whined a lethargic turn before the door clicked shut on the honking fowl. The entry dimmed but was no less luminous for the unexpected sparks between them. Lord Bowles was a dose of good French brandy at the wrong time of day, enticing but entirely unsuitable.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asked.

His lordship missed nothing. He was like a thieftaker digging for the truth. In their two meetings, he’d shown more substance than the aimless wastrel people claimed him to be. For the first time since she left London, Genevieve missed the clamor and the crowds. This quiet between her and Lord Bowles denuded her.

“Nervous? A little.” Her attention flittered over him. “The part of me that finds you handsome. Too handsome for your own good.”

He blinked, his lips parting. Well-shod feet shifted, and another beat of stillness passed. Had she surprised him? Good. Unease melted off her back from satisfaction of his lordship being the one off center. Served him right for coming here like this.

She wiped dough-flecked hands on her apron as though she had all the time in the world. “And since I’m being forthright, milord, I wanted some time to myself. You don’t get much of that living above the Golden Goose.”

“No, I suppose not.”

With his wind-mussed queue and rumpled brown velvet coat, Lord Bowles could be any man awaiting acceptance of a social call. He was a dangerous flirt with genuine, friendly appeal, endearing qualities that played havoc with her resolve, but she would be firm.

Her head tipped at an open doorway off the entry. “The parlor is that way, milord. I’ll fetch some coffee for you.”

She headed to the kitchen, her skin prickling across her bottom and thighs. Lord Bowles watched her. Ambling footsteps sounded in the small dining room behind her. He wasn’t going to be a docile guest.

Did his lordship think he’d found a convenient light-skirt?

Crossing the kitchen, she tensed, expecting footfalls to follow her on the flagstone floor. A knee to a man’s baubles sent a clear message to overzealous males at the Golden Goose. With her employer’s friend, she’d have to use different tactics.

At the hearth, she checked the roast in the cooking hastener, but no footsteps came, nor did a hand palm her bottom. One glance at the kitchen showed Lord Bowles lounging in the doorway, one hand resting in his coat pocket. The corners of his mouth curled up as if he read women all the time and knew their secrets.

“Thought I’d wait here, save you the trip to the parlor with my coffee.”

“Because I’m of a delicate constitution?” She reached for the spindle jack hanging from a rafter above the hearth.

“No, because I like watching you.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Lord Bowles…” she began sternly.

“I know,” he said, smiling shamelessly. “I’m being inappropriate with my friend’s housekeeper. Can we agree to talk freely when we’re alone? I’ll curb myself when others are around.”

“I can’t lose this position, milord.” She started winding the spindle jack, a slow and noisy effort. Her breasts jostled, and the flush spread down her neck and chest. There was no denying that it was nice to be the object of his improper interest.

The Beckworth kitchen was bright with limestone walls and a cheery, yellow cabinet. Turnips lay on the table, and bread was rising in a bowl. This was not a typical haunt for the likes of Lord Bowles. His boredom with this rustic kitchen was her best weapon. He’d soon seek amusement elsewhere.

“There is a point to my visit,” he said loudly. “I come bearing an offer of help.”

“Help? With what?” she asked above the cranking cogs.

Lord Bowles stepped cautiously down into the kitchen. “I’d rather have a decent conversation with you than yell across the room.” He gestured to the long pine table near the hearth. “May I have a seat? I promise to behave. We’ll have a table between us.”

Her arm burned from working against the spindle’s tension and weight of the heavy roast by her knees. She was about to give him a setdown, but she spied that silly hole in his stocking and softened.

“No flirting, milord.”

He smiled boldly. “On my honor, none. We’ll be solemn as clergymen.”

“Clergymen.” She huffed and blew a wayward wisp of hair off her face. “A few minutes. No more.”

He crossed the kitchen and took a seat at the table. She cranked harder. The string was nearly wound around the pulley.

“What is this offer of yours?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said on Devil’s Causeway…about running to someone. Do you know where this person is?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why not let me help you? I spent part of my childhood here. I know the district well. Conducting your search alone will be doubly hard.”

“That’s how I work, milord. Alone. Then a body doesn’t have to rely on anyone.”

Legs sprawling, he clasped his fingers over his midsection. “You’d refuse help?”

Her cranking stalled. He wasn’t seeking a dalliance? A glimpse of his face showed he was serious.

“You’re very kind, but I must do this on my own.” She finished the rotations. The string was tightly wound. Her thumb flipped the mechanism, and she waited.

A gear clicked. One. Then another. And another. Shiny cogs pulsed with clocklike efficiency, the tick almost musical. A hook spun at the bottom of the spindle jack, and from there a slender chain stretched into the cooking hastener by her knees, slowly turning a roast. Machinery worked well together, unlike people. If a mechanism broke, a little tinkering or a replacement part made the thing work again. Not so with people. There was never an easy fix with people.

Lord Bowles cleared his throat. “Why not use me to a good end? I already know your secret.”

She dragged her attention from the brass cogs and faced the hearth, smirking to herself. The man probably wasn’t used to clearing his throat for female attention. Her back to Lord Bowles, she jabbed the poker at burning logs. “Pardon me for saying so, milord, but you really know nothing at all.”

“Then why not trust me a little more? You did three nights ago.”

Trust? The word scalded her.

She speared a log with too much fervor, and flames flared high. Why did he want to meddle in her affairs? It would’ve been better if he’d asked for a dalliance. Sex was never personal. Hot and sweaty, two bodies giving pleasure…a thing to be enjoyed, but not intimate like exchanging trust. Lord Bowles sat comfortably in the kitchen asking probing questions, looking as if he’d ask more, and she was supposed to serve him coffee.

Direct refusals didn’t work with his lordship. Certainly subtle evasions would. She set down the poker and retrieved two coffee mugs to fill them. He was her employer’s honored guest and a man who knew too much about her. At the table, her bulging pocket came into view. How easy it’d be to hand over Elise’s letter. She could ask him to read it aloud, but she’d have much to explain. Too much. It was better, safer, to slip into the world of bland servitude.

She picked up iron tongs and waved them at the table’s sugar loaf. “Do you take sugar with your coffee, milord?”

Keen hazel eyes pinned her. “One small pinch, please. And you haven’t answered my question.”

She nipped the sugar and dropped the sweetener in his coffee and hers. The chunks bobbed helplessly in dark liquid.

“Why me?” She slid his cup across the table. “Until three nights ago, you couldn’t recall my name. I was nothing more than a bawdy-house worker to you.”

“A fair point. It’s as simple as I want to help you. You’re in some kind of distress.”

“Do I look like a woman in distress?” Her bottom found the chair facing him. “Forgive me, but in my experience, when men offer to help, it usually carries a price.”

Sunlight spilled over her morning visitor. With his good looks and gentleman’s demeanor, he could be an archangel come for a visit to sleepy Cornhill, but she knew better. Her lips twisted on hard-learned, bitter truth.

Men always got their needs met.

Lord Bowles stared out the kitchen window, his fine profile a stark relief against limestone walls. The steaming coffee cup ignored, a somber pall washed over him. His shoulders bunched under the brown velvet coat as if he wrestled with an unseen weight.

“Would you accept my offer purely as a bid for friendship?”

The startling question came out of nowhere.

“I don’t understand. Friendship?” She drew the word out, testing it like a foreign flavor.

His fingertips drew light circles on the table. “That is what I offer.”

Her spoon wove circles in her coffee, clinking inside her mug. What an irregular request. “And you offer friendship because…”

Lord Bowles turned in his chair, the wood creaking as he faced her. “Because you are a woman in need and I want to help. Because I enjoy talking with you and find that I like you. Because…” He searched the air, finishing testily, “Because I don’t know. Must a man list his reasons for doing a good turn?”

The stirring stopped, a strange notion striking her. Lord Bowles was somehow at her mercy, a man in need, and she was the one he wanted to fill it.

A faint scowl marred his features. “Are you always this difficult, Miss Turner?”

“I’m afraid so, milord. Growing up, my mother was at her wit’s end with me.”

The breezy admission slipped out. She could blame it on stunning events of late. Twice in one day, Lord Bowles had accomplished what few men had done in her lifetime. He’d shocked her in the best way, first announcing he believed her when she said she’d not harm the Beckworths, and now this, a man seeking conversation and friendship because he found talking with her a pleasure. True, he’d ogled her breasts, but not once did he paw them or pinch her bottom.

This turn was unusual and…nice.

Lord Bowles sighed and braced a hand on the table. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

“Wait.” She grasped his sleeve. “You’re giving up already?”

“I’ll not force my friendship on you.”

Did he mean it? Friendship? A feather could’ve knocked her over.

“If you’ll beg pardon, milord, friendship between the likes of you with me… It’s most irregular.”

“It is.” His voice was honest and gentle. She was tempted to bask in it after a lifetime surrounded by brusque men.

“And me being a woman from less respectable parts has nothing to do with your…offer?”

Her cautious question touched the heart of the matter like flint striking steel. Lord Bowles held her stare, the golds and greens of his hazel eyes burning bright.

“You think I’m seeking you out for bed sport.”

“It crossed my mind.”

The barest pause passed. A moment, she suspected, when Lord Bowles decided to tell the truth.

“It crossed mine too,” he admitted.

Her knees went slack, and she let go of his velvet sleeve. Despite his gentlemanly bid for friendship, a current thrummed between them. The heat could singe wood, yet their voices hardly reached above a whisper. The spindle jack ticked as steadily as her pulse. Grease droplets sizzled inside the hastener. Rosemary and thyme clouded the kitchen, the domestic aromas a contrast to their peculiar conversation.

“How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen?”

“Twenty.”

“That’s why I couldn’t remember you,” he said, relaxing in the chair. “And since we’re being honest, I prefer my bed partners closer to my age. When I met you two years ago, I would’ve deemed you too young.”

Her lips suppressed a smile. “Then I’d be too young for you now. Is that it?”

He nodded, his mouth quirking sideways. Penetrating hazel eyes told her otherwise, but she’d let that bit of fiction rest and not prod him overmuch.

“And now you want friendship. With me.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve found a woman interesting.” Tiredness slackened the corners of his eyes, and his charming smile faded.

“And you’re convinced I’m in some kind of trouble.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m doing fine, milord.” She sat back in her chair, breaking their intense gaze. “But about this friendship you’re wanting…”

He smoothed his waistcoat, his attention drifting to the kitchen window. “Our acquaintance will last longer that way. I’ve already mastered shallow and short-lived with women.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. He held a better place in this world and had to be nine or ten years older than her, yet in a way, he needed her.

“Friendship with a man. That’d be a first for me.”

“As friendship with a woman is for me,” he said quietly.

Him? Friends with a woman like her? She never walked in his lofty circles, nor would she ever. More like he roamed less reputable places and left when it suited, but they were far from London.

Did Cornhill-on-Tweed change their circumstances?

She couldn’t imagine Lord Bowles making the same request in London, much less at the Golden Goose. This call to friendship had to do with him coming north. There had to be more to what happened at the Cocoa Tree. Was he paying a personal cost that went beyond the expense of replacing pieces of furniture?

“Very well.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Friends share secrets, don’t they?”

“They do.”

She dragged a bowl of turnips in need of slicing across the table and picked up a root vegetable in one hand, her paring knife in the other. “Tell me something most people don’t know about you.”

He blinked at her. “Like a rite of initiation.”

She cut a blighted spot off the turnip and let the damaged chunk drop to the table. “Something like that.”

These friendship waters needed testing. Why not let him dive in first?

He chuckled, the raspy sound prying open closed places inside her. “Sounds like a soldiers’ drinking game.”

“And you’re going first.”

He scraped back his chair, his fine mouth curving in the roguish smile she’d seen him wear in London. “Oh, Miss Turner, challenge accepted.”

Lord Bowles stretched free of his brown velvet coat, the brass buttons knocking the table. Bare of his coat, he laid his right arm across the pine surface and began tugging up his sleeve.

She scooted back in her chair. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you this.”

His white sleeve slid back in small increments. Brown hair scattered across his forearm. Veins and sinew twisted under his skin. The telling lines spoke of a man who exerted himself physically from time to time. With the sleeve tucked in his elbow, Lord Bowles flipped over his forearm.

Black ink marked his pale underarm. A tattoo.

Genevieve dropped the knife and turnip in the bowl and angled herself for a better look. The outline of a galloping horse, mane and tail flying, had been etched on his skin with words. Her brows puckered and her lips moved silently, trying to form the words, but she dared not read them aloud. The letter combinations looked like nothing she’d seen before.

Lord Bowles tapped his arm. “It’s Latin. Cum fremitu eum, exaltatus fueris ut.” His eyes sparkled, at once lively and intense. “It says ‘When I bestride him, I soar.’ The only Shakespeare I remember in an otherwise dull litany of boyhood lessons.”

His graveled voice tickled her nape. She’d heard of Latin. None of it made sense. Her brain lost the translation when her fingertips slid over black lines, the inked creature a picture of freedom. A blue-green vein pulsed beneath her hand. Lord Bowles’s forearm was nicely shaped like his calf, the flesh cut with furrows of lean muscle rather than thick bulk.

She skimmed the pale flesh, his breath warming her ear. Pebbled skin trailed after her fingers wherever she touched. The tiny bumps on his lordship’s arm snared her as much as the horse etched on his skin.

“It’s pretty,” she whispered, tracing the Latin.

His quick intake of breath was a warning. Their heads almost touched. Her lashes hovered low, saving her from eye contact. To be this close… It wasn’t wise.

She put both hands on the cool, solid pine of the table, fine wisps of hair falling before her eyes. Lord Bowles scraped his chair nearer to the table and sat down without a word. Chin to his chest, he dragged his shirtsleeve down. They both took care to let this heady moment pass. Planting her bottom in the chair, she fumbled inside the crockery for the paring knife and a turnip.

Another tattoo flitted across her mind: a plain black dagger fashioned to look like a cross inside a triangular shield. She shook her head. Reinhard Wolf and Avo Thade were far away. They’d never find her.

She sliced the turnip, eyeing Lord Bowles from under her lashes. “Soldiers and sailors have tattoos. But you’d be the first real gentleman of my acquaintance with one.”

“I got it in Saint George’s Town when I was a soldier,” he said, clearing his throat. “Before I came home from the Seven Years’ War. My family doesn’t know I have it.”

“How could they not?”

He reached for his coat. “They never see me in a state of undress.”

How different her experience from his. Where she came from, half-dressed bodies were the standard. Most humble residents of Tavistock Street shared close confines. Men and women changed their garb behind large linens draped across lines indoors and counted that as privacy. Many didn’t care if they were seen half-dressed or not. More secluded rooms were to be had in other establishments, but she’d never lived that way.

Across the table, his lordship slipped on the rumpled velvet coat, his agile frame graceful. Her gaze flickered over his leanly muscled body. What else did he hide beneath his clothes?

“I’d guess you love horses.”

“Fast horses and fast women. Usually.”

The grin he flashed was infectious, sending a forbidden fluttery feeling across her chest. Nursing the connection between them wasn’t a good idea, but the lightness refused to be squashed.

“Then I shall have a care with my pace when I’m around you, milord.”

They recovered from that private turn, their conversation easing into safe territory. Lord Bowles sipped his coffee and regaled her with tales of childhood and horses. Lots of horses. By the way he spoke, she guessed the four-legged creatures owned him more than he owned them. He smiled often, revealing a dimple on his right cheek. She whittled away on one vegetable after another, aware his short visit to the kitchen had stretched long. His astonishing request for friendship lit up a hidden corner inside her.

Friendship. With him.

She could ask for his help. The urge sparked inside her like a tiny beacon. This was the beginning of a better life. She’d already taken bold steps to get here.

Warmth and light spread…until the letter crinkled in her pocket.