Garden of Lies(44)

Griffith did not argue. The hansom took off at a great rate of speed.

Slater looked at Ursula. “What the devil?”

“Chemicals,” she managed. She took great, deep breaths. “The laboratory was full of them. The fire must have set them off.”





TWENTY-TWO




I do wish that you would sit down, Slater,” Ursula said. “Watching you pace back and forth like a caged lion is making me nervous. I have already sustained a fair amount of stress today.”

They were in her study. She was seated on a stool in front of the fire, drying her hair and drinking the medicinal dose of brandy that Mrs. Dunstan had poured for her.

There had been very few words spoken in the hansom. Slater had locked one arm around her and virtually imprisoned her. For the most part he had simply repeated her name and asked her over and over again if she was all right. She had assured him each time that she was fine while secretly taking comfort in his strength and the warmth and the scent of him.

She was accustomed to being alone but in the aftermath of the near disaster she had to admit to herself that she was very glad of Slater’s company. The sense of intimacy would not last but at the moment it was a blessing like no other.

The moment they walked into the front hall of her town house, Mrs. Dunstan had taken charge, ushering her upstairs and into a warm bath. By the time she emerged, the early dark of a winter night had settled on the city.

She had put on a dressing gown and descended the stairs to the study to dry her hair in front of the fire. She had been shocked to discover that Slater was waiting for her.

She had hesitated in the doorway. The comfortable, loose-fitting dressing gown with its long skirts and full sleeves was quite modest. Indeed, the fashion journals considered such gowns suitable attire for ladies to wear downstairs to breakfast. But there was no escaping the fact that there was a suggestion of intimacy about a dressing gown. The style, after all, had been inspired by the French.

She had walked into the study, thrilled not only by Slater’s presence but by her own daring. The burning look that Slater had given her had warmed her as nothing else could have done. She had unwrapped the towel that bound her wet hair and sat down on the stool in front of the hearth.

Mrs. Dunstan had brought in a tray with a light supper of hot vegetable soup, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and bread. Slater had spoken little during the meal. He had helped himself to some of the cheese and bread and devoted himself to prowling the small space while Ursula dined.

It was not until Mrs. Dunstan had removed the tray that Ursula realized that the expression in Slater’s eyes was the heat of controlled anger, not desire. He was in a dangerous mood.

“I’m making you nervous?” he asked. “How the devil do you think I felt when I realized Rosemont’s shop was on fire and there was no sign of you anywhere?”

Ursula adjusted the towel around her shoulders and reached for the brandy glass.

“Very well,” she said, trying to acknowledge his point with grace. She swallowed some brandy and set the glass aside. “I do comprehend that you may have been somewhat startled by the fire.”

“Startled?” Slater closed the distance between them with two long strides, reached down and hauled her up off the stool. “Startled? Madam, I was teetering on the brink of madness when I saw you emerge from the alley door. It’s a wonder I’m not being fitted for a straitjacket and booking a room in an asylum at this very moment.”

Her own temper flashed like lightning. “I am very sorry you are so overset by recent events, Mr. Roxton, but I would remind you that I am the one who nearly died today.”

“Good Lord, woman, don’t you think I realize that? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you understand?”

“It’s not as if I intended to end up in a house fire.”

“You should never have gone to that shop alone. If you hadn’t mentioned your destination to your housekeeper—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

“It was a perfume shop, for heaven’s sake, a place that Anne had evidently visited any number of times.”

“Exactly. And I would remind you that Anne Clifton is dead. What were you thinking?”

She opened her mouth to answer him but she never got the chance. He yanked her hard against his chest and kissed her with a fierceness that stole her breath.

The kiss was not meant to summon her response, nor was it an exploratory kiss intended to woo her and invite her into greater intimacy. This was a lightning strike of a kiss, meant to lay waste to any thought of resistance. It was a claiming, conquering kiss, a kiss fueled by a wildfire of desire and demand. Slater branded her with the kiss as though he was intent on marking her as his and his alone.

The kiss ignited her senses.

After a stunned few seconds, an electrifying thrill arced through her. She was consumed with a deep, aching urgency, a need that matched the primal forces she sensed in Slater.

She wrapped her arms around him and threw herself into the sensual battle. He responded with a shuddering groan that reverberated through every fiber of her being. The towel around her shoulders fell to the floor.

Without warning, Slater broke off the kiss and set her a few inches away, his hands locked around her forearms.

“Don’t move,” he said.

His low, husky command sent another wave of shivery excitement through her.