The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(54)
‘What do you want me to do now, sir?’ Dover asked. ‘Go back to London? I caught the stage to Thirsk and then hired a horse, I can do the same thing the other way round tomorrow and be back in London the day after.’
‘Not yet, I think. Lady Northam, do you have a Landed Gentry in the house? Because now we have the names of Francis Willoughby’s parents from the gravestone we might be able to trace the sister that way and also see whether there are any brothers. If not, Dover can ride to Pickering tomorrow, there’s a circulating library there that should have an up to date copy.’
‘Augustus may have kept one in his study,’ Guin said after a moment’s thought. ‘There is no proper library here, the Quentens took all the books with them when they moved out and Augustus had not begun to buy books for here yet in any quantity, although there are a few and I brought some of my own for the tower room. I expect Theo will want to add more if he decides to keep this house. I have just realised, this estate will belong to him now, I should ask his permission to stay when I write my letter of condolence for the death of his father.’
She stood up, bringing everyone else politely to their feet. ‘Shall we go down to the study and look for the book, Mr Hunt? At least you will know then whether the trip to Pickering is necessary.’
Jared followed her out and down the stairs in silence. Guin went into the study, across to the big chair, empty beside the desk. Jared closed the door and simply stood there, looking at her, his weight slightly on the balls of his feet, every line of his apparently relaxed body signalling alertness. This was a man poised for a fight: it seemed he did not need either word or gesture to alert him to her mood after all, he had been aware all along.
She found she was holding onto the back of the chair, Augustus’s chair, as though drawing support from some lingering trace of his presence. ‘I have only just realised that until you spoke to Mr Grantham at the inn you half believed I had murdered Francis. Perhaps totally believed it. I thought you trusted me.’
‘When you demonstrated a sense of guilt so strongly and Willoughby sounds so ripe for murder?’ he said in a tone of such reasonableness that she wanted to throw the inkwell at him. ‘Of course I had to suspect you. I did not know you, I did not know Lord Northam well enough to trust his judgment. To become a widow twice in such a short time argues a significant degree of misfortune – or something else entirely.’
There was a small sound as her nail pieced the leather of the chair back. ‘And yet a conversation with a complete stranger was enough to convince you of my innocence? After that evening… after what has passed between us?’
‘He gave me an understanding of why you felt guilty, of what Willoughby was, seen through a stranger’s eyes. It is my profession to keep people alive, to be suspicious of everyone, everything. Allowing emotion to – ’ Jared broke off.
‘You feel some emotion for me?’ She despised herself for the question, for having so little pride that she needed to ask for any kind of reassurance.
‘You do not know?’ Some of the stillness left Jared. ‘You think that I take encounters with women casually, that I would use you in that way?’
‘It was I who used you, I seem to recall.’ A kind of anger shivered through her, sparking some emotion in that watchful amber gaze.
‘Perhaps we used each other.’ Jared’s voice was silky with a sensual promise that did not ring true. Yes, he is angry too.
She should move back, or tell him to leave, or do anything but what she did, what those eyes were compelling her to do. Guin let go of the chair, stepped forward, her hand lifted, not knowing whether it was to strike or to caress.
Jared lifted his, right to right, a swordsman’s salute, and their palms met, kissed together in the lightest brushing touch and they stood there, hands open yet utterly trapped, breath mingling. Stood so close that Guin could count the individual lashes, see his irises widen as his gaze darkened and heated on her face.
‘Did we use each other, Guinevere? Or is this about more than need, more than the physical?’
‘You said emotion.’ Had he heard that whisper?
‘I should not allow myself to feel, not for a client, not for the person I am supposed to be protecting.’ His voice was as soft.
‘But you do?’ She was asking a man to admit to feelings that would expose him, lay him, and his pride, open to rejection, perhaps to mockery. I am a viscountess, Guin reminded herself. Jared, a swordmaster, a man who takes paid employment, is well aware of that. And yet this man never felt inferior to anyone, she was certain of it. It was not arrogance, it was confidence, hard-earned, hard-learned, self-assurance. Jared Hunt had carved himself a place outside Society and yet could step over that threshold as and when it suited him. She recalled how easily he had fitted into the ballroom, his friendship with the Duke and Duchess.
‘Yes. I care for you, Guinevere. I desire you. I believe you. I am not certain which order those came in.’ There was amusement suddenly, lighting his eyes with flecks of gold, crinkling the skin at the corners. ‘No, that is not so. Desire came first, desire came the moment I saw you.’
‘Truly?’ Somehow they had moved together, breast to breast, both hands clasped. She watched his eyes as he watched hers, an entirely silent conversation running beneath their spoken words. ‘I was frightened and so I was angry and haughty with you.’