The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(58)
‘Ough! Faith is far less severe,’ she protested as he tied the bow.
‘She does not have a vested interest in the delectable cleavage that tight lacing puts on display.’ Jared spun Guinevere round and kissed the area in question before retreating to where his shirt lay crumpled on the floor. He pulled it on and decided that sometimes a strategic retreat was the better part of valour. He looked for his coat and his neckcloth and, more importantly, his sword belt, then realised all were down in the study. The unlocked study.
What kind of bloody bodyguard are you? he snarled at himself as he ran down the tightly twisting stair, the warm sensual glow of their lovemaking replaced by cold anger at himself. The rapier and belt were where he had left them propped against the desk, the neckcloth draped across the guard. The kind who gets run through with his own sword in the middle of lovemaking, that’s what.
The familiar weight of the weapon at his side restored some of his equilibrium, enough for him to tie his neckcloth with a steady hand. The faded red and gilt of the Landed Gentry binding was visible on a shelf close to the desk and he pulled it out and sat down to study it, focusing on the simple task to steady his anger. The edition dated back almost twenty years, Lord Northam’s bookplate inside was scuffed and faded. It must have been an old one from his library that he had brought up here to help populate the empty shelves.
Jared flicked through to Willoughby. There it was, confirming the headstone in the graveyard. Henry Fitzgordon Willoughby of Gordon Chase, Northumberland, married to Jane Arnold. Children Francis Arnold, born 1784 and Elizabeth, born 1777.
No other children, so the theoretical murderous land agent brother was ruled out, and there was no sign of a marriage for the vengeful Elizabeth. He needed the most recent edition to find out about that.
Jared closed the book with a thump, dislodging a faded pressed fern frond from between its pages, but he did not get up to replace it on the shelf. The room was quiet, the deep old chair made for comfortable contemplation and he settled back in it, although his contemplating was far from comfortable.
This was his first commission after leaving Cal’s household and he had committed what was probably the cardinal sin for a bodyguard: he had become emotionally entangled with his subject. He had emotions for Cal – he was his best friend and he loved him like a brother – but that was different. It made him fight the harder to guard his back, it had made him devoted to the Duke’s interests, but it had not clouded his judgement, blunted his professional edge.
If he made love to Guinevere again it would be in a locked room with shutters closed, a chest wedged against the door and a blade inches from his hand at all times. And she touches you and your brain turns to porridge, your reflexes migrate to your groin and you see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but her. The house could burn down around your ears and you wouldn’t notice until it was too late.
Jared sat and contemplated the truth of that, just as Monsieur Favel his swordmaster had taught him to analyse his every error. So, he did not make love to her again. That simplifies matters, he thought grimly.
They would go and see what the Quentens could teach them, then find out what was happening with the new Lord Northam and, if necessary, go into Northumberland and see if they could track down the vengeful Willoughby sister. All he had to do until then was to stop the authorities arresting Theo Quenten for murder and keep Guinevere alive while staying out of her bed and avoiding his own family.
‘Such a simple plan, in fact,’ he said out loud.
Chapter Nineteen
Jared was still contemplating the tasks in front of him as there was a tap on the door.
‘Sir? I thought you might want me.’
‘Dover. We are going to Whitby tomorrow, you too. Tell Thomas and one of larger footmen that they are coming with us. I have no idea what is awaiting us, if anything, and it may simply prove to be a social call and some shopping for jet jewellery. On the other hand – ’
‘We go armed and expect the worst.’ Dover’s broad grin showed a certain bloodthirsty eagerness.
Jared found he was grinning back. What the devil was happening to him? He never grinned. He rarely smiled except for effect. Guinevere was getting under his skin to a dangerous extent and that had to stop.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, deadly serious again. ‘And I would wager that the worst is about to befall us if we are not very wary.’
Jared was silent over breakfast, which did not concern Guin overmuch. The experience of two very different husbands at the breakfast table had taught her that men tended to be taciturn first thing in the morning. Last night she had hoped he would have joined her in her bedchamber after dinner, but when he did not come she told herself that he was concerned for her rest and her reputation. Although, now she thought about it, he had been silent at dinner too.
She had expected him to join her and Faith in the carriage when they set out immediately after breakfast, but he ordered Dover into the coach, Thomas and Peter the footmen onto the back, and mounted the sturdy black hunter that Augustus had kept at Allerton for tackling the rough upland country.
‘Mr Hunt is making me dizzy,’ she complained, half joking, after a few miles. ‘I never know which side of the coach he is going to appear on next.’
‘Shaking the fidgets out of the horse, I expect, my lady,’ Dover said, his own gaze flickering from side to side, watching the country as they passed with far more attention that the hills and dales merited. Guin noticed that he had a rapier at his hip and that there were pistol butts sticking out of both the holsters built into the side panels of the coach.