Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(10)

No wonder Radnor wanted her. And yet in his attempts to possess her, the earl would soon extinguish everything that made her so desirable.

Nick knew it would be relatively easy to whisk Charlotte away to London before the Westcliffs were fully aware of what was happening. He supposed he should do it in the morning, using the element of surprise to his advantage. Deeply troubled, he laced his fingers behind his head."I'm not afraid of anything," Charlotte had told him. Although he didn't believe that, he admired her for saying it. Of course Charlotte was afraid-she knew what Radnor would do to her when she returned. However, that was not Nick's concern. His only responsibility was to do what he had been paid for.

On the other hand...

There was no need for haste. Why not stay at Stony Cross Park for a few days? He would not be required to report at Bow Street for another two weeks, and the woods of Hampshire were far preferable to the soggy, ill-smelling mess of London. If he remained here for an extra day or two, he would be able to learn more about Charlotte. He needed to find out if she was all that she seemed to be.

Rolling to his side, Nick considered the idea. He had never broken his own rules before, one of them being that he never allowed himself to develop personal familiarity with his prey. However, he had never been one to respect rules, even his own.

The thought of Charlotte made him hot and irritable and thoroughly aroused. Gemma had ended their arrangement six months ago, and he had been celibate ever since. It wasn't that he lacked desire...in fact, he was burning with unspent passion. And he had met many willing women. But he was not interested in the ordinary or the mundane. He wanted a woman who could provide the sexual intensity he needed. Such a woman would either be inordinately experienced in the bedroom...or not experienced at all.

Reaching over the side of the bed, Nick searched in the discarded heap of his clothes and found the miniature. With an expertise born of habit, he pressed the catch of the enameled case and flipped it open. Settling on his back, he stared into Charlotte's exquisite little face.

Is it you?he thought, tracing the line of her cheek with his fingertip. Desire filled his c**k and caused it to stiffen unmercifully. His lashes lowered slightly as he continued to watch the tiny painted face, and his hand slid down to the aching jut of his arousal.

As was her daily habit, Lottie took an early-morning walk across the landscape of Stony Cross, over steep hills covered in heather or forest, past bogs and ponds and glades that teemed with life. Most of the guests at the manor, including Lady Westcliff, slept late and took breakfast at the hour of ten. However, Lottie had never been able to adapt to such a schedule. She needed some form of exercise to rid herself of an excess of nervous energy. On the days when it was too cold or stormy to walk, she fidgeted inside until Lady Westcliff erupted in exasperation.

Lottie had devised three or four different walks, each lasting approximately an hour. This morning she chose the one that began along Hill Road, crossed through a medieval oak and hazel forest, and passed the source of a local spring called the Wishing Well. It was a cool, damp morning typical of the beginning of May, and Lottie drew in deep breaths of the earth-scented air. Dressed in a gown with loose ankle-length skirts, her feet shod in sturdy mid-calf boots, Lottie trod energetically away from Westcliff Manor. She followed a sandy track that led into the forest, while natterjack toads hopped out of the path of her oncoming boots. The trees rustled overhead, the wind carrying the cries of nuthatches and whitethroats. A huge, ungainly buzzard flapped its way toward the nearby bogs in search of breakfast.

Suddenly Lottie caught sight of a dark shape ahead. It was a man, roaming through the forest, his outline partially obscured in the mist. A poacher, perhaps. Although Lottie stopped at some distance, he had unusually sharp hearing. His head turned as a twig snapped beneath her boot.

Lottie held her ground as he approached. She recognized him at once, the fluid, almost catlike grace of his movements. He was casually dressed in shirt-sleeves and a black waistcoat, with boots and decidedly ancient breeches. Lord Sydney...looking disreputable and indecently handsome. She was surprised to see him there, when all the other guests at Westcliff Manor were still abed. Even more surprising was her own reaction to him, a surge of excitement and gladness.

"Good morning," Lord Sydney said, a faint smile playing on his lips. His dark hair was disheveled, and his cravat had been carelessly tied.

"I wouldn't have expected you to be out at this hour," she said cheerfully.

"I never sleep past sunrise."

Lottie nodded toward the path he had been contemplating. "Were you planning to go that way? I wouldn't advise it."

"Why not?"

"That path leads to marshy ponds and very deep bogs. One unfortunate step, and you could find yourself drowning in mud-that is, if you haven't been done in by raft spiders or snakes." She shook her head in feigned regret. "We've lost some very nice guests that way."

He smiled lazily. "I don't suppose you would care to recommend an alternate route?"

"If you go the other way, you'll come to a bridle path that leads to a sunken lane. Follow it to the gatehouse garden, go through the opening in the hedge, and you'll find a path that takes you to the top of a hill. From there you can see lakes, villages, forests, all spread before you...the view is breathtaking."

"Is that where you're headed?"

She shook her head and replied impudently, "No, I am going in the opposite direction."