Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(13)

"Hold still," she heard herself say. Carefully she laid a hand on the center of his chest.

The instant that Lottie touched him, Lord Sydney's chest moved beneath her palm in a strong, quick breath.

The violent thump of his heart against her fingers filled Lottie with a curious tenderness. He seemed to be frozen, as if he feared that any movement might frighten her away. Softly she touched his lower lip with her fingertips and felt his hot breath fan against them. A butterfly left its resting place on the gate and flew away, a trembling stain of color in the air.

"What is your name?" Lottie whispered. "Your first name."

It took an unaccountably long time for him to reply. The bristly fans of his lashes lowered to conceal his thoughts. "John."

He was so tall that Lottie had to stand on her toes to reach his mouth, and even then she couldn't quite manage it. Catching her waist in his hands, he compacted her gently against his body. Suddenly there was a strange, lost look in his eyes, as if he were drowning. Hesitantly Lottie slid her hand around the back of his neck, where the interlaced muscles had gone rigid.

He let her tug his head lower, lower, until their breath mingled and their lips touched in a sweet, supple kiss. His mouth remained warm and still against hers, and then his lips began to move in soft brushes. Disoriented, Lottie swayed in his grasp, and his arm slid around her back to hold her securely. Instinctively she nudged upward, straining on her toes as she sought to deepen the tender pressure. But he was careful to keep his passion under tight rein, refusing to take any more.

Gradually she eased away from him, sinking back to her heels. She dared to touch the side of his face, relishing the warmth of his skin against her palm. "I've paid the toll," she whispered. "May I pass through the gate now?"

He nodded gravely and moved away from the threshold.

Lottie crossed through and wandered past the hedge, surprised to discover that her knees were a bit quivery. Her companion followed in silence as she walked along the footpath that led to Stony Cross Park. When they had almost reached the great house, they paused in the shelter of an oak tree.

"I must leave you here," Lottie said, her face dappled by the overhead boughs. "It wouldn't do to be seen together."

"Of course."

A wistful ache gathered inside her chest as she stared at him. "When will you leave Stony Cross Park, my lord?"

"Soon."

"Not until after tomorrow evening, I hope. The village has a wonderful May Day celebration. Everyone from the manor comes down to watch."

"Will you?"

Lottie shook her head immediately. "No, I have seen it before. I will probably remain in my room with a book. But for a newcomer, the festivities would be entertaining."

"I will consider it," he murmured. "Thank you for the walk, Miss Miller." And with a polite bow, he left her.

After breakfast, Charlotte pushed Lady Westcliff's wheeled chair along the paved walks of the estate gardens. Nick watched from an open first-floor window, able to hear the regal old woman as she lectured Charlotte.

"There is no substitute for daily inspection," Lady Westcliff was saying, gesturing with a bejeweled hand. "Weeds must be pulled as soon as they show. Plants must never be allowed to grow outside their proper places, or they will ruin the proportion of the garden..."

Charlotte appeared to be listening respectfully as she guided the chair along the path. The ease with which she maneuvered it belied the vehicle's obvious weight. Her slim arms were surprisingly strong, and she showed no signs of tiring as they proceeded along the hedgerow.

Nick watched her intently as he tried to sort through the anarchy of his thoughts. His usual appetite had vanished after their walk this morning. He had not eaten breakfast...had not done anything, really, except to wander around the estate in a sort of daze that appalled him. He knew himself to be a callous man, one with no honor, and no means of quelling his own brutish instincts. So much of his life had been occupied with basic survival that he had never been free to follow higher pursuits. He had little acquaintance with literature or history, and his mathematical abilities were limited to matters of money and betting odds. Philosophy, to him, was a handful of cynical principles learned through experience with the worst of humanity. By now, nothing could surprise or intimidate him. He didn't fear loss, pain, or even death.

But with a few words and one awkward, innocent kiss, Charlotte Howard had devastated him.

It was clear that Charlotte had changed from the girl her parents, friends, and Radnor himself had known. She had become accustomed to living in the moment, with no thought given to the future. The knowledge that she was being hunted, that her days of precious freedom were limited, should have made her bitter and disillusioned. And yet she still threw pins into wishing wells. A wish. The flicker of hope that implied...it had struck at his soul, when he had believed he had no soul left.

He could not give her to Radnor.

He had to take her for himself.

His hand closed around the painted wood casement, gripping hard to assure his balance. Otherwise, he would have staggered from the violent surprise of his discovery.

"Sydney."

The sound of Lord Westcliff's voice startled him. Nick was not pleased to realize that he had been so absorbed in watching Charlotte that his customary alertness had vanished. Keeping his face blank, he turned toward the earl.