The Rogue Is Back in Town Page 11

  He blew out a breath as he stood and paced in front of her. Meanwhile, she attempted to straighten her bodice and slow the beating of her traitorous heart.

  She scooped her slippers off the floor and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, as if restoring her modesty were just that simple. “That’s better.”

  He arched a brow, skeptical.

  In a transparent attempt to regain her footing, she assumed a conversational tone. “I see that your attire is much improved from this morning.”

  He leveled a glare at her. “Thank you. I think.”

  “So your valet paid a visit this evening?”

  “He did. I made sure he was very discreet.”

  Then she asked the question she really wanted to know. “Did you also ask your brother to provide the deed to this house?”

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at her, his expression unreadable. “Aye. I wrote to Nigel.”

  “And?”

  “He hasn’t responded. Yet.”

  Julie nodded briskly. “Thank you. I hope we’re able to put the matter behind us. Soon.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew it wouldn’t be that easy. For better or worse, after tonight—and the kiss—she’d never see the world in quite the same way.

  With a doubtful snort, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step closer. “Who can say what tomorrow holds, vixen? I suppose that will be up to my brother … and you.”

  Her heart tripped in her chest. His tone was half accusatory, half hurt. As if he suspected there was something between Nigel and her—when she wasn’t at all certain herself. “It doesn’t feel as though I truly have a say in the matter,” she said.

  He leaned closer, the brush of his shoulder against hers instantly reigniting her desire. “Don’t fool yourself, Juliette,” he said, his breath warm on her cheek. “You do have a decision to make. And I will have to live with your choice. Even if I don’t like it.”

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  “Miss Juliette, you’re finally awake!” Lucy exclaimed.

  Julie sat up with a start. “What time is it?”

  The maid clucked her tongue as she yanked open the doors of the armoire. “Well past noon. But don’t fret, miss. A few extra hours of sleep were no doubt necessary after your eventful night.”

  A chill skittered down Julie’s spine. “What do you mean?”

  Lucy cast a confused look over her shoulder. “Only that you were at a ball, dancing the evening away. Did you enjoy yourself? I’ll wager you had a slew of admirers thanks to your lovely red dress.”

  Heat crept up Julie’s neck. “I suppose I did have more dance partners than usual,” she said vaguely. “Where are my uncle and Sam—er, Cousin Samuel?”

  “I’m not certain, but they broke their fast hours ago.” The maid plucked a pink sprigged morning gown from the armoire and held it up questioningly.

  Julie shook her head as she scrambled out of bed and reached for her corset. “The green striped, I think.” It was her most modest gown, and it seemed to her that a little extra fabric wouldn’t be amiss after last night. “And let’s hurry, Lucy. I feel badly for leaving my uncle alone with Cousin Samuel all morning.”

  “I’m sure the gentlemen are capable of entertaining themselves, but never fear, we shall have you ready in a trice.”

  True to her word, Lucy quickly laced Julie’s corset and morning gown, then attacked her hair with a brush. “So many tangles,” she said with a tsk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been caught in a windstorm.”

  Oh my—a windstorm wasn’t responsible for the knots. “I must have had a restless night,” she said, avoiding the maid’s gaze in the vanity’s mirror.

  Julie’s scalp tingled at the memory of Sam spearing his fingers through her hair. He’d cradled her head in his large hand, taking complete control of their kiss. He’d stoked her passion till she burned for him.

  Even now, in the cold light of day, she could feel the power of that desire. Sweet as sugarplums and rare as a shooting star, it had spiraled within her until she was floating. Being with Sam was a sliver of ecstasy she wasn’t likely to forget.

  But she knew one thing for certain. There could be no more midnight trysts in the parlor—or anywhere else, for that matter.

  Because the price she might pay for a few minutes of heaven was steep, indeed.

  “There,” Lucy said with a satisfied smile. “A simple but elegant twist.”

  “It’s perfect.” But Julie barely spared a glance at her hair before leaping out of her seat and stepping into a pair of slippers.

  “Shall I have a tray sent up?” the maid asked.

  “I’ll wait for luncheon.” Julie was already heading out the door of her bedchamber, thinking about what she had to do. What she had to say to Sam.

  The little deal they’d made yesterday had been a very bad idea. An idea fraught with danger. If anyone discovered that he was staying there and that she’d been alone with him … She shuddered at the mere possibility.

  And while she hated the thought of distressing Uncle Alistair with the news about the house, perhaps it was preferable to bringing shame upon her entire family.

  This wasn’t like the one time she’d secretly taken in a stray cat and hid him in her room, sneaking scraps of food and bits of yarn upstairs when no one was looking.

  Rogues were far more difficult to hide than cats.

  Whatever the consequences were of tossing Sam out of the house, well … she’d just have to face them.

  Perhaps she should write to Meg in spite of her oldest sister’s delicate condition. Though Julie was loath to relate news that would upset her sister, she had no doubt that Meg and her doting husband, Will, would know just what to do about Julie’s predicament.

  And if it happened that Uncle Alistair wasn’t the rightful owner of the house, Will would probably offer to buy it from Nigel outright. He’d do anything to make Meg happy.

  Julie sighed, wondering if she’d ever inspire that sort of devotion in a man.

  She glided into the empty parlor and quickly checked the settee for lost hairpins, handkerchiefs, or any other potentially incriminating evidence of her dalliance with Sam. She slid her hands beneath the silk cushions. Nothing.

  Crouching, she checked the floor and carpet around the settee—all clear, if one discounted the dust balls.

  Everything was as it should be. Sunlight streamed through the windows, the pillows were plumped … almost as though their interlude hadn’t occurred at all.

  Oddly disappointed, she made her way to the study—for Uncle Alistair and Sam must almost certainly be there.

  She paused outside the closed door and listened. Male voices, punctuated by the occasional chuckle.

  Perhaps she’d been too hasty in judging Sam. Maybe he was holding up his end of the deal right now, playing the part of dutiful research assistant. She could open the door to find him hunched over a table beside her uncle, busy transcribing, organizing, and filing.

  Tentatively hopeful, she turned the handle and walked in.

  To find her uncle standing on a chair, brandishing his cane like sword.

  Dear God. A frantic cry escaped her throat.

  Her uncle spun to face her, smashed a glass lamp with his cane, and teetered, arms flailing wildly.

  The cane hit the floor. His eyes wide with terror, he listed toward the sharp corner of his desk. And like a scene straight out of a nightmare, Julie’s feet wouldn’t move.

  Everything was happening too fast. The edges of her vision blurred. The white tufts on Uncle Alistair’s crown waved as he fell, headfirst, toward the solid desktop.

  Julie screamed, bracing herself for the inevitable thud of his skull against oak—

  But Sam leaped over a globe and caught him. Just before impact.

  Uncle Alistair groaned. Sam grunted under his weight and staggered toward an arm chair, where he gently sat her uncle on the worn cushion. Breathless, Sam leaned over, his hands on his knees.

>   “What the devil were you thinking, walking in here like that?” he gasped.

  A roar filled her ears. “What the devil am I thinking?” she asked, incredulous. Oh dear, the room began to tilt a little.

  “Yes, Juliette. You barged in here and screamed like the house was on fire.”

  She took two steps toward Uncle Alistair and instantly regretted it. Blast it all, she was going down. She heard herself moan just as the world went black.

  * * *

  Dear Jesus. Sam lunged toward Juliette and caught her under the arms just before her knees would have hit the floor. Heart in his throat, he laid her on the carpet, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. What the hell was wrong with him? She’d had a terrible fright and instead of comforting her, he’d yelled.

  No wonder she preferred Nigel to him.

  “Alistair,” he called over his shoulder. “Do you have any smelling salts?”

  The old man scratched his head. “Heavens no—don’t need them. Juliette doesn’t succumb to fainting spells.”

  For a scientist, his powers of observation were sorely lacking.

  “I think she just did.”

  Chapter NINETEEN

  As Sam looked down at her pale, still face, panic raced through his veins. He put his cheek near her parted lips. Felt her breath faint upon his skin. Said a prayer of thanks—his first in a decade or so.

  “Juliette.” He gave her shoulders a light shake. “Can you hear me?”

  Her lashes twitched, but her entire body remained limp. Frighteningly so.

  “Juliette, please. Say something.” He caressed her forehead and shook her some more. No response, so he turned to Alistair. “Have you any water in here?”

  He pushed himself out of his chair, mumbling. “‘Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’”

  Sam blinked. “What?”

  “Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

  “Juliette’s fainted,” Sam reminded her uncle. “We don’t need poetry. We need water. What’s in that jar over there?” He pointed toward the window.

  Alistair retrieved it, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to Sam. “Water,” he announced.

  “Perfect.” Sam tilted the jar toward Juliette’s lips.

  “Straight from the Thames.”

  “Good God, man! She can’t drink this.” Sam jerked the jar back, and the river water sloshed, soaking the front of her dress.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “Sam?”

  At the sound of her voice, his heart squeezed in his chest. “I’m here.” When she strained with the effort to sit, he scooped her into his arms. “I have you.”

  Savoring the feel of her body snuggled against his chest, he walked toward the open window and sat her on a cushioned bench.

  “I’ll go find Mr. Finch,” Alistair said. “And request a proper glass of water.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Juliette said. “But there’s no need. I shall be fine.”

  “I’m sure you shall, but since I’m feeling rather superfluous at the moment, I may as well be of nervous.”

  Juliette started to protest, but Sam whispered, “Let him go.” Surprisingly, she didn’t argue but allowed him to keep his arm around her as he sat beside her on the bench.

  She waited until Alistair shuffled out of the room, then looked up at Sam, her forehead creased in confusion. “Would you please tell me what just happened?”

  “I almost made you drink water from the Thames,” he confessed with a shrug. “Thankfully, I spilled it on you before it passed your lips.”

  “I suppose I should be thankful,” she said, understandably doubtful. “But what happened before that?”

  “You fainted.” He tilted her chin up with one finger and searched her face. He’d never noticed the charming sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of her nose or the flecks of green in her eyes. “How are you feeling now?”

  “A bit embarrassed. I don’t faint, you see.”

  “No. Obviously not.”

  She smiled at that—and instantly brightened his whole damned day. “I’m feeling fine, honestly. It was just a shock—to walk into the room and find Uncle Alistair standing on his chair waving his cane. Why on earth would he do that?” Her gaze snapped to his. “Please don’t say we have mice.”

  “None that I know of,” Sam assured her. “We were simply conducting an experiment.”

  “An experiment,” she repeated, skeptical.

  “You’re the one who wanted me to be his research assistant,” he reminded her. He lightly massaged her nape, pleased that she permitted the intimate touch. But maybe she was still more dazed than she realized.

  She frowned, thoughtful, then pulled away. Damn it all.

  “Let me make sure I heard you correctly. You allowed a man in his seventh decade to climb onto a chair?” she asked, incredulous.

  “I see your fighting spirit has returned—I suppose that’s a good sign.” He crossed his arms smugly. “In response to your question, I not only allowed him to climb onto the chair, I encouraged it.”

  She slapped a palm to her forehead. “What sort of experiment was it, exactly? Were you investigating how long it would take before my uncle fell and broke his hip? Perhaps you planned to measure the quantity of blood that would spill from his head wound?”

  Sam winced. In retrospect, the chair probably had been a bad idea. But it wasn’t his nature to back down once he’d taken a stand. Time to dig in his heels. “Must you be so morose? I wouldn’t have let Alistair harm himself. You forget, I caught him and you before either one of you suffered grave consequences,” he said proudly.

  She shook her head in disbelief—apparently not quite ready to profess her undying gratitude. “What, precisely, was the point of that foolhardy exercise?”

  “Physics.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Assuming his best stodgy professor tone, he said, “It’s a branch of science devoted to understanding the universe—forces, energy, that sort of—”

  “Thank you, Sir Isaac. I know what it is.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “What were you testing?”

  “I could explain … but it would be easier to show you.” He plucked Alistair’s cane off the floor, tossed it in the air, and caught it with one hand. Pointing the end of the cane at a stack of documents, he said, “Crumple one of those papers into a ball.”

  “What?” she said. “They could be important.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be destroying any secrets of the universe,” he said dryly. “Alistair and I went through them earlier. That whole stack is destined for the dustbin. You see, we were working, while you lounged in bed all morning recovering from last night’s mischief.”

  “How gentlemanly of you to remind me,” she said, blushing prettily.

  He grinned at that. “I would be wounded if you were to forget our mischievousness.”

  Casting a nervous glance at the door, she shot him a pointed look. “Where were we? Oh, yes. I’ll crumple a paper.” She formed a lopsided ball and held it up. “Now what?”

  “Toss it at me.”

  She arched a brow. “Where?”

  “At me,” he repeated.

  “You’ll have to be more specific. Your shoulder? A knee?”

  “It’s not a duel, for God’s sake. You’re not likely to maim me with a paper ball.”

  She propped her fists on shapely hips. “We’ll see about that. Just so you know, I’m aiming for your head.”

  “Perfect.” Chances were the ball wouldn’t make it half the distance to him. “Do your worst.”

  She wound up, preparing to launch. “It’s a rather big target.”

  He held the cane like a cricket bat and prepared to swing. “Shall we make a wager?”

  Her arm cocked, she froze. “What sort?”

  “If you can hit my head, I’ll…” He looked around the study and pointed at a bookcase stuffed with a multitude of jars, their contents unidentifiable. Bordering on g
rotesque. “If you hit my head, I’ll organize and clean that entire shelf.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I like the sound of that. Perhaps we’ll finally rid this room of its faint putrid odor.”

  “But if you miss my head,” he continued, “you will owe me…”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Owe you what?”

  “More mischievousness.” He held his breath, awaiting her answer.

  Willing her to say yes.

  Chapter TWENTY

  Julie casually tossed the ball from palm to palm, weighing her options.

  She should refuse Sam’s wager, of course. The stakes were too high. Mischievousness, indeed.

  But whenever she and her sisters played cricket, she was invariably the bowler—and she would match her skills against anyone’s—even the rogue’s.

  Besides, she’d been purposely avoiding that shelf in Uncle Alistair’s study for months. Though she’d never asked him what was in the jars, the contents looked similar to moldy cheese, rotting meat, or poorly preserved body parts.

  And Julie had a strong, unfortunate tendency to gag whenever she looked that way.

  “I’ll take your wager,” she said impulsively. “But you may not move your feet.”

  “Fair enough.” A feral grin lit his face. “And the mischievousness?”

  The thought of being alone with him again—like she had been last night—made her belly do a somersault. Or perhaps the sight of his rolled-up shirtsleeves and sinewy forearms was responsible for the butterflies.

  “If mischievousness is required,” she stipulated, “it shall be at a time and place of my choosing.”

  Shrugging, he said, “As far as I’m concerned, there is no bad time or place. In fact, sometimes the most unusual places are the best. Dark pantries, sunny fields, cozy libraries—”

  “You’ve made your point,” she interrupted—even though she was curious about the other suitable locations. “I suggest you prepare yourself.”

  “Ready.” He once again raised the cane like a cricket bat as she pulled her arm back and threw.

  “Here you are!” Uncle Alistair shouted, rushing into the room holding a goblet of water.

  Startled, Sam turned.