A popping twig snapped her to attention. She glanced around but saw nothing in the garden’s hedges and trees. She continued, not decreasing her pace. She walked for several minutes more before Owen suddenly appeared, stepping out into her path from behind a tall hedge of heather.
She yelped and jumped back a step, her hand flying to her throat. “You gave me a fright!”
“I thought I might.”
“Then why on earth did you jump out at me like that?”
“To verify how observant you are.”
She crossed her arms. “Not very, I suppose.”
“I’ve been here watching you, moving about the trees and shrubs for the last five minutes.”
“I thought I heard something,” she muttered.
He stepped closer and started circling her. “I saw that you did. So why did you not do something? Call out? Get away? Go back inside?” His breath fanned the many loose hairs at her ear. “Nothing will get you hurt, killed faster, than ignoring your instincts. That tiny little voice in the back of your head? Listen to it.” His voice washed through her. The hairs near her ear fluttered and she swatted them in aggravation.
Owen ceased to circle her. Standing in front of her, he looked her squarely in the face. “You have to be aware at all times.”
She dragged her gaze from his mouth to his eyes, and couldn’t help marveling that she had never been more aware of another person, a man, as she was of him. How could she have not known he was within five feet? The way her body hummed and her skin tingled, she should be able to detect him from across the city.
He pointed at his eyes. “Watch. Keep your eyes sharp. Head up.”
She nodded, her lips compressing as she focused on what he was saying, absorbing his advice. In the back of her mind Bloodsworth rose up like a childhood specter.
He continued. “Listen.” He motioned to his chest. “With everything, all of you, your very skin. Do you hear any sounds?” He lifted his hand to her chest, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, the warmth, the solidness of his hand, the imprint of each strong finger burning into her. “Is there something that doesn’t belong? Do you hear nothing at all? Sometimes absolute silence tells you when danger is afoot, too.”
She inhaled another deep breath and struggled to focus on his words. On the air. In her surroundings. Beyond difficult when there was him. Everywhere. Swirling around her. Consuming her, filling her senses to the exclusion of all else.
She blinked, struggling to focus as he continued, “If you’re watchful, aware, the odds are much less that someone will target you. They will move on and look for easier prey.”
She wondered how he would respond if the villain they were discussing happened to be someone you were close to. Like a husband. Her stomach curled sickly at the thought and she shoved it away, refusing to give Bloodsworth such power over her.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded.
“What?”
He angled his head, repeating slowly, “Close. Your. Eyes.”
Nodding as though that were the most natural request, she closed her eyes, jamming them tightly shut.
He chuckled lightly. “At ease.”
She nodded again and let some of the tension ease away.
“Better.”
With her eyes closed, the sound of his voice was like a physical touch, and the hand that he pressed flat to her chest was a torment. She could feel his pulse, the very beat of his heart in rhythm with her own. Her breasts tightened against her bodice, tingling. Mortified, she prayed he did not notice.
A ragged breath left her when he dropped his hand. “I’m going to move away now. I want you to listen with your eyes shut. Raise your hand and point to the direction where you think I am. If you mark me, I’ll tell you.”
She nodded. Darkness swirled behind her eyelids. She strained to hear him. A whisper of fabric. The fall of a footstep. Nothing.
She lifted her arm uncertainly and pointed to her right. Nothing. Frowning, she lowered her arm. Another moment passed and she stretched out her arm straight in front of her. Again, silence. Apparently the instinct he wanted her to cultivate did not exist within her.
“Your instincts are better than that.” His disembodied voice whispered directly to her left, so close she was she certain she could touch him. She reached for him only to grope air. He had already moved. The man was like wind, moving without a sound.
Suddenly a fingertip stroked the bridge of her nose.
She made a growl of frustration, swiping at the hand, but it was already gone. She opened her eyes to find him directly in front of her. So close she could mark the darker ring of blue around his irises. The air trapped in her lungs to find him so close, his mouth once again there, hers for the taking.
She bit her bottom lip. His gaze dipped to her mouth, and heat swept up her neck to swallow her entire face. She held herself erect, stopping herself from leaning the half inch forward and pressing her mouth to his. The taste of him was still there from earlier, and she yearned for another sampling.
Moments passed, and he angled his face, convincing her that he intended to kiss her. That he was just seconds away from closing that scrap of space and claiming her lips with his.
Suddenly he pulled back. “Close your eyes,” he chastised.
Nodding hastily, she shut her eyes with an indignant huff, but the heat still swarmed her face. She could not get the image of him hovering before her—his lips so close, ready to kiss hers—out of her mind. Her entire body strained, listening for a sound. Nothing. But that did not mean he wasn’t before her, ready to kiss her again. Her pulse quickened with excitement.
Disappointed that he had been near enough to touch her and she had not sensed him—and convinced she would not fail in that regard again—she whirled around, wildly swinging her arm, hoping to make contact.
“Now you’re letting frustration guide you. The moment you lose control, some villain has control over you. Stop. Concentrate.”
It was hard to think of villains with his deep voice curling around her. She knew he was still there. She felt him, sensed him. She took one sliding step forward, convinced she was moving toward him.
Her lips tingled, throbbed, recalling the pressure of his lips there, still feeling the intensity of his earlier gaze. Perhaps he was on the verge of finishing where they left off. The way he had been looking at her mouth, she suspected he’d wanted to.
“Owen,” she whispered, turning her face upward in offering.
She stood like that for several moments, face tilted, body leaning, straining forward until a stillness came over the air. Suddenly she felt chilled. As though all the warmth had suddenly been sucked out of the garden.
“Owen?”
Silence answered her. A bird chirped from a nearby tree. In the distance a horse whinnied. Gradually, she opened her eyes, as though emerging from a sweet dream that she didn’t want to leave. Because her gut warned her of what she already feared. What she already knew.
She scanned the empty garden, moving around a hedge, surveying everything all at once.
He was gone.
Owen’s initial impulse was to storm from the house, but he’d run away enough times since meeting Anna. He wouldn’t flee her anymore. He’d agree to help her and he would see this through. At any rate, running only prolonged her stay in his life, her invasion into his world.
He ran his tongue over his lip. He could still taste her there. Pressing his mouth into a hard line, he walked rigidly into his bedchamber. Safe inside, door shut, he dragged both hands through his hair and allowed some of his composure to slip.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror. His reflection gave him pause. He looked wrecked. What was she doing to him? She had kissed him as boldly as the most experienced female, only she wasn’t. Nor had the kiss been. In the beginning.
At first her li
ps were tentative on his. Firm but unsure. Moving slightly. But not for long. He had seen to that.
With a groan, he dragged his hands through his hair yet again. He had almost kissed her in the garden. Working so closely with her would be a torment, but he would do it. He had to. Then he could be free.
His brother’s voice echoed through his mind. I want you to find what I have found with Paget.
It simply was not possible. And certainly not with Anna. She was running from her own demons. That much was clear to him. Something haunted her. He could see it in her eyes. She was as broken as he was.
Chapter Seventeen
My lord, this just arrived for you.”
Owen looked up from his breakfast. A groom held out a silver tray with a single missive in the center. He swallowed his bite of toast and plucked it from the tray, shooting a look to where Anna sat, sipping her chocolate. Morning sunlight struck her brown hair, reminding him of a chestnut bay he owned as a boy, the shining coat he had brushed so lovingly.
Her gaze met his before sliding away. A pretty pink filled her cheeks, and he knew she was remembering yesterday. The kiss that had started as a means for her to distract him had turned into something else. Something more. He’d thought of little else since, wondering how he could continue in this manner with her and not kiss her again. Touch her. Taste her.
He’d made a mistake not taking up the invitation from the blonde at Sodom. Perhaps if he had done more than share her bed and actually sated himself between her thighs he would not feel so close to succumbing to this woman. Perhaps it was simply Anna.
He shook off the distracting thought and forced his attention to the missive, opening it and scanning the words. He sucked in a breath, a heaviness building in his chest as the parchment dropped to the table with a whisper.
“What is it? Is everything all right?” Anna’s soft voice brushed the air.
Blinking, he tore his gaze from the discarded letter and faced her. It took him a moment to respond, his brother’s words within that letter pulling him in different directions all at once. He had determined to never return home. But this made him reconsider. As Jamie knew it would.
“Splendid. My brother’s wife safely delivered a son.” The corners of his lips lifted in a smile that felt false and all wrong on his face. Jamie and Paget had a son together. It seemed a strange thing to confront. Even odder than returning home to find them married. This. A child. Perhaps for the first time he understood how fully removed they were from him. That he would never have them back—that things would never be as they once were. In India, Jamie and Paget had been a world away. But now they suddenly felt like it.
“That’s wonderful news.”
He nodded and took a scalding sip of coffee, suffering the burn down his throat almost with pleasure.
She stared at him, her brown eyes sharp and measuring. “You don’t behave as though it’s wonderful.”
“They want me to come home.”
She studied him for a moment. “Of course they do. You should go. They’re your family.”
His fingers played with the spoon beside his plate. “It’s not easy. Being around them.” During his last visit he had felt like an outsider looking in, doubtlessly making them as uncomfortable as he was.
She nodded as though she understood. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Her gaze resumed its study of her cup of chocolate, a finger lightly tracing the rim. “This is your nephew. Your first, I presume?” At his single nod, she continued, “You should go.”
His jaw locked. Resentment stirred inside him. Mostly because she was right. He should go. But that did not change the fact that he did not wish to return home and suffer the happy company of his brother and Paget. Would there be that air of guilt swirling around them simply because he was there? The birth of their son was likely the happiest moment of their lives. He did not want to cast his shadow over it.
He rose, dropping his napkin on the table. “I have no place there anymore.” His voice rang with clear finality—almost as though he expected an argument from her.
She tilted her head back to look up at him as he hovered over the table. “Then stay here.” She uttered the words so simply. As though she harbored no judgment.
He nodded briskly. “Indeed. I’ll meet you in the foyer in an hour. Do you ride?”
She nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Passably.”
“Then we shall improve on that. No individual can be truly independent with mere passable skills in the saddle.”
Her eyebrows arched over those expressive eyes of hers. “I should become a more than passable rider, then.” A smile brushed her mouth.
His gaze skimmed her ill-fitting blue morning gown. “See Mrs. Kirkpatrick about a riding habit.”
“I will. Thank you.”
With a slight bow, he departed the dining room, his strides stiff. He could feel her gaze on his back. Even though there had been no hint of judgment in her gaze at his refusal to return to Winninghamshire, he felt her disappointment just the same. For some reason, it mattered to him. It rankled. For some insane reason, her good opinion signified.
He wasn’t even to the doors of his study yet when a sharp expletive burst from his lips. He stopped and stared unseeingly ahead of him. The truth stared back.
There would be no ride this morning. How could he ride at his leisure knowing he had a nephew? A new life with whom he was inexorably connected. Jamie and Paget had a son. And despite the distance he felt yawning between them, both literally and metaphorically, they wanted him there.
And she thought he should be there, too.
Like it or not, that mattered to him.
Turning on his heel, he marched back toward the dining room, his movements stiff and mechanical. He arrived at the narrow double doors just as Anna emerged. He pulled up short of colliding into her.
“Oh.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Did you forget something, my lord?”
“I changed my mind.”
Her brow knitted. “You changed your mind?”
“We won’t be going for a ride this morning.”
Her expression fell. “Oh. I see.”
No. She didn’t.
She lowered her gaze, avoiding looking at him. She was disappointed. He needn’t see her eyes to know this. He felt her disappointment radiating off her in waves. It dawned on him that he hated to disappoint her again even if he was following her advice. And although the reason would be understandable, he had no wish to do so again. How could he even be assured she would be here when he returned? A jolt of discomfort coursed through him at that possibility. Had she not already suggested it was time for her to take her leave?
Before he could consider his next words, he heard himself saying, “Pack your things.”
Her head shot up, her brown eyes suddenly bright. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Home. To Winninghamshire.”
She blinked, her expression mirroring the shock he felt at his announcement. “You wish to take me home with you?”
He winced. When she uttered it like that, he regretted ever saying such a thing. It made them seem close . . . intimate. Something they were not. Something they could never be.
He nodded brusquely, quelling his doubts. “I can work with you there just as well as here. Perhaps better.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I can instruct you in firearms. Such knowledge is useful. And that instruction is better suited for the country.”
She looked elated. Like a child awarded a toy. “I shall pack. It won’t take long.”
He surveyed her ill-fitting gown. Indeed. Her wardrobe was limited—a matter he still needed to correct, but there was no time for that now. According to the letter, if they hurried they might make it to his nephew’s christening.
She sped past him, her gait somewhat lopsided in her haste.
&n
bsp; “Easy,” he called after her. “Injuring yourself all over again will only slow us down.”
She shot him a glance over her shoulder, but slowed her steps.
He watched her take the stairs. As she disappeared from sight, he noticed that a smile shaped his mouth.
He had not even realized he’d been smiling.
They did not arrive in time for the christening. He had mentioned to Annalise that he hoped to make it in time for the event, but when they arrived at the manor, the stodgy old butler informed them that Lord and Lady Winningham were in the village for their son’s christening and should be home shortly.
There was the slightest flicker of regret in Owen’s eyes before he masked it. “Very well, Jarvis. Will you see that our belongings are settled into rooms for the night?”
The butler inclined his head. “Very good, my lord.”
Annalise rotated in a small circle in the grand foyer. It was a most impressive house. Not quite as awe-inspiring as Bloodsworth’s ducal seat, but this manor house was warm and comfortable. It felt like a home. Not just some grand mausoleum. Children could be reared in this house. Children had. Children like Owen.
She surveyed him beneath her lashes, wondering about that boy. What manner of child had he been? Was he always the aloof, silent sort? Or had he run shouting beneath the vast domed ceiling? She grinned, imagining a harried tutor in pursuit of him.
“Would you and your companion care for refreshments in the drawing room until Lord and Lady Winningham arrive?”
Annalise could detect nothing in his voice as he uttered the word “companion.” The rail-thin butler was the very image of decorum, his aged, wrinkled face revealing nothing, but the word jarred her nonetheless as they were led to the drawing room. She felt its weight, the implication.
For the first time, she contemplated her presence here. How would Owen explain her?
She did not have long to contemplate. Voices erupted from beyond the doors. Happy and overlapping, it sounded as though a festive party had returned from the christening.
Owen rose from the chair he had only just occupied as the raucous chatter drew closer. Footsteps sounded outside the drawing room. Annalise folded and refolded her hands in her lap, unsure what to do with them—or herself, for that matter. Should she rise or remain sitting?