“No! Not as I wished.” He released her and clutched at his hair. His swirling emotions were making him giddy. He reiterated, “You were in danger. Real danger! What if Hardcastle had caught you? The devil had a knife!”
The words reminded her of his earlier clash with the publican; her gaze deflected to his left arm, and she saw the gash in his sleeve.
Her face transformed into a mask of concern. “My God—he cut you! How badly is it bleeding?” She hauled his arm down and tried to examine the wound.
He couldn’t worry and react, but she could?
He uttered a sound he would never have thought he might make—that of a man pushed beyond the limits of frustration—gave up all pretense, hauled her to him, and crushed his lips to hers.
He raised a hand, gripped her jaw, and kissed her ravenously, letting free all the pent-up emotions the past half hour had sent raging through him.
For all of one second, she was passive in his arms, then she pushed both hands up, over his chest, framed his face, and kissed him back.
Passion, desire, and so much more collided and erupted in a maelstrom of need. A need for reassurance at the most primal level—a hunger that could only be assuaged by the heartbeat and the heat of the other.
By the feel of her in his arms, by the thunder of her heartbeat when his hand fell to her throat and his thumb came to rest on the pulse point at its base.
She pressed against him, demanding more, inciting, inviting, and as lost to the moment as he.
As caught in the turmoil of the unruly, untamable emotions caring for another—loving—evoked and brought so powerfully to bear.
This—precisely this—had driven his resistance to marrying, given that, for him, marriage meant falling in love and developing a susceptibility to the mindless panic and desperation that had pierced him with icy claws when he’d realized just how much danger she’d courted.
How close she’d come to harm.
Yet they were mutually afflicted, it seemed, both subject to the same pressures, the same unavoidable, overriding fear.
If she could manage, could weather the storm…
One thing she couldn’t manage was this raging, out-of-control kiss.
That, he accepted, fell to him.
It took every ounce of his willpower to ease them both back from the beckoning conflagration. Even then, he gave thanks when she—finally—consented to follow his lead and ease back from the all-consuming, avidly greedy exchange.
Now was not the time; doubtless, she realized that as well as he.
Their lips finally parted.
He looked down, into her face, framed by the curved edge of her bonnet, into her eyes, pupils wide. Her lips were rosy and swollen.
He ached to consign the rest of the world to oblivion and kiss her again…but he couldn’t.
They couldn’t.
Not yet.
He read that understanding in her hazel eyes as awareness returned and her wits realigned.
Still holding her against him, her gaze trapped with his, he quietly stated, “ That’s why you can’t put yourself in danger.”
She blinked, then her eyes widened as his words and their underlying meaning sank in. “Oh.” She searched his eyes. “I see.”
Gently, he set her on her feet, but she didn’t step away.
Instead, she held his gaze and told him, “You do realize that argument works both ways, don’t you?”
It was his turn to blink, to read in her eyes what she intended him to comprehend. “Does it?”
The words, along with an undercurrent of vulnerability, slipped out before he could muffle them.
She returned his faintly questioning look with a very direct look of her own. “Yes, it does.”
The sound of hooves clopping up the lane had them both turning.
One of the manor’s grooms was riding toward them, leading their horses.
Christopher caught the glance Ellen threw him and waved her toward the lychgate. “We’d better get back, or Toby will start questioning Hardcastle without us.”
She huffed, but said nothing more as, side by side, they strode for the gate.
Chapter 11
In a room off the manor’s kitchens, they set about convincing Hardcastle that the very best thing he could do at that point was to tell them everything they wanted to know.
Initially, perhaps unsurprisingly, Hardcastle was surly and resistant to all overtures, refusing to answer any question, even the most obvious, such as to whom he was to have delivered the fake notes.
Apparently comfortable and relaxed, Christopher and Toby sat behind a narrow desk while before it, Hardcastle shifted his bulk on a hard, straight-backed chair. His hands, bound together, lay in his lap, and the grooms who had brought him to the room had also tied him to the chair.
Ellen, meanwhile, had chosen to stand, or rather, with her arms crossed, to pace slowly and consideringly—distractingly—around the tableau created by Hardcastle, the desk, and Christopher and Toby. Her gaze remained trained on Hardcastle, as if seeking some chink in his armor.
Hardcastle glowered at Christopher and Toby, but the occasional glances he threw Ellen were more wary. Regardless, he clung doggedly to silence.
Eventually, Toby, with his forearms on the desk and his hands clasped before him, ventured, “Perhaps we should explain what will happen if you continue to refuse to cooperate. Shortly, others will arrive, and if you fail to talk, you’ll be taken to the Tower.”
Shock froze Hardcastle’s expression, and Toby grimly nodded. “Yes, the Tower, because engaging in spreading counterfeit notes in such quantity used to be classed as treason. Many still consider it a most heinous crime.” Toby paused, then arched a brow. “I believe hanging will be the least of what you can expect.”
Although Hardcastle had paled, he continued to stare truculently at them, his jaw set like an iron trap.
Ellen paused by Christopher’s chair and artfully sighed. “Such a waste of a life. I’ve always thought hanging peculiarly gruesome, especially with the crowd baying for blood. And just think of your poor wife and children having to watch—because of course, they’ll feel they should be there.”
Hardcastle’s eyes flared.
Ellen noticed, but pretended she hadn’t; clasping her elbows, she shuddered evocatively. “Such a horrible experience—let alone the stigma they’ll have to live with for the rest of their lives. They might even have to leave the Bull—or feel they have to because everyone hereabouts will know. Even though they’re entirely blameless…” She frowned and focused on Hardcastle. “Or are they accomplices? Do they know about the counterfeit notes?”
Hardcastle’s lashes flickered, and he straightened. “No,” he growled. “None of them know a damn thing—you leave them out of it.”
Christopher leapt in to say, “The authorities are more interested in laying hands on those who organized the scheme rather than minor players along the way, such as you, let alone your family.” He caught Hardcastle’s gaze. “If you cooperate and, by so doing, assist the authorities in catching the people they’re after, we can ensure that the worst you’ll face will be transportation rather than an appointment with the hangman. At best…?” Still holding Hardcastle’s gaze, Christopher shrugged. “Who knows? Depending on how helpful you are, it’s possible the authorities will turn a blind eye to your involvement.”