Did she really want to hear about all the women he’d had over the years? No doubt he’d consorted with many, especially since both charm and appeal were as second nature to him as breathing. Actually listening to him rattle off the many women he’d kissed or slept with wouldn’t be a pleasurable way to spend any amount of time.
“Start with your most serious relationship.”
He hesitated, as though thinking back on his life. He finally placed his mug down and traced the rim. “I’ll admit, I’ve spent time with many women.”
“Many?” The word rankled her. “Can you quantify? Does that mean a dozen? Or a hundred?”
He laughed lightly. “I like women, but believe it or not, I’m not obsessed.”
“So, twelve?”
“Perhaps.”
She wasn’t sure why she wanted to know so badly. But a strange need drove her. “And did you love any of those twelve?”
“This sounds like a sixth question.”
“It’s part of number five—what have those relationships been like?”
He swished the coffee in his mug. “Most have been dalliances and nothing more.”
“Most?”
“There was a woman I met in England while I was in school, but eventually I had to bring an end to our relationship.”
“Why?”
“That’s definitely a sixth question. And even if it’s not, I’m passing on it.”
“She decided you were too stubborn and arrogant?”
“Something like that.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
What had happened? Had the woman broken his heart? “And while you’ve been traveling? Have any other women caught your eye besides me?”
The smile turned genuine again. “No one can compare to you.”
His flattery always made her stomach flutter. “Did you leave a string of broken hearts in every town you stayed in?” The question was out before she could keep herself from speaking it. But once it was, every nerve of her body perked to attention, waiting for his answer. She wanted him to answer her seriously.
He studied her face, and thankfully didn’t jest. “This trip hasn’t been about enjoying and spending time with women.”
For a strange reason, his answer seemed to steal inside and soothe some of her angst. “I find that hard to believe about you and Declan.”
“You’re the first woman I’ve met who made me not want to leave.”
His quiet statement left her suddenly breathless. She waited for him to follow up with a teasing comment or some other mirthful jab.
But he focused on his coffee mug and took a long slurp.
Did he mean what he’d said? That he didn’t want to leave? Delight gently cascaded up her back.
“Time for my fifth question.” He set his mug down, then swiped a piece of garlic bread left in the nearly empty basket. “Or maybe I should get six, seven, and eight too?”
“I already told you that all of my questions were related.”
Even though he didn’t smile this time, his eyes crinkled at the corners and were filled with warmth. “Then mine will all be related too.”
“Fine.”
“Why are you staying here in Fairplay?”
The question caught her off guard. From his tone, she knew he was asking her a deep question, one that had more to do with what she wanted out of life than where she lived.
“Is running this boardinghouse really what you want to do with your life?” He spoke kindly, enough that she could sense that he cared, that he wasn’t asking merely to be polite.
Silently, she mulled over her responses. She wanted to be honest with him. But what could she tell him about her plans for her life when she didn’t even know for herself? Yes, she’d longed for the ability to travel, see new sights, and meet new people.
But she also loved her family and couldn’t abandon their plans and hopes for a better future. “For now, I’m obligated to be here and make sure that things run smoothly.”
“Until when?”
Why was he asking? “My sister Charity is planning to return in the spring, and at that point she and her husband are hoping to transform the boardinghouse into a bigger home, one that would provide a place of refuge for poor, homeless, and frightened women in need.”
“And you want to help your sister with this project?”
“Of course.”
One of his brows quirked. “Really?”
“Someone has to be here to manage the place until Charity gets back.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying her intently.
“Fine. I love Colorado. And I love Fairplay. But I admit, I have grown restless here.”
Finally, he sat back in his chair and nodded, as if she’d given him the answer he was waiting to hear.
At the sudden clatter on the front porch, she stood abruptly.
He rose too, his revolver out and pointed toward the door. His body was rigid, and his eyes narrowed, almost as if he expected someone to come barging in. He began inching toward the door and motioned toward her. “Stay back.”
“Why?”
At another loud banging, he shot her a warning glare, then pressed a finger to his lips.
“What?” she whispered. “Are you worried someone is waiting to get us?”
“We have to be careful.”
Careful of what? She wanted to scoff, to tell him he was overreacting, that most likely a shutter had come loose. But as he drew closer to the door, the intensity of each step told her he was afraid of something out there.
9
He should have stayed far away from Felicity. And now because of his selfishness and stupidity, he’d brought danger right to her doorstep.
“Don’t come any closer,” he whispered to Felicity, who was standing near the table where they’d been enjoying coffee. The remains of their meal sat in discarded piles—empty plates, silverware, serving platters, and an apple pie with a couple of slices missing.
No doubt the assassin had tracked him to the boardinghouse. A dark and stormy night would be the perfect time to show up—when he would be least expecting it.
Carefully, he turned the door handle and then began to inch it open.
A gust of frigid wind blew against it, thrusting it wide and sending a swirl of snow into the house. For a moment the snow was blowing too hard for him to see outside. But as he stepped farther out, the light from the front window illuminated the darkness.
No one was in sight. But a tin pail had blown onto the porch—or maybe it had already been there. As another gust swept across the porch, it rattled the pail hard against the clapboards.
The sound was similar to what had disturbed them at the table. Had the noise only been the pail? Was there no one lurking outside nearby waiting to jump out and stab him?
The vision of the night he’d almost been killed rushed back.
He’d been lying in his bed trying to sleep. But he’d been restless after the argument he’d had earlier in the day with Gustaf over the rumors of unrest. His brother had been enraged to learn that Philip was growing in popularity since his return from Cambridge, so much so that people were starting to suggest he should be king instead of Gustaf. In a final parting shot, Gustaf had stopped his yelling and grown deadly calm before saying, “You will never be king. I shall make sure of that.”