Page 71 of A Treacherous Treasure

“Thank you,” Thomas said. “Can you go to Wyghtworth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go and tell my groom, Logan, to come here on a fast horse. I need to send him on an important errand.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman hurried away.

“I can hardly believe this is happening,” Rebecca whispered when they were alone, except for the dead body. “He looks as if he was trying to fend someone off, like he was being attacked.”

“Let me get you back upstairs. You need to rest your ankle.”

“Thank you. I am surprised it isn’t hurting very much.”

“It will be if you don’t rest it.”

“I’m thinking it’s almost healed.” Her voice trailed off, as if her thoughts had wandered to something else.

They put their arms around each other again and started up the stairs. Moving slowly but steadily, neither of them talked. He could become accustomed to having her arm around him, leaning on him, depending on him. He couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of her soft voice and her quiet but determined way of speaking and acting.

When they were just entering her bedroom, she broke the silence.

“What do you think happened to Mr. Fogg?” Rebecca whispered.

“Someone killed him.”

“I can’t stop thinking thatIkilled him.” Rebecca’s voice hitched.

He stopped her and moved to look her in the eye. “You did not kill him. You shot him in the perfect spot, away from his heart and other organs, even missing his bones. Besides that, you were defending yourself. He chose to come into your house at night without your permission and come into your bedroom with a knife, demanding something that did not belong to him. You did the right thing by shooting him, and I’m very proud of you, partially because I am the one who taught you how to shoot.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes. You did nothing wrong.”

“Mrs. Atwater must have sent someone to clean up the blood.” She was staring down at the floor where Fogg had lain bleeding.

She gazed up at him. Her eyes were so big and innocent, shimmering in the candlelight of all the candles that had been brought into the room. The faint smell of lemon and gardenia was all around him, making him feel dizzy.

His heart was beating fast as he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand.

He groaned inwardly, knowing he shouldn’t touch her, shouldn’t kiss her, but wanting to just the same.

She is Arthur Heywood’s widow,a voice inside his head accused.Do you want Arthur’s wife?

Arthur didn’t deserve her, and now he’s dead,he argued.

But it was improper for him to be there, in her bedroom, at night. Alone with her. He quickly let his hand drop.

“I should go.”

“Don’t go yet.” She put her arms around him and buried her face in his shirt.

She was still wearing his coat, and he could feel her warm breath on his neck, as he hadn’t taken the time to put on a cravat.

He held her close, loving the way she felt in his arms, so warm and soft and real, loving her nearness and her perfume, filling his head with daydreams.

If you married her, you could hold her like this every day.

It was an intoxicating thought, almost as intoxicating as her breath on his bare skin. But he had to keep his head about him. He could not behave like a scoundrel.