The first man glared at his partner before turning back to Kilmartyn. “That’s neither here nor there, my lord. Questions have been raised and you’ll need to come with us.”
“In fact, I don’t,” Kilmartyn said lazily. “Your superiors should have come to me, discussed the matter in civil tones in the privacy of my home. However, I’m always in favor of cooperating with the local police services, so I’d be more than happy to accompany you. Mrs. Greaves, I’m afraid we’ll have to put off our discussion until later. It shouldn’t take long to resolve this, and then we’ll make arrangements for your journey when I get back.”
She kept her face impassive. What journey? What was happening? Did they really think he’d done anything to hurt his wife? Despite everything she knew he couldn’t have. He simply couldn’t.
He rose, taking his time, as Collins hurried into the room, a jacket and cravat over one arm, a hat and walking stick in his hand. Kilmartyn dressed in a leisurely fashion, and Bryony didn’t move. She ought to excuse herself, but she couldn’t move. Would he ever return to this house?
He pulled on his gloves and tucked the walking stick under his arm. “I believe I’m ready, gentlemen. Mrs. Greaves, tell Mrs. Harkins I should be back in time for dinner.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” the first man grumbled.
Kilmartyn raised an eyebrow. “I would.” He turned, about to head for the door, when at the last minute he leaned down toward her, close enough to whisper words only she could hear.
“By the way, Bryony. You taste delicious.”
And then he was gone, and she was alone.
The room spun, and she collapsed back in the chair, holding her head, shock and rage and shame sweeping through her in continuous waves as her memory came back full force. She was still sitting there when Collins peered back in the room, took one look at the expression on her face, and quickly shut the door.
She had no idea how long she sat, conflicting emotions running through her. Fury that he’d touched her. Shame that she’d let him. And the most disturbing reaction of all. Anger that he’d stopped.
The details were still fuzzy, but she could remember the feelings, her body tight and hot with longing. She could remember the explosion of pleasure he brought forth in her, she could remember the clawing craving for more that he’d inexplicably denied her. And that craving still threaded through her body, which was the most infuriating part of the entire, disturbing recollection.
She pushed herself up, trying to focus on her rage and not the strange desires whirling inside her. She hoped Scotland Yard hanged the bastard before she had to see him again. She finally had access to his library, and she’d find proof today, no matter what. Once she did she’d leave this house and never have to see him again. Maybe her instincts were all wrong. He could have killed her father and then murdered his own wife, and if so he deserved the coals of hell heaped upon his beautiful head.
She stopped herself. No, he didn’t murder his wife. No matter how much he disturbed her, annoyed her, she couldn’t believe he’d done such a thing. It was neither in his nature nor a reasonable assumption given the other occurrences that night. Her other moment of stupid weakness. There had to be some other explanation.
Not that she cared, she reminded herself. No, she was going to leave the house in Berkeley Square and never return. As long as he hadn’t been complicit in her father’s death she could then forget all about him, and the shocking things he’d done to her, the shocking way he’d made her feel.
It took her more than three hours, going through every drawer, sifting through the books, the papers, the files, and she found absolutely nothing. No telltale note, no sign of a recent influx of money, no mysterious correspondence, no hidden compartment behind the paintings. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find. Surely if a man had stolen a massive sum of money and blamed it on another man there’d be some trace of it.
But there was nothing. She sank down in the chair behind his desk, and then jumped up again. It was a leather chair, and the seat had conformed to Kilmartyn’s admittedly shapely backside. Not that she should be thinking of such things, particularly after last night. She should be disgusted, and she was. But she still couldn’t banish that note of almost wistful longing.
How could wistfulness and rampant lust abide in the same soul? Apparently it could in hers. She sank back down in the chair and let herself relish the feel of the worn leather around her. It was almost like a phantom embrace, the chair that had conformed to him now holding her body.
She was being a moonstruck idiot. It was a good thing she was done here, or she might make an even bigger fool of herself. There was nowhere else she could search, nothing more to gain, and everything to lose if she stayed here one more day. She had no doubt the police wouldn’t keep Kilmartyn—in truth, she was surprised he wasn’t home yet.
She needed to get out of here. There was only one problem. She had no money, at least, not enough to get to Devonport and somehow insert herself into the doubtless ramshackle household of Captain Thomas Morgan, the former pirate.
There was the household cash, of course, under her lock and key, but if she took that she’d be a thief just as she suspected Kilmartyn of being. She’d have to figure out some other way of getting out of here, some way to get money. Selling herself on the streets would get her nowhere, she thought with dark humor, when a sensualist like Kilmartyn didn’t even want her for free.
There were her grandmother’s pearls. She could probably sell them for enough money to pay for a train ticket to Devonport. It broke her heart, but if it rescued her from the danger Kilmartyn presented then her beloved grandmother would approve and it would be money well spent.
Because if she stayed, and Kilmartyn changed his mind, she’d end up in his bed with or without the benefit of cognac. There was no use denying it, she was a fool for the man, a total, witless ninny. He saw her as a plaything, and she was so besotted with him she was willing to be just that, willing to do anything if he’d kiss her again. Much as she hated being a coward, her only choice was to run.
She’d get over it. After all, he was the first man she’d ever spent much time with, and he had the misfortune to be beautiful. Though admittedly the delicately handsome face of Lady Kilmartyn’s cousin Rufus had left her entirely unmoved, and the footmen’s excellent physiques held no interest. No, it was Kilmartyn, with his wicked humor and his sly, teasing ways, his mouth, his eyes…
And she needed to get out of there before she saw him again. Because even if he’d changed his mind last night and decided she wasn’t worth the trouble, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t change it again, if he was bored and drunk and randy.
She checked the small watch pinned to her black-clad bosom. It had been more than four hours, the midday meal already past, and she hadn’t eaten anything since last night. Up until now the very idea of food had made her gag, but the influence of the night before had passed off enough for her to realize she was hungry.
First things first. She would fetch the pearls, and anything else she could carry, and make some excuse to leave the house, never to return. She hurried up to her room, searching through her meager belongings.
Where was her other nightdress? And then memory came back, of him ripping it in half and gazing down at her, not with boredom but fierce need, and she felt herself grow hot with her own kind of longing once again.
But in the end he’d changed his mind. He hadn’t wanted her. The details of that rejection were hazy, but the truth was plain. She wasn’t worth his time or even his random lust.
What had she done with the torn nightgown? She assumed she’d somehow made her way back upsta