She stiffened under his probing gaze. Briefly she considered persisting with her lies. But as she looked into his face, she knew denial was useless. She sucked in a breath that contained a heady mixture of relief and uncertainty. “How long have you known?”
“From the beginning.”
He sat up carefully and stared at her. If his face had held an ounce of anger or censure, she’d have kept silent. But he looked interested, calm, capable. He looked like a man she could trust with her life.
She shifted uncomfortably, her conscience flinching at the lies she’d told. “I don’t see why you want to help. I’ve caused nothing but trouble. You should consign me to perdition.”
Another of those faint smiles. “True.”
“Well?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been alone against the world in my time. I’d hate you to come to grief because you had no champion.”
Again, she thought of a medieval knight. A lonely, gallant figure on an impossible quest. “What happened to you?”
He laughed softly. “Oh, no, my lady. This is my interrogation. Who hurt you?”
Lingering caution insisted she conceal the precise details of her plight. She’d seen how greed changed men. She couldn’t risk that happening to Sir Gideon if she told him who she really was. But his gallantry toward her meant she owed him more than the shabby falsehoods she’d produced so far.
“My brothers. They’re trying to force me to marry a wastrel. I cannot…will not stomach the match.” Her hands fisted in her skirts. It seemed odd, uncomfortable to trust a man even a little after all she’d been through. “When they realized my opposition was more than a girlish whim, they resorted to stronger persuasion.” Close to the truth. Close enough to salve her stinging conscience, anyway.
Sir Gideon’s face remained expressionless as he listened. What did he make of this tale that belonged in a gothic novel? Did he even believe her? At least he showed no skepticism.
“Why are your brothers so eager for you to marry this man?”
His lack of histrionics calmed her. Her hands slowly uncurled until they lay flat upon her lap. Her voice emerged almost normally. “They owe him money. My inheritance becomes my husband’s if I marry or mine if I turn twenty-one unwed.”
“When do you turn twenty-one?”
“The first of March.”
“That’s only three weeks away.”
“You perceive my brothers’ need for urgency,” she said dryly.
“Self-serving maggots,” he bit out with sudden savagery.
She’d misjudged his calmness. Looking closer, she realized he was furiously angry. His voice was quiet, his manner unthreatening. But she had a sudden vivid memory of the man who overcame every adversary in the Portsmouth brawl. Foreboding tinged with satisfaction shivered through her. She wouldn’t like to be Felix or Hubert if Sir Gideon got his hands on them.
“I’m so sorry for telling lies,” she whispered, guilt twisting her stomach into knots. She twined her hands together and gazed down, unwilling to meet his searching eyes. Eyes clever enough to discern she still wasn’t completely honest.
“You were in danger. You had no reason to trust me.”
“Except you saved my life,” she said almost soundlessly.
Except you’re fine and handsome and brave. And I’ve held you while you were sick and unaware. And watched you sleep through a long dark night. You make my heart beat like a drum, and I can hardly breathe when I look into your eyes.
She glanced up in time to catch the annoyance that crossed his face. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing to me.” She raised her chin and stared unflinchingly at him.
“Miss Watson, I don’t want your gratitude,” he snapped.
She hid the pang of hurt his response provoked. And refrained from insisting that she’d be grateful to him until the day she died.
An awkward pause fell.
When eventually he resumed his questions, his expression didn’t lighten. “Presumably someone other than your brothers has custody of your fortune while you’re a minor. Why didn’t you appeal to them?”