Patience blinked free of his hold as the linen slipped from her lax grasp. "I daresay." She frowned-just what were they talking about? She followed the embroidery as Vane lifted it-and met his eyes over the top of the hoop.
He smiled-all wolf-and tossed her work-linen, hoop and needle-into the basket beside the daybed. Leaving her without protection.
Patience felt her eyes grow round. Vane's smile deepened-a dangerous glint gleamed in his grey eyes. Languidly, he lifted a hand and, long fingers sliding beneath her chin, gripped it gently. Deliberately, he brushed his thumb-gently-over her lips.
They throbbed; Patience wished she had the strength to pull free of his light hold, to wrench free of his gaze.
"What I meant," he said, his voice very deep, "was that planning without the subsequent performance is worthless."
He meant she should have hung on to her embroidery. Too late, Patience caught his drift. He'd seen through her plan to use her work as a shield. Breath bated, she waited for her temper to come to her aid, to rise in response to being read so effortlessly, to being affected so readily.
Nothing happened. No searing fury erupted.
The only thought in her head as she studied his grey eyes was what he was planning to do next.
Because she was watching, was so deep in the grey, she caught the change, the subtle shift, the flash of what looked suspiciously like satisfaction that glowed, briefly, in his eyes. His hand fell; lids lowering, he turned away.
"Tell me what you know of the Chadwicks."
Patience stared at him-at his back as he returned to his chair. By the time he sat and faced her, she'd managed to school her features, although they felt curiously blank.
"Well"-she moistened her lips-"Mr. Chadwick died about two years ago-missing at sea."
With the help of Vane's prompts, she recounted, stiltedly, all she knew of the Chadwicks. As she reached the end of her knowledge, the gong sounded.
His rake's smile returning, Vane stood and strolled toward her. "Speaking of performance, would you like me to carry you to lunch?"
She wouldn't-narrowing her eyes at him, Patience would have given half her fortune to avoid the sensation of being scooped so easily into his arms, and carried away so effortlessly. His touch was unnerving, distracting; it made her think of things she really should not. And as for the sensation of being helpless in his arms, trappe
d, at his mercy, a pawn to his whim-that was even worse.
Unfortunately, she had no choice. Coolly, inwardly girding her loins, she inclined her head. "If you would."
He grinned-and did.
The next day-the fourth and, Patience vowed, the very last day of her incarceration-she once more found herself committed to the daybed in her quiet parlor. After their usual early breakfast, Vane had carried her upstairs-he and Gerrard were to spend the day checking Northampton for any sign of items stolen from the Hall. The day was fine. The idea of a long drive, the wind whipping her hair as she sat on his box seat, behind the greys she'd already heard far too much about, had seemed like heaven. She'd been sorely tempted to ask that they put off the excursion-just for a day or so-until her knee improved sufficiently to allow her to sit in a carriage for a few hours, but, in the end, she'd held her tongue. They needed to discover who the thief was as soon as possible, and the weather, while fine today, could not be guaranteed.
Minnie and Timms had sat with her through the morning; as she couldn't go downstairs, they'd taken lunch on trays. Then Minnie had retired for her nap. Timms had helped Minnie to her room, but hadn't returned.
She'd finished the cloths for the drawing room. Idly examining designs, Patience wondered what project she should attempt next. Perhaps a delicate tray-piece for Minnie's dresser?
A knock on the door had her looking up in surprise. Neither Minnie nor Timms usually knocked.
"Come in."
The door opened tentatively; Henry's head appeared around its edge. "Am I disturbing you?"
Patience inwardly sighed, and waved to a chair. "By all means." She was, after all, bored.
Henry's puppy grin split his face. Straightening his shoulders, he entered, one hand held rather obviously behind his back. He advanced on the daybed, then halted-and, like a magician, produced his gift-a collection of late roses and autumn border blooms, greenery provided by Queen Anne's lace.
Primed, Patience widened her eyes in feigned surprise and delight. The delight waned as she focused on the ragged stems and the dangling remnants of roots. He'd ripped the flowers from the bushes and borders, not caring of the damage he did. "How-" She forced a smile to her lips. "How lovely." She took the poor flowers from him. "Why don't you ring for a maid so I can ask for a vase?"
Smiling proudly, Henry crossed to the bellpull and yanked it vigorously. Then, clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked on his toes. "Wonderful day outside."
"Is it?" Patience tried not to sound wistful.
The maid arrived and returned quickly with a vase and a pair of garden shears. While Henry prattled on about the weather, Patience tended the flowers, loping off the ragged ends and roots and setting them in the vase. Finished, she set the shears aside and turned the small side table she'd worked on toward Henry. "There." With a gracious wave, she sat back. "I do thank you for your kindness."