He stared at her, fascinated. “Yes.”
“And you were licking my lips, like I was a good meal. It was quite enjoyable once I realized what was happening.”
“Be quiet.”
“Why? Can’t I tell you what I wish?”
He shook his head. “Yes, certainly. But know that when it all comes down to what is proper and what isn’t, I am still a man and you’re still an unmarried, unchaperoned girl. You’re in my house, under my protection. I will try my damnedest not to touch you again.”
She sighed, looking more frustrated than North’s Portuguese mistress had when he’d smiled blissfully up at her then fallen into an exhausted stupor after only an hour or two of the most perverse, enjoyable sex games he’d ever played in his life.
“You’re a hard man, North Nightingale.”
“You have no idea,” he said, and turned away to sit down in a stiff-backed lady’s chair from the previous century that groaned under his weight. “Now, how do you feel?”
She realized he had himself well away from her now. For the moment she would just have to accept it. When she had her full strength back again, he wouldn’t get away from her so easily. She understood his gentleman’s code. She was in his house, under his protection. He was being noble. She would allow him his spate of nobility, at least for the moment, at least until her head didn’t feel like it would split from her neck. “I feel better than I did last night. Has Owen returned from Scrilady Hall yet?”
North grinned. “Not yet. I very much like your idea. You told me that Owen needed to get out from under his father’s thumb. I’m wagering that his first thumbless assignment will be a success. Just consider his adversary.”
She giggled, such a surprise and so very sweet. It locked his knees together. He tried not to respond to that giggle, but he did. He picked up a newspaper from the table beside the chair and read the same sentence five times.
“What are we going to do about Mr. Ffalkes?”
He slowly lowered the Gazette. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, sorted through every pro and con I can come up with.” He drew a deep breath. “I think I’m going to have to kill him, Caroline.”
To his utter astonishment, she said, “Oh dear, I was afraid of that. No, North, that isn’t right. If he’s to be killed, then I will do it. He’s my problem, not yours.”
North rose and began to pace. “Hell and damnation, you’re a woman and you didn’t shriek or clasp your hand to your palpitating bosom or whimper that killing is awful, and I’d go to the devil. No, you just said you’d do it. It’s difficult for me, Caroline, to hear a female speak like that. The Duchess, maybe, but she has Marcus to contend with and he is a handful and a bastard and she loves him to distraction.”
“You’ve said a lot there. Tell me, why is it difficult to hear a female speak like that, North? Like a man? Like a logical person? Isn’t a woman allowed to be logical, to think things through and come up with solutions?”
He nodded and said, “No, it’s outside anyone’s experience. It isn’t done. You’re not what you should be, Caroline. Now, listen to me, and stop all this blather. Men don’t necessarily like the thought of killing. Indeed, I hate the thought of killing a man just because he’s so bloody stupid and stubborn and desperate. If you were only married, then Ffalkes couldn’t—” He stopped, stared at her, an appalled look on his face, then, without another word, strode from her bedchamber, closing the door very quietly behind him.
“It’s a wonderful idea,” she whispered to the room with its early-afternoon shadows beginning to gather in the corners.
It was five o’clock that same afternoon when Tregeagle admitted himself after three brief knocks and two long ones, the most warning, Caroline supposed, that she would ever get. He was carrying a heavy volume bound in dark brown moroccan leather. He brought it to the bed and very gently lowered it onto the cover beside her. It looked to weigh both their weights together.
Caroline eyed the tome, then eyed Tregeagle. “What is it? All the historical reasons why Young Female Persons shouldn’t ever stay more than ten minutes at Mount Hawke?”
“Ten minutes pushes it,” Tregeagle said, his eyes going to a spot beyond her right shoulder.
“What is this book?”
“His lordship thought you might be bored with your forced inactivity. He didn’t wish to spend any more time with you, which is understandable since he’s a Nightingale man. Thus, he asked me to fetch you up a book that might amuse you. This is what I have fetched. It is something in the way of a legend long in the keeping of the Nightingale family. All nonsense, of course, but perhaps it will pass the time until you are fit enough to take your leave of this residence.”
“Thank you, Tregeagle. What is it?”
“Why, it’s about King Mark of Cornwall and how he was buried here on Nightingale land with all sorts of treasure, and not in the south at Fowey, where most believe he lived and fought and died.”
“What do you believe, Tregeagle?”
“Many Nightingale ancestors have been of a fanciful turn of mind.”
“Including his current lordship?”
“His current lordship is too young and too long away from his home for me to yet cast a judgment. His years in the army doubtless affected his fancifulness. One will see in due time. At least he is now showing the good Nightingale sense to stay away from you, a female, who just happens, unfortunately, to be in his house.”
“King Mark is very romantic. I know all about the legend.”