“I disagree,” he rumbled, his hand coming to her back. “Did you see this neighborhood?”
She had. And she’d followed leads for stories into areas that were equally bad. Perhaps not this late at night, but still. “I’m fine.”
“Not a chance,” he said, his hand tightening on her back. “I’ll see you safely home.”
She nearly argued. She rarely let men care for her anymore. First, it spoke of a promise she never intended to fulfill, and second, she didn’t need their protection. She could care for herself.
But Bennet might be right about the neighborhood, and besides, he’d always been the one exception to every rule.
As they made their way out into the night, he hailed a hack and then settled her into the seat next to him, his strongbody pressed to hers, the needs she’d been denying for so long throbbing through her.
Her mind cried that he had no right to touch her, but her body disagreed.
The feelof Rebecca pressed into his side was like a balm to a long-festering wound.
Bennet had missed her more than he’d ever allowed himself to acknowledge. It took every ounce of control not to pull her into his lap and kiss her senseless. Touch her everywhere.
But he knew she wouldn’t welcome that sort of embrace. Her anger was another palpable force, like a third person who stood firmly between them. Part of him didn’t blame her. Part of him wanted to beg forgiveness. Ask her to understand. He only wanted to protect her while avenging his brother.
He winced. It had been vengeance, at least in part. And as his anger had cooled over the years, he too had wondered if he’d made the right choices.
He let out a long breath, and she looked at him through her long lashes. His own blood rose as he resisted the urge to run his thumb over her bottom lip. He could follow that touch with a kiss, and then another. Kiss her until their passion exploded and erased the distance between them. But she turned away to look out the window.
“Where should I tell the hack to go?”
Did he imagine it, or did she cringe? “I live on St. James Square. Charles Street.”
His jaw dropped. “Charles Street? How did you manage that?”
She cleared her throat. “Your father.”
His father? “He bought you a townhome?”
She bit the lip he’d just been fantasizing about. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he asked, leaning back to better study her face. What did she not wish to tell him?
“He…” She drew in a breath. “He sold your farm.”
He blinked several times. “My farm?” But he didn’t know why he asked. He knew exactly to what she referred. The hundreds of acres of property and the small estate that was supposed to be their home. His and Rebecca’s to sustain them. “He sold our life together?”
She bristled the way a cat might. “How were we to know you weren’t dead?”
He choked. “He sold my farm? The one I dreamed of living on with you nearly every day while I was gone?” He knew they couldn’t go there now, but he’d always dreamed that when this case was behind him, he’d convince her to take up that life with him.
He didn’t see her hand coming until it cracked across his face. Then she let out a cry, her hand covering her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Don’t be sorry. Do it again.”
“What?”
“Hit me again. I deserve it, and besides, you’ll feel better.”
She shook her head, a nervous giggle falling from her lips. “I can’t.” Then the half smile disappeared again. “It was a momentary reaction of anger to you being indignant about the choices you made that ruined all our lives.”
“I wished nearly every day that I’d never joined the king’s service. That I’d taken you to that farm instead.”
But she didn’t hit him again. This time, her hand slid into his. “You don’t wish for that. I know you don’t. You would have never been content in that life. You had too much fire for it and we both would have grown so bored that—”