In Debt To The Earl. Elizabeth Rolls

soft mouth turned mulish ‘No. There’s no point asking again. You either believe me or you don’t. He’s disappeared before. Never for more than a few days.’

      The roof creaked loudly and she jumped.

      ‘Miss Hensleigh, are you sure you don’t mind being here alone?’ James asked gently. He couldn’t blame her for being nervous. And what can you do about it? Offer to remain with her?

      ‘I’m not alone,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re here. And I don’t like it!’

      James clenched his fists. He was making her nervous? He let out a breath. He couldn’t blame her for that. Reluctantly, he walked to the door. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’

      She stared at him. ‘You’re actually leaving?’

      ‘Yes. Bolt the door behind me.’

      She rose, graceful even in her shabby gown with a threadbare blanket around her. ‘I always do at night.’

      ‘Good.’ The door wasn’t strong enough to keep anyone out who really wanted to get in, but at least the noise would warn her.

      James opened the door, turned and held out his hand to her. ‘Goodnight.’

      After a moment’s hesitation she placed her hand in his, slowly, as if she doubted the wisdom of doing so. His fingers closed over hers gently, he felt them quiver, heard the soft intake of breath as his clasp tightened. Such a small hand and so cold in his. A steel band seemed to clamp about his chest as startled green eyes met his, her lips parted slightly, and he fought the shocking urge to lean forward and taste them, find out if they would tremble in response.

      Heat licked through him at the thought, but instead he covered her hand with his other one. ‘Promise me that you’ll sit by the fire long enough to warm up properly.’ The thought of her cold and so alone haunted him. She ought not to be left alone, but he couldn’t stay. Didn’t dare. Damn her father to hell for leaving her like this.

      Her chin lifted, revealing the slender column of her throat. ‘Do you think I can’t look after myself?’

      He doubted it. Not if some bastard decided to help himself. He ignored the urge to behave like one of the aforementioned bastards and trace the ivory line of her throat with one finger, discover the swift pulse beating beneath silk-soft skin... His fingers tightened on hers. ‘I think that you shouldn’t have to,’ he said at last. Wanting her was bad enough, the warring urge to look after her, keep her safe even from himself, make sure she was never cold or hungry ever again, was more than foolish—it ranked close to insanity. There was no point elaborating on the dangers; those wary eyes told him that she knew them already, recognised him as one of them. And if she considered him a danger she was not interested in becoming his mistress. She had not even tried to influence him or buy him off with a little flirtation, or by making play with wet lashes over her father’s debt. He had to respect that.

      Reluctantly, he released her hand and stepped back. ‘Bolt the door behind me,’ he repeated. Somehow he got the door open and shut with himself outside it before his resolution failed. He waited, heard the squeak and thud as she shot the bolt with what sounded like unwonted vigour.

      His brows rose. ‘Goodnight to you, too, Miss Hensleigh.’

      There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Stiff, reluctant. Rather as if she would have preferred to consign him to Hades.

       Chapter Three

      Lucy listened to the steady steps and accompanying creaks as he crossed the landing. Heard him descend the stairs and heaved a sigh of what ought to have been relief, and felt frighteningly like regret. Shivering, she lifted the hand he had held to her breast. The strong pressure of his fingers, the enveloping warmth, lingered. He had held her hand as if he cared about her.

       He held your hand for a moment in farewell. It meant nothing. Less than nothing to him.

      He was gone. So why did the bright edge of tension still score her? Why did it matter that he had held her hand? Worse, why did she wish he was still holding it? She’d been wrong about his motive for waiting; he wanted Papa, not her. Lord! He’d been insulted at the very suggestion. And yet he’d held her hand in that odd way. Tenderly. As if he hadn’t wanted to let her go.

      He was kind, that was all. Buying fuel, lighting the fire.

       Why? Papa owes him a small fortune.

      Suspicious cynicism was not one of her more attractive traits, but she couldn’t afford naivety. In the last four years she’d learned to be wary of seeming kindness. People, especially men, wanted something in return. She’d learnt very quickly what men usually wanted from a girl—­something that meant less than nothing to them, but would spell disaster for her. Papa had also realised that very quickly. It was why he never brought anyone back to their lodgings if he could avoid it. Just the young man who had followed him a couple of months ago and now Cambourne.

       He ought to be your enemy. Remember what Grandpapa was used to say? Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

      She wasn’t sure about the origin of the quote, but thought it might be Homer. Someone had been suspicious about the Trojan Horse, as well they might. She had not been permitted to read Homer, of course. Grandmama had frowned on young girls reading anything more inflammatory than a book of sermons and Homer definitely counted as inflammatory.

      The roof creaked loudly and she hurried to the window. She pushed the casement open and stepped back. A moment later Fitch swung through the window, to land catlike and dripping.

      ‘What the hell did his nibs want?’ he demanded. ‘Bit of a dolly roll?’

      ‘No,’ Lucy said. At least she hoped not if Fitch meant what she thought he meant.

      Fitch snorted. ‘Right.’

      ‘He wants my father. I told you.’

      The boy gave a shrug as he dripped his way over to the fire. ‘Just bet he does. But that ain’t to say he can’t chase a bit of tail on the side.’ He held out his hands to the blaze. ‘Nice. You buy fuel with the extra shilling?’

      ‘He bought it,’ Lucy admitted.

      Fitch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did he now? An’ you reckon—’

      The stairs groaned under a heavy, uneven tread. The two of them froze.

      ‘Mrs Beattie,’ Lucy whispered, panic clutching at her insides.

      Fitch made for the window, but voices floated up from the yard. ‘Damn!’ he muttered, hesitating.

      ‘The bedroom!’ Lucy said. ‘She’s no reason to go in there!’

      Silent as a hunting cat, Fitch disappeared into the other room.

      Lucy unbolted the door, then sat at the table and strove to appear unconcerned as the steps waddled over the complaining landing. The door rattled under the less-than-genteel knock.

      ‘Come in!’ She put on her best welcoming voice.

      Mrs Beattie came in, eyes darting about. ‘Gorn, is he?’

      ‘Yes.’ As if you didn’t know! Very little got past the eagle-eyed landlady. ‘And I would prefer it if you did not permit strangers to wait for me.’

      Mrs Beattie shrugged. ‘Called yestiddy, didn’ he? An’ this afternoon, lookin’ for yeh.’ She scowled. ‘Not but what I didn’ know he’d slipped back this evenin’. Not till he come lookin’ for coal.’

      ‘Oh. I see.’ Getting past Mrs Beattie unnoticed was nigh on impossible, but given the woman’s annoyance, apparently Cambourne had done it. ‘Can I help you with something?’

      Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘In a manner of speakin’.