A pilot who now yawned long and gustily. “Think anyone will be up?”
“At two in the morning? Doubtful.” Which was fine. He wanted only to slip inside, change out of his salt-encrusted shirt, and sleep so that he could be up early enough to ride to Washington and share what he had learned with Tallmadge.
All right, so that wasn’t all he wanted. But much as he longed to gather Gwyneth into his arms, he hoped she was sleeping soundly. If she had been wracked by insomnia again because of his twelve-day absence—his stomach clenched at the thought.
They cut through the alley, strode silently along the street, and went around the back of Thad’s home. Henry angled toward the carriage house and the rooms above it with a lifted hand. Thad nodded his goodnight and headed for the kitchen door. He’d slipped inside and shut it behind him before he realized a lamp was lit upon the table, though surely it had glowed through the windows. Thunder and turf, but he was tired.
“There you are.”
Her voice didn’t exactly startle him, but it brought his pulse back up to the rate it had taken when that British vessel had drifted so close she would have spotted the Masquerade had her watchman not been asleep at his post. “What are you doing up, sweet?”
Gwyneth stepped into the lamplight. She smiled, and while there were shadows under her eyes, they were too faint to indicate anything but being up late tonight, not for nearly a fortnight. She was still dressed in a pale day gown, the only indication of the hour the fact that her hair was in a braid down her back.
“I was waiting for you.” Her voice was soft but clear as she spoke, and steadier than it had been in those first weeks of sleepless torment. And then she glided toward him, not stopping until her arms were about him. His closed around her with such relief that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to convince them to release her again. She pressed her cheek against his chest and let out a long breath. “I tried to retire at a reasonable hour, but I couldn’t shake the feeling you would be home tonight.”
And she had greeted him with an embrace rather than a slap across his face. Good news indeed. He tightened his hold on her as he ran a hand up her back and under her braid. “I feared you hated me by now.”
She chuckled and tilted her head back when he so urged. “How could I ever hate you?” Yet when the weary yearning of his heart had his head dipping, she pulled away from his arms altogether, a light of mischief glinting in her eyes. “Though there will be no more of that for a while.”
He nearly groaned. May have, in fact. “Why in thunder not?”
Another light laugh spilled from her throat, so beautiful even if devastating. “Because you are going to court me properly before you kiss me again. Are you hungry?”
“No.” Then she moved past him, and he caught a whiff of bread. “Yes. And how am I to court you properly? Shall I call on you in the drawing room at a set hour?”
She indicated a chair at the table with the same brusque command Rosie or Mother would have used. Which was terrifying enough that he sat without protest. “That sounds reasonable. But the most important thing is that you have the blessing of my guardians.”
He grunted and leaned on his hand while she did something over at the darkened counter. “I am your guardian.”
“I should think not, or your romantic intentions would be highly questionable.” She turned back to him with a plate in hand and slid it onto the table before him. “You are my host. Your parents are my guardians.”
Butter-slathered bread, cheese, a cluster of grapes. After ship fare, it looked like heaven and smelled even better. “I suppose I ought to be glad you will not insist upon the blessing of your father’s brothers or some such.”
“Papa did not send me to them, did he?” She moved behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Having not heard his will, I cannot be sure who my legal guardian is now, but he entrusted me to your parents.”
He may have argued that he had entrusted her to him, just to tease, but her thumb slid up his neck and then down again, rubbing at the tension stored there. All he could do was swallow his first bite of bread and grasp vainly at coherent thought.
“Is the bread good? I made it myself.”
“You—what?” He would have turned to stare at her, had he not been loath to disturb her gentle ministrations. “Rosie let you?”
“She taught me.” Her haughty tone dissolved into another chuckle. “Under protest, but I won the debate by pointing out that I want to be useful.”
She had won a debate with Rosie. Surely she was a young woman unmatched by any other the world over. He took another bite of bread, though his chewing felt slow. “It is delicious.”