His breathing was labored. Briefly closing his eyes, he nodded. “I know. You shall have them.”
Somewhere nearby, a door creaked open. Perhaps in the servants’ corridor.
His head turned toward the noise, and his arm whipped around her middle. In a swift motion, he pulled her to the back of the larder. “Not a move,” he murmured in her ear. “Not a sound.”
“Rycliff couldn’t have returned. Not yet. It’s likely just one of the serv—”
His hand clapped over her mouth. “Shh.”
She pulled against his grip and shouted objections into his callused palm…all to not avail. He had her trapped.
From the kitchen, they heard the sounds of someone shuffling about the room, whistling lightly. Crockery clinked against pewter. A cupboard door creaked open, then shut.
All the while, Christian kept her pinned to his body with one arm around her middle and the other hand clamped over her mouth. His heartbeat battered her spine as the dull, commonplace sounds of kitchen activity continued. His grip never eased, but his thumb began to move back and forth, stroking lightly over her rib cage.
He bent his head, pressing his cheek to her temple. “Sorry,” he said, in a barely audible whisper. Then he kissed her ear.
Oh, don’t. Have mercy.
The slightest brush of his lips against her earlobe, and she felt it everywhere. Her knees went to blancmange. The soles of her feet tingled. Heat arrowed down the center of her corset. And her heart… Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Her whole body—her entire being—was so acutely aware of his.
No one else could make her feel so exhilarated. No one else could cause her so much pain.
He was her present captor. Her one-time lover. Her future…God-knew-what.
At their feet, Fosbury groaned and shifted in his sleep. His boot knocked against an empty crate. A milk pail fell to the tiled floor with a loud, ringing clatter.
The kitchen went silent.
“Is someone there?” a man asked.
Violet knew that voice. It belonged to Sir Lewis Finch.
Christian kept one hand firmly clamped over her mouth, but his other arm slowly slid free of her waist. He reached for something.
The knife. As he lifted it in the dark, she saw its point gleam sharp and bright.
“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I’d die before I’d see you hurt.”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Now her heartbeat raced his, pounding frantically.
Susanna’s father posed no more danger than a cabbage moth. But she couldn’t tell Christian that while he had her muzzled. And she could not allow him to attack or threaten Sir Lewis.
Footsteps were already crossing toward the larder, heading for their hiding place. Violet had to act, soon.
When he’d reached for the knife, he’d left her arms unrestrained. She clasped her hands together and used all her strength to drive one elbow back and up, directly into Christian’s sternum.
“Oof.” He fell backward with an odd, gasping sound that told her she’d succeeded in knocking the wind from his lungs.
She twisted free of his grip and made a lunge for the larder door.
Bloody hell.
Christian had no choice but to let her go.
Had he said enough to sway her? They’d only had a few minutes alone. Damn it, he should have spent more of those minutes explaining himself and fewer of them kissing her. But he hadn’t been able to help it.
He held his breath, straining to hear. Did she mean to protect or betray him? Truthfully, he would have deserved the latter. He’d betrayed her trust, nearly a year ago.
“Why, Sir Lewis,” he heard her say lightly. “I didn’t expect to see you awake.”
Sir Lewis?
Sir Lewis. Christian’s pulse tripped as he realized what he’d almost done. Dear, sweet Violet. What did he not owe her? In the moment, his defensive instincts had trumped all sense or reason. Violet had saved him from stabbing Sir Lewis Finch—one of England’s most decorated civilian heroes—with a carving knife.
As he silently set the weapon aside, he listened to Violet and the old man exchange a few words. Evidently, the aging inventor had been unable to sleep. He’d stayed up late working in his laboratory.
“Are you working on a new sort of gun?” Violet asked. Christian recognized this as her mere-polite-interest voice.
“No, no. It’s not the prospect of battle keeping me awake. It’s prospect of a grandchild.” Papers rustled. “I’ve started making sketches for a cradle. One with a winding mechanism and a crank, you see. So it can be turned just a few times, then rock the babe for hours.”
“How very ingenious,” Violet replied. “You must be so proud.”
Christian smiled. He knew Violet referred to grandfatherly pride, but the distracted old man mistook her.
“The mechanics of the idea are sound,” said Sir Lewis. “Let’s hope I can make it work. How is our guest, by the way?”
Silence stretched. Christian’s every muscle drew taut.
“Sleeping soundly,” she finally replied. “I just came for a bit to eat.”