Dangerous to Kiss (18 page)

“I can’t remember his exact words, but he said your name, not once but twice …”

“What did he say?”

She looked down at her clasped hands. “He said, ‘Kendal, Lord Kendal, don’t harm the boy.’ Then he said, ‘Quentin, run for it.’ That’s all I remember.”

“You are sure he said ‘Lord Kendal’?”

“Yes,” she said, carefully avoiding his eyes.

“Gil would never call me by my title.” Her eyes flew to his and he went on deliberately. “We had known each other since we were schoolboys, long before either of us
came into our titles. If we were conversing face-to-face, he would call me Gray, just as I would call him Gil. If I were to speak of him to someone else, someone who did not know him well, I would refer to him as Lord Barrington. Do you understand what I am saying? It seems to me that I was the subject of conversation between Gil and whoever it was he met that night.”

She looked at him fixedly. “It wasn’t only that. I knew you had an appointment with him. As soon as I saw the light under the library door, I remembered it.”

“I received a note canceling that appointment.”

“I knew nothing of that.”

After a moment, he said, “Did Gil have an appointment with anyone else?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Observing that her cup was empty, he reached for a bottle on the floor by his chair and poured some brandy into it. He did the same with his own cup.

“You are beginning to shake again,” he said. “This will steady your nerves. Drink it.” He waited until she had brought the cup to her lips before he took a long, fortifying swallow of his own drink.

After a moment or two, he said, “Let’s leave that for the moment, shall we, and tell me what happened next.”

She looked longingly at the closed door and he said gently, “Yes, I know. You are exhausted. These last two days have been far from pleasant for either of us.”

“And whose fault is that?” she demanded, managing a faint edge of defiance in spite of her quivering lips and brimming eyes.

His brows went up, but he was not displeased to see that she was rallying. He had debated about questioning her in the morning, after she was rested, but had decided against it. At the moment, she was receptive because he had saved Quentin’s life. There was no telling how she would feel in the morning, but he suspected that she might put the blame for everything onto his shoulders. For the moment, the advantage was with him and he intended to press it.

“Tell me what happened next,” he prompted.

She took a minuscule swallow from her cup before
answering him. “I must have acted instinctively. I flung the door open just after the gun went off, and Quentin came bounding into my arms.”

“You saw the murderer?” he asked sharply.

“I saw someone in the shadows, standing over Lord Barrington’s body.” She gave a strained laugh. “I didn’t think about what I was doing, didn’t think about going to Lord Barrington’s assistance. I grabbed Quentin, and we ran.”

“And Gil’s assailant saw you?”

“No. I had no candle, and the hall was in darkness. It’s highly unlikely that he saw more than a shadow. On the other hand, it would be easy for him to work out that if Quentin was still in the house, his governess would be there also.”

Gray nodded at this. “Then what happened?”

Her lips quivered. “It was horrible. I slammed the door shut, but still he came after us. The servants were in their beds and though I suppose I knew the shot would waken them, I did not think they would reach us in time. We hid behind the curtains in the blue saloon.” She shuddered. “I knew he was there. I could hear his harsh breathing in the darkness, and was terrified that he would hear us too. Then … then … I don’t know. The servants must have frightened him off.”

“And afterward? What did you tell the French authorities?”

“Nothing, at least, nothing of any significance.” When he gave her a blank look, she said quickly, “We were at war with the French. And anyway, what could they do? I didn’t want to delay in case they kept us in France for the duration of the war. There was no one there to help me. I had to get Quentin home. I had to. So, I told them nothing.”

“I see. And afterward, when you reached Dover, you took Quentin and ran?”

She dropped her eyes and nodded. “I got the scare of my life when your coachmen approached me and told me that you had sent them to fetch us.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then Gray said, “You could not hope to hide Quentin here indefinitely.
What were you going to do with him in the years to come?”

Her lower lip trembled. “I’ve written to his uncle in the West Indies. I was hoping he would take him.”

“George?” said Gray. “You wrote to George?” One part of his mind admired her ingenuity, another part was appalled by it. This girl stopped at nothing.

“Yes,” she said miserably. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities? When you reached England, why didn’t you go to the authorities? It’s what a sane person would have done.”

She stuck her nose in the air. “What was I to tell them? That I suspected
you
, a peer of the realm? If you denied it, as I had no doubt you would, what then? I knew you were named as Quentin’s guardian. He would go to you. I wasn’t going to let that happen.” A thought occurring to her, she burst out, “I might ask you the same question. Why didn’t you go to the authorities if you thought I had abducted Quentin? I read the papers and there was nothing.”

He spent the next few minutes describing his own actions and the reasons behind them once it became clear to him that she had abducted Quentin. He held nothing back, going so far as to tell her of the traitor at the Foreign Office and how he had been sure she was working hand in glove with him. It pleased him enormously that by the end of his recitation, she was glaring at him like a scalded cat. It was evident that she was no more pleased to have been suspected of murder than he had been.

Ignoring that look, he said, “You were named as Quentin’s guardian also. Were you aware of that, Deborah?”

“Hmm,” she snorted. “Much good that would have done me. I am a woman, and therefore of no consequence. My opinions would carry no weight. How could I oppose you?”

Abruptly leaning forward, he grasped her chin and held her face up to the light. She emitted a startled cry, but made no move to evade him. “You sound,” he said,
“as though some man has treated you badly. Who are you, Deborah Weyman? What are you hiding from me?”

There was a flash of fear in the eyes that stared doggedly into his, then her lashes swept down and when she lifted them the fear was gone. “I am hiding nothing,” she said, “and if I were, you are the last person in whom I would confide. After tomorrow, I pray that our paths may never cross again.”

“That’s an odd thing to say if you hope to see Quentin again.”

“You mean …”—she took a slow breath—“you would still allow me to see him, from time to time, after everything that’s happened?”

His tone was thoughtful. “I haven’t made up my mind what I am going to do with you yet.”

She jerked out of his grasp. “I see. You are going to hand me over to the magistrates for abducting Quentin, is that it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. All things considered, you behaved with remarkable intelligence in the boy’s interests. I can’t fault you there.”

Slightly appeased, she said, “Then I don’t understand why you are threatening me.”

“Do I threaten you, Deborah?” he asked whimsically.

His cool blue eyes met hers in a curiously speculative look. She felt the power of that look all through her body. It made her exceedingly self-conscious. What did he see with those shrewd blue eyes of his? Having bathed and donned her high-necked linen night shift, and her warm woolen dressing gown, she was perfectly respectable. When that look lingered, she fought the temptation to touch a hand to the tendrils of damp hair which curled around her face, or clutch at the edges of her robe as though to shield herself from his gaze. Suddenly conscious that her bare toes were peeking from under her voluminous garments, she quickly hid them. His lips quirked. When he moved his hand, she jumped.

“Deborah,” he said, “I was merely reaching for my snuffbox.”

They both looked up at the ceiling as something fell to the floor in the room above. A moment later, when Quentin’s voice was heard calling for Deborah, she sprang to her feet and raced to the door. Gray followed at a more leisurely pace.

Quentin’s room was in darkness. Deborah lost no time in striking a flint and getting a candle lit.

“It was so dark, I could hear him breathing,” sobbed Quentin. His arms were around Mrs. Moffat and he was sobbing into her motherly bosom. “And when I tried to run from him, I tripped and fell.”

Deborah sat on the other side of the bed and placed one hand on his shoulder, patting him comfortingly. “There, there, darling. Don’t think about it. It was only a bad dream.”

Quentin turned into her arms and burrowed close to the warmth of her body.

“Whose breathing did you hear?” Gray had come to stand at the end of the bed. Deborah flashed him a warning look which he ignored. “Whose breathing was it, Quentin?”

Quentin blinked rapidly, coming to himself. “It must have been Uncle Nick’s. He read me a story, but I fell asleep. When I awakened, the room was in darkness.”

Mrs. Moffat clicked her tongue. “I never thought to tell your uncle to leave the candle lit. There, there now, dearie. The candle is lit and Miss Weyman is going to sleep in this room with you, so you see there is nothing to fear.”

Quentin’s face visibly brightened. “Are you going to sleep in my bed with me, Deb?”

“If you want me to,” she said fondly.

“Certainly not.” Gray’s tone was just short of being impatient. His eyes were fixed on Deborah’s. “I won’t have the boy babied.”

Her hackles rose, but before she could say anything annihilating, Quentin forestalled her. “I’m
not
a baby. It was only a joke, Uncle Gray. Truly.”

Gray smiled. “You and I both know that, old sport, but women can’t help being women. They like nothing better than to fuss over us poor males as though we
were puppies. My advice to you is to head them off before they get started.”

“I do not fuss!” declared Deborah wrathfully. “Furthermore, I think I know what is best for Quentin.”

“Perhaps,” said Gray, folding his arms across his chest, “but that is by no means established yet.”

Mrs. Moffat looked uncertainly from one to the other. “I made up the trundle bed for you, Miss Weyman,” she said nervously, indicating the bed by the wall. “And you are to sleep in the spare bedchamber, Lord Kendal.”

“No,” he said. “I prefer to sleep in this room, with Quentin. Miss Weyman may take the spare bedchamber.”

Once again, Deborah’s retort was stayed by Quentin’s excited intervention. “Do you really mean it, Uncle Gray? You don’t mind sharing a room with me?”

“I should be honored. Besides, we men must stick together.”

“And … and …” Quentin swallowed before going on resolutely. “I don’t mind if you put the candle out. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid of
anything.”

Deborah could hardly believe her ears. Quentin was terrified of the dark. She had tried, repeatedly, to cure him of this fear, to no avail. Now, after an hour or two in Kendal’s company, the boy would do anything to please him. It was as though she had ceased to exist.

She looked away and her glance was caught by Gray’s before she dragged her eyes from his.

Though Gray addressed his remarks to Quentin, his eyes were on Deborah. “Douse the candle? Why should I do that? I always sleep with a candle lit, and no one has ever accused me of being afraid of the dark. Let them dare, and I should call them out.” He bent over the boy and pulled the covers up to his chin. His voice was very soft, very soothing, and Deborah felt a burning sensation at the back of her eyes. “Now off to sleep with you, there’s a good fellow. I wish to speak with Aunt Nan and Uncle John, then I shall come to bed. This will
only take a few minutes. Say your good-nights to the ladies.”

In the corridor, when Deborah made to descend the stairs, Gray stopped her with a look.

“Good night, Deborah,” he said deliberately.

Mrs. Moffat continued on down the stairs without a backward glance. Evidently, this was to be a private conversation.

“Good night,” retorted Deborah, and turning on her heel, she marched into her chamber and shut the door with a snap.

Sleep did not come as quickly as she thought it would. Though every bone in her body ached with fatigue, her brain felt as if an electric storm were trapped inside it. She couldn’t hold one thought for more than a few minutes at a time. She shuddered convulsively as the memory of the chase on the roof came back to her. She bristled when she recalled the indignities she had been made to suffer at
his
hands. But the thought that finally lingered was that Quentin was no longer hers. She was glad, exceedingly glad, that things had turned out the way they had, but now that her terrors had been relieved, she couldn’t help thinking of the future, and the future looked bleak and empty.

There was no place for her in Quentin’s life now. A boy of eight would have a tutor. She’d known that from the day she had become his governess. He would write to her, of course, when she found a new position, but gradually his letters would dwindle and dry up altogether. Miss Hare had warned her what to expect.

But she was his guardian! Surely that counted for something? She would be entitled to see him occasionally, and receive reports on his progress. Oh God, she didn’t know if she could bear it.

Sniffing, she turned on her side and tried to think of something pleasant. The voices from below, faint though they were, distracted her. Though she could not hear what was being said, she was convinced that she was the subject of conversation. Lord Kendal was a tenacious man. He would be questioning the Moffats in minute detail, trying to find discrepancies in her story.

Who are you, Deborah Weyman? What are you hiding from me?
She drifted into sleep wondering if the time would ever come when she could be truly herself.