Smitten by the Spinster (12 page)

***

Quinn was a little tipsy when they left the party, and his first and most pressing plan of action was to get roaring drunk so he could forget about the news from home.

Lizzie’s lack of stealth as she’d made her way down the hallway piqued his curiosity and he’d watched from the library window as she slunk away into the night, clearly in a hurry. So the message she received before the party had been an assignation, he surmised. He felt mildly embarrassed at finding himself jealous of whomever she was meeting, and the jealousy simmered into a bubbling need to see who it was. Who could cause the prim and proper Miss Burnet to sneak out in the wee hours? Being in the sort of mood to cause some trouble, and glad to have something to distract him from having to make a decision about his problem at home, he’d followed her.

He caught up with her just as the madman lunged toward her. Quinn acted without thinking, grateful Lizzie had fought, giving him enough time to cover the distance between them from where he’d been.

 He knocked back a healthy swallow of quite good whiskey, raising an eyebrow of begrudging respect when she did the same and slid her glass over to him for a refill. He knew she was badly shaken, and he should have really seen her safely to her room before starting his debauchery. He found he didn’t give a good damn about what he should do, and splashed some more alcohol into her glass.

“Why were you following me?” she asked, taking several long gulps. She eyed him over her nearly empty glass. “Mind you, I’m glad you did.”

She set the glass on the desk and he refilled it, taking a swallow of his own drink. He decided not to answer her, not about to admit he’d been jealous, and definitely not about to admit that he found her fascinating.

“Why was that odd wee man trying to kill ye?” he asked instead.

She sighed and lifted her shoulders, letting them drop on a weary exhale. He nudged her refilled glass closer to her hand and she took another drink. “I honestly don’t know,” she said with a sad laugh. She looked at him a bit fearfully. “Did you hear what he said to me? Before he attacked?”

Quinn shook his head. “I didna hear any of it, only saw him rush at ye. I didna even see he had a knife until I’d already dropped him.”

“Well, thank you for being overly cautious,” she said, finishing off another glass and shoving it toward him for a refill.

He wasn’t sure she ought to have anymore, she’d had an awful shock, so compromised by pouring it half full. She gave him a dirty look and reached for it, missing. Her hand hit the desk and she giggled, but quickly stifled it.

“Are ye all right?” he asked. Her shoulders hunched forward and she wavered in the chair. He took her half empty glass and pushed it aside. “Ye’re already drunk.”

“I didn’t eat dinner,” she explained.

“Whyever not?” he asked.

“Corset,” she said and hiccuped.

“Ah well, this has been verra nice,” he said, standing up. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her easily out of the chair. “I’ll help ye upstairs now, ye wee sot.”

She rested her body weight against him, pressing her palms to his chest and sighing deeply, like she was glad to be there, and his body tensed. He let his hands travel down her sides to rest at her waist. She wasn’t wearing a corset now and he liked the way she felt under his fingers.

The news that reached him that afternoon intruded on his thoughts. There was trouble at the farm, his people needed answers of him. They wanted him to come home and settle some nonsensical dispute. His most trusted advisor and friend admonished him that he never should have gone to England in the first place. As if he could have let Catie come down here alone. Yes, Lachlan would have done it. It was all he heard, in his own head, as well as from his clan, what bloody Lachlan would do in his place. But where was big brother now? Gallivanting in the future, leaving him to deal with all this. And Quinn couldn’t look at sweet Catie’s tear filled eyes when she learned she would be visiting England and not offer to go with her. But now she had a lovely aunt who clearly cared for her, and Miss Burnet …

Miss Burnet had her fingers curled in his shirt and her cheek against his chest. He gripped her more tightly at her unfettered waist, breathing out hard at how soft she felt, then stiffening at the tiny sound she made when he pulled her closer. He hadn’t meant to, but his hands worked of their own accord now, sliding back up until his thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts. He gripped her harder, at war with his feelings. He truly liked her easy smiles and kindness to his sister, but what kind of woman was she really? Sneaking around to unsavory areas, having secretive meetings with men who attempted to kill her, and then brushing it all off with a few swigs of whiskey as if that was just her lot in life.

She leaned back to try to look at him, pressing her lower half closer and causing his eyes to nearly cross. But God, she was so pretty and soft. He was daft, not using his brain. It was Lachlan’s voice in his head again, telling him to back away from their sister’s chaperone.

He wished now that he’d never moved from his room at the inn and squeezed his eyes shut against the sight of her pretty face and slightly rumpled hair. He wanted to pull it all free from its pins and run his fingers through it, wrap it around his hand and tip her head back further so he could kiss her. Like an idiot, he reached out and pushed a few of the loose strands behind her ear, his knuckle brushing against her cheek. He groaned. Of course her skin would be even softer than it looked.

“I feel quite the same,” she said, letting her head drop forward onto his chest.

Using all his willpower, he stepped back, placing his hands on her shoulders in case she toppled forward without him to lean on.

“I’d wager ye don’t,” he said with a mild laugh.

She might slap him if she knew where his thoughts really lay. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. He really wanted to find out. He could handle a slap, the odds were he’d be leaving in a day or two anyway, and if she didn’t slap him … his fingers made their way down her arms and he pulled her slightly closer. She swayed from side to side and held her stomach.

“I’d give anything for a big stack of pancakes,” she said, then frowned fiercely at him. “And don’t laugh at me anymore.”

“Too late,” he laughed. Bugger it, but she was staggering drunk, and she was a respectable lady and he was a guest in this house. He kept making up excuses for why he couldn’t take her to bed. “Come along.” He took her elbow and tried to lead her out of the room, but she merely swayed some more and looked up at him with her big, glazed eyes. “Bloody hell,” he said, leaning over to scoop her up.

“That’s a bonnet for your sister,” she had the nerve to say. Her breath was warm against his neck and she wrapped her arms comfortably around him. “But I won’t tell her because I think you’d drop me.”

“Too right, I would,” he grumbled.

He carried her toward the stairs, taking a quick detour back to the kitchen to grab her a chunk of bread. When he got to the right floor, he thought she might be asleep and shook her slightly before asking which closed door was hers.

“Oh,” she said, jerking awake and clutching at his shirt. “Take it easy. You’re like a ship crashing around in a storm.”

“That’s verra poetic,” he said, settling her on the edge of her bed. He dropped the bread in her lap and went to pour her a cup of water from the basin. “Eat that, and drink this, or ye’ll be sorry when ye wake.”

She nodded and took a bite of the bread, then guzzled the entire cup of water, holding it out to him to refill. “I appreciate your kindness,” she said. “This night — I haven’t had a proper drink in more than a year. I guess I’m a lightweight.”

“Ye weigh plenty, lass,” he said, handing her the refill and rubbing his shoulder as if he’d just carried a heavy load. He was teasing her, but her eyes grew round.

“You’re horrid.” She groped around for her pillow, too uncoordinated to free it from the blankets and instead chucked what was left of her bread at him.

He caught it in one hand and rolled his eyes. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he said contritely. “And ye shall learn yours tomorrow for not finishing it.” He waved the bread in front of her and she reached for it, missing it completely. He bopped her on the nose with it and grabbed her hand, placing the roll in her open palm. “I’ll not leave until ye eat it,” he said, giving her his best menacing glare.

“You have no credibility,” she said, slurring a little bit. “You’ve already saved my life and got me food, and carried me up the stairs.” She took a bite while Quinn stared at her. “I’m not the least bit scared of you.”

He took a step closer to her, so their legs almost touched. He knelt down to look her in the face, smiling to be so close to her.

“Is that so?” he asked.

Her dewy eyes were slightly unfocused as they darted around his face, settling on his lips. His smile broadened and she swallowed hard before answering.

“Quite so, Mr. Ferguson.”

He leaned in closer, his hands on the bed on either side of her. “Ye should call me Quinn,” he said.

She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. “Well, perhaps a bit scared,” she amended.

He thought she was being flirtatious until she clutched at his arm, looking afraid of something. He hoped she wouldn’t have nightmares about what had happened in the alley. He ran his forefinger down the side of her jaw, knowing he was taking terrible liberties, but wanted to comfort her somehow. She sighed, turning her face into his touch.

“Why did ye go to such a dangerous place all alone?” he asked.

Her eyes widened at that question. “I sometimes forget things like that.” She blinked several times, a beseeching look on her face. “I’m not from here,” she said, confusing the hell out of him.

“Nor am I,” he said softly, locked in her gaze.

Her eyes fluttered closed and he paused, entranced by her long black lashes. Did she want him to kiss her? He wanted very badly to kiss her. He could almost feel their breath mingling as he looked down at her slightly parted lips. She leaned forward, her forehead cracking painfully into his.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, slumping to the side. Passed out cold, the bit of bread still held in her hand.

With a frustrated sigh, he hoisted her legs onto the mattress and covered her with the part of the blanket she wasn’t lying on. If she remembered anything about this, he didn’t think she’d thank him for taking her shoes off or loosening her dress. He took a last look at her, cheeks flushed against the bedclothes, her hair in complete disarray. She was absolutely the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

He no longer believed Lizzie had gone out to meet a suitor. No one who cared for her would suggest such a meeting place at so late an hour. He wondered if she was in trouble, and felt the overwhelming urge to protect her. While she kept an eye on Catie, he’d have to keep an eye on her.

Carefully closing the door behind him, he made his way quietly back to his own room, determined to send an answer to his people with the first available messenger. He’d be damned if he was leaving London just yet.

Lizzie woke up with cotton mouth and a rapidly growing headache. She rolled onto her side and groaned, as the events of last night unfolded in her mind. Her horror grew along with her headache. She’d almost been killed by a crazed time traveler. Who was that ghastly man? His clothes were all over the place. The jeans and boots put him in the twentieth or twenty-first century. His tuxedo jacket looked like something from a nineteen forties movie and his sweater could  have been knitted by any grandma in any time. His intent in trying to find out the whereabouts of Lord Ashford hadn’t seemed to be friendly and he’d babbled on about witches. God, what had that been about? She didn’t want to believe she was in any way in league with a witch. Solomon Wodge had to be insane.

She untangled herself from the bedding, realizing she still had her clothes on from the night before. She really shouldn’t have had a drink at all, and certainly not on an empty stomach. And most certainly not with Quinn. Her queasy stomach dropped and she eyed the basin, taking deep calming breaths.

What had she done? She remembered he’d carried her up the stairs, and she’d liked it. Oh God, she’d snuggled up to him and breathed in his warm, masculine scent. Her face burned and she rested her head in her hands. She also remembered wanting him to kiss her, actively wishing for him to do it. She managed to stand up, certain she needed to get downstairs as quickly as possible and if there was no excursion planned, plan one straight away. Anything to avoid being near him, at least until she could see straight.

Her door slammed open and the cook poked her head in, a sanctimonious smile on her face. “You’re wanted downstairs. Your young lady’s got a visitor.” She leaned against the door frame and gave her a judgemental once over. Lizzie looked down at her rumpled clothes and then reached up to feel her hair. Yes, it was out of its pins and felt like a muppet that had been torn apart by dingoes. “Shall I tell them you’re indisposed?”

Lizzie forced herself to make it across the room where she drank down the stale water that was left in her pitcher. “I’ll be down,” she said, already feeling better from the water and getting her joints unkinked. She frowned at the cook. “You’re looking fine today, Mrs. Biddle. That dark green suits you.”

Mrs. Biddle stepped into the room, practically licking her lips in anticipation of the meaty bribe she knew she was about to get. Lizzie waved her hand at her jewelry box. “In fact, I have a pin that would look divine against the collar.”