A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (8 page)

T
he moment she leaped into the air, time reversed itself for a fleeting moment. She and Rafe were at play in the wilderness park of Lochree. He extended a hand to help her up from a tumble she’d taken on the grass. Now, he reached out again—strong arms, pulsing with life, lifted her onto the train and pulled her against his chest. She listened to the pounding of his heart as she gasped for breath. Safe in his embrace, her nose brushed against the smoky tweed of his jacket. Hints of sandalwood soap and man scent. His scent.

Rafe hung his head out the open door. “Ha! Lost the buggers.” He turned to her and winked. “You always were a damn fine winger.”

“Until your mother found us out.”

“And the rugby team was never the same.” Rafe pulled her inside and nodded to the gentleman who assisted them. “First-rate service on behalf of queen and country.”

He steered her down the corridor until they found an empty compartment. He took a seat and settled in unbearably
close beside her. He grinned. “How did Mother discover us?”

She inched away. “I wrenched an ankle. You had to carry me all the way back to Dunrobin Hall.”

“That’s right.” His eyes, once filled with adventure, glittered with desire. “It was you who let the cat out of the bag.” Sweeping his gaze over every facial feature, he stopped quite obviously on her mouth. It was the kind of look she imagined a husband might dare in the privacy of the bedchamber. A blazing heat reached her cheeks and she sidled farther away.

“Only after she wheedled it out of me.” She patted down her skirts and angled her bustle to one side. “Where are you taking me?”

“Haven’t a clue. Where would you care to go, Fanny?” Those teasing eyes had always had a certain way of mocking the world, one that invited others to share the sarcasm, the joke.

She glared. “Why don’t you push on to Timbuktu, while I return home?” Nervously, she chewed on her lip.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That nibbling business.” He pointed to her mouth. “Involving your teeth and bottom lip. Most distracting. I can barely keep my wits about me when you—”

“What a hound you are.” Her eyes rolled upward. “But then, I suppose you’ve always been a scoundrel, haven’t you, Rafe?”

He stared as if struck dumb by her words, but made a notably quick recovery. He returned a rueful smile and
swept a hand through his hair. A nervous gesture that hadn’t changed a whit since childhood. Her stomach twitched a bit.

“How is it, Fanny, you never married? No doubt the first year or so after—” He scratched his head.

“I’m afraid the whispers went on well after you’d taken the knock.” She tilted her chin. “You did the gentlemanly thing, Rafe. I cried off the engagement, but the announcement shocked all of Edinburgh society. We were so expected, you see. Childhood sweethearts and all.” As her voice trailed off, she caught herself. “Do not trivialize the public shame and dishonor you bestowed on me.”

“Surely after Edmond Stewart’s wife caught him with the telegraph boy, the scandal must have shifted off us—” He corrected himself. “Off you. There must have been a swarm of suitors.”

She sighed. “There were none.”

“With your father’s fortune and your beauty?” Rafe narrowed those golden green eyes. “I don’t believe it.”

Fanny straightened up. “I do not require a husband. I have found my avocation as an industrialist and suffragist.”

“Good God.” His words were drowned out by a teeth-rattling crash and thud from above. Rafe poked his head out the compartment window. “Christ, those crazy blokes are jumping aboard from a footbridge.”

“How impossible—how on earth could they?”

He placed a finger over his lips and exited the compartment. “A fast carriage could easily overcome us in
town.” He motioned her to follow. A short creep down the aisle landed them just shy of the rear door. He glanced back at her. “You aren’t one of those Franchise League, placard-carrying, grim old maids—” Rafe squinted ahead before glancing back again. “Are you?”

Fanny leaned forward, close enough for a harsh whisper. “If a young lady chooses not to marry, people go to gossiping behind her back—‘four and twenty, poor girl’—it’s revolting. Cruel.”

The door ahead jerked open to reveal one of the dark-suited men who had chased them through Edinburgh. She stared open-mouthed as Rafe’s fist smashed into the gaunt man’s jaw. A right smarting sock that nearly caused her eyes to water. He shoved the man back out the door of the carriage.

She poked her head through the connecting door. A gusty mist of rain whistled through a gaping slice in the canvas bonnet between rail cars. The man lunged with a knife and Rafe leaped away, narrowly avoiding the swipe of the blade. “Stay back, Fanny.”

A forgotten umbrella leaned against the corner compartment. She took it up and followed after the two struggling men, who lost their balance and nearly fell off the coupler bridge. She lifted the umbrella. Rafe recovered his balance and shoved his attacker against the torn curtain, which ripped under the pressure. Fanny swung as Rafe released his assailant. The umbrella caught in the oiled canvas and finished the job. The fabric flapped violently in the face of the attacker gasping for breath. Rafe took a step back and kicked him off the moving train.

A faint shadow passed overhead, distracting her from the spine-chilling shriek of the falling man. “Up above!” she cried and retreated back inside the coach aisle as a second man dropped down on top of Rafe. In the narrow space between cars, punches flying, the brawling combatants rolled from the end of one railcar to the other, each one having a turn at getting his head smashed.

She winced. Holding the umbrella like a cricket bat, she swung it handle first. She smacked the platform inches from Rafe’s head. “Sorry.” She struck again and got in a good whack to the back of his assailant’s head.

“Fanny, get back.”

She struck again and hit the mark.
Crack!

“Bollocks.” Rafe wrenched the umbrella from her hands and swiped the wooden handle across the man’s face. Blood poured from a broken nose and his attacker collapsed with a grunt. Rafe clambered to his feet, grabbed the bloke by the collar, and propped the dazed man up on the bridge.

“One more for the road, mate?” Rafe lifted the umbrella for a last bash, but before he could strike, the bloody-nosed thug turned and jumped off the train. Fanny sidled up beside Rafe and leaned out the torn canopy between carriages. After a bone-cracking tumble, the man rolled his way down the embankment.

A strong hand gripped her arm. Rafe foisted her back inside the empty passenger compartment and sat her down roughly. “What did I tell you?”

“Stay inside. But—”

“But nothing, Fanny.” He placed both hands above
her shoulders and leaned close. “You must do as I say at all times, or I cannot protect you.”

Arms crossed snugly under her chest, she thrust out her lower lip. “It seems to me you were the one sorely in need of defending.” His tie was askew and the front of his jacket had fallen open. A splatter of blood covered his shirt and waistcoat. She worked her way up to meet his stare.

“Are suffragists always so intrepid?”

“I prefer to think of myself as capable.” She raised a brow in defiance.

He slumped onto the opposite seat. “Must have missed that section of the liberated women’s manifesto.”

Her eyes rolled up and she sighed, loudly. “I’m feeling quite drained, and confused. Where are we going, Rafe? Are we just . . . running away? Do you have any sort of scheme? A plan, if you please?”

“Of course I have a plan. And you do not appear to be greatly fatigued.” There was a spark in his eye and a hint of grin. “You always were a daredevil as well as beautiful.”

She’d forgotten how he could try a girl’s composure. “Your meaningless flattery will only make me more disagreeable. Once again, do you have a stratagem, Detective Lewis?”

Rafe shook his head in dismay. “Christ, you’re going to pursue this like a bloody bulldog.” A shock of hair had fallen into his eyes. He raked it back with his fingers.

“Only because I suspect you have no plan.”

Rafe edged closer and lowered his voice. “There are times
when it is safer that you not know my plans. At the moment, I have no idea who these cockups are, what they’re about, why they’re after inventors and industrialists—why you in particular. Who their leader might be, their numbers, resources, finances or weaponry . . . I could go on and on. Would you like me to continue?”

The farther he leaned in, the farther she leaned away. “I must admit, that is a great deal
not
to know.”

His gaze wrinkled with a smile. “Cease-fire, Fanny.” He hooked a finger into his waistcoat for his timepiece. “Half past eight. We have hours of truce left.”

“Rather ungentlemanly of you to raise your voice to me.” She pressed back into the seat. “And to use vulgar language.
And
to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“You might as well know it all, then. I smoke, curse, and drink in copious amounts. And, as you so often enjoy pointing out, I am no gentleman.” He reached for his cigarette case and flipped it open. “Dash it.” The slim silver container was returned to his inside pocket. “Empty.”

“Tobacco is not healthy for the lungs.” Fanny blinked at him. “You should give it up.”

LESS THAN AN hour ago Rafe had promised to quit cigarettes. Still, he wanted a smoke so badly, he would sell Aunt Vertiline to the Gypsies for a single fag. “Vowed to give them up if I might catch a certain runaway caravan in Edinburgh.”

Those exceptional large brown eyes of hers narrowed. She had always met his gaze boldly, bravely. “Why do
you pretend to like me so much, when you so obviously do not, Raphael?”

“Now it’s Raphael is it? This is grim. First Rafe, then Detective Lewis. Now you sound like Mother.”

“If your mother spoke to you.”

“As much as I’ve enjoyed your disagreeable, unappreciative company, I want you to know, Fanny, I got down on my hands and knees and begged them not to send me to Edinburgh.” He received a huff and a change of the subject.

“I count four culprits thus far,” she mused aloud.

“Possibly more,” he warned.

“The two blokes who abducted me, another two chased us into the station and then leaped onto the train. I shudder to think how many more will be sent after us.” Fanny concentrated on a delicate piece of torn lace at the edge of her sleeve. “Rather likely those men were involved in the murder of Arthur Poole, as well as my father.”

A deep inhale caused a twinge of pain. “It does look as though the Yard’s suspicions were correct about you and God knows how many other nabobs of industry.” He reached inside his jacket and rubbed a smarting soreness in his side.

A visible shiver traveled up her body to her shoulders. Shock, Rafe supposed. “Even if you haven’t any plans, might there be a next step?”

“Send a few wires to Scotland Yard.” He rummaged in his pocket. “I’ll need to get ahold of a blank telegram pad.”

“We make a stop shortly. The ticket collector should have one.”

Once again a sudden sharp twinge of pain shot across his torso. He removed wet sticky fingers from his waistcoat. A thick crimson liquid pooled on his fingers.

Fanny squinted. “You’re bleeding.”

“Must have caught the tip of a knife.”

Fanny switched seats and began removing his waistcoat. “You didn’t feel anything?” Blood oozed out of a slash in his shirt.

He pulled out a pocket square and wiped his fingers. “A dull ache, perhaps.” She leaned close and unbuttoned his collar. “Odd thing about wounds. The pain often grows with a person’s awareness of the injury.” Gentle fingers inched up his undershirt, exposing his torso. Her fingernails traveled lightly over exposed flesh.

With her lips pursed and brows drawn deep in concentration, her expression triggered memories of a rainy day long ago. Fleeting impressions of a cutthroat game of backgammon in the library. He remembered a fire in the hearth as they lounged on a comfortable window seat. The pale shadow of raindrops, cast from leaded glass, danced across her face. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten an erection watching her pink tongue moisten the way for her pearly white teeth.

As if on cue, she bit down on a plump bottom lip.

And here he sat, ten years later, hard as a stone. Rafe resisted the urge to adjust his trousers. When she met his gaze for a quick glance, he sucked in a breath and swallowed. “Bad bit of gash?”

“Hand me your pocket square.” She placed the folded handkerchief against the wound on his side and pressed.

“Fanny—” He sucked a great deal of air through his teeth. “Careful.”

She bit back a grin and angled his hand over the folded handkerchief. “Keep a bit of pressure on.” She covered his knuckles with hers and pressed. “That’s it.”

He grimaced. “Just keep me wheezing in agony—as long as you find it amusing.” The combination of pain and pleasure from this woman was almost inspired. She picked up her skirt and rummaged though several petticoats. “Love watching a woman disrobe on account of me.”

Taking up a handful of ruffle, she picked at a bit of loose stitching. “Don’t set your hopes too high, Detective Lewis.” She gave the edge a good rip and unraveled a strip of ruffle. “There. A nice length, wouldn’t you say?” She removed a few errant strings and shook out the cloth. “And a good bit of width as well.”

How he longed for her to experience a good bit of length and width.

“You need stitches.” She met his gaze.

“It’s just a scrape, not to worry, Fan.”

She hesitated before slipping her hand around his waist. The light touch of her fingers caused his stomach muscles to ripple. He straightened enough for her hand to slip around his back and wrap the makeshift bandage over the wound. She was so close to him, he could feel the heat of her breath on his neck. If she leaned in just a few more inches . . . His gaze moved to her lips. She
tied a knot and tucked the tails into the swath of fabric.

“Quite serviceable and neatly done.” Rafe rolled down his undershirt. A large red stain marred the otherwise pristine white garment.