It Takes a Hero (22 page)

She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, awaiting the endearments that were sure to follow, the passionate devotions of how he feared for her very life, and then the heat of his lips as they met hers.

Her dreams were quickly shattered.

"How is your uncle connected to Codlin? What was Harrington talking about when he wanted to know 'where is it?' What was he looking for? Does your uncle know? How is all this connected to Sir Rodney?"

The questions peppered her like shot from her uncle's Brown Bess. Her eyes flew open, and she staggered back from the warmth of his arms, cut to the quick, as her dreamy visions of romance turned into the Spanish Inquisition.

He hadn't brought her out in the garden to seduce her, but to interrogate her. Bully her into helping him solve his case.

"Why you presumptuous—" she sputtered. "You drag me out here," she waved her arms at the setting, the ideal of every girl's romantic vision, "and claim to want to help me, when all you really want to do is find Sir Rodney's killer."

He threw his hands up. "Well, of course I want to find the man. He's a murderer."

Rebecca let out an exasperated sigh. "And the Company's reward has nothing to do with it?"

"Of course the money matters. It's how I make my living."

Yes, she saw that now. Seducing ladies to gain his ends. Oh, bah, she'd been a moonstruck fool to believe otherwise. Like the kiss earlier at Bettlesfield Park, he'd only meant to tease her into his charmed confidence and then he'd be gone, gone like…

Drat and bother men. All of them. She stomped toward the house.

"Rebecca," he said, striding after her. "Where are you going? I need to know the truth of all this if I am to keep you safe."

"I don't recall asking you to do so, nor can I afford the price."

It was his turn to flinch. "It's not like that."

"Then how is it? Pray tell me, sir, how is it?"

He stammered and shuffled his feet. "
Dios!
I'm just trying to be honest with you."

"Honest? You lure me into the garden and pretend like you… like you…"

His eyes narrowed. "Like I care?"

"Yes."

"I do."

His confession sent her reeling. He cared? It wasn't true.

But what if it was?
a very impractical voice whispered from her heart.

"How can you?" she managed to whisper. "You don't even know me."

"I know this," he said. Before she could step out of his reach, his hand snaked out and caught her and tugged her into his chest.

She opened her mouth to protest only to find her lips covered with his.

He claimed a kiss as if it were his due, as if he were the only man destined for such a privilege. And kiss her he did, his tongue defiantly meeting hers, teasing her into a tangled, passionate dance.

One of his hands had wound itself into her hair, pulling and toying with loose strands, freeing others.

He deepened his kiss, while his breathing turned ragged with need. He pressed her closer, until she understood just how much he desired her—hard and demanding.

For a wild heartbeat, she believed, truly believed that he cared because she was his. Matched by the fates.

But Rebecca couldn't forget that at the heart of his desires, was a country house and two thousand pounds. And rich and beautiful women like Lady Victoria to tempt him.

For Rafe Danvers wasn't about to let anyone or anything stand in his way of laying claim to these. He'd said so, and she believed him, more than she could his enticing kisses. And as much as she needed his help, she couldn't risk the price.

Her heart.

Wrenching herself free, she put both hands on his chest and shoved him away. "Don't you ever kiss me again."

And with that said, she marched for the cottage.

"Rebecca, I'm not done with you."

"Oh, yes you are, you high-handed, arrogant lout," she told him before she slammed the door in his face, and slammed the bolt in place with a determined thud.

"Ah, there you are, Lieutenant Bex," the colonel called out from the stairwell. "Where is the shot? The powder? I fear the walls are in danger of being—"

"You needn't continue," Rebecca said, catching her uncle by the arm and towing him into the library. "We are alone and Mrs. Wortling is most likely sound asleep." Passed out, more likely. The only blessing to the woman's penchant for nipping in the liquor cabinet is that it kept her snoring for most of the night.

"Whew! That was close." The colonel wiped his brow and settled into his favorite chair. "You did splendidly, Bex. Followed my lead like the best little thespian."

Rebecca shook her head and dropped into the chair beside him. "You nearly gave us away tonight," she scolded.

"Bah!" he said, waving his hand at her concerns as if they were just a few lingering gnats. "But I must say, I just about dropped short when Mr. Danvers said he was investigating Codlin's murder. Fancy the coincidence of that."

It was the last thing she wanted to consider, but now there was no getting around their involvement. She knew only too well that Rafe Danvers wouldn't stop until he'd discovered the truth.

"You need to be more careful," she scolded again. "You can't let anyone suspect that you have the full use of your faculties."

The colonel nodded. "I thought I covered myself quite well with Lady Kirkwood. Did you see her face when I called her a French spy?" He laughed, as did Rebecca, forgetting for a second that she was angry with her uncle. Lady Kirkwood had turned the same shade of green as the perfectly situated plumes atop her head when he'd called for her arrest.

But the humor didn't last long, for they both knew only too well the evening had been like a bell tolling on their charade.

"We haven't long, have we, Bex?" he asked.

"No," she acknowledged. "But I am close to finding Mr. Purcell. I had a very encouraging letter from an acquaintance of his who thought he had taken a new address in Spitalfields. I'll write to him again tomorrow and implore him to return Richard's haversack to us."

If only she could get to London. Then tracking down her brother's friend would be so much easier. In person, the former Lt. Purcell wouldn't be able to ignore her as he had the countless letters she had written him over the years requesting he send her Richard's belongings. Other than his one short note after he'd returned to England promising to bring Richard's haversack to Bramley Hollow at his earliest convenience, there had been no other word from the man.

For without her brother's journals, they would remain unable to locate the very thing Codlin's killer was looking for.

The Kailash Ruby.

A legendary gem, it promised its bearer eternal life. But beyond that disputable claim, it was also the size of a hen's egg and worth a fortune.

And her father's only legacy. While the rest of his treasure hunting had been more myth than precious metal, the Kailash Ruby had turned out to be everything his notes had claimed.

Yet as quickly as it had been found, the elusive stone had gone missing, and it had become the colonel and Rebecca's dream to regain it.

"We can't go seeking the ruby until I've learned how to undo the curse," her uncle told her. "I've still got some work to do on the translations to figure out how to keep it from driving us mad while we return it to the temple."

"Uncle, I don't want to have this argument with you. I am not going to return that ruby to India."

"But the curse, Bex. You can't dismiss all the terrible problems that have beset us since it was stolen. The texts are quite explicit—it is never to be handled directly or disturbed. Its corrupting forces cannot be so blithely dismissed."

She waved her hand at him. "I doubt all that money will make us anything but deliriously happy."

Her uncle got up and uncorked the bottle on the sideboard, then frowned when he found it empty.

"Consider this," she offered, "by selling the ruby, we will be able to keep even Mrs. Wortling satisfactorily supplied with Madeira."

The colonel's busy brows rose in a disgruntled line. "We are not going to keep it. It has done nothing but cause death and destruction. Look what it did to Codlin."

Codlin
. Rebecca glanced up at her uncle, her mind awhirl on another possibility. Oh, why hadn't she thought of this before? "What if we were to find him first?"

"Find who?" her uncle asked, looking behind the books on the shelves in hopes the housekeeper hadn't found his private stash of whiskey. It wasn't like either of them worried that she might stumble upon them while cleaning—the thick dust on the shelves was evidence enough of her lack of devotion to her position in the household.

"Codlin's killer, of course," Rebecca was saying. "Think of what we could do with that reward the Company is offering."

"Ah, here it is," he said, pulling aside a thick tome and retrieving a half full bottle. "Leave that job to Mr. Danvers. We are in enough danger as it is," he advised. "Though the extra money would finance our trip to India and there would most likely be enough left over to go on an expedition across the Congo afterward. I have several myths and maps that suggest there is a city of gold there—and nary a curse to burden us when we bring it all home."

Home!
He was a fine one to talk. They didn't even have a home. This cottage was their refuge only because of Lord Finch's benevolence.

"That two thousand would be better served toward buying us a house of our own and seeing us clear of debtor's prison," she shot back.

Her uncle sighed. "You are too practical by far, Bex."

"Someone has to be," she muttered.

"Sent you packing, did she?" Jemmy called out from the study as Rafe made his way into Finch Manor.

"In a manner of speaking," he said, willing to admit defeat to a friend. He strode into the room and threw himself down in a large chair before the fire. "That woman is enough to drive a man to madness."

"Rebecca is a smart gel. She's not going to be flummoxed and put in a dither by your rapscallion ways."

"Oh, she was in rare form when I left. Called me arrogant and high-handed." Rafe stared moodily at the fire. He left out the loutish part for good reason.

Not that he needed to tell Jemmy. He was already laughing. "Then I guess you tried your infamous charm on her?"

Stretching one foot out in front of the other, Rafe wasn't sure how to answer that. He didn't need to.

"And when that failed," Jemmy continued, "I suppose you demanded answers and told her she had to give them to you."

He folded his arms over his chest and nodded.

"And she probably told you to go soak yourself in the mill pond."

"In so many words, yes," Rafe admitted. "There has got to be some way to—" He shot up from his chair. "Demmit! How could I have forgotten?" Glancing over at Jemmy, he excused himself and went up to his room where he had stowed her writing desk. Gathering it up, he brought it downstairs.

"What's that for?" Jemmy asked. "You intend to write her an apology?"

"No, prove she's the
Darby
author."

At this, Jemmy sat up, his gaze locked on the box, then flying up at Rafe. "Really?"

Rafe nodded. Perhaps once he had the proof he needed to reveal her identity, he could use it as leverage to get her to let him help her. It wasn't the most honorable means, but he was running out of choices.

"Where did you get that?" Jemmy asked, getting up from his chair, cane in hand and hobbling over to the sideboard where Rafe had set Rebecca's dispatch box.

"Miss Tate left it at Bettlesfield Park this afternoon."

Jemmy glanced at him, his brows rising with questions. "She left her desk behind? I wonder what had her in such a hurry that made her forget something so important?"

Rafe ignored him. "I brought it here with the intention of returning it to her this evening. That is until you started telling that story about the French dispatch box."

Jemmy let out a low whistle. "And you think this is one."

"I'd bet my reputation on it."

"So how do we open it?"

"I used to smash them open with the butt of my rifle, but I doubt Miss Tate would appreciate receiving her desk back in pieces."

"Hardly sporting," Jemmy agreed.

Rafe flipped the lid open and took out the correspondence and accounts he'd found earlier in the top portion. "Now all we have to do is discover how to open the hidden compartment." Rafe tapped and pried and turned the box every which way, but couldn't for the life of him discern how to open it.

"Too bad," Jemmy said, having long since retreated back to his chair and a bottle of port. "Probably a mess of pages inside there, considering she's gone and emptied that one inkwell."

Rafe glanced at the box again. The inkwell! While the other one was stained and nicked, the second one appeared to have never been used. He poked a finger inside and discovered to his amazement a button, which he pressed.

The box swung open, revealing a drawer on the bottom half, and as Jemmy had predicted, stuffed with pages.

Rafe picked up the first one and began to read.

"There is no shame in a broken heart, my dear girl," Lady Lowthorpe said. "Mourn the loss of your beloved and then resolve to find someone else. Lieutenant Throckmorten would never have wanted you to suffer this terrible decline."

"I fear," Miss Darby said, in a voice weak and grief-stricken, "My heart will never be whole again."

"It's her," Rafe said, feeling none of the elation he should be. He'd found his mark, uncovered the author's identity. Now he had to do the impossible—convince her to stop. If only he didn't have her censorious words from the other night still ringing in his ears.

What right do you have to tell someone to stop writing?

What right indeed? None whatsoever. And yet here was the proof he needed, and just out of sight was the house and property that would be his.

Rafe groaned.

"Can I offer you a bit of advice?"

He glanced over at Jemmy and nodded.

"You can't push Rebecca. Doesn't like charity. Very self-reliant. Drives mother to distraction, because the more she tries to meddle in Rebecca's life, the less it works."