It Takes a Hero (23 page)

"And what would you suggest?"

"Time."

Time? How ironic his friend would offer that advice. It was like his own past haunting him. What had he told Olivia, his future sister-in-law when his brother Robert had been reluctant to declare his heart?

Give him time
—
he'll come around
.

"I don't have time," Rafe said.

"Of course you don't. But swaggering about and making demands obviously isn't going to work."

"You seem to know her quite well," Rafe said, casting a sideways glance at his friend. "Have you, well, considered—"

"Rebecca?" Jemmy shook his head. "Oh, mother would be delighted. Christ, she'd be happy if I married the drover's daughter at this point, but I couldn't do that to Rebecca."

"Do what?"

"Marry her. I couldn't give her what she wants, what she needs."

"Why not?"

He nodded at his ever present cane, at his useless leg. "Rebecca deserves a man who can prod her to live her dreams. To push her out of her careful existence and lead her on a merry chase." He laughed. "I don't even think I could give the drover's daughter a good go of it." He glanced over at the low flames in the fireplace and shook his head.

Rafe could see what had Lady Finch so flummoxed, so frightened for her only child.

"Rafe," Jemmy said. "Whatever you decide to do about Rebecca, hear me well. If you hurt her, if you harm her in any way, I'll kill you."

"I'm not about to—"

Jemmy shook his head. "I saw the way you looked at her. No man looks at a woman that way unless he's… well, you know what I mean. And I'm not saying you have, but she's a decent chit, not one of your London lightskirts. And from that scene tonight and what you've told me, it sounds like she's caught up in some terrible trouble. Sounds to me like she needs a hero, not a bounder in her life. Tread carefully, my friend."

Jemmy rose, cane in one hand and the bottle in the other and made his slow and beleaguered way to his solitary gatehouse.

Rafe watched the astute young man leave and thought it a profound loss that Jemmy had closed his heart to love. The man had much to offer if only he would let go of the past.

And apparently Jemmy wasn't the only one in Bramley Hollow whose past followed them about like leg irons. What had Harrington said, when he'd taunted Rebecca?

Found another champion, have you? Wonder if he'll be as constant as the last one.

Rafe shook his head. Lt. Habersham. And it seemed that the faithless bastard had broken her heart.

He tried to tell himself it would never come to that if he were to help her.

But most of all, he wanted to know if his fears weren't so unlike Jemmy's.

«
^
»

Your Highness, a decent and respectable Englishwoman never comes second in a man's household nor his affections.

Miss Darby to Prince Ranjit

in
Miss Darby's Reckless Bargain

R
afe wished he could feel quite pleased for having discovered the proof that Miss Rebecca Tate was the author of the
Miss Darby
novels. Instead, he found himself filled with an uncharacteristic dread as he stood at the gate of her cottage and looked up at its bright green door.

It didn't help that his earlier interview with Major Harrington had been nothing but an exercise in futility. The man's stalwart Indian servant, Mahesh, had all but slammed the door in his face, after stating that the master of the house did not receive uninvited callers.

Hopefully, he would have a better reception here. Staring down at the package in his hand, he realized it was a poor offering in the form of an apology and offer to help.

Miss Tate, here is the proof you are the woman I am looking for.

Rafe grimaced and shook his head. No. No. No. That wouldn't do, it sounded like the preamble to something altogether different.

Miss Tate, I discovered your dispatch box at Bettlesfield Park yesterday, and after I broke into it, low and behold, there was the proof I needed to destroy your life.

Yes, that ought to put him in her good graces. Rafe heaved a sigh. Why was it he could charm the petticoats off of just about any woman, but the mere fact of facing Rebecca Tate—not to mention having to apologize to the chit—put him into knots that he doubted the saltiest of sailors could unravel?

He banged his head against the archway, pledging never again to take any case that involved a woman.

The spicy scent of roses assailed him and he opened his eyes and looked around him.
Flowers! That might do the trick. They'd helped his cause before.

After gathering up a handful of blossoms and getting thoroughly pricked and stabbed in the process, Rafe took a deep breath and marched up the walkway, ignoring his smarting fingers… and pride.

Think of the money you'll get from the sale of Bettlesfield Park
, he told himself as he rapped on the door.
Consider the information you may gain regarding the Codlin murder
.

He was shown into Colonel Posthill's library by Mrs. Wortling, who surveyed him from head to toe with a suspicious glare that said she'd be searching him for household items later.

Rebecca knelt before the fireplace, her back to him, barely acknowledging Mrs. Wortling's gruff, "That gypsy fellow's back. Come to see you, miss, or so he claims."

Heart pounding with inexplicable nerves, he tried to tell himself this is what he'd agreed to do—albeit reluctantly—but now he had to see it to the bitter end.

He never quit. Ever. Wasn't that what he'd told her yesterday with a measure of arrogant assurance?

You haven't succeeded yet
, a small voice not so unlike Rebecca's lilting tones taunted him.

But he would, he reassured himself. He would stop her. And then… well, he didn't want to consider what next. He still had to find Codlin's killer, and then there would be another dangerous case… and another. Far away from Bramley Hollow and the tempting little spinster who resided here. She'd be safe and he'd be… adrift once again.

If only he could find a way to convince her that not writing was the best thing for her. For both of them.

Just how to do that, he wasn't so sure.

"Uh, hum," he said, wondering if she was going to even greet him.

Crumpling the paper in her hand, she tossed it into the flames, then rose and smoothed out her skirt before she turned to him. Her features, already fair by nature, held an uneasy pallor, and her mouth strained to rise into even the barest of smiles.

Immediately, Rafe was struck by one terrifying thought. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong, and it wrenched at his heart in the same way it had when he'd thought Harrington was going to strike her.

"Mr. Danvers, how nice of you to call." She barely glanced at the package he held or the flowers.

"I brought you something," he said. "I thought you might be missing this." He held out the package, flowers atop it, and waited for some display of gratitude or even, given that this was Rebecca, some admonition about him "interfering."

"Thank you," was all she said, before she turned and poked at the fire.

After standing there aimlessly for a few moments, he settled the dispatch box atop the piles of maps and began unwrapping it for her to see.

What the devil was wrong with her?

He peered around her skirt and noticed that the piece of paper she'd been reading had fallen out of the fire into the ashes at the grate. It was barely charred. And apparently she didn't realize that whatever she'd taken such care to consign to the flames, had escaped its fate.

Resisting the urge to march across the room and snatch it up and demand an explanation, Rafe instead asked her, "You know why I've come, don't you?"

"To return my desk, I suppose."

"Yes, that," he said, coming closer to her, hoping to turn her attention away from the fire. "And to apologize.

She stared at him, one delicate brow arched in skepticism. "There is no need to apologize for doing your job."

"No, I'm not apologizing for that. For last night. For being so… so…"

"Overbearing?"

Rafe held his impatience in check. "Yes, that."

"And presumptuous?"

He took a deep breath. This was harder than he supposed. Apologizing for missing a promised dance or an afternoon rendezvous was one thing. But for offering his protection, well that just seemed ridiculous. Didn't she see that she needed him? For whatever it was that had her at odds last night, now had her looking ready to bolt and run this morning.

"Yes, presumptuous," he admitted.

"And maybe even—" she began.

"Fine, enough," he sputtered, having no need to listen to a litany of his faults. He had his family for that task. "I just wanted to offer my sincere regrets for my behavior last night."

To his chagrin, she brushed off his offering as she had the dispatch box. "Really, there is no need to apologize. I thank you, sir, for returning my desk," she said.

"But as you can see, I am busy with some work for the colonel, and I would like to finish it." She tried to brush past him, to make her way to the map table, but he stopped her, using every bit of restraint to take her lightly by the forearms. He wanted to tug her to his chest, to shield her from harm, but he knew that would only drive her further from him.

And closer to danger.

"Rebecca, what is it?" He thought he saw her flinch, as if she feared the intimacy that seemed to spring to life so readily between them.

Instead of falling into his arms and pleading for his able assistance, Rebecca shook him loose. "Nothing. Thank you for my desk and good day."

She moved toward the door, and while her back was turned to him, he swooped down and retrieved the note, shoving it into his pocket before she noticed.

With it secure, he discarded all of Jemmy's sound advice. "You can't just ask me to leave. If you think we're finished just because you say—"

"I beg your pardon?" Her arms folded over her chest, her eyes blazing with fiery indignation.

He clamped his mouth shut and then raked his fingers through his hair. "What I mean to say is that I know about your desk."

"That it's a French dispatch box?"

"Yes, exactly," he said, latching onto her offering. "And once I opened it, I discovered—"

"Your proof that I am the author of the
Miss Darby
novels?"

"Exactly. " This wasn't going so badly, he told himself.

"Did you pry my desk open or were you able to discover the locking mechanism without breaking it? I only assume it was one or the other since you didn't have to smash it entirely to gain your boon."

Rafe shifted from one foot to another. Well, she needn't put it like that. Like he was some shady housebreaker.

She glanced up at him and shook her head. "Can you get to the point? Obviously, you discovered the hidden compartment and the pages for my next book."

His moment of triumph hardly managed even a weak "huzzah."

Especially when she heaved a sigh and continued by saying, "Really, Mr. Danvers, you aren't very good at this. I can see why your rent goes unpaid."

"I do well enough," he said, bristling at her doubt. Why was it that no one in Bramley Hollow seemed to believe him capable of the simplest of tasks? Maybe it was because he had been competent at his profession before he'd set foot in this topsy-turvy village. "I assure you, Miss Tate, I am quite capable of the task at hand."

"Harrumph. If it hadn't been for Jemmy's fortuitous story last night, you would never have discovered the truth about my traveling desk."

Rafe bristled. "Granted his revelation helped, but I assure you, Miss Tate, I would have uncovered your identity nevertheless."

She stared heavenward. "When you got done blustering and demanding and stomping about like a—"

"I do not stomp."

"Of course not," she conceded with the assurance one might give an errant toddler. "I would assume you've now come to make your demands." She stared at him until he nodded. "What will you do, Mr. Danvers? Tell me I have wreaked terrible havoc upon society and attempt to shame me into quitting? Since you know me better than that, we'll both save you the lecture and agree that I don't succumb to shame."

Kisses
, he thought.
She'd succumb to his kiss
.

But the problem with that method of persuasion was what it did to him. Left him all tangled up and thinking about renovating tumbledown country houses.

Rebecca, on the other hand, was just getting started. "Has your employer authorized you to use whatever force is necessary to complete your work?" She held out her right arm. "I write with this hand, so if you would like to render it useless, do so and be done so I can get on with my life and find some other source of income to keep the colonel from being sent to Bedlam, while maintaining a roof over my head."

And she needn't be so practical about it. He didn't break people's limbs for a living.

Not as a rule. Not unless absolutely necessary.

He stared down at her outstretched arm and cursed.

Dios!
She was going to be the end of his career. The end of his reputation. He was a scoundrel. People hired him because he was ruthless. Unmoved by plights of pity or pleas for leniency.

Now he'd be the one looking for employment, not her. As it was, she still had a roof over her head, while his penurious landlady had most likely already sold what few worldly goods he did possess to pay what he owed her.

"Put your arm down," he said. When she still held it out with stubborn resolve, he took hold of it and towed her over to a chair where he gently pressed her down into it. "I'm not here to cause you bodily harm."

She glanced up at him, and all he wanted to do was bodily. Tug her into his arms and stoke his fingers through her tempestuous red hair, soothe her taut lips with kisses, pull her so close her breasts pressed to his chest, her hips against his.

Don't think about her that way
, he told himself.
Don't think about the soft curves that begged for a man's touch. The way her smile makes you believe that the stars can sing the very secrets of love
.