It Takes a Hero (28 page)

Could she believe, even dare hope, that he wanted to protect her, safeguard her for reasons beyond his own financial gain? That the passionate light, the elation of relief that had burned in his eyes when he'd come crashing into the library earlier meant he cared for her?

Could Rafe Danvers actually have fallen in love with her?

She shook her head. It was a ridiculous notion. Men like him didn't fall in love with bookish spinsters who spent their days penning romantic nonsense.

But it wasn't nonsense, her heart clamored. And, as Prince Ranjit had once told Miss Darby,
The heart's desires will always remain a mystery when its secrets go unspoken
.

There was only one way to find out what Rafe's heart wanted, she realized, crossing the room, her trembling fingers tugging the latch open.

Then Rebecca crept down the stairs, hoping she possessed the nerve to reveal her desires.

Rafe spun around when he heard the tapping on the library door.

"Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Danvers?" Rebecca said, poking her pert little nose inside.

"Rafe," he told her, not surprised at all to see her. She'd probably been upstairs for the last hour plotting how best to undo his plans and substitute them with hers.

"Pardon?"

"I thought we'd already discussed that. Call me Rafe."

"Rafe," she said, coming into the room like some shy miss, her back to the bookshelf, her teeth having captured her lower lip.

He found himself thinking about doing the same. Covering her mouth with his, tugging at her lower lip with his teeth, before he—

"Is something wrong?" she asked, glancing down at her plain, serviceable gown.

"No, nothing, I was just, uh, looking at that book—the one over your shoulder." He came across the room and stood before her. Reaching over her shoulder, he caught up the volume and plucked it from the shelf. "I thought perhaps I might read a bit before I turn in."

"
Antiquities of England: A Traveler's Guide?
" she asked, glancing up and into his eyes. "You're a fan of Mr. Billingsworth? He strikes me as rather dry for someone of your, shall I say, mettle?"

Mettle?
She thought he had mettle? That was a fine sight better than arrogant and loutish.

"A new line of study," he told her. He needed to step away, move so he was out of reach of her, but he couldn't.

Fortunately, she did it for him, ducking around him and moving to stand in the middle of the room. "I came down to see if you would like some more tea? Or if you need another coverlet?"

The only coverlet he wanted was her naked body.

Demmit, he needed to stop thinking like that. At least about her. Really, how did one tell a lady like Rebecca that you wanted her in your bed?

Oh, he had no problems getting women in his bed, it was just this lady wasn't, as Jemmy had said, one of his London lightskirts.

No, Rebecca Tate was much more of a challenge, to his heart and to the mettle she seemed to think he possessed. She'd cast a spell on him the moment she'd turned around in the village post office and pinned her skeptical gaze on him.

She made him want to be more than just the man he'd been for far too long.

Arrogant and swaggering. Charming and roguish. Those were accomplishments in themselves and they served him well, but they weren't enough. Not to someone like Rebecca.

It wasn't enough to solve the case, to gain retribution for the wrongs done, now he wanted more. He wanted to see the light of approval in her eyes, he wanted to tell her his thoughts and fears and, yes, his desires.

"Perhaps I should just leave you be," she was saying, slipping past him and heading for the door.

Was it his mistake, or did she sound disappointed?

"More tea would be fine, though I hate to drink alone," he told her hastily. "That is, if you'll join me."

Now what had he done? Invited her to join him?

To his chagrin and delight, she smiled and said, "Yes, that would be lovely. I'll be right back."

Rafe slapped his forehead.
I hate to drink alone
. What was he thinking inviting a tempting spinster to join him in the middle of the night for an innocent cup of tea?

Oh, there was nothing innocent about Rebecca Tate. Just temptation after temptation. And notions of waking up to her restless stirrings and silken kisses.

There was no saving him now. He was going to have to endure an hour or so of polite conversation before he could even consider sending her packing upstairs.

And send her packing he would.

An hour suddenly sounded like a painful lifetime to his thrumming senses.

Or worse, she'd start berating him about her lack of involvement in their plans. Passionate and persuasive, Rebecca at her obstinate best was quite a sight.

No, that was not a good idea, he decided. A passionate Rebecca only made him want to gather her up in his arms and unleash her ardor, stoke it into a blaze he would quench with his own untimely needs.

Glancing over at the long sofa that had been about to become his lonely bed for the night, he envisioned her sprawled across it, naked and inviting, wagging a finger at him to come and join her, to undo the pins from her hair, to…

No. No. No
, he told himself. She is your partner in this endeavor, your client.

From the kitchen the telltale sound of the kettle hissing told him he hadn't much time to shore up his defenses.

Rafe paced the room, searching for safe topics of conversation.

The weather. Yes, that was it.

Hasn't it been rather warm of late, Miss Tate?

Too hot, she might say, tugging at her bodice in hopes of catching a hint of the evening breeze fluttering through the window. The type of hot night that called for cool cotton sheets on which to lay one's sweaty, sated body after hours spent making love.

Rafe raked his fingers through his hair. That didn't seem such a proper subject of conversation. Why was it then that everyone always suggested discussing the weather as a safe topic?

He needed to find something that wouldn't excite any passions. Maybe he could tell her about some of his cases.

She'll think you're bragging. Or worse, you'll frighten her.

No lady needed to hear the details of his work—they certainly weren't a fit subject for delicate ears.

In the kitchen something hit the floor, breaking into a thousand pieces, and he swung around, wondering if she was hurt. The crash was followed by a very unladylike curse.

A curse no lady should ever have heard, let alone use.

He grinned. Perhaps he could give her the restrained version of his life. Knowing Rebecca she'd want to hear about his work, his life in Spain, his escapades as a guerilla, probably even his long history of expulsion from every school in England for imprudent use of cannons.

After a few minutes of sorting through his repertoire of stories and discarding most of them as generally unsuitable, she arrived with a laden tray in hand.

Looking at the mound of provisions, he wondered if she ever planned on going to bed.

Maybe not, he found himself wishing against his better judgment. He sat down warily on one end of the sofa.

Rebecca settled the tray on the low table before him and sat down on the other. Primly folding her hands in her lap, she looked up at him and said, "Tell me what you like in a woman."

Rafe blanched. "Pardon?"

"Well," she said. "What do you think I'd want to discuss in the middle of the night? The weather?"

So much for his theories on female delicacies.

She plunked three lumps of sugar into his tea, without asking. Not that he minded, but he couldn't help but wonder how she knew he liked his tea sweet?

"Can we talk about something else?" he asked, accepting the cup and shifting in his seat, wishing there was another foot or so on the couch to separate them.

She shook her head. "No. I want to hear about what type of ladies you like. Do you have a mistress? Have you had more than one?" She scoffed at that. "My apologies, you've probably had dozens of mistresses. What is it about a lady that makes you want to give her your
carte-blanche?
"

Rafe had chosen that moment to take a sip from the scalding liquid and spewed it all over the sofa. "My wha-a-a-t?"

"Your
carte-blanche
, your protection," she paused, a blush stealing up her cheeks. "Your bed."

She should be blushing, the shameless wench.

He set down his cup. "Miss Tate—"

"Rebecca," she admonished, easing closer to him on the sofa.

"Miss Tate," he said, unwilling to yield an inch to her. He would stand his ground or be lost forever. "I hardly think my private life is a proper subject for examination."

She tipped her cup up to her lips and said over the rim, "And what would be proper, Rafe?"

Rebecca Tate flirting? He was in trouble now. If not from her batting lashes, then gads, there were once again her bare toes wiggling enticingly from beneath her hem.

Bare toes? That was only the merest step from bare limbs… Didn't this woman own a pair of shoes?

Rafe set his cup down. He needed to take control of this conversation quickly, before it got out of toes… no, hand.

"Perhaps we could discuss your Season," he suggested. "I understand the plays being offered this year are quite good."

She glanced upward, as if asking the heavens how he had ever acquired a reputation as a rogue. "Fine. My Season, if you insist," she agreed.

Too readily
, he thought, wary already.

"Tell me about the debutantes this year," she said. "How do they compare to years past? Do you think I'll fit in?"

"You?" he stammered. "Fit in?" He managed a short laugh.

"What is so funny about that?" She set down her teacup, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

"For one thing you aren't like any of the other misses and ladies in London." He'd meant it as a compliment, but from her outraged moue he realized she might not have taken it so.

"I may be a bit older than the other young ladies, but I don't see what about me is so different."

Everything
, he wanted to tell her. From her outspoken manners to her infuriating self-reliance to her bluestocking sensibilities. She wore her scandalous notions and opinions out on her sleeve for all to see, while a proper London miss would have been doing her damnedest to hide such unwanted ideas.

How could she not see that? It was what he loved most about her.

Loved
. Rafe tried to draw a breath, but his chest seemed locked in a panic. In love with Rebecca Tate? It couldn't be.

"—and I intend to in London," she was saying.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Fit in," she insisted. "I intend to take full advantage of Lady Tottley's offer and use this Season to find a husband."

A husband?
Over his dead body. Not when he… "I thought you were going to London to find the ruby," he pointed out.

"Of course I want to find the ruby, for it should make a nice dowry, don't you think? Besides, I have you to thank for all this, because it was your idea."

"Well, yes. I mean no." She would have to bring that up.

"No what?" she asked, a wry smile on her lips.

"Well, you can't marry," he said, a little too adamantly.

"Why ever not?" Her eyes twinkled slightly, capturing his heart.

Oh, he was lost. "What I mean is that I thought your desire for a Season was just a ploy. To find the ruby. To gain your fortune…" His arguments trailed off as he saw the resolve in her eyes.

She truly intended to marry.

"I must," she whispered.

"Why?" It came out as a plea.
Don't marry someone, Rebecca. Please don't do this. Not when I
…

"Because, Rafe, unlike you, I must marry. Especially if we never find the ruby."

He had no one to blame for his dismay other than himself. Wasn't it his demands that had put her on this path?

To stop writing in exchange for a Season. And that is why young ladies had a Season, to find a husband. She would go to London and find another source of income, another form of indenturement. Only this one was marriage.

And when she did find a man, which he had no doubts the practical and efficient Rebecca would, Rafe would have to let her go, walk away from a job well done, satisfied that he had done what had been promised.

She smiled at him, then shifted back to her original subject. "So if I don't fit in with the ladies in town, what about the men? Do you know any who might make a good husband? I want to find a respectable man, a man who'll appreciate my bluestocking ways, a man who doesn't mind if I don't fit in." Rebecca sat up straight, her hands folded primly in her lap. "I've always thought I would make a good vicar's wife. Vicars are usually very patient and quite sensible."

A vicar?
Here he had thought the colonel's suggestion the other night had been another of the man's ravings, not any indication of the lady's true desires. Now he laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. "You? With a vicar?"

"And why not?" she said.

"Because, well, because—"

She sat there, a picture of passionate outrage and everything a vicar didn't need in his scholarly, respectable life.

But she was everything
he
needed, and as he made that realization, it felt as if the earth beneath him had shifted, his equilibrium lost. As if he was standing on a precipice, like the one in his dream, only he was the one at the edge and she was there to coax him to safety. A crossroads of sorts, like the old matchmaker had told him.

And if he didn't choose wisely, he may never have another chance.

"Oh, hell," he said. "Over my dead body you'll marry some nearsighted old vicar. " Then he caught her in his arms and began to kiss her.

She protested with one short "mew" until she opened her only-too-opinionated mouth to him and responded with an eagerness that met his own.

If Miss Tate had a crossroads, Rafe guessed she'd just leapt over hers with heady enthusiasm and no regrets.