Temptation and Surrender (18 page)

I
would like to speak with my niece, sirrah. Fetch her, if you please.”

Seated behind the desk in her office, Em heard Harold’s arrogant demand. She wasn’t the least surprised to hear it. He’d let twenty-four hours go by, and was now back to have another tilt at intimidating her. Because she’d given in all those years ago—when he’d been their legal guardian and she hadn’t had any choice—he thought it merely required the application of more pressure to have her capitulating now.

Edgar, uncharacteristically sharp, said he’d “inquire”; she heard his footsteps slowly nearing.

She debated whether to have Harold shown into the office—but the office was very small.

Inwardly sighing, she got to her feet. Waved Edgar back when he appeared in the doorway. “Yes, I heard. I’ll speak with him out there.”

In the common room, where she had supporters aplenty.

Harold saw her coming around the bar. He stiffened, but then seemed, with difficulty, to recall his manners. He took off his hat.

She halted two paces away, nodded politely. “Good morning, Uncle Harold. What can I do for you?”

An unfortunate turn of phrase; Harold chose to take it literally. “You can forget this nonsense and come back to Runcorn.” His tone was peeved, aggrieved; he heard it and moderated his approach. He tried a patronizing smile. “Really, Emily, you must see how inappropriate it is for you to be managing an inn. Your dear mother would turn in her grave to see you waiting on such people, at the beck and call of the hoi polloi. If you have any proper family feeling, you’ll see that the right thing to do is to return to Runcorn—”

“And devote myself to seeing to your comfort for the rest of your days?” Raising her brows, she folded her arms. “I think not. I’m quite comfortable here, and so are the others. The village has been welcoming—and here, at least, our labors are appreciated.”

Harold snorted. “Poppycock! Not as if Runcorn was a cave—and as for appreciation—”

“Uncle Harold.” She held up a hand to stem his tide. “The situation is simple.
I
don’t wish to return to Runcorn.
The others
don’t wish to return to Runcorn.”

“Have you asked them—even told them I’m here?”

She nodded. “I have. They don’t wish to see you, they don’t wish to speak with you—and legally you have no right to demand to see them.”

Issy and Henry had specifically
not
wished to see him; neither had a kind word to say of him, and what they would say if they faced him wasn’t likely to help anyone. Both had agreed to let Em handle Harold as she saw fit.

Refolding her arms, she continued, “That’s how matters stand—and that’s the end of it.”

Color flooded Harold’s face. Features contorting, he wagged a finger in her face. “Listen, missy, I—”

“Seems to me,” a slow, lugubrious voice cut in, “that’s it’s time you left, sir. Begging y’r pardon, but you seem to have outstayed your welcome.”

Oscar, Thompson’s, the blacksmith, younger brother, had come up to loom at Harold’s side. The foreman of the Colyton Import Company, Oscar was smaller than his elder brother. He was still a very large man; he didn’t have to exert himself to intimidate.

Harold’s color turned ugly. “Now see here, my good man—”

Mild as cheese, Oscar ignored the bluster and looked at Em. “You finished your discussion, miss?”

Lips set, Em nodded. If Oscar was offering, she was willing to accept. Anything to get her point through Harold’s thick skull. “Thank you, Oscar.” She looked pointedly at Harold. “I believe my uncle is just leaving.”

Harold huffed, puffed, but when no one gave any indication of backing down, he jammed his hat on his head, spun on his heel, and stalked out.

Em watched him go, but doubted she’d yet seen the last of him. Once he’d disappeared, she smiled at Oscar. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

“Let me get Edgar to draw another pint for you. Ale, was it?”

Once she’d seen Oscar settled with a frothing mug, she walked slowly back into her office.

Harold finding them hadn’t really changed their situation all that much. It had, however, made them all feel less safe, less secure. Less sure of themselves.

Especially less sure financially. Both Issy and Henry were starting to worry, although neither wanted to say anything that would increase the burden already on her shoulders.

It was a burden she’d willingly taken up, and would again were the circumstances the same.

Sitting back in her chair, she murmured, “We have to find the treasure sooner rather than later.” Once she’d located it, Harold—and even more importantly the insecurity his arrival had fostered—would go away.

Once she found the treasure, they would all be free to get on with their lives.

The thought of having a life to live freely, one she could shape as she wished, more than tempted, but exactly what life she would choose, the details of it, remained nebulous, hazy. Then she thought of the way everyone in the village had defended her and hers. If nothing else, here in Colyton, home of her forebears, she’d found a place among others, others she liked, and who liked her. In terms of reshaping her life, that wasn’t a bad start.

She hadn’t given much thought to where they would go, what they might do, once they’d found the treasure, but…

“First I have to find it.” Determined, she reached down and opened the bottom drawer of her desk, pulled out a heavy tome, and set it on her blotter.

Opening the book to a marked page, she settled to read about the Grange.

J
onas sat at his desk in the library of the Grange, and tried to keep his mind focused on the crop tallies he was checking. Contrary to the amount of time he’d recently been spending there, the Red Bells Inn formed only a very small part of his father’s estate—the overseeing of which currently fell to him.

He needed to be free to help Em if and when she needed him, and to do that with a clear conscience, he had to see all his other responsibilities brought up to date.

Once he had…the next issue on his plate was to find some way to move matters between her and him forward at a faster rate. He could feel a certain pressure building within him, something he’d never felt before—a need, an imperative, to make her his, a compulsion he’d never felt over any other woman; no other had evoked it.

If he didn’t make her his soon…

He sat back, stared at the figures he’d lost track of minutes ago, and sighed.

A tap on the door had him looking up almost eagerly.

Mortimer looked in. “Mr. Filing, sir. Shall I show him in?”

“Yes. Do.” Jonas tidied away his notations on the crop yields, then stood as Filing entered. He held out his hand. “Joshua.”

“Jonas.” Filing shook his hand. He looked decidedly grim. “I wondered if you’d heard the latest about the uncle.”

Jonas felt every muscle tense. “No. What happened?”

“Nothing untoward, as it transpired, but…”

Relieved, Jonas relaxed enough to wave his friend to a chair. “Tell me.” He resumed his seat as Joshua sat.

“He—Potheridge—called again at the inn this morning, trying once again to browbeat Em into leaving and returning to his home.” Joshua’s expression was as severely disapproving as it ever got. “Em resisted, of course. She sent him to the rightabout—with a little help from Oscar.”

Jonas tensed. “She needed help?”

Joshua nodded. “I called on Issy last evening. She told me more about their past with Potheridge. Believe it or not, he would indeed thrust those innocent children—the twins, I mean—out into the streets. And his only reason for wanting Em, Issy, and Henry is to have them work for him gratis, as they’d previously had to do. As far as I can gather, the tale Em told was severely understated. Potheridge should be…well, perhaps not hanged, but certainly booted a good long way.”

Jonas would have smiled at the sight of his usually intensely peaceable friend so roused, if he hadn’t been feeling the same emotions himself.

Before he could say anything, Joshua looked up. “I’m going to marry Issy—my mind was made up even before Potheridge arrived. And now I’m even more determined to marry her and remove her completely from his orbit—and being her husband will place me in a better position to make sure he doesn’t further pressure Em or Henry. It seems he has no interest in the twins—presumably they’re too young to be of use to him, and, of course, they’re not directly related.”

Joshua met Jonas’s eyes. “I’d marry Issy tomorrow if I could, but she won’t hear of it, not at present, because that will leave Em alone to cope with the others.”

Jonas frowned. “But you’d be there, and so would Issy—you’re not proposing to take her away.”

“Precisely! But despite her gentle looks, she has a steel rod for a backbone. She’s as stubborn as…well, hell—and I can’t shift her.” Joshua looked at Jonas.

And waited.

Jonas pulled a face at him. “Yes, all right—you’ve guessed correctly. I intend to marry Em, but…” He frowned. “Why are there so many ‘buts’ in life?”

“A philosophical question to which no one has yet found an answer.” Joshua waved it aside. “You were saying?”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Jonas sat back. “I was about to say I’d marry Em tomorrow—we could stand up beside you and Issy—except that I’m having infinite difficulty getting her to focus on the issue. She’s forever distracted—forever being distracted. What with the inn, the twins, and Henry, there’s always something demanding her attention.”

He paused, eyeing Joshua. “And as you’re going to marry Issy, I should tell you that Em—and I presume Issy and the others, too—are here in Colyton because they’re searching for something.”

Succinctly he outlined what he knew, what he’d learned.

Joshua frowned. “Henry hasn’t shown any interest in the local houses.”

“Nor have the twins, but I suspect—call it intuition if you like—that all of them are in on the hunt. They all know what Em’s searching for, but she’s the only one actively turning stones.”

Joshua frowned, clearly thinking.

Jonas sighed. “So, you see, there’s a great deal more mystery about the Beauregards than just their disreputable Uncle Harold.”

Joshua shrugged. “Whatever the mystery is, whatever they’re searching for, it makes no difference to me.” His jaw set, he reiterated, “I’m going to marry Isobel Beauregard come what may.”

Jonas laughed. “Naturally. I didn’t tell you that to warn you off—I just thought you ought to know.”

Joshua acknowledged that with a nod. “Knowing said information has clearly not warned you off Em.”

Jonas grimaced. “No—it only adds to the pressure. If she’s keeping whatever she’s searching for a close secret, then there has to be some danger involved.”

“Secrecy does suggest that.”

“Indeed.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “But the main problem for me is that the search is important to Em and the rest of them, and she’s so singleminded she clearly intends to resolve that issue first before turning her mind to other things. Me and the rest of her life, for instance.”

Joshua waggled his head; he was struggling to keep a straight face. “Definitely a difficulty.”

Jonas smiled tightly. “It’s as much a difficulty for you as for me.”

It took a moment for Joshua to work it out. “Damn! Issy won’t marry me until Em at least consents to marry you.”

“Precisely. So here we are, stuck and waiting on Em and her search.”

Joshua raised his brows. “We could help.”

“Indeed we could—indeed, we
would
—if only the benighted woman would tell us what she’s searching for.
But
, if you recall, that’s a secret.”

Joshua frowned. After a moment he said, “You’re right—there are too many ‘buts’ in this world.”

Silence fell.

Eventually Jonas broke it. “I don’t know about you, but I’m highly disinclined to sit and wait. Which means it’s imperative we learn what Em’s searching for.”

Grimly Joshua nodded. “So we can help her to it, and thus gain relief.”

“Precisely. It’s that or go blind.”

J
onas brooded for the rest of the day and into the evening.

If Joshua hadn’t told him about Potheridge’s second visit to the Red Bells, he wouldn’t have known anything about it—wouldn’t have known Em had been subjected to her uncle’s bullying again—and that irked.

He knew why it so irritated, but that didn’t ease the nagging itch. When the clock in the library struck ten o’clock, and he couldn’t remember where the last two hours had gone, he surrendered and set off along the path to the inn.

As he’d hoped, Em and Edgar were closing up. She was straightening mats and doilies on the other side of the common room while the last patrons downed the dregs of their ale before drifting home through the night.

Thompson and Oscar spotted him as he stood in the hall beside the bar; both called a greeting as they lumbered toward the door.

He returned it, drawing Em’s attention. After one arrested glance, she continued with her tidying.

Propping a shoulder against the wall, he watched her.

Em wasn’t sure why he was there. She didn’t think there was any business matter pending between them, but she’d had a tiring day, one of nonstop dramas; her brain felt scatty, her thoughts fractured—she might have forgotten something.

Despite all the support, despite knowing Harold logically posed no threat, he nevertheless loomed large in her mind. Until he left the neighborhood, she’d be tense and on guard; she’d long ago learned not to trust him. Even once he accepted that she wouldn’t be returning to keep house for him—and he was still a long way from that—he was the sort who would make trouble purely out of spite.

His presence had already affected the twins. They knew he didn’t like them, so were wary of him, but knowing he was her, Issy’s, and Henry’s relative, they tried to please over anything to do with him; no matter that she’d told them otherwise, they thought it was somehow their fault that he didn’t like them. She’d had to work to convince them that it wouldn’t help for them to take him a plate of Hilda’s scones as a peace offering.

She felt beset, hemmed in by worries, not least of which was that she’d had no time to further pursue the treasure; she knew Jonas was waiting, but the mechanical chore of tidying soothed and helped her thoughts settle.

Edgar came out from behind the bar. He paused in the center of the room. “All done, miss.” He hefted his keys. “I’ll lock up behind me.”

She summoned a smile. “Thank you, Edgar. Good night.”

“’Night, miss.” With a respectful nod, Edgar left.

Leaving her alone with the inn’s owner.

The front door closed; the lock clicked. Tidying done, she circled, checking the shutters were secure, then, with no further excuse for procrastination, approached her nemesis.

Halting before him, she arched a brow.

He straightened from the wall. “I heard you had another visit from your uncle.”

She nodded and stepped past him, toward her office. “And I’m sure there’ll be more. He won’t give up that easily.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

“No!” She whirled, frowning. “He’ll go away eventually, but regardless, as I’ve told you umpteen times before, I’m not yours. You’re not responsible for me. You don’t have to fight any battles for me.”

He glowered, actually glowered at her. She sensed him hesitate; in an effort to aid him rein in his overdeveloped protectiveness—or was that possessiveness?—she changed direction, doused the last lantern left burning on the counter, then, in the dim glow from the fires banked in the hearths, headed across the common room, her destination the stairs and ultimately the safety of her rooms.

Instead of letting her go, he followed close behind her; lowering his head, he growled in her ear, “I
want
to be responsible for you—I
want
to fight battles for you, slay any dragons that menace you.”

The low words sounded rough, as if they were dragged from deep inside him. She walked faster, but he easily kept pace.

“Damn it, I
want
the right to stand up for you—to protect you and yours from the likes of your uncle Harold.” He caught her arm and spun her to face him. “Obviously I mean to claim that right.”

“Obviously?”
She twitched her arm from his hold, looked him in the eye. “Whatever bee you have in your bonnet it’s not obvious to
me
.”

He frowned even more blackly. “Damn it—how I feel can hardly be a surprise. I’ve all but spelled it out. What the devil did you think this”—arms wide, he waved his hands between them—“is all about?”

She lifted her chin, categorically stated, “I’m your
innkeeper
.”

Turning, she started up the stairs. He was simply incapable of letting that argument—the one about protecting her—go, and she was too tired, too woolly headed, to argue. The only thing she felt sure about was that he was set on placing her under his protection.

On becoming her protector.

She would be wise for them both and retreat.

She continued to march up the stairs. “Good night, Mr. Tallent. You’ll think more clearly in the morning—you can thank me then.”

“Jonas. And you’re like no bloody innkeeper ever born.” Jonas followed her up, sorting through her words, intent and determined to prosecute his case. “And what the devil do you mean about me thinking differently come morning? I’ve been
wooing
you for weeks. Don’t you dare tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Reaching the top of the stairs, she swung to face him, blocking the way, forcing him to halt two steps down, leaving her face level with his.

So she could glare directly into his eyes. “You haven’t been
wooing
me—you’ve been
seducing
me. Trying to. One absolute reality is that gentlemen like you don’t marry innkeepers.”

His temper rose; he narrowed his eyes on hers. “Another reality you might like to ponder, one equally absolute, is that gentlemen like me don’t
seduce
innkeepers. It’s considered poor form.”

Her eyes slitted, bright shards in the shadows. Her lips compressed into a stubborn line, then she nodded curtly. “As I said, good night, Mr. Tallent.”

Em swung on her heel, stalked to her parlor door, flung it open, and sailed through.

She would have stopped and shut the door, but he growled—literally growled low in his throat—as he followed close behind.

“This is
ridiculous
!”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She swung to face him, intending to order him out—only to discover he was a lot closer than she’d thought. Hands on his hips, head lowered as he glared at her, there was a light in his eyes, a set to his expression, that had her heart thumping. One lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead; he looked positively dangerous. She took a step back.

And another as he kept advancing, looming over her.

She pointed at the door—and kept backing. “You should go home. Now.”

“No.” Eyes locked on hers, he reached back, caught the edge of the door, and sent it swinging shut. “I’m not going to go, and you’re not going to flee—and there’s no one else about to distract either of us. We’re going to get to the bottom of this—sort it all out so you understand.”

“I do understand! You’re delirious. You’ve lost your wits—you don’t know what you’re saying.” And she didn’t have clear space in her head to work it out, either. She was too tired; her wits were whirling. “Things will seem much clearer after a good night’s sleep.”

She turned and rushed into her bedroom, sure that—gentleman that he was—he wouldn’t follow her in there.

He did.

Turning to shut the door, she found him right behind her.

She squeaked—went to take a step back, tripped on her hem, and started falling—he caught her upper arms, set her back on her feet.

Didn’t let go.

“Stop pretending this—what’s between us—doesn’t exist.” His dark eyes held hers, warm—hot—emotions roiling in their depths.

They took her breath away. “T-this?”

His gaze hardened. “
This
.”

He bent his head and kissed her. Not forcefully—that she might have resisted—but coaxingly, temptingly—almost pleadingly.

As if he truly wanted her to look and see, to understand what this—the welling, swelling heat that inexorably rose through the kiss—really was. As if he wanted her to feel what it was, appreciate it for the symptom it was—and acknowledge what that meant.

All that reached her through his lips, through the heavy stroke of his tongue against hers. He gathered her into his arms, and her heart, her senses, leapt. There was still more for her to gauge in the way he held her, securely, possessively, yet for all that so tenderly. More for her to appreciate, to learn—to see because he let her, because he laid it out before her—the symptoms of how he felt.

Of its own volition, one of her hands rose to lightly, wonderingly, touch his lean cheek. He desired her, wanted her. Perhaps even needed her.

What she felt in return, in response, what leapt in her veins and spread along every nerve, was far less restrained. A hunger, blatant and powerful, open and greedy.

And this time she was ready to be swept away. It wasn’t that she lacked for distraction—she hadn’t had a moment to think all day—but what with Harold’s appearances and the twins’ consequent worries, let alone Henry’s and Issy’s increasing concerns, she needed—desperately needed—distraction of a different sort.

She needed something to whisk her away, to take her from this world for a little while—and he was there, he was offering, and other than with him she might never know…

And he wanted her.

She slid her arms about his neck and kissed him back—flagrantly, without reserve.

Felt his sudden hesitation, his surprise.

She ignored it and moved boldly into him. Felt her nerves frazzle, felt his immediate response, the hardness that infused every muscle, that tightened the steely arms banding her back. Encouraged, heartened, she incited, then plunged into a duel of tongues, a heated exchange, one she sensed he was helpless to deny, to hold back from.

Her Colyton side, wild and reckless, scented opportunity, saw a wide and new horizon—and rose up, seized the initiative with both hands, and ran.

Amazed, Jonas found himself following, mentally stumbling in his haste to catch up with her. To rein her, and his more primitive side, in. It was like managing two runaway steeds, one set of reins in each hand; together, they—she and that elemental male she appealed to in him—were too strong.

That was a shock—and a wonder. One she brazenly fed with kisses that grew increasingly passionate, increasingly urgent. Her lips were soft, pliant, but ravenous beneath his, inciting and inviting a similar response; she seemed to glory when he lost all restraint, cupped her face between his hands, and devoured.

Without thought, he backed her until her hips hit the raised mattress of her bed. The faint jolt, the sensation of her bending slightly back, her stomach cradling his erection, shook awareness, albeit distant, into his brain.

Enough to realize he—and she—had skipped several steps in the customary progression. Enough to think that perhaps he should back off, or at least slow down—and see where she wanted to go, what she actually wanted to do.

That distant part of his brain that still functioned couldn’t quite believe she truly intended this interlude to lead where it was presently headed.

Gathering his strength, and his resolution, he tried to ease back, tried to moderate the kiss from ravenous to merely hungry. But she wasn’t of a mind to allow any abatement; the instant he eased the pressure of his lips, she compensated with a fiery, passionate demand that shredded his will and had him complying—instantly, beyond thought or control.

She wasn’t going to let him back away, wasn’t going to let him think or reason—not wise, given the power of his desire for her, the restless, greedy passion she evoked.

Dragging in a mental as well as physical breath, he locked his lips on hers, filled her mouth—and gave her what she clearly craved, what she was so insistently demanding. Releasing her face, he slid his palms from her shoulders slowly down her back, savoring the graceful feminine planes, the supple strength. Tasting her deeply, drinking unrestrained from her yielded mouth, he let his hands pause at her waist, fingers lightly flexing, holding her before him, trapped between his body and the bed, letting that knowledge—that she was there, willing and patently ready to satisfy him—sink in and soothe his clamorous needs.

She was all promise and bounty, warmth and rich treasure, pleasure distilled within a slight human frame. And she was his. Whether intimacy followed tonight or tomorrow was immaterial; that she was his was incontestable, something that simply was, and forever would be.

That seemed her thought as well as his; she moved into him, pressing against him in flagrant invitation.

He took her at her unvoiced word; releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, over her hips, pressing into the mattress to trace the luscious curves of her bottom.

She shivered, trembled, but then pressed closer still. He cupped the full globes and molded her to him, held her there as, beyond restraint, he shifted suggestively against her.

A statement of claiming, of things to come—she only grew wilder, more urgent and demanding. He’d never doubted that she would want him when the time came. Now it apparently had, the realization she did was heady beyond belief.

Hands anchored in his hair, Em clung to the kiss, to him as her wits whirled, as her senses danced and the world as she knew it gave way to one that was richer, more exciting, more tantalizing and enthralling. A world she wanted to explore—one full of novel sensations on which her Colyton soul could gorge.

She’d stepped beyond all hope of restraint, had let her adventurous soul free; she didn’t imagine she might rein it in—had no intention of even trying.

Moments like this were beyond price—moments in which she could feed her inner self and be whole, be all she was meant to be. Without worry, beyond care; even if only for a few reckless minutes, she wouldn’t count the cost.