Touch Me (15 page)

S
IMON STOOD
in Genevieve’s sitting room and stared at the painting hung over the mantel, the painting she had created. He lifted the single candle he held, noting again the vibrant colors that seemed to jump off the canvas even in the dim light. The intriguing brush strokes. The vividness of the sea waves that were so lifelike he could almost hear them smashing against the cliffs. Was the blond woman gazing out over the water Genevieve? He found himself reaching out to touch the lone figure. In addition to her intelligence, wit, kindness, charm, beauty and sensuality, she was immensely talented. Or had been, until the problem with her hands had stolen her confidence.

With a sigh, he forced his attention back to the matter at hand and moved about the room, searching for hidden recesses in the paneling, loose bricks in the fireplace, false bottoms in the desk drawers, loose floorboards—anything that might provide a hiding place for the letter he sought, all the while fighting his frustration over the fact that he was no closer to knowing who had killed Ridgemoor than when he’d arrived in Little Longstone. Simon considered sending Waverly a message, asking if he or Miller or Albury had discovered anything that could clear his name, but he quickly discarded the idea.
A message could be intercepted, and Simon wasn’t ready for his whereabouts to be known. He was certain a political foe of Ridgemoor’s had killed him, but which one? There were dozens. And Simon was running out of time. Damn it, he needed that letter.

He moved methodically through each room, concentrating on his task, but when he searched Genevieve’s bedchamber, his gaze kept straying to her bed, his imagination filled with flashing images of the two of them, limbs entwined, hands and lips exploring, bodies arching. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the erotic mental pictures, but that only rendered them more intense. Muttering an obscenity, he purposefully shifted to face away from the bed and turned his attention to the escritoire.

After a thorough examination of the small desk failed to yield the letter, he once again opened the top drawer. His hands lingered over the handwritten pages of what he didn’t doubt was a sequel to the
Ladies’ Guide.
His fingers traced the tight, painstaking script, his heart squeezing in sympathy at how painful it was for her to write. It was fortunate she’d found this place, Little Longstone, where she had access to the hot spring that brought her relief. It was where she belonged. While his life was in London. Where he belonged.

His gaze dropped to a woven basket next to the desk and he bent down to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper from within. He flattened the square sheet and peered at the words, written in Genevieve’s hand.

A small smile tugged at his lip at the advice. She was a remarkably insightful woman. The last line was badly smudged, no doubt the reason she’d tossed the sheet away. For reasons he couldn’t explain, other than to know he couldn’t throw that bit of her back into the trash, he folded the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, then continued his search.

Several hours later, just before the first streaks of dawn leaked through the darkness to paint the sky, he finished the last room and heaved a heavy sigh. He’d found nothing—except his suddenly active conscience, which had balked incessantly at invading Genevieve’s privacy.

Damn it, he should have just asked her what had become of the letter. He should have confided in her, as she had him. Confessed who he was. Why he was in Little Longstone. Of course, then he’d have had to confess he’d spied on her. Searched her home. And he didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d believe the only reason he’d sought her out, had flirted with her had been to gain her confidence.

And she would be correct.

But what had started out as nothing more than a calculated scheme to relieve her of the letter had turned into much more. By the time he’d seduced her, his mission had all but been forgotten. He’d believed himself capable of bedding her simply for his mission, but in the end, the mission hadn’t played any part in his making
love to her. But would she believe that? Bloody hell, he didn’t know. But regardless, he was going to have to ask her for the letter, since he couldn’t find it on his own. Then, he’d have to pray she’d give it to him…and that she’d forgive him his lies.

A frown crossed his face. Once he left Little Longstone he’d never see her again, so it didn’t really matter if she forgave him or not.

Did it?

It matters,
his inner voice whispered. And he realized with a jolt that it did. It mattered a whole bloody lot. Which was a whole bloody lot more than it should have mattered.

With a sigh, he blew out his candle and headed for the foyer. Might as well walk around the outside of the house, see if anything was afoot. Maybe the brisk air would clear his head. He entered the foyer and reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot a hole through you” came a deep voice from the shadows behind him.

Simon froze and inwardly cursed for allowing himself to be caught unawares. The voice came from nearby, close enough for Simon to know he’d never survive the gunshot wound if the intruder’s aim was even partially accurate, yet far enough away that he didn’t like his chances of rushing the stranger with the hopes of disarming him. His best alternative was to do as he was told. For now.

“I’m not moving,” Simon assured him.

“Put your hands behind your head, nice and slow. A quick move will earn you a lead ball in the back.”

Everything in Simon froze as recognition hit him. That voice…bloody hell, he knew that voice. He wished its familiarity filled him with relief, but instead a cold
stone of dread landed in his stomach. “You have the wrong person,” he said, slowly raising his hands, stalling for time, hoping that the horrible realization forming in his mind wasn’t true. Yet he knew in his gut that it was. And that behind him stood not only Ridgemoor’s murderer but the man who’d betrayed Simon, and far worse, his country.

“You’re the right person, Kilburn. Sadly for you, you’re in the wrong place.”

In a tone that belied the fury and sickening betrayal racing through him, Simon said, “Not the warmest greeting for an old friend, Waverly.”

Behind him, John Waverly, his superior, his mentor, a man he’d trusted and respected above all others, gave a humorless laugh. “We aren’t friends, Kilburn.”

Feeling as if he’d been gutted, Simon turned around. “Yes, that seems evident.”

“I told you not to move.”

“Yes, I know, but you needed me to turn around. A man can hardly shoot himself in the back, and I’m assuming that’s your plan—to shoot me, then place the gun in my lifeless hand to make it look as if I killed myself.”

“Over guilt for betraying your country and killing Ridgemoor,” Waverly agreed, as if they were discussing the weather. “Your suicide note will explain everything.”

“No one will believe that,” Simon said, wishing it were true, but knowing that it wasn’t. Forging a convincing note in Simon’s handwriting wouldn’t present a problem for a man of Waverly’s skills.

“Yes, they will.” Waverly stepped forward, his pistol aimed at Simon’s head, right where someone committing suicide would shoot. Waverly was an expert shot, but even if he wasn’t, it would be difficult to miss his
target at such close range. Simon would be dead before he hit the floor.

“Murdering Ridgemoor wasn’t necessary, John.”

“I’m afraid it was. The possibility of him becoming the next prime minister was growing every day. His radical reforms would have ruined a number of very profitable enterprises for me. I have my finger in pies all over London. You’d be amazed at what a tidy sum I pull in from those workhouses alone. That bleeding heart, Ridgemoor, wanted to put an end to all that. All I needed was a few more years and I could have left the spy game an extremely wealthy man.”

Rage churned in Simon’s stomach. “From money gained by the suffering of others, suffering Ridgemoor wanted to see cease.”

Waverly shrugged. “Everyone suffers. Except perhaps people like you, those born to wealth and privilege. But neither your wealth nor your title will prevent you from suffering now, although I suppose you should thank me for ensuring that your end will be quick.”

“My gratitude knows no bounds.”

Waverly shook his head and made a
tsk
ing sound. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Simon.”

“Ridgemoor might not have become prime minister.”

“It didn’t matter. Even without gaining that position, he was far too influential. His suspicions of me were enough to make his elimination necessary. Unfortunately my first attempt on his life failed. When he confronted me, told me he not only had proof of my illegal activities, but that it was me who’d tried to kill him, his fate was sealed.”

“Proof he’d written in a letter.”

Waverly nodded. “Yes. Very annoying of him. In
spite of my strong encouragement, he refused to tell me where the letter was. You were due to arrive at any moment and therefore I couldn’t afford to spend any more time with him. I’d convinced myself he was bluffing—until you came to me with your request for two weeks to prove your innocence. I knew the only way you could do so would be with that letter, that Ridgemoor must have been alive when you arrived and have told you about it.”

“So you followed me here.”

“Yes.” He made a disgusted sound. “I should have known he’d send the letter off to his whore for safekeeping.”

Simon’s every muscle tensed. “Mrs. Ralston knows nothing about this.”

“I disagree. She knows enough to have removed the letter from the puzzle box.”

Bloody hell. It was Waverly’s presence he’d sensed at the festival. Waverly who’d broken into Genevieve’s home and attacked Baxter. Simon’s stomach stopped churning and tightened into a knot. Unless he could convince Waverly Genevieve had no knowledge of the letter’s content, he knew the man would kill her. Before he could speak, Waverly said, “Don’t deny it, Kilburn. If you’d removed the letter, you wouldn’t still be here searching for it.”

“She did find the letter in the box,” Simon confirmed, “but she doesn’t know what the letter says.”

“If you’re trying to tell me she cannot read—”

“She can read, but Ridgemoor wrote it in code,” Simon improvised, although he suspected it was indeed true—Ridgemoor was an intelligent and cautious man. “She has no idea of the information it contains. It
would read as nothing more than harmless words on the page to her.”

Waverly’s lips curved into an unpleasant smile. “Well, then. It will be a pleasure to convince her to turn the letter over to me.”

Simon swallowed the growl of icy rage that rushed into his throat. The thought of this monster going anywhere near Genevieve filled him with a dark violence he’d never before known. “She doesn’t have it. I do.”

Waverly’s smile vanished and his eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re lying. You’ve moved her into your house, and she’s now your whore instead of Ridgemoor’s. Clearly you’d say anything to protect her.”

It was true—he would say anything, do anything to ensure her safety. Swallowing the acid burning in his throat, he shrugged. “Your attack on her manservant provided an excellent excuse for me to get them both away from here, allowing me the freedom to search for the letter.” He paused, then added, “And I found it.”

Waverly studied him for several seconds. “Where is it?”

“In my waistcoat pocket.”

A combination of doubt and greed flickered in Waverly’s eyes. “Where did you find it?”

“The sitting room. Hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace.”

Waverly’s shook his head. “You’re lying. I examined that fireplace and found nothing.”

Again Simon shrugged. “You didn’t have the time I did to devote to the task and the hiding place was easy to miss. I’d be delighted to show you the spot if you’d like.”

“Just give me the letter.”

“You told me not to move.”

Annoyance tightened Waverly’s expression. “Don’t
play games with me, Kilburn. I could just shoot you then retrieve the letter from your pocket myself.”

“You could…but you don’t want to kill me until you know that I really have it. Because if I’m lying and I don’t, well, then I’d be dead and unable to tell you where it is.”

Waverly’s eyes went flat. “You’ll slowly reach one hand into your pocket and withdraw the letter. If you’ve lied to me not only will I shoot you, but I’ll see to it that your brother and sister don’t live long enough to attend your funeral.”

Waverly’s hand holding the pistol was perfectly steady and Simon knew his aim would be true. And that meant he had one only chance, one split second to save Genevieve and his family. Cold calm settled over him. He doubted he’d walk away from this alive, but he damn well intended to make sure Waverly didn’t either.

With his gaze locked on Waverly’s, Simon slowly reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew the folded piece of paper he’d taken from Genevieve’s bedchamber. Waverly’s eyes glittered and shifted to the letter. The hint of a self-satisfied smile whispered over his lips. Simon held out the paper. Then dropped it.

Waverly’s gaze followed the paper and Simon didn’t hesitate.
One chance. One chance
. With lightning speed he crouched down, slipped the knife from his boot, and let it fly. Waverly’s howl of rage was immediately followed by the deafening report of his pistol. Searing pain suffused Simon. He fell backwards and the world went black.

“H
URRY
, Baxter,” Genevieve urged as she made her way down the path. Her cottage was just around the curve and she quickened her stride, tension and unease gripping her increasingly with every step. The first mauve streaks of dawn had lightened the sky more than half an hour ago, more than enough time for Simon to have returned home. The fact that he hadn’t twisted her insides with dread.

“More than likely he just lost track of time,” Baxter muttered. “Or—and I hate to say this to ye—but be prepared for the fact that he’s taken off, Gen. Wouldn’t be the first scoundrel to run from a woman after gettin’ what he wanted from her.”

Genevieve shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not like that.” She knew it. In her heart. No man who’d looked at her the way he had, made love to her as he had, touched her, kissed her hands as he had, with complete acceptance—that was not a man who would toss her aside, especially without so much as a goodbye.

“Bloody hell, Gen,
all
men are like that.”

“Not all. You’re not.”

“That’s ’cause I ain’t lookin’ to bed ye. I’ll tell ye this—even though I think yer better off without him, if that bastard’s left without so much as a fare-thee-well, I’ll hunt him down and make him sorry he were ever born.”

“Baxter, you—”

Her words chopped off when the sound of a pistol shot rent the air. She froze and for several shocked heartbeats her mind went blank. Then a single word screamed through her brain.
Simon.

Before she could pull a breath into her stalled lungs, Baxter wrapped a hand around her upper arm and jerked her off the path and behind a tree.

“That came from just ahead,” he whispered, unsheathing his knife.

Genevieve moistened her dry lips. “Yes. From the cottage. Where Simon is. And as far as I know, he doesn’t carry a pistol.” With icy fingers of fear clutching her, she slipped her own pistol from the pocket of her pelisse. When she stepped forward, Baxter blocked her with an outstretched arm. “You stay here,” he whispered with a frown. “I’ll check things out.”

“I’m going with you.” When his frown deepened, she glared right back at him and repeated, “I’m going with you.”

He muttered something about willful women, then keeping to the shadows, he led the way to the cottage. They approached cautiously, surveying the area, but couldn’t find anything amiss. Until they opened the door.

Genevieve’s heart stalled at the sight of Simon sprawled on the foyer floor, the scarlet puddle surrounding his head widening as blood oozed from his temple. Another man Genevieve had never seen before lay on the other side of the foyer, a knife she recognized as Simon’s protruding from his chest.

“Dear God.” She ran to Simon’s side and dropped to her knees. The bitter, metallic scent of his blood, the sight of it leaking from that ghastly wound, filled her
with a terror she’d never before known, terror that threatened to paralyze her. Dragging in a ragged breath, she gave herself a mental slap and tore off her pelisse. Later. She could panic later. She wadded the end of the garment into a makeshift compress which she pressed against the wound with one unsteady hand while her other hand touched Simon’s neck and sought out his pulse. And she prayed she’d feel it.

“This bloke is dead,” Baxter reported from behind her. She heard him rise and approach her. “How is Cooper?”

She located Simon’s pulse and she nearly swooned with relief when she felt the faint, irregular throb beneath her fingertips. “Alive. Bring water, compresses and bandages. And Baxter…” She tore her gaze away from Simon to look up. “Please hurry.”

He took off at a run down the corridor toward the kitchen, and Genevieve pulled in another shuddering breath. “Simon, can you hear me? It’s Genevieve,” she said in voice that trembled with the fear racing through her. A lump swelled in her throat and she forced herself to swallow the sob trapped there. “Please wake up, Simon.”

His blood soaked through the compress with frightening speed, wetting her palm, and she quickly folded over another layer of her pelisse, cursing the stiffness in her hands that slowed her actions. She applied as much pressure to the wound as she could then leaned over him to touch her forehead to his.

“Please, Simon. My darling Simon…you must wake up. If you do, I’ll have Baxter bake you an entire tray of scones. Or a pie. I know how you harbor a weakness for sweets…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. She straightened and folded over another compress, fighting back
her alarm at the amount of blood still welling from the wound. She pressed tighter, prayed harder, and again leaned down to feel his shallow breaths feathering across her cheek.

This was all her fault. This never would have happened if he hadn’t been trying to protect her. If she hadn’t accepted that box from Richard. Clearly the letter was what the dead man had been after—what other reason could there be? She should have sent the damnable box right back. Because she hadn’t, Baxter had been injured, and now Simon…God, Simon might die.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, terrified at his chalky pallor. “Please don’t leave me. I just found you. I cannot bear to lose you. I cannot lose another man I love.”

The realization, the irrefutable knowledge, that she loved him filled her with wretched despair and a half sob escaped her. She’d never thought she’d fall in love again. And certainly not so hard. Or so quickly. And definitely not with a man who was bleeding to death before her eyes.

Dear God, what she felt for Simon made her feelings for Richard pale in comparison. How could that be? She didn’t know, but there was no denying it. And the thought of losing him before she could tell him…no.
No
. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

She put her lips next to his ear and whispered, “I love you, Simon. Please wake up so I can tell you. Please…”

Baxter returned and they worked together in silence, Genevieve preparing compresses, Baxter applying pressure to the wound. She gently wiped the blood from Simon’s face and neck, her anxious gaze searching for any sign of consciousness, her fingers locating his pulse again to assure herself he still lived.

She didn’t know how many terrifying minutes had
passed since they’d entered the foyer. Surely it hadn’t been more than five or six, yet it felt like an eternity. Just when she didn’t think she could stand another instant of silence, Baxter reported, “The bleeding’s nearly stopped. He’s got a hell of an egg on his head—but nothing else. Looks like he were just grazed.”

No sooner had he said the words than Simon gave a faint groan. Genevieve’s gaze flew to his face. His eyelids fluttered, then slowly blinked open. She clasped his hand between hers, pressing it to her chest, just above the spot where her heart beat in frantic thumps.

“Simon, can you hear me?” she asked.

He blinked several times and Genevieve bit back the cry of relief that rushed into her throat when his green gaze met hers. He slowly moistened his lips. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t suppress her half sob, half laugh at his whispered question. Gripping his hand tighter, she brought it to her lips. “Yes, I’m fine.” An outright lie—she was sick with worry, lightheaded with relief, and more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Without turning away from Simon, she said, “I can handle things here now, Baxter. Please fetch Dr. Bailey. And the magistrate.”

Baxter nodded. “I’ll just check the house first,” he said, and then immediately went to do so. As soon as they were alone, Simon whispered, “Genevieve.”

“I’m right here, Simon.”

He frowned, then winced. “Bloody hell, my head feels like it’s been split open. What happened?”

“You were shot.”

He blinked again, then tried to move. He sucked in a hissing breath, slammed his eyes shut and went still. After several slow, deep breaths, he said through gritted teeth, “Waverly?”

“I’m guessing that’s the name of the man who shot you.”

She watched his entire body tense. He tried to nod and clearly thought better of it. “Yes. Is he—”

“He’s dead, Simon,” she said in a soothing tone. She gently brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead, a dark slash against his frighteningly pale skin.

That news seemed to relax him. “Good.”

Baxter entered the foyer. “All’s clear. I’ll be back with the doctor and the magistrate.” He departed, closing the door behind him.

Simon pulled in a few more breaths, then asked, “How did you find me?”

“When you didn’t return at sunrise, Baxter and I were worried. We came here and found you bleeding and unconscious, and the other man dead, with your knife sticking out of his chest.”

Simon kept his eyes closed and waited for the room to stop spinning and for the thunderous pounding in his head and the nausea roiling through his stomach to subside. After several slow, careful breaths, he again opened his eyes and saw Genevieve. The worry clouding her beautiful features filled him with guilt—and dread. He harbored no doubts that after he had told her what he must, all that caring and concern would fade from her gaze.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.

With the nausea gone and the pounding in his head lessened to a dull roar, he nodded, then moved to sit up. Even with Genevieve’s assistance, the going was slow and the effort left him panting and coated in sweat. After several minutes, however, he felt better, and he forced himself to look in her eyes. His breath caught at
the emotion swimming in those beautiful blue depths. There was nothing guarded in her expression—even a blind man could have recognized that the tenderness in her gaze meant she cared for him. Deeply. His heart sank. Yes, cared deeply for a man whose true name and occupation she didn’t even know. A man who’d lied to her. And who, he knew she would believe, had used her.

Damn.

His gaze shifted, his lips tightening at the sight of Waverly’s body behind her. Then he glanced to her pelisse, the pale-gray wool ruined with his blood. The array of compresses stained with colors ranging from bright scarlet to barely pale pink. Finally he looked at where she held his hands, hers ungloved and stained with his blood. Would this be the last time he’d ever touch her?

He pulled in a breath, then raised his gaze to meet hers. “You admitted to me yesterday that you hadn’t been entirely honest with me, that your circumstances weren’t what you’d led me to believe. Now I must say the same thing to you. I don’t work for a Mr. Jonas-Smythe. Indeed, there is no such person. I’m employed by the Crown.”

Confusion passed over her features. “You’re a steward for the Crown?”

“No. I gather information for them and assist in capturing individuals whose actions could threaten Britain.”

She blinked. “You’re a…
spy?
”

“Yes.”

“A spy,” she repeated in a bemused voice. “For how long?”

“Eight years.”

“And how did you come to be a spy?”

“I volunteered.” He hesitated, then continued, “My
family was wealthy and I’d never wanted for anything. Until eight years ago, I’d spent my life pursuing my own enjoyments, indulging my whims and desires, denied nothing. One night, while out carousing with a group of friends, we ventured into a pub, one in a less-fashionable part of London than we would normally visit. I struck up a conversation with the barkeep. His name was Billy. I asked him how he came to work at the bar—not because I was really interested, but because I thought his words might bring a laugh. Instead he…changed me.”

He paused, shame filling him as it did every time he recalled the callow, selfish youth he’d been. “How?” she prompted.

“He told me about his life. He’d served in the navy and nearly died in battle. He’d survived, but lost a leg. When he came home, he needed work. Had a wife and son to look after. A friend of his owned the pub and he’d worked there ever since. Listening to him, hearing him talk of that battle, knowing it had to be painful for him to stand behind that bar for hours on end, that he did so out of love for his wife and child, gave me quite a jolt. It made me take a good at myself and my life. And I didn’t like what I saw.

“I saw that while other men were serving our country, I’d simply moved from party to party, club to club, pleasure to pleasure, from one useless pursuit to the next. Frankly I was disgusted with myself. I wanted to change. To do something important. Something good. Something I could be proud of.”

She nodded slowly. “I see. So…if we’d met eight years ago, I wouldn’t have liked you.”

“Most likely not. I don’t see how you could have when I didn’t like myself.”

“And now? Do you like yourself now?”

“At this particular moment—not really. I lied to you. But in general…yes. I’m proud of the work I’ve done. The people I’ve helped. The lives I’ve protected and saved. Unfortunately with that sort of work comes secrecy, and with secrecy come lies. For eight years I’ve lied to my friends and my family—none of them know what I’ve just told you.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “I wouldn’t have lied to you, Genevieve, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary.”

She nodded slowly, clearly digesting his words. “All this means you didn’t come to Little Longstone for a holiday while your employer was away on his wedding trip.”

“No, I didn’t.” He took a bracing breath and forced himself to say the words he knew would drain the caring from her eyes. “I came to Little Longstone to find
you
. To retrieve the letter Lord Ridgemoor sent you for safekeeping.”

All the color leaked from her face. He could almost hear the pieces clicking together in her mind. And then all the emotion faded from her eyes, until she stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Even though he’d known it would happen, it still felt as if he’d been cut off at the knees. Without a word she slowly eased her hands from his. He wanted to snatch her hands back, to keep that connection, but he let her go. The loss made him feel as if his heart had been punctured.

“Tell me how you know about that,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

And so he told her. All of it. Of Waverly’s plot to kill Ridgemoor and frame Simon for the crime. Of Ridgemoor’s last words. Of Simon confiding in Waverly and
being granted the time to clear his name. Of renting the cottage. Repeatedly searching her home. Of her almost catching him that first time. She listened to all of it in complete silence, her gaze never moving from his, only growing bleaker until, when he finished, she simply stared at him with eyes that resembled two flat stones.