Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Read online

  “Rosie, are you well?”

  She blinked at him a few times and he shifted closer to her on the seat. A finger under her chin, he lifted her face to peer into her eyes. Was she well? What a question. She had never seen anything so...so exciting!

  “Rosie?” He swept a thumb across her chin. “Can you hear me? Are you harmed?”

  She blinked a few more times.

  “Rosamunde!” he barked.

  “Oh. Yes. I am fine. I think.”

  “Good.” He tilted his head and eyed her chin. “You have a little cut.” Russell untied his cravat and dabbed her chin a few times, revealing a tiny red stain. “Nothing serious though.”

  She eyed the bloodied fabric. “I have a perfectly good handkerchief, somewhere.”

  His lip tilted. “Well, I’m not about to search your person for it.”

  “No, of course not.” She remained frozen, captured by the one little finger he kept under her chin. His gaze searched hers.

  “You seem a little dazed.”

  “Well, one might be after being held up by highwaymen.” She released a long breath. “Not to mention stabbing a man.”

  His lips curved. “You did well.”

  Not as well as he did. Gosh, she wished she could fight like that. Had he learned that in the war? Or on the streets of London perhaps? Her worry about trying to find out if he knew about his brother had vanished and all she could think of was how ridiculously handsome and wonderful he seemed right now with his hair tussled, his cravat gone, and his fists dirty.

  There was something very, very wrong with her, but she suspected she had never been so attracted to a man in all her life.

  “You did well,” he repeated then dropped a swift kiss to her lips.

  She gasped at the contact, but it was gone in mere seconds and she did not seem to have the energy to draw him back into her and demand he make it a proper kiss.

  “You’ll have to get a new knife, though.”

  “My knife...?” He glanced toward her bunched skirts and she shoved them down hastily. “Oh, my knife. Well, I think I want a bigger one for next time.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “There better not be a next time.”

  He meant the highwaymen, she knew that much, but she could not help feeling he also meant the kiss. Even with how brief it had been, she wished he’d do it again. And again. And again. She sighed and unbuttoned her messy gloves to peel them off and inspect her sore palms. Trust her to turn a meeting with highwaymen into some romantic story that would never exist.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The flashing of lights behind his eyes roused Russell. He groaned inwardly and put a hand to his neck as he straightened and peered outside. Squinting at the lit lamps that moved past, he concluded they’d reached Bath. When he spied the Pump Room, he knew they had. He tilted his head this way and that to ease the ache from sleeping awkwardly in the carriage and glanced down at Rosamunde.

  He shook his head to himself. Her glasses dangled from a gloved finger and her head lolled against his shoulder. The dark confines of the carriage and dull lamplight meant he couldn’t make out her freckles but, as always, they taunted him with their presence, especially while she remained asleep. He wanted to flick a finger over her nose then kiss each freckle now that her glasses were gone.

  He plucked her spectacles from her fingers and folded them carefully then tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. Any other woman would be fretting about travelling two days on the road to Bath after such an incident but not Rosamunde.

  No, the bloody woman could only talk about where she might find a bigger knife or if she needed to practice her archery. There was no denying she was utterly mad.

  And he damn well liked it.

  He eyed the buildings as they passed, great stone monoliths that all looked the same. He’d been to Bath several times for work but never for pleasure.

  Not that this was for pleasure, he reminded himself. There was no pleasure to be had here, none at all. Aiding Rosamunde was work. After all, he was being paid handsomely to find her uncle.

  The carriage came to a halt outside of a tall townhouse on one of the finest streets. A small front garden, blooming with flowers, was fenced off from the stone pavement, but no lights shone behind any of the windows. He scowled. With the size of Rosamunde’s family, they’d expected at least a couple of her family members would be here.

  She stirred, blinked a few times, and rubbed her eyes. “Oh.” She straightened and leaned over to look by their feet. “My glasses.”

  He tugged them out of his pocket, unfolded the arms, and set them upon her nose.

  She eyed him sleepily, a little crease between her brows. “Oh.”

  He cursed silently. He could have handed them to her. That would have been the easiest thing to do, surely? But no. Of course he could not resist a chance to touch her, even if it was a mere skim of hair.

  Just like he had not been able to resist a quick kiss to her lips after their encounter with the highwaymen. It had been a minor miracle he hadn’t bundled her to him and kissed every inch of her, including the thighs where that stupid knife had been pressed. He’d received several hits to his ribs, and they ached even now but he had barely felt the blows at the time. His only concern had been Rosamunde and her safety.

  “We’re here,” she murmured, leaning around him to look at the house. She scowled. “Where is everyone?”

  “Perhaps they’re asleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  He plucked out his pocket watch and turned it toward the light of the streetlamp. “Twenty past eight.”

  She shook her head. “They wouldn’t be asleep so early. Besides, the servants would still be awake.”

  The driver opened the door and Russell climbed out then offered a hand to Rosamunde. “I’ll take a look around,” he said. “Don’t unload the luggage,” he told Mr. Wimpole. “Not yet at least.”

  “Need me to come with you?” Mr. Wimpole suggested.

  “You do not think it is dangerous, do you?” Rosamunde’s eyes widened. “Could this be to do with Uncle Albert going missing?”

  “I couldn’t say.” He gestured to Mr. Wimpole. “Stay here with Lady Rothmere.” He opened his palm. “You have a key?”

  She nodded and fished in her reticule for it. “I wish I still had my knife.”

  Russell shook his head with a sigh and headed toward the house, careful to keep to the shadows. He turned the key in the lock slowly then inched open the door, braced for an attacker. The house sounded empty and as he moved through each room, he realized there was no nefarious plot but simply that none of her family were in Bath and thus there were no servants needed. Sheets still covered the furnishings and shutters remained closed. He made sure to check each room before heading back outside.

  “It simply seems as if no one is home.”

  “Oh dear.” Rosamunde chewed on her bottom lip. “Mama had been certain at least Uncle Barnaby would be here.”

  “We could stay at one of the inns,” Russell suggested. “I was intending to find a room at the Crown and Rose. It’s a decent establishment.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It seems silly when we have a perfectly good house.” She glanced up at the building. “No, we’ll stay here,” she said firmly.

  “I can’t play no lady’s maid,” muttered Mr. Wimpole as he unloaded the luggage. “And I can’t cook.”

  “I should have brought Mrs. Lambert with me but she’s been unwell, and I thought Uncle Barnaby would have his staff with him.”

  “I don’t think you should stay here alone.” Russell followed her into the empty drawing room, watching as she lit a lamp and threw open the shutters. “It could be dangerous if it is known it is just you.”

  “I have Mr. Wimpole.”

  He glanced back to see the driver slowly unloading the luggage. “Mr. Wimpole can barely climb down from the carriage let alone protect you.”

  “I am quite capable of looking after myself
.” She pottered around and lit a few candles, warming the cool, blue toned room.

  “Even without servants?”

  “Especially without servants,” she declared. “One should be prepared for any circumstance and should be able to rely on just one’s self.”

  He could not help but let his lips curve. Of course she thought she could look after herself. God, if there was ever a demonstration of how different their worlds were, this was it. She probably couldn’t even unbutton her dress while he had survived alone since the age of five.

  Russell released a breath. “I’ll stay here with you.”

  She grinned and he could not help but wonder if he had fallen into some sort of trap.

  WELL, SHE HAD not planned things this way, but she would not complain about how they worked out. It made far more sense for Russell to stay with her. Not to mention, the idea of staying alone in the vast house did not much appeal, no matter what she said about looking after herself.

  It wasn’t a lie. She really could, she was certain of it. She’d cultivated many skills should the need ever arise.

  Once Mr. Wimpole had brought in their luggage, he tugged out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “All set, my lady, but I daren’t unpack for you. I’ve little idea how to, uh, handle a lady’s garments. Should have brought your lady’s maid with you,” he muttered.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wimpole.”

  “I’ll set up the horses in the stables and turn in shortly.”

  “Do you not wish to eat before turning in?”

  He shook his head vigorously, his eyes wide. “I cannot cook, and I certainly would not have you or Mr. Russell waiting on me, my lady.” He shook his head again. “Perish the thought.”

  She suspected it was less to do with propriety and more to do with him doubting either of their cooking skills. “But—”

  “I’ll get a pie just down the road.” He thrust a thumb. “I have a hankering for some meat and potato pie.”

  “If you are certain.”

  “Oh yes, my lady. Most certain.” Mr. Wimpole hastened out of the house and shut the door behind him.

  She stared at the door for a moment. “It seems Mr. Wimpole does not trust us to feed him,” she said to Russell as he came back downstairs, having deposited the bags in the bedrooms.

  He lifted a brow. “Should he trust us?”

  “I can cook.”

  His brow lifted higher.

  “I can,” she protested. “I have practiced many times.”

  “I doubt there’ll be much to eat here but I can put together a few things.”

  “You can cook too?”

  “Do you doubt me?”

  After what she had seen yesterday with the highwaymen she did not think she could ever doubt him. If Russell could cook as well as he could brawl, they would have no problems. “Not at all.”

  “Let’s see what we have.” He patted his stomach. “I’m famished. Or...we could always find rooms at an inn.”

  “No, we should stay here. Maybe if Uncle Albert is in town, he will come here.”

  He shrugged. “Lead the way to the kitchen.”

  They traipsed downstairs and Russell lit a few candles and the large lamp on the table in the center of the room. She peered into the cold storage and grimaced. “Not much, though it looks as though there’s some dried meat, and a few vegetables.” She drew out a limp-looking carrot.

  “Plenty of honey and jam.” He lifted a few jars from one of the cupboards.

  “We could make a cake.”

  “A cake?” he repeated.

  “Well, we have plenty of flour. That will do for dessert and we can even make some dumplings if there’s any butter.”

  “There is.” He came from behind her and pointed out the butter jar. “And we can make a stew of sorts.”

  She twisted and smiled. “See? We can have quite the acceptable meal.”

  He peered at her for a few moments and she realized how close they were. One mere step back and she would be in his arms. That was, if he put his arms around her. Which he would not. Most likely, she would bump into him and he would think she was merely being clumsy instead of romantic.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. “We had better get started.”

  Well, he could not make it anymore obvious. He did not want anything romantic from her, and she would do well to remember that.

  “Yes. Of course.” She turned away from him so he could not see her warm cheeks then gathered up all the ingredients.

  Russell set to work on the vegetable stew whilst she put together the ingredients for a jam sponge. By the time she had the cake in the oven, the stew was well under way. She inhaled deeply. “That smells divine.”

  “Being in the army taught me a thing or two about cooking with few ingredients.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “The cake smells excellent too.” His stomach grumbled. “Really excellent.”

  She leaned back against the table. “When I was young, I would sneak into the kitchens and force the kitchen maids into letting me help. I was determined I would know how to feed myself should I ever need to.”

  He smiled softly. “Why did you think you would need to?”

  “Well, I always intended to escape.”

  “Escape?”

  “I love my family dearly but growing up with them was...intense. I always wanted to run away, even if it was simply to some remote Scottish island and fend for myself.” She lifted a shoulder. “I knew I would need to be able to cook for myself.”

  “I think you would miss your family.”

  “I probably would, but that does not mean I would not mind the occasional break from them. You’ve met them, after all. I would wager you were grateful you only had to spend a mere evening with them.”

  “They were interesting.”

  She fixed him with a look. “Interesting or simply awful?”

  “No, I mean interesting. I’ve never seen a family like it. Or any family, really, but I know not all families are filled with that much love. Your aunts and uncles and cousins, they all actually want to spend time with each other. It’s quite remarkable.”

  “I suppose it is.” She shook her head to herself. She’d never thought of them as remarkable. Mostly they were just too noisy and always prying into her affairs. But seeing them through Russell’s eyes, it did make her appreciate them all the more. At least she always had someone she could turn to. Which reminded her...she really needed to find out what he knew of his lineage.

  “Russell—”

  He turned away and stirred the pot. “Looks like the stew is ready. The bowls are over there.” He nodded toward the dresser.

  Rosamunde opened her mouth then closed it. It seemed their conversation was at an end. What a pity, especially when she was on the verge of finding out more about him.

  And, boy, did she want to know more.

  Still, they had time. If Uncle Albert was not here, they would have to do some searching, and she almost hoped he would not be easy to find, just so she could spend more time with Russell.

  “Sorry, Uncle Albert,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “I was just saying it smells delicious,” she said with a smile as she handed him a bowl.

  Their fingers brushed and a rush of sensation ran up her arm. She exhaled slowly. Keeping her head about this man was going to be more difficult than ever but she could not bring herself to wish it to end.

  Chapter Twenty

  “So I thought that we could—”

  Russell whirled around at the sound of Rosamunde’s voice. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. He muttered a quick curse, tightening the towel around his hips. Her gaze raked over him.

  “I, um...” Her cheeks grew rosy, but she didn’t move.

  “Rosamunde,” he said, the word a growl of warning. She needed to leave. Now. Before he made them both extremely uncomfortable.

  Because, hell, she was too pretty this morning. The
morning rays slipping in through the gap in the curtains warmed her skin and she wore a slightly crinkled gown of rich purple. The high bodice emphasized her curves.

  Hell, who was he kidding? It wasn’t just how she looked this morning that he found so appealing. Last night, the whole cooking debacle, sharing stew and cake with her...it had tweaked something inside him. Maybe even softened him. She was still as beautiful and as tempting as ever but he felt weaker, like she’d punched a hole in his bruised ribs and was working her way inside.

  “I did not realize you were hurt,” she whispered, her gaze lingered on the bruises on his torso.

  He shrugged and swept a hand through his damp hair. “It’s not painful,” he lied.

  His ribs throbbed and had kept him awake but it was nothing compared to the agonizing ache of need she caused inside him.

  She unfroze and closed the distance between them. He gritted his teeth, wishing like hell he could bark at her, tell her to scram, but somehow, the woman held a power over him that he couldn’t deny. He even let her put her finger to his ribs to inspect the bruises.

  He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

  “Forgive me, does that hurt?” Her gaze met his, wide and wary, but too beautiful.

  Yes, it hurt. All over. Wanting her hurt him in so many ways. Physically and mentally too. He couldn’t want her, shouldn’t want her. He had nothing to offer. She didn’t need his money and if he was honest, she barely needed his help. The bruises weren’t just outside but inside too. He had no idea how to be a person to rely on and even less idea how to give someone like Rosamunde everything she needed. She came from this loud, boisterous, loving family, and he simply couldn’t match that.

  “It’s fine,” he said tightly.

  She gave him a little prod in the side, and he gave a little groan. “Your ribs could be broken,” she gasped.

  “They’re not broken.”

  “Let me just check.”

  He tried to twist away to grab his shirt and put an end to this, but she moved around him, blocking his path.

  “I just want to check the other side,” she said, matter-of-factly.