Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Page 7

  She pressed the ugly thing to her side. “Goodness, no. We might need it.”

  Why they should need a bag that looked like it had been made of a faded rug that had been trampled on by many, many muddy boots, he did not know, but he wasn’t going to argue. Not today. In fact, if he could avoid all conversation with her, it might be better. Hell, if he could manage not to look at her, that would be perfect too. Then he might have a chance of feeling absolutely nothing with regards to her.

  How nice that would be. To go back to moving through life with zero feelings toward a woman.

  Well, not just any woman. A crazed, freckled, curvaceous, beautiful woman who kept prodding at some soft spot he didn’t know he possessed and made him want to do things he’d never been interested in before.

  Like...converse, for God’s sake.

  He shuddered as they made their way around the side of her Uncle’s townhouse. The few lovers he’d been with previously had known little about him and he learned zilch about them. That was the way he liked it.

  Christ. He shook his head. She wasn’t his lover. Wasn’t ever going to be either. Entanglements were not for him. He did not desire one and he knew full well he’d be awful at one, especially with someone like Rosamunde who deserved a hell of a lot better.

  “He certainly has not been home in a while,” Rosamunde murmured, looking back at Russell. She kicked a large dandelion. “Look, he would never let his garden get like this.”

  “He has a gardener to attend to it, surely?”

  She shook her head and went onto tiptoes to peer through the slightly cloudy-looking window at the side of the house. “He only keeps a butler and a cook. Uncle Albert always said there was nothing like dirt under one’s fingers to make one feel human.”

  He was inclined to disagree. He’d spent far too many a day filthy, sitting on the streets. Whilst his busy schedule and inability to remain in one place for long meant he was often unshaved and his hair tended to grow a little long, he was always, always clean. He hated going without a wash.

  “The butler and the cook, where are they?”

  “They’re at my Aunt Petunia’s. They split their time with the households when Uncle Albert isn’t here. Which is often.”

  “We should probably speak with them if this leads nowhere.”

  She nodded. “I had thought of that, but Aunt Petunia is my biggest skeptic.”

  “Skeptic?”

  “She thinks I should have remarried as soon as I was out of mourning and that I am too busy dreaming of something different and am entirely impractical.” She wrinkled her nose. “Aunt Petunia never did like me much.”

  “Well, I can go alone,” he offered. This Aunt Petunia could not accuse him of being impractical, that was for certain. He didn’t think anyone had ever accused him of being anything but a realist and if anything he was often accused of being far too cynical.

  “I would not wish to inflict Aunt Petunia on you.”

  “If it saves you from having to face her, I don’t mind.” He shrugged. “I’ve faced far worse than a sour-faced aunt in my lifetime.”

  “That is very gallant of you.” She gave a light laugh. “And Aunt Petunia is exceedingly sour-faced and known to scare many a man.”

  He hadn’t been trying to be gallant. Mostly, it would be good if he could keep Rosamunde away for a little while, give him some breathing space. Even now, as they skulked around the outside of the house to the rear door, she felt too close. He smelled her vanilla fragrance and his gaze kept straying to her rear as he recalled how soft and delicious she had felt.

  He closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and forced his attention on the door. A simple, boring, dull door. Black with a gold knocker. Nothing exciting here. A few scratches as though a cat or dog had been trying to get in. Dull indeed. Nothing that could make him think of Rosamunde.

  And her rear.

  Curses, he was doing it again.

  He tried the doorknob. “Locked. Do you have a key?”

  “One moment.” She opened the bag and delved deep, her whole arm vanishing into the unsightly fabric. He saw her hand move around inside and something jangled until she produced a small, jagged metal thing. “Here it is.”

  He peered at it. “A lockpick?”

  She nodded and motioned for him to move aside. “I’ve been looking forward to using this.”

  He blinked as she kneeled and pushed the pick into the lock. Her lips pursed in concentration as she moved it swiftly in an up and down motion.

  “Rosamunde, perhaps I should—”

  The door clicked and swung open. “Ah ha.” She rose, a wide grin on her face, and shoved the pick back into the bag.

  He shook his head and followed her in. “When the devil did you learn to lockpick?”

  “Oh goodness, a while ago now. It seemed a handy sort of skill, but this is the first chance I’ve had to use it.”

  He shook his head again and followed her into the drawing room. The house certainly looked as though it had been occupied by an eccentric old bachelor. A brandy glass sat empty by a worn armchair, a brown stain in the bottom of the glass indicating it had been a while since it had held any liquor. Most of the furnishings were unmatched and tired. He swept his finger through the fine film of dust on the nearest bookcase.

  “It’s certainly been a while since he had been home.”

  Rosamunde nodded. “Everything looks normal. No signs of a fight.”

  Russell picked up an empty wine bottle, discarded in front of a row of books. “French,” he murmured. “Hard to come by this stuff after the war.”

  “Yes, it’s his favorite.”

  “I tried it in France. Didn’t do much for me but you could get a pretty penny for it if you found some.”

  “You fought?”

  He nodded.

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  He stiffened and peered closer at the titles on the bookshelf, too aware of her gaze upon him.

  OH DEAR. PERHAPS she shouldn’t have asked. She had a few male cousins and an uncle who had fought and told tales of the grim nature of battle. Maybe Russell went through some traumatic ordeal.

  “Forgive me for intruding.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. War is war. Violent, messy, and confusing.”

  She nodded. “I can imagine.”

  “I hope you never have to,” he said, his mouth pulled into a grim line.

  “Why did you leave the army?”

  Russell fixed her with a look. She understood it easily enough. It was one she saw often when she asked too many questions. Be quiet, Rosie. Cease your queries, Rosie. That’s quite enough of that, Rosie. Why her noisy family ever expected her to behave any differently, she did not know. After all, they were hardly the timid sort.

  “Perhaps I should see if he has packed some clothes. Then we shall know if he went voluntarily.”

  His lips quirked. “Most people do not really get kidnapped you know, Rosamunde.”

  “If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone,” she replied with a grin before leading the way upstairs.

  The winding stairs creaked underfoot, and the second floor sloped slightly, making one want to hug the wall. She moved past the guest bedrooms to the master one and twisted the doorknob then pushed.

  It refused to move. She frowned. “Must be locked.”

  Russell stepped in front of her and tried the door himself. “No lock, though, and if there’s a bolt on the inside, he’d have been forced to leave by the window or something.”

  Though her uncle prided himself on being the adventurous sort, she could not imagine him climbing from the window. He suffered aches in his joints these days and had grown a little portly with age. “I do not believe he would do such a thing.”

  He gave the door handle an experimental wiggle then pressed the door with a shoulder. “It’s stuck fast. I can get in, but I might break the door.”

  She debated it for a brief moment. Would Uncle Albe
rt mind coming home to a broken door? “Do it.” If anyone would understand, it would be him, especially if he really was in trouble as she feared.

  Hand to the doorknob, Russell backed up a little then shoved hard with his shoulder. The door splintered, a sharp crack ricocheting through the silent house. He put a finger to the broken door frame and a bit of metal hanging from it. “A bolt.”

  Maybe Uncle Albert really had left through the window. She inched open the door and narrowed her gaze into the gloomy room. The curtains were drawn, and the window remained shut.

  “Uncle Albert?” she called softly into the darkness, even though she saw no sign of human occupation.

  She stepped forward. At least she would have done. Russell thrust an arm out, latching it around her waist. “Wait!”

  He hauled her back and she was faintly aware of a metal clanking sound as her hands landed on his chest. His heart beat hard against her palm and she peered up at him, eyes wide. “What...” she managed to mutter on a breath.

  He held her for a moment, completely wrapped in his arms. One latched around her waist, the other banded about her shoulders. Even if she wanted to put some distance between them, she could not. Rosamunde let her gaze linger briefly on his stubbled chin whilst drawing in the scent of soap and a little woodsmoke. She realized now she knew so little about this man. She could talk of the scars on his face or how his body felt against hers. She could now even say how he tasted.

  How he kissed.

  And good Lord, the man could kiss.

  But she could say little else of him. She did not know where he resided, if he did anything other than kidnapping women for a living or if he had any friends. All she could say of him was that his body felt utterly perfect against hers and that she had not been able to cease thinking of their kiss.

  Who could blame her, really? It was the sort of kiss that one imagined since girlhood. The sort of kiss that made her tremble with the mere thought of it. The sort one told all of one’s friends about and they all gasped and sighed.

  Of course, she hadn’t told anyone of it. They would imagine she was having an affair and if she let herself, she might imagine it too, and that would be foolish indeed. She doubted a man like Russell spent much time dwelling on kisses and how they made his toes curl. Goodness, she doubted his toes had ever curled from a kiss, not even hers.

  She had tried to be light about it after she threw herself at him and that was how she needed to remain. They kissed because she needed to hide, nothing more.

  He peered down at her, his eyes unreadable. She glanced at his mouth and recalled how warm it had been against hers. He smirked slightly, as though she were amusing him, then eased his grip. Were it not for the wall behind her, she might have fallen over entirely. She pressed both hands to the fabric wall covering and tried her best to surreptitiously suck in a deep breath. She glanced up at Russell through her lashes and felt her insides twist.

  “Must you look at me that way?” she snapped.

  He frowned. “What way?”

  “I’m not certain. It is a puzzling way and it makes me feel, well, puzzled.”

  His lips tilted. “I shall try my best, my lady.”

  She glowered at him. “Don’t mock me.”

  “Never,” he vowed, his eyes growing dark once more.

  “You are doing it again.”

  He straightened slightly and gestured into the darkened bedroom. “You nearly lost a foot.”

  She looked to where he pointed and gasped. A rusty metal trap sat in front of the door, its jagged teeth pulled tightly together. “Goodness.” She had almost forgotten he must have grabbed her for a reason and hadn’t simply been overcome with the need to kiss her again.

  If only he had kissed her.

  She shook her head and peered through the doorway to the bedroom, careful to keep her person on the other side. “Uncle Albert had no enemies, but he did like to think of himself as rather intriguing.” She gestured to the trap. “This doesn’t surprise me especially but maybe there is some clue as to why he might leave it set up.”

  He put an arm in front of her before she could step over the threshold. “Let me take a look,” he ordered. “Wouldn’t do for you to lose a foot, especially not after I managed to return you unharmed from a damned kidnapping.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Only just unharmed,” Rosamunde pointed out before Russell could step into the room.

  He glanced at the animal trap. One second more of inaction and he’d have been holding her down while someone sawed off her mangled leg. His gut roiled. Foolish. Stupid. He should have been paying better attention and thinking less about kissing her or dragging her down onto the bed and burying himself in the scent and feel of her.

  Of course, she was referring to the fact she’d hit her head when jumping from the carriage.

  He twisted to view her. “Why did you jump from the carriage? You could have been killed.”

  She lifted her chin. “Better than being taken alive by a kidnapper.”

  “Was it really?”

  “I had little idea you were not really a kidnapper, did I?”

  “Were you not scared?”

  “Naturally. But I was less scared of jumping than being taken captive by you.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You can be quite intimidating, Russell. Especially when masked.”

  He gave a begrudging smile. The woman was mad, there was no escaping it. She’d knocked herself senseless leaping from a moving vehicle and still couldn’t bring herself to regret it. He’d never met a woman like her.

  “You know, you never did seem that contrite.”

  He blinked. “For what?”

  “For kidnapping me, of course.”

  He scowled and thought back. He remembered touching her. A lot. Recalled the feel of her body beneath his, the softness of her thighs. The determination in her gaze, the courage in her struggles. He couldn’t, however, recall giving her anything other than a brisk apology.

  “I guess I am deeply, deeply sorry then.”

  She shook her head with a grin. “You were not made for groveling, Russell.”

  “I’ve never groveled a moment in my life.”

  “I do not doubt that.”

  “Still, I suppose you helping me is almost apology enough.”

  “You are paying me,” he reminded her.

  “That must mean you still owe me, then.”

  He groaned inwardly. Russell didn’t want to owe the woman a thing. He’d never had a debt in his life and the last thing he needed was a reason to remain wrapped up in Rosamunde’s odd life. He’d already experienced too much of it for his liking. If he wasn’t careful, he’d begin to like it and then where would that leave him? Hankering for something that would never be? He shook his head to himself. The sooner he found the uncle, the better. Then he could go back to his nomadic, kidnapping ways.

  He stepped cautiously into the room and peered around. A faint cloud of dust danced in the slit of light sneaking through the curtains. He glanced up, half expecting some medieval torture instrument to swing down from the ceiling or for flaming arrows to shoot from the sides of the room, but no other traps revealed themselves when he stepped farther in. He gestured for Rosamunde to follow him.

  “Just be careful,” he urged.

  She nudged the trap aside with a foot. “Uncle Albert has many prized possessions, but I cannot fathom what needed protecting in his bedroom.”

  Russell pressed the door shut and fingered the broken door bolt. “It doesn’t even look like this was affixed properly. It might have slipped in accidentally.”

  “I do not think the trap was accidentally left there, though.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  She moved about the room, running a finger around the edge of a painting, skimming the mantelpiece with a hand, eyeing the corner of each room.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “At the viscount’s house, he had several hidden doors.”
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  “I doubt a house of this size has one, surely?”

  She shrugged. “Some smaller houses had priest holes.” He tensed at the sound of a click. She gave a smug smile and eased open a panel in the wall, barely big enough for a boy to fit in. “See?” Her head vanished into the hole. “I cannot believe my uncle never showed me this.” Her voice echoed. “It’s a little dark.”

  He shoved open the curtains. “Better?”

  “Better.” She withdrew her head. “I can fit in. Just give me a little lift.”

  “You don’t need to go in.”

  “Well, you can hardly fit in, can you?” She gestured with a thumb toward the hole. “And I thought I saw something.”

  He blew out a breath. “Fine.”

  She pressed her head back through the small opening and Russell took hold of her legs, her rear nestled on his shoulder while he maneuvered her in. He fixed his gaze upon the poorly painted scenery to the right of him, scowling at the ugly green splotches that were meant to look like trees, while he did his best to ignore the feel of her arse so damned close to his face. She made little sounds of effort as she wriggled her way in, and he closed his eyes.

  Bad idea.

  He snapped his eyes open. Behind his closed lids, it was too easy to imagine those sounds were meant for him. Too easy to picture hauling her over his shoulder, laying her on the bed and lifting those skirts so he could see that arse in its full glory. He’d taste her too. Spread her wide and...

  “Oh.”

  Her legs flew from his grasp suddenly and she toppled into the hole. He shoved his head into the gap to find her sprawled at the bottom of a hole several feet deep. She twisted and managed to rise to standing.

  “Are you well?”

  She nodded and pressed her glasses up her nose. “Just a little mussed.”

  “Mussed,” he repeated, absently. He rather liked mussed. It made his fingers itch to muss her farther. He shook himself. “What’s in there?”

  She bent and picked up a stash of letters. “Just these and a few bottles and trinkets.” She picked up a bottle. “More French wine.”

  “Take the papers. We’ll look at them properly shortly.”

  She folded them and stuffed them into her bodice then held up her hands for him to grab. He eyed where the papers had vanished and swallowed.