An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 3.5.2. An Edge Of Elemental Danger

There was silence. Charlotte dared another glance at the pistol that sat between them. Sounds drifted from below, the gate creaking open, a horse whickering. Then a man's voice drifted from the driveway, a hard knock at the door . . .

He'd heard it, too. His gaze shot back up to Charlotte's, openly hostile, suspicious. "Rather late for a caller, isn't it?"

She could only nod, praying for rescue. Yes, it was late, but if Strathmere had been spotted climbing into her room by an alert servant, then at any moment her uncle would come crashing through the room and she would be—

"Ruined," she thought aloud. "Oh, you stupid man. Do you realize what will happen to my name if you're found in here? Do you realize what my brothers will do to both of us? I'm supposed to be behaving myself in Chistlebury."

He grabbed his gun and slid off the bed, flinching in pain. "At the moment your reputation is the least of my concerns."

"Well, thank you so very—"

She gasped as he swayed against her, and lifted her arms automatically to steady him. The instinct came before she could suppress it. She might have done better to let him collapse. The physical contact, the shock of his hard body against hers again filled her with more confusion than she could handle. What in the name of heaven was she to do with him?

"You need a physician, Lord Strathmere."

His muscular weight unbalanced her, forcing them back back in a clumsy embrace against the bedpost. He muttered, "Considering the circumstances, I think you should call me Benedic."

"I should call you the Devil, sir."

He glanced at the door, his eyes darkening. Survival had obviously sharpened his animal instincts. "Someone is coming. Hide me."

"I will not."

The pistol pressed into the tender flesh of her shoulder. "I would not enjoy having to shoot the person unfortunate enough to interrupt our 'friendship.'"

"You couldn't," she whispered in dread.

"Believe me," he said, his eyes cold. "I could. If I am not dead in actual fact, the civilized part of me most certainly is."

She wrenched her arms away from him, her mouth as dry as dust. She could believe him. The lean, unshaven face that stared back at her bore no traces of the elegant nobleman whom she had imagined to be Sir Galahad. An edge of elemental danger had replaced the aloof sophistication that had defined Benedic Farningham, and the transformation made her wonder.

Had he known on the day they met that his life was threatened? Had she walked into more than a mud puddle on that afternoon? Remembering his rudeness, his strange remarks, it began to make sense.

Someone had made a brutal attempt to kill him. She could not blame him for seeking revenge. But not here, not using her as a vessel for his vengeance. And the worst part was that her brothers would never believe she hadn't brought this on herself.

The knock at her bedroom door ended her reverie. She did not know whether to feel relieved or frightened by the hesitant grumble of her uncle's voice. She would not wish the gentle old dear harmed for anything; she did not deem it wise to test Benedic's assertion that he could be driven to desperate acts.

"My uncle," she said in a terse undertone.

He clenched his jaw. "Get rid of him."

"How?"

"I don't care."

"Go back into the closet," she said reluctantly. "He won't come into my room."

He looked around, appraising, clearly not trusting her. "I'll be listening, and watching you."

"I'm aware of that," she bit back.

He tossed her corset onto the bed. "I'll stop at nothing to finish this."

She met his gaze, his cold determination sending a shard of ice down her back. A man with nothing to lose.

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