Adele Ashworth (26 page)

“No, we’ll leave tomorrow.”

That stumped her. “Why?”

He took note of the defiance in her stance, the subtle swell of her breasts and hips. She would give him all in Paris, but he wasn’t ready to let go of the innocence so quickly, of their time alone in their intimate bungalow on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

“Because I am still in charge, Natalie, regardless of the power you have over me. Remember that.”

She glared at him, a firm rebuttal on the tip of her tongue. He disregarded that entirely, turning away from her at last and striding once again to the table where their lunch, probably now cold, awaited them. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Fuming, and without another word, she gracefully walked to his side and sat again.

Chapter 12

N
atalie ran her brush through her hair one final time, placed it on the dressing table, and stood. She pulled her robe tightly around her, clasping it at the neck with her fingers, at last turning toward the bed.

Jonathan already lay under the coverlet, facedown, head buried in his pillow, arms beneath it, probably asleep, which was the way she liked it when she finally rested her body beside him. The room was dark save for a small lamp next to the bed and a strong full moon reflecting off the distant water to shine through the windows.

They’d spent their last day in Marseilles together, relaxing on the shore, talking of trivial things as well as some of Jonathan’s Black Knight escapades about which she’d always been especially curious. She had laughed with him over several of his stories, enjoyed his company with a growing respect and admiration for his various accomplishments, many of them incredible to her, and now she was thoroughly glad they hadn’t run off to Paris immediately. Aside from her initial anger when she’d confronted him about his identity, the moment when deception and secrets had given way to openness between them, the day had been, well . . . perfect.

Natalie walked to the edge of the bed, removed her robe, which she placed across the foot of it, dimmed the lamp, and crawled in between the sheets. There was hardly enough room for both of them, and each night it took every effort on her part not to touch him somewhere. Usually, though, she woke up at some point to discover her feet against his legs or her arm against his bare chest, but thankfully he didn’t seen to notice this, or care, anyway. He wore no sleeping attire beyond a pair of old trousers, which she considered odd, but that was really none of her business. She, of course, was always decently covered.

Jonathan stirred and turned on his side, facing her. She lay flat on her back, arms folded neatly across her stomach, knowing intuitively he wasn’t sleeping after all but looking at her in the moonlight.

“What do you do with your dog?” she whispered, staring at the blackened ceiling.

“What?” he replied in a gruff, low voice.

“Your dog,” she repeated. “When you go on your little Black Knight journeys, what do you do with him?”

He inhaled deeply and readjusted his body to lie more comfortably. “If I’m only leaving the city for a few days, my housekeeper and butler look after him. If I actually go abroad, as on this trip, my housekeeper and butler are dismissed with pay, and I leave my dog with my brother at his estate near Bournemouth.”

She turned her head to look at what she could see of his face. “You take your dog all the way to the coast?”

He smiled faintly in the shadows. “Every time.” Sheepishly, he added, “I love my dog.”

That made her smile, which she was sure he could see as moonglow cast a strong light on her features. “Why do you call him Thorn?”

“He’s a thorn in my side.”

“But yet you love him enough to take him nearly a hundred miles away from home, when you already have household employees who can feed and walk him?”

“It isn’t the same,” he returned quietly. “Vivian and Simon love him, too; their son loves to play with him. It also gives me a chance to visit them.”

She paused for a moment, then her voice became serious as realization washed over her. “Vivian and Simon know who you are.”

It was a statement made in sudden awareness, and he actually laughed a little, softly. “Of course they do. I like my brother to know where I am and what I’m doing. I trust him and his wife. They’re the only people aside from those I work for—and now you—who know about me, though. And they’d never tell anyone.”

That made her absolutely furious. Vivian was the one to suggest she talk to Jonathan in the first place, the one who confided in her that Jonathan knew the Black Knight. Vivian also knew of Natalie’s infatuations with both the myth and the man, and had still sent her on a wild adventure of uncertainty, with full understanding of what embarrassment it could eventually cause.

Her lips thinned as she turned her eyes once more to the darkened ceiling. “I’ll kill her for lying to me and sending me to you like this.”

Jonathan sighed. “I think she knew what she was doing.”

His whispered words were meant to soothe, but instead Natalie’s mind succumbed to the most devastating notion of all. Voice flowing with hesitancy, she murmured, “Did Vivian tell you about me?”

He was quiet for a moment, a moment so long, in fact, that she finally turned to him again. He watched her pensively, but even that was more perceived than obvious, as the expression on his face, only a foot away from hers, was no more than dimly noticeable.

Finally he sat up a little, resting his elbow on his pillow, his chin and cheek in his right palm, his left hand flat on the sheet next to her shoulder.

“I’ve inquired about you once or twice during the last few years, Natalie. That’s how I knew who was courting you from time to time.” He started to rub the sheet with his fingertips. “But Vivian didn’t really tell me much about you, and no, before you ask, I didn’t know she’d be sending you to me.”

His acknowledgment made her grin in more than mild relief and with a certain satisfaction to learn he’d actually asked about her.

“Then I’ll still consider her my friend,” she said somewhat deviously. For clarification, she added, “And nobody courted me, either. I’ve never been the least interested in any of the stuffy gentlemen acquaintances to walk into my parlor.”

“Except me,” he countered in a deep voice.

“You’ve never walked into my parlor,” she innocently reminded him.

He knew she was sidestepping the issue and he smiled again. “No, and I think it would also be accurate to say I’m more than an acquaintance.”

“We are certainly nothing more than acquaintances, Jonathan,” she corrected, gazing back to the ceiling.

He leaned so close to her she thought for a second he might actually kiss her temple. With lips nearly skimming her ear, he whispered, “Acquaintances of opposite sexes never sleep together, Natalie.”

The warmth of his face touched hers; she could smell the lingering traces of soap on his skin, and as much as she trusted him to be a gentleman, nervousness crept in of its own accord. “But this is all by chance—a business arrangement, if it must be named something.”

“I wouldn’t call it chance or business,” he replied. “I would call this fate.”

He let the statement linger in the quiet night air. And finally, when she knew he would add nothing more until she did—or looked at him again—she tilted her head fractionally, just enough to gaze into eyes too hidden in darkness to read.

Bravely she contended, “This has nothing to do with fate. I’m here of necessity. I’ve never been remotely interested in you except for your skills as a thief. Attractiveness aside, you’ve not one husbandly trait in your body.”

“Many women would think otherwise,” he stressed with mock formality.

“Precisely my point, dear Jonathan.”

That amused him again. She could feel it more than see it, although he didn’t argue. He watched her, his face inches from hers, his fingers grazing her upper arm through light cotton as they moved back and forth along the sheet.

“Yet you wanted to marry a thief,” he persisted softly. “Certainly you expected to find nothing domestic about him. Or was that whole notion just a made-up story for my benefit?”

He’d let the words sort of . . . spill out of his mouth, and yet she knew by their serious intonation that he was really asking. She couldn’t talk about that, however, or disclose just how deeply her dreams had run.

“You’re right,” she admitted sweetly. “I lied.”

He waited a moment, then grasped her arm with his hand and squeezed it gently. “And you’re horrible at it.”

Her pulse began to race from both the close contact and the implication of his words. He knew she was lying now, that her original intentions were exactly as she’d confessed. But alas, he played the gentleman by not dwelling on her embarrassment, although from instinct, and perhaps because she was growing to know him so well, she realized just how much he wanted her to admit and explain her innermost feelings.

And yet she couldn’t. Twice in her life now she’d been humiliated by her candid disclosures to Jonathan Drake, and that was enough. Things were too intimate between them as it was, lying next to him in bed, feeling his warmth, smelling the salty, sea air mixed with the alluring masculine scent of him. Quietly she changed the subject.

“You were the one to donate hundreds to Lady Julia Beverly’s home for unfortunate girls, weren’t you, Jonathan?”

She could sense his surprise at the turn in conversation, and perhaps even his dismay that she no longer wanted to talk about them. For seconds he said nothing, just continued to stare at her in the moonlight, caressing her arm without apparent thought. But this was something she was aching to know; it was one of London’s greatest mysteries, and at the time of its occurrence had created scrumptious gossip around the city. Most were certain the act had been instigated by the Black Knight, but it was one of those incidents that hadn’t led to him directly.

Finally he breathed deeply and nodded in acknowledgment. “About two years ago,” he started thoughtfully, “I was asked to look into the theft of an antique diamond-studded pocket watch, reported missing by Sir Charles Kendall. Sir Charles had said it was stolen at his club during a high-stakes card game between several members of the gentry. I became involved because the watch’s description matched that of one stolen nine years earlier from a Mr. Herold Larken-James, a barrister and collector of fine antiquities, who died in a fire before his watch could be found and returned to him.

“The job took me weeks, actually, one of the longest I’ve ever done, because I had to risk entering the home of every man who had attended that card game. But my search eventually proved fruitful when I located the watch in the wardrobe drawer of Walter Pembroke, a retired navy admiral, who had swiped it himself during the game, where everyone was betting heavily and drinking too much to notice. In the end it turned out indeed to be the watch of Mr. Larken-James, as his initials were carved very delicately on the inside, and because he was dead with no family to whom I could return the watch, I decided to give it to a better cause. Technically, at that time, since it wasn’t rightfully anyone else’s, it belonged to me.”

Intrigued, intimacies forgotten, Natalie turned on her side, facing him fully, which forced him to let go of her arm. She rested her elbow on the pillow exactly as he did, cheek in palm, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Perhaps Sir Charles bought it from the person who stole it from Mr. Larken-James, and he felt he owned it legitimately?”

He shook his head faintly, his mouth turning down in a slight frown. “I’d wondered that myself at the time, then came to learn Sir Charles had sought the barrister’s services, in the man’s office, roughly two weeks before the watch was reported missing. It was later stolen from his office on a day when Sir Charles had conveniently held an appointment; this was documented. Mr. Larken-James didn’t suspect him of course, but I’ve learned over time that class has no bearing when it comes to the negative tendencies of human nature.”

She thought about that for a moment, fascinated. “So why did you choose Lady Julia’s cause?”

Without hesitation, he replied, “Because Sir Charles, a not very decent character, had a nasty habit of getting his servant girls in that particular unfortunate condition from time to time, then dismissing them without reference to live, essentially, on the street. I found it fitting that he should help support others who had perhaps fallen into disgrace in a like manner, so I sent the watch to Lady Julia suggesting she discreetly sell it if funds were needed for her home. A month after she did so, I sent another anonymous letter to Sir Charles informing him in detail of what exactly had become of his watch.”

Natalie felt dazzled, touched by the excitement. “Who paid you, then? Certainly not your benefactors. They’d have no reason.”

He lifted his left shoulder minutely. “I wasn’t paid for that job.”

She blinked. “You risked exposure and possible arrest for nothing?”

He leaned toward her to murmur, “Once in a while, Natalie, I do my work simply because it feels good.”

It had been an act of kindness, of unselfish service to those less fortunate, she realized, not a deception about which to boast as when he’d stolen the emeralds, and she couldn’t help but smile into his eyes.

“How noble you are, Jonathan,” she teased.

“I can be on occasion.”

“You could have at least taken credit for it,” she added softly.

Very gently, he admitted, “I had nothing to prove to anyone.”

She gazed at his face only inches away, feeling warmth and contentment encircling them, the serene sense of friendship between them. She longed to reach up and brush the hair off his forehead with her fingers, to touch the stubble on his jaw, the curls on his bare chest. It took all that was in her to hold back. Quite suddenly, lying there so close to him physically, connecting with him confidentially, it occurred to her that she’d not asked him the most personal question of all.

“Why do you do this, Jonathan? What made you decide to become a thief, to invent such an incredible . . . personality of deception?”