E
m was waiting for him in the common room when he returned half an hour later, Joshua and Henry at his heels.
He didn’t need to ask if she’d located the twins; her anxious expression said it all.
One glance at his face, at Joshua’s and Henry’s, told her they hadn’t sighted the girls, either. Hands clasped too tightly before her, she met his eyes. “Where can they be?”
He hesitated, then asked, “Have you tried—” Systematically he ran through all the possible places, all the potential attractions for a pair of girls as adventurous as the twins within easy reach. He knew from experience that being together, having each other for support, they would go further than a single child would.
John Ostler came in, reporting that he’d found no signs of the pair at the places he’d gone to check.
Between them, they’d searched the inn and its immediate surrounds.
Jonas looked down at Em, then asked because it had to be asked, “This isn’t usual for them, is it? Just up and disappearing like this?”
Her expression openly worried, she shook her head. “Normally they only wander when left to their own devices. If they’re supposed to be somewhere to do something at a certain time and know someone will be waiting, they usually arrive, although they might be late. This isn’t just late.”
“No. It isn’t.” This felt serious.
Pale, Issy came to stand beside Em. “They’ve been so good lately—as if they’ve finally accepted that they do need to learn the things I’ve been teaching them. They haven’t even tried to talk their way out of lessons—not for weeks.”
Joshua stepped forward and took Issy’s hand, nodded to Em. “Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”
Looking into Em’s eyes, Jonas didn’t bother stating the obvious. “Wherever they are, they can’t be far—it’s been less than three hours since they were here.”
Lifting his head, he scanned the customers in the common room, both in the tap and on the ladies’ side. A good number of villagers had gathered to partake of the inn’s afternoon tea. Naturally everyone was listening avidly to the unfolding drama. In a voice that carried clearly throughout the room, he announced, “We need to organize a search.”
E
veryone volunteered, even Miss Sweet and Miss Hellebore, who had come in to sample Hilda’s currant scones.
Em was touched. While Jonas conferred with the men and those women more able to hike about the countryside, assigning different areas to each, she sent Issy to fetch paper and pen, and organized for Miss Sweet and Miss Hellebore to take everyone’s name and the area they would search before the searchers left the inn. “If people report in after they’ve searched, then we’ll at least know where the girls aren’t.”
Jonas left with John Ostler and Dodswell, Lucifer’s groom, to beat through the wood behind the inn. “We’ll go as far as the river. If we see any sign they’ve gone that way, or crossed it, I’ll send Dodswell back to let you know while John and I keep after them.”
Em nodded, pressed his hand, and let him go. She hoped—prayed—that finding her half sisters would simply be a matter of looking in the right place.
Joshua, with Hadley, would search the church, as well as the crypt and bell tower. “The crypt and tower are locked, but the key’s in the vestry, hanging on a nail for all to see, and I wouldn’t put it past them to have noticed.” He grimaced. “Both the crypt and the tower have very steep steps. It’s possible they’ve panicked and got stuck.”
Em was about to assure him that was unlikely—the twins delighted in climbing trees and wriggling through small spaces—but before the words left her lips, another thought occurred. She looked at Issy—and saw the same apprehension in her eyes.
If one of the twins had had an accident—fallen and broken her leg, for instance—the other wouldn’t leave to go for help. They’d stay together and wait to be rescued.
“Wherever they are, they can’t be far.” She repeated Jonas’s words for her own benefit as well as Issy’s.
Her sister drew breath, then nodded. “Henry and I will call at the cottages along the lane. Even if they’re not there, someone might have seen them.”
Em waved them toward Miss Sweet and Miss Hellebore, then looked around. Other than the two old ladies, only she and Edgar, behind the bar, and Hilda and her girls preparing dinner in the kichen remained. Everyone else was out searching.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she went to the bar. “For anyone who’s been out searching, their next drink is on my account.”
Edgar leaned across and patted her hand. “Don’t you worry, miss. They’ll find those two angels safe and sound, and have them back in no time.”
She tried to smile.
She waited, but although the searchers returned in good time, none brought any angels with them. On her orders Edgar opened the tap early, serving frothing ale to the thirsty crew.
Gradually fewer and fewer searchers remained out and looking. Miss Sweet and Miss Hellebore looked increasingly concerned as the list of areas in which the twins weren’t grew. When Jonas, John Ostler, and Dodswell, the last of the searchers, walked back into the inn—and Jonas looked at Em and shook his head—a hum of concern rose from the assembled throng.
Em felt the blood drain from her head. She swayed back against the counter.
Jonas closed the last yards, grasped her arm. Looked into her eyes—steadied her with his touch, his attention, his simple presence. “I’m going to send to Axminster for the constable.”
Em tried to take it in, managed a nod. If he thought that was necessary—
A stir around the door drew her attention. The crowd parted; Harold swaggered in.
He was smiling, nodding genially as he passed those he recognized. Puzzled by his jovial attitude, as he headed for her, everyone in the room muted their discussions and watched. Listened.
She was equally taken aback. Surely Harold couldn’t have missed hearing the news? People had come in from the outlying farms because they’d heard and wanted to be there, ready to witness or help.
Harold wouldn’t be there to help, but why was he smiling?
Fighting to keep a frown from her face, she waited as he approached down the center of the room. Jonas turned back from the men he’d been consulting over driving to Axminster; he remained by her side, facing Harold.
In the periphery of her vision, Em saw Issy, with Joshua beside her, at the front of the now subtly encircling crowd.
Coming to a halt before her, Harold beamed down at her with undisguised smugness, a gloating pleasure. “Well, miss—are you ready to see sense and pack your bags, heh?”
Em felt ice slide through her veins. Spine stiff, she locked her eyes on her uncle’s puffy orbs. “Uncle Harold.” Her voice—its awful, restrained tone—made him blink. She drew in a huge breath, tightly asked, “Have you seen the twins?”
He opened his eyes wide. “Well, of course I have. That’s what I’m here to tell you, ain’t it?”
Relief flooded her. “Oh, thank God.”
“Aye—so I think.” He fixed her with a stern eye. “I’ve packed them into a carriage and sent them off to Runcorn—where they, and you, and that sister and brother of yours, belong. So if the three of you”—he glanced at Issy and Henry—“will just pack your bags, we can be off.”
A stunned silence ensued. The entire population of the common room stared, unable to take it in.
Em felt a surge of pure fury rise through her; hauling in a breath, she grabbed hold of it, hung on. She couldn’t afford to lose it—loose it—not until she had the twins back. “Just so that we’re clear, Uncle Harold.”
He’d noticed the silence and was glancing around, more curious than alarmed, so insensitive he didn’t detect the rising tide of animosity directed his way. He brought his gaze back to her.
She caught his eye. “You found the twins, lured them away, and took them where?”
He snorted. “Musbury. Silly twits wanted to learn to drive a curricle, so I offered to teach them to drive my gig. Drove them to Musbury where I had a coach waiting, popped them into it with some female I hired, and dispatched them with a coachman and groom to Runcorn.”
“And they went willingly?” She couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, there was plenty of wailing and carrying on, of course—you know what girls are.” Harold waved dismissively. “Tied them up with scarves, shut the door on them, and told the coachman to drive off quick.” He clapped his large pudgy hands together, rubbed them in gloating expectation. “Well, then. Are you ready to follow, heh?”
Jonas turned to Em. “They can’t have got far. I’ll drive after the carriage and fetch them back.”
He had to do something—something that got him out of the common room before his raging temper snapped its leash, and he dealt with her uncle as he deserved.
He squeezed Em’s arm in comfort and support. Releasing her, he looked at Potheridge with open contempt, then walked past him and strode for the door.
“I’ll come, too.”
It was Filing who’d spoken; Jonas heard the same suppressed fury he felt in his friend’s voice. Glancing back, he saw Joshua cast a condemnatory look at Potheridge, then step past him.
Potheridge turned, his expression apoplexically affronted. “Here, now! None of your business what I do with my nieces.”
As Joshua halted beside Jonas and, fists clenched, turned back to look at Potheridge, Jonas leveled a disgusted look at the older man. “On the contrary. As I understand it, the twins are not your nieces. You are not their guardian—you have no right to do anything with them at all. And I believe you’ll discover kidnapping is still a crime.”
“Kidnapping!” Potheridge goggled. “Nonsense!” He finally glanced around, finally seemed to realize that no one present was on his side. He puffed out his chest. “Well, upon my word! This is a nice thing. All I want—”
“What you want,” Jonas cut in, “is neither here nor there. It’s what those girls want, and what Em as their guardian wants, that’s important.” He looked at Em, nodded. “We’re off. Don’t worry—we’ll get them back.”
His gaze returned to her uncle; he couldn’t stop his lip from curling. “If you weren’t old enough to be my father, I’d teach you a lesson you wouldn’t soon forget.”
“And if I wasn’t a man of the cloth,” Joshua grated, “I’d help.”
Eyes widening, Potheridge took a step back.
Jonas turned and strode out of the inn, Joshua behind him.
Em watched them go, wished she could go with them, but knew she had to stay at the inn—and deal with Harold.
She steeled herself as her uncle, choleric color rising in his mottled cheeks, gobbling like an insulted turkey-cock, swung to face her.
The crowd around them rippled, surged; Thompson emerged. He stepped between her and Harold. Facing Harold, he fixed him with a measuring look. “The way I see it,” Thompson said, speaking in his slow, soft, country drawl, “you and I are much the same age, give or take a year or two. And heaven knows I’m no man of God. So…”
In one neat, economical movement, Thompson plowed his huge fist into Harold’s jaw.
Ducking to see beneath the blacksmith’s raised arm, Em gasped—watched as Harold’s eyes rolled up and he slowly toppled to land in a sprawl on his back.
For one instant, she stared—as did everyone else—at Harold’s still form, then she lifted her gaze and through the open doorway and saw that Jonas and Joshua had paused in the yard and looked back.
Grimly satisfied, Jonas saluted Thompson.
Thompson waved him on. “We’ll take care of things here—you two go and fetch those angels back.”
Raising a hand in acknowledgment, Jonas swung on his heel and left.
E
m didn’t have to do anything. The entire village rallied around—she wasn’t allowed to lift even a finger.
Summoned by Miss Sweet, Lucifer and Phyllida, who’d been at the inn earlier but had gone home to tend their sons, arrived just after the confrontation—just in time to see Thompson and Oscar, one at Harold’s feet, the other gripping his arms, lug her unconscious uncle out of the inn. Lucifer took one look at Harold—and jaw firming, directed Thompson to leave him propped on one of the benches along the inn’s front wall.
“I want him out of my house.” Miss Hellebore, looking uncharacteristically belligerent, rapped the floor with her cane.
Em stiffened; she wasn’t sure her uncle, even now, would go away. And if he demanded to stay at the inn…she looked up and found Phyllida’s dark gaze on her.
With an almost imperceptible nod, Phyllida crouched beside Miss Hellebore’s chair. “Actually,” she said, “if you can manage not to throttle him, it might be best if we let him take himself off. If you evict him, he’ll likely try to insist that Miss Colyton put him up at the inn.” A murmur of disapproval rumbled around the room. Phyllida nodded in acknowledgment. “And that simply won’t do.”
When the matter was put like that, Miss Hellebore was only too ready to agree to allow Harold to stay under her roof. He wouldn’t, of course, be welcome, not there or anywhere in the village; that was understood by all.
Waiting, patiently or otherwise, had never been Em’s forte; her Colyton nature didn’t tolerate the activity at all well. And as the hours rolled by, with the whole village crammed into the common room, all insisting on doing absolutely everything for her—offers she found impossible to refuse—and thus being denied the distraction of her duties, she grew increasingly tense.
Increasingly anxious.
She trusted Jonas and Filing to rescue the twins—absolutely, without question—yet until she saw the pair, until she held them in her arms again and felt their smaller, thinner arms clutching her, she could know no peace, could not relax.
As matters transpired, with all the noise in the common room no one heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside.
The first Em or anyone knew of the twins’ return was the patter of their shoes and their high-pitched voices calling, “Em? Em?”
The crowd opened, and they spotted her before the bar; picking up their skirts, they pelted to her and flung themselves into her opened arms.
She grabbed them, caught them to her, blinked like fury to keep the welling tears back; she had to be able to see to check them over. Once satisfied, she couldn’t help patting them, stroking their shining heads. She smiled mistily as Issy joined her.
Led by the Thompson brothers, the entire inn cheered—making Gert and Bea, never averse to being the center of attention, glance around curiously.
Quickly tiring of being petted, the twins pulled back—just to arm’s length. Enough for Gert to exclaim, “It was that horrible man!”
Bea fixed huge eyes on Em’s face; her lower lip wobbled. “He
lied
to us!”
The twins knew they weren’t supposed to lie; the notion that an adult would lie to
them
was entirely beyond their comprehension.
“We know he’s your uncle.” Gert’s eyes flicked from Em, to Issy, to Henry, who’d come up.
“But he’s not a nice man at all,” Bea declared. “We don’t think we should go to stay with him.”
Em nodded. “We’re not. Not now, not ever again.”
Bea slid her hand into Em’s. “Good.” She turned to survey the crowd. “Is there a party?”
Many laughed. Lady Fortemain smiled and beckoned. The girls left their older sisters and went to socialize, to tell their story, no doubt with various histrionic embellishments.
Issy shook her head, but she was smiling. “Their heads will be turned. They’ll be dreadful come morning.”
“But tomorrow is another day,” Em said, “and I’m too thankful to have them back to cavil. We can haul on their reins tomorrow.”
Another rousing cheer drew all attention to the door—to the heroes of the hour, Jonas and Joshua. Both men played up to the reception, making the crowd laugh, but their focus was clearly on attaining Em’s and Issy’s sides.
Em saw their difficulty. She turned to Edgar. “Call drinks all around—on the house.”
Grinning, Edgar did, creating an instant diversion; Jonas and Filing seized the chance to push through the melee.
Em held out her hands to them both. “Thank you.”
Filing smiled and squeezed her fingers, then released her and turned to Issy, also very ready to tender her thanks.
As the pair moved away, Jonas caught her gaze, briefly raised her hand to his lips.
She looked into his dark eyes. “I can’t thank you enough.”
His lips kicked up at the ends. “You can try—later.”
She laughed.
He set her hand on his arm and turned to survey the crowd. “Anyway, I told you that you and yours are mine—several times, I believe.”
She slanted a glance up at his face. “Is this what you meant?”
He nodded. “Mine to protect. Among other things.”
“Even terrors like the twins?”
“Even such terrors. They were spitting like cats when we found them, incidentally, ready to take on Harold and shred him. Lucky for him it was Filing and me hauling them out of that coach. Harold’s minions weren’t at all hard to convince to give them up. They were all hired from Musbury, and had no idea they were participating in any kidnapping—Harold had told them he was the twins’ guardian.”
“He knows he’s not—he just does what suits him.”
“Speaking of terrors, where is he?”
“Thompson and Oscar left him on one of the benches outside. When he came to his senses he must have taken himself off. A little while ago Miss Sweet went to check for Miss Hellebore to see if he’d gone back to his room in her cottage, but he wasn’t there.”
“Presumably he’s wandering the lanes, dwelling on his misdemeanors.”
She couldn’t stifle a snort. “A lovely fantasy, but unlikely.”
Sobering, Jonas looked down at her. “If he comes back—”
“Oh, he will, but he won’t try anything like this again. I expect he’ll return, pretending to be contrite, and try once more to plead his case, but that’s all.” She glanced at him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
His lips thinned. After a moment, he said, “If there
is
anything more, promise me you’ll tell me.”
She hesitated; it felt odd—strange and not quite right—to
promise
to ask for help.
His gaze searched her face. “Think of it as my boon for retrieving your minxes.”
She met his eyes, could read in their rich dark brown that he was intent on gaining that promise at least. From the moment she’d first met him, his protective tendencies had been on show. They seemed ingrained, an intrinsic part of him; she couldn’t truly imagine him without them.
Accepting his proposition still felt strange, but she inclined her head. “Very well. If there’s any further problem, I’ll let you know.”
Her answer was clearly satisfactory; he nodded, relaxed, then Phyllida waved, beckoning him to her. Em went to move the other way, but he caught her hand and towed her with him to speak with his sister.
M
uch later, when everyone had finished celebrating and gone home, Jonas followed Em up the back stairs to the rooms above the inn’s guest rooms that her siblings had made their own.
The twins, lagging after their ordeal, had gone up at nine o’clock. Issy and Henry, likewise worn out by the day’s events, had retired an hour ago. Em went past two rooms with their doors shut to the last room at the end of the narrow corridor.
The door stood ajar; within the room a candle flame flickered as she gently eased the door further open and peeked in.
Across the room, two single beds stood with their heads against the wall. Each held a sleeping angel. Golden tresses spilled across the pillows on which delicately flushed, cherubic cheeks lay cushioned.
Surveying the scene from over Em’s head, he heard her soft sigh. Relief, love, and contentment infused the gentle sound.
Each twin had been restless enough to disarrange her covers, leaving soft rounded limbs, hands, and feet exposed to the cooling night air. Em tiptoed in and straightened the covers, tucking each girl in, dropping a kiss on each forehead.
Shoulder propped against the door frame, his hands in his pockets, Jonas watched her. Saw the undisguised love that lit her face, and the caring that grew out of that, infusing every touch, every silent look.
The want, the need, to have her look at his son or daughter with that same all-embracing love in her eyes gripped him. Powerfully. Raw, poignant, the novel desire held him effortlessly.
Satisfied, she left her sleeping sisters and returned to him. Raising a finger to her lips to enjoin his silence, she waved him back, then stepped into the corridor and drew the door almost closed.
Looking up, she smiled at him, then moved past; silently they retraced their steps along the corridor and down the back stairs. On the first-floor landing, she opened a shadowed door; he followed her into the small bathing chamber behind her bedroom.
She led him straight through.
Thinking she meant to lead him to her parlor, as they crossed her bedroom, he reached for her hand—just as she halted and swung to face him. She looked into his face, locked her eyes on his, smiled—and moved into his arms, into him, slid her arms around his neck, stretched up on her toes, and kissed him.
Deeply. Freely. Openly giving.
His hands instinctively fastened about her waist. He took a moment to savor her gift; he was about to take charge, and take more, when she drew back.
Lowering her heels, her eyes bright even in the dim light, she smiled. “Thank you.”
He looked into her face, studied her eyes, arched a brow. “I don’t want your thanks.” He moved into her, gathering her more securely against him. “I don’t even want your gratitude.”
Quiescent in his arms, her hands resting on his shoulders, she looked her question.
“I just want you.”
The simple words held absolute conviction. Em tilted her head and through the soft moonlight that seeped into the room studied his face. “Why?”
The most important question she wanted him—needed him—to answer. Honestly, straightforwardly, without obfuscation or guile.
He seemed to understand; he didn’t turn the query aside with a glib reply. He thought, then softly, more hesitantly, said, “Because…” He drew in a breath, then went on, “Because without you my life won’t be complete.”
Oh?
She would have asked for further clarification, but he’d apparently run out of words. He drew her closer, bent his head, and kissed her.
From the first touch of his lips on hers, she sensed…had to wonder if this was part of his answer, if he was showing her, demonstrating what he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say in words.
He’d always been inclined to draw back and gauge her response before forging on to the next sensual stage, the next visceral delight. This time, however, there seemed more to it, more behind his easing back from the kiss to, in the moonlight, touch her lips, trace the lines of her face with his fingertips.
His touch was lingering, almost worshipful. Then he bent his head and sealed their lips again, and whirled her into the fire.
Into the familiar rising heat, the swelling, welling flames of their passion. Their joint, shared, mutual passions, fueled by desires that had only grown stronger, more confident, more demanding.
Perhaps it was experience, her growing more accustomed to the searing pleasures, that allowed her to take in, to absorb, his focus, his attention. His intentness as he slowly stripped away her clothes, letting them fall to the floor disregarded as his eyes, his senses, locked on the next treasure revealed, the next part of her bared to him. Given, surrendered to him.
So that he could savor. Claim, appreciate, and possess.
Yet it wasn’t any simple, greedy possession. Even though her wits were whirling, her senses waltzing with delight, this time she saw—perhaps because she was alerted to look for it—his devotion. The reverence born of deeper feelings, of emotion that came from his core, that was tangled with passion and desire, yet was infinitely more powerful.
Powerful enough to make him pause as, naked, they tumbled onto the bed, to draw back from the conflagration of their kiss, to, with his hands and eyes, palms, and fingers, sculpt her body, tracing every line, every curve, laying a web of red-hot possession over her skin, before repeating the exercise, from ear to toe, with his lips, his mouth, with his warm, rasping tongue.
Reaching her feet, he spread her legs and worked his way up the inner faces. She was gasping, arching; her hands buried in his silky hair, she was blatantly urging him on long before he consented to bury his face between her thighs and send her rocketing into paradise.
He lapped, savored, then rose up, moved up the bed, covered her body with his, and filled her with one long thrust.
She gasped, arched beneath him to meet the more definite invasion; eagerly she opened to him, welcomed him, embraced him.
Took him deep within her body and felt emotion well and pour through her. Felt the molten tide swell and grow—a sea ever deeper, broader, more powerful.
More addictive, more enthralling.
More binding.
Caught in its waves, in the throes of rising heat, she reached up and laid a hand against his cheek. Guided his lips down to hers, for a kiss that on her part invited, offered, surrendered all.
Braced on his arms over her, Jonas groaned, his spine flexing powerfully as he relentlessly drove into her. She was all supple feminine curves beneath him, her scalding sheath slick and tight, her willing body the epitome of delight.
Grasping one knee, he hooked it over his hip, then did the same with the other, opening her more fully to him, so he could thrust yet deeper into her delicious heat, could fill her and take her and make her his.
Brand her as his.
She seemed to understand, to comprehend his desperate need; wrapping her legs about his hips, she tilted hers, giving him an extra inch he immediately, greedily seized.
It still wasn’t enough, not for whatever power now drove him. Coming down on one elbow, taking his weight on that side, with his other hand he reached down, around, slid his palm over her hip, grasped one firm globe of her bottom and tipped her up to him, held her there, trapped and vulnerable and his, and filled her, thrust deep into her body and claimed her, again and again and again.
She shattered; on a muffled scream she came apart in his arms.
The intensely powerful contractions of her sheath caught him, pulled him on, dragged him over the edge of sharp delight.
And he was plummeting through the void with her, shuddering as his release claimed him—as she claimed him and held him and anchored him in the world.
He collapsed upon her, swamped with sensation, with the indescribable bliss of satiation soothingly seeping into him, through him. Like a cooling hand laid on his fevered brow, assurance, calmness, and a serenity he’d never previously known sank to his soul.
Beneath him, she lay boneless, warm, and quiescent, her expression blissful, totally sated, eyes closed, a gentle smile curving her lips.
After uncounted moments, he summoned enough strength—and will—to move. To disengage and lift from her so he was no longer squashing her into the bed. Flopping onto his back, he drew her to him; she came, settled her head on his shoulder, exhaled a soft, immeasurably contented sigh.
One small hand lay spread over his chest. Over his heart.
He looked at it for a moment, then raised his hand and covered hers with his. Held her hand there, on his heart.
His voice, when he spoke, was a dark yet definite rumble in the night. “You came here, to Colyton, and made the village complete.” Another moment ticked by. “You do the same for me.”
Em heard every word, understood that she’d been right—that this, all of it, including those words, that elemental admission—was his answer to her question.
When it came to her questions, he had the answers. The right answers, the ones that spoke to her soul.
She lay absorbing that truth, letting it sink into her heart and mind, then she shifted the hand he held trapped against his chest just enough to hook her thumb over his much larger one, and link them.
Closing her eyes, she let sleep wash in and claim her. Slid into slumber in his arms, her hand on his heart.