Cameron stared at her.
“Two innocent boys who are under no compulsion or threat, and therefore have no reason to lie.” Huntingdon paused, then asked, “What say you now, Cameron?”
Cameron hauled his gaze from Penelope and her condemnatory stare—and glanced at his lordship.
All trace of the gentleman had vanished.
Barnaby swore and started around the desk.
Cameron didn’t react like a gentleman; he lunged for Penelope.
Stunned, disbelieving, she found herself seized by the arms. Wild-eyed, Cameron swung her before him; he slung one arm across her shoulders, locking her against him. And brandished a knife before her face.
She focused on it; a chill slid down her spine. Cameron had to be insane. The knife looked sharp.
“Stay back!” Cameron shifted so his back was to the wall.
She could feel his head turning this way and that. Could feel the nervousness—the near panic—pouring off him.
“Back,
I said! Or I’ll slice open her cheek.”
His hand shifted; the knife with its glinting edge was suddenly very close to her face.
Icy fear trickled down her spine. He was too strong for her to break from his hold, especially not with the knife so close. He’d widened his stance—she couldn’t even kick his legs.
Hauling in a breath, she forced her gaze from the knife. She looked at the others; their faces were a blur. Then her gaze reached Barnaby and locked on his face, her focus sharpening.
He was pale, his face drawn, features tense. He stood poised beside the desk, held back by Cameron’s threat.
He was watching Cameron, and her, closely; when Cameron glanced around the room, checking the others, Barnaby trapped her gaze—and opened his mouth and bit down.
She blinked, realized; pressing her head back against Cameron’s chest, she focused on the hand holding the knife before her face. Because she was so short, the hand was in front of her mouth.
Opening her mouth wide, she sank her teeth into Cameron’s hand.
He yelped.
Closing her eyes, she bit down as hard as she could and locked her jaw.
He yelled. He tried to pull his hand away, but couldn’t. With that hand immobilized, he couldn’t use the knife.
With her jaw in the way, he couldn’t release it.
He flung this way and that, howling, furiously trying to dislodge her; for one crazy moment they waltzed around, but she refused to let go.
With a huge effort, he flung her away. The momentum forced her to release him; she sailed across the room and collided with Stokes and the earl. They went down in a tangle, tripping the two constables who’d rushed up to help.
Scrambling free of the melee, on her hands and knees, Penelope
looked across the room and saw Cameron using the knife to keep Barnaby at bay. Huntingdon was on his feet, but he couldn’t get around his desk without distracting Barnaby.
And from the look on Cameron’s face, he was just waiting for a chance to slice Barnaby up.
Time slowed.
The knife flashed, then flashed again. Barnaby leapt back just in time.
Cameron snarled and lunged. Her heart in her mouth, Penelope started to call out. At the last instant, Barnaby twisted away; the knife glinted as it slid past his chest.
He reached for Cameron’s arm, but Cameron saw the danger and flung himself back. Eyes wild, flicking over the men, the knife waving before him, he backed.
He’d forgotten—or perhaps never noticed—Griselda. Stealing out from behind the screen, she’d lifted a heavy statue from a side table and crept up behind Cameron, keeping close to the wall. Raising the statue, she’d been waiting for her moment; as he backed within reach, she brought it down on his skull.
Penelope scrambled to her feet as Cameron swayed on his. “Not hard enough.” She waved at Griselda. “Hit him again.”
Before Griselda could, Barnaby stepped forward, brushed aside the knife, and felled Cameron with a jaw-cracking punch.
The force of it lifted Cameron off his feet. His back hit the wall, then his eyes rolled up. His knees buckled; he slid down, ending in a crumpled heap.
Barnaby stood over him, grimacing as he shook out his hand.
Aghast, Penelope flew across the room to him.
Huntingdon clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Good work.”
Penelope wasn’t so sure. She caught Barnaby’s hand—his beautiful long-fingered, elegant, and clever hand—stared at the redness already spreading across his scraped knuckles.
“What have you done to your hand?”
To Barnaby’s besmusement, the damage he’d done to his hand—minor, it would heal—consumed Penelope’s mind. All else was relegated
to second place. Nothing would do but for her to hurry him home to Jermyn Street so she could tend his wounds. Salve his scraped knuckles.
That Mostyn had taken the boys under his wing, volunteering to take care of them and deliver them tomorrow afternoon to the Foundling House, set the seal on her impatience to be away.
Something Barnaby decided was in his own best interests; aside from all else, he needed to speak with her—now, soon—before his father said anything to make his life more difficult.
Penelope was relieved when he agreed to leave matters in Lord Huntingdon’s and the earl’s capable hands. To her mind, there were capable people aplenty to take charge of the fiend Cameron and do all else that needed to be done. The constables would take Smythe and Cameron to Scotland Yard; Stokes would see Griselda home. Penelope’s only responsibilities were to see to the welfare of the boys, and Barnaby.
The latter stood highest in her mind. When they reached his house, she dispatched the boys to bed in Mostyn’s care and harried Barnaby up to his bedroom. She pushed him to sit on the bed, then bustled into the bathing chamber for a bowl of water.
Returning, setting the candelabra near so she had better light, she examined his hand, and hissed. “Men and their pugilistics.” She felt thoroughly shaken; she wasn’t sure why. “You didn’t need to hit him at all—Griselda could have taken care of it if you’d given her another second.”
“I needed to hit him.”
She ignored the hard, flat tone of his voice. “I’m very fond of your hand, you know.” She immersed the object in question in the cold water. “Both of them. I’m rather fond of lots of other parts of you, too, of course, but that’s beside the point. Your hands—” She realized and stopped.
Drew in a huge breath. “I’m babbling.” She heard the stunned amazement in her tone, but her tongue just ran on. “See what you’ve reduced me to? I
never
babble—ask anyone. Penelope Ashford has never babbled in her life, and here I am, babbling like a twit, all because you didn’t think—”
He stopped her by the simple expedient of kissing her. Ducking his head, he covered her lips, slowed her racing tongue with his.
His arm slid around her and drew her to him.
Almost instantly, she relaxed against him.
It started off as a gentle kiss—a long, soothing, reassuring exchange for them both. But there was far more between them, more primitive reactions that needed to be assuaged, more powerful needs that rose up and unexpectedly caught them, taking over the kiss, infusing it with passions neither had intended showing, but both desperately needed to appease. To slake. To satisfy.
He angled his head and plundered her mouth, ravaged her senses—and she returned the favor. Shook the water from her hands and plunged them into his hair, spearing through the curling locks to grip his head. So she could hold him steady and kiss him back—claim him as her own just as avidly, as greedily, as hungrily as he claimed her.
As wildly. As unrestrainedly.
When they finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing rapidly, hunger and need—very definitely not just physical—pounding in their blood. The same beat, the same compulsion. She met his eyes, and saw all she felt roiling in the vivid blue—the same tumult of emotions.
The same reason behind it.
The same motive. The same power.
She dragged in a shuddering breath. She’d been meaning to speak; the time was clearly now.
Yet with the moment upon her, one doubt assailed her. He was a confirmed bachelor—everyone in the ton knew that. If she spoke—proposed—and he didn’t agree…their time together would end. Regardless of her wishes, once he knew she was thinking of marriage, if she couldn’t convince him to agree, he would kindly but definitely cut her out of his life…and she didn’t think she could bear that. If she spoke and he didn’t agree, she would lose all they, all she, now had.
If she didn’t speak…she would lose all they might have.
Yet even if he felt the same emotions she did, that didn’t mean he’d see marriage to her as the right path for him.
For the first time in her life, faced with a clear challenge, her courage wavered. Taking this one step…she’d never faced such a critical moment in her life. She searched his eyes for some hint, some clue, as to how he might react. And remembered…She frowned. “Why did you
need
to hit Cameron?”
He’d made it sound as if the action had held some greater significance beyond simply stopping the fiend.
He held her gaze, then his lips quirked wryly. He lowered his gaze to her lips. “You said I didn’t think.” His jaw firmed. “You were right—I didn’t. It was…peculiar. I never ‘don’t think’—just as you never babble. But from the instant Cameron seized you I…stopped thinking. I didn’t need to. What I needed to do was perfectly clear without any requirement for thought.”
He paused, drew in a long breath. “I had to hit him because he’d seized you. If he’d grabbed Griselda, I wouldn’t have felt the same—although perhaps Stokes might have. But Cameron grabbed
you,
and”—his voice deepened—“some time in the past weeks you’ve become
mine
. Mine to protect. To have and to hold. To keep safe.”
He met her eyes, and she saw truth shining in the blue. “That’s why I hit him—why I didn’t even have to think to know I had to. Needed to.” He paused, then went on, “I’ve heard that’s how things can be…with a certain woman. I didn’t think such a thing would happen to me, but with you…it has. If you don’t want to be mine…” He searched her eyes, then, his voice hardening, said, “It’s too late. You already are.”
She’d been looking for something to give her heart; it was there, shining in his eyes. “I think we should marry.”
Barnaby felt elation surge through him; looking into her dark eyes, he inwardly exulted.
Before he could react, she frowned. “I know it’s a startling suggestion, but if you’ll listen to my reasoning I believe you’ll see it’s a sound one, with significant benefits for us both.”
This was what he’d planned to achieve. He fought to keep his flaring triumph from his eyes; he wanted to hear all she had to say, all she was so willing to tell him. “You perceive me all ears.”
She frowned more definitely, unsure how to read his tone, but then drew breath and went on, “I know—as do you—that there’s a long list of logical, rational, socially dictated, and socially approved reasons we should wed.” She fixed him with a direct look. “But neither you nor I allow ourselves to be influenced by such considerations—I mention them purely to dismiss them, noting only that a marriage between us would be socially welcomed.”
His mother would be over the moon. He nodded and waited.
Her gaze lowered to his lips. “Weeks ago, you pointed out that we deal exceptionally well together. Privately, publicly, socially, and even more remarkably in the matter of our esoteric vocations. We can talk to each other about all subjects that interest us, and more, we enjoy doing so. We talk about things we never talk about with anyone else. We share ideas. We react to situations in the same way. We feel compelled by the same circumstances and to the same end.” Raising her eyes, she met his. “As I said at the time, we’re complementary. Everything that’s happened since has only underscored how correct that assessment was.”
She tilted her head, studied his eyes. “You, me—we’re not the same, but we—our lives—somehow fit together.”
You make me whole.
She didn’t say the words, but they rang in his mind, conveyed as effectively as if she’d spoken them.
“Together we’re more—stronger than we are individually. If nothing else, these weeks have proved that.” She paused, then went on, “So I think we should marry, and continue the partnership we’ve started. For us, marriage won’t be a restriction, but instead will enable us to expand our partnership to encompass all the various aspects of our lives.”
Her lips firmed; through his hands on her back, he sensed the steely purpose that infused her. “That’s why I think we should marry. And that’s what I would wish for, if I had my way and you wished for it, too.”
Honest, direct, clearheaded, and determined; he looked into her eyes and saw all that and more. All he had to do was smile charmingly, pretend to be much struck by her proposition—her proposal—make some show of considering her arguments, and then gracefully accept.
And then she would be his and he’d have all he desired—without having to admit to, without having to reveal or acknowledge other than in his own mind, what drove him. What power had sunk its claws into his soul and now owned him.
Unfortunately…it seemed that power had other ideas.
Honest, direct, clearheaded, and determined…wasn’t enough. Him simply accepting would never be enough.
“Yes, we should marry.” The harshness of his voice made her eyes widen. Before she could start thinking, speculating, he said, “But…”
He tried, quite desperately, to censor his words, but with her in his arms, her dark eyes on his, it was suddenly imperative, more important than life, that she knew and understood, completely and utterly. “When we took our first steps into intimacy, if you’d been more experienced you would have realized that a man like me wouldn’t have touched you if I wasn’t thinking of marriage.”
Her eyes widened. She stared at him. A finite moment passed before she managed to enunciate, “From
then
?”
He nodded, jaw setting. “Very definitely from then. You were a gently bred virgin, your brother’s sister—no honorable gentleman would have touched you,
except
that I wanted you as my wife and you—at that point—were set against marriage. So I fell in with your wishes, but only because I had every intention of changing your mind.”