you think a bullet can stop me?”
Arden placed the end of the barrel against the underside of his chin. “I doubt they thought to armor you here.”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in the fading gloom. “That’s my girl.”
She froze, gaze searching his face for some sign of recognition. “How do you know I’m your girl?”
His grin faded, the light in his eyes turned to ice. He dropped his hand to her neck, but instead of squeezing, he gently stroked the tender and battered skin. “I don’t know. But you are, aren’t you?”
God, it hurt to swallow; her throat was so tight—a condition that had nothing to do with the strength of his touch, but rather the gentleness of it. “Yes,” she whispered, but she did not move the pistol.
His dark brows dipped. “Why can’t I kill you? I remember…I know I’ve tried to do this before, but failed. I resolve to do it, but when I’m with you, killing you is the last thing I want to do.”
The suggestive timbre of his voice ignited a flame inside her. It had been so long, but intimately she remembered all the times he had spoken to her in that tone—and what generally followed.
She opened her mouth. It was simple. All she had to say was “I’m your wife,” but the words refused to come. What if she said it and he couldn’t remember?
“Lady Huntley?” came a voice from the mouth of the alley. It was Inspector Grant.
Her husband sprang to his feet, leaving her mourning the warmth of his touch. “I’ll come for you again,” he promised her.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” she retorted coolly. Inside she trembled like a child.
She watched in awe as he scaled the side of one of the buildings using only the structure’s windows and ledges for purchase. He climbed like a spider.
Inspector Grant rushed to her side. “Good Lord, what happened?”
Of course he would notice the new body in the alley—and the strange man fleeing the scene.
Arden’s shoulders slumped. “The dead man is our murderer. He attacked me.”
“The other bloke killed him?”
She nodded, numb.
“Broke the bastard’s neck. Can’t say that I’m sorry—though I’m going to have the head of one of my good-for-nothing constables for not being here to protect you. I should like to shake your rescuer’s hand.”
Something snapped inside her and laughter rushed forth like water over a broken dam. She felt like death warmed over; she’d just seen a vicious crime through the eyes of the victim, been attacked by the murderer and then saved by the man she loved who also wanted to kill her. And dear Inspector Grant wanted to shake Luke’s hand.
What else could possibly happen next?
Alastair was waiting for her in the parlor, enjoying a cup of coffee, when she arrived home. It was the perfect continuation of the day, and exactly in keeping with Arden’s opinion that fate was out to give her a royally good spanking.
He looked perfect, as he generally did. His steely gray frock coat matched his eyes, and his ivory shirt warmed his complexion. He might have at least had the courtesy to look a little worse for wear, but then again he hadn’t been the one trying to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey.
His eyes widened at the sight of her. “You look awful.”
The insult lessened the guilt she felt over his earlier declaration of love. “How terribly convenient, seeing as that’s exactly how I feel.”
Others might have flushed at her words, but Alastair merely raised one cinnamon brow as he set his cup on the table in front of him. “Imbibed a bit too much last night, did you?”
“A tad,” she replied with forced lightness.
He knew why—it was plain as the knot in his cravat. The bounder didn’t even have the decency to apologize for admitting his feelings and ruining what, for Arden, had been a perfectly lovely friendship.
Of course she’d gotten cross-eyed drunk after he left. Her dearest friend loved her, and she was in no way deserving of that
Arden placed the end of the barrel against the underside of his chin. “I doubt they thought to armor you here.”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in the fading gloom. “That’s my girl.”
She froze, gaze searching his face for some sign of recognition. “How do you know I’m your girl?”
His grin faded, the light in his eyes turned to ice. He dropped his hand to her neck, but instead of squeezing, he gently stroked the tender and battered skin. “I don’t know. But you are, aren’t you?”
God, it hurt to swallow; her throat was so tight—a condition that had nothing to do with the strength of his touch, but rather the gentleness of it. “Yes,” she whispered, but she did not move the pistol.
His dark brows dipped. “Why can’t I kill you? I remember…I know I’ve tried to do this before, but failed. I resolve to do it, but when I’m with you, killing you is the last thing I want to do.”
The suggestive timbre of his voice ignited a flame inside her. It had been so long, but intimately she remembered all the times he had spoken to her in that tone—and what generally followed.
She opened her mouth. It was simple. All she had to say was “I’m your wife,” but the words refused to come. What if she said it and he couldn’t remember?
“Lady Huntley?” came a voice from the mouth of the alley. It was Inspector Grant.
Her husband sprang to his feet, leaving her mourning the warmth of his touch. “I’ll come for you again,” he promised her.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” she retorted coolly. Inside she trembled like a child.
She watched in awe as he scaled the side of one of the buildings using only the structure’s windows and ledges for purchase. He climbed like a spider.
Inspector Grant rushed to her side. “Good Lord, what happened?”
Of course he would notice the new body in the alley—and the strange man fleeing the scene.
Arden’s shoulders slumped. “The dead man is our murderer. He attacked me.”
“The other bloke killed him?”
She nodded, numb.
“Broke the bastard’s neck. Can’t say that I’m sorry—though I’m going to have the head of one of my good-for-nothing constables for not being here to protect you. I should like to shake your rescuer’s hand.”
Something snapped inside her and laughter rushed forth like water over a broken dam. She felt like death warmed over; she’d just seen a vicious crime through the eyes of the victim, been attacked by the murderer and then saved by the man she loved who also wanted to kill her. And dear Inspector Grant wanted to shake Luke’s hand.
What else could possibly happen next?
Alastair was waiting for her in the parlor, enjoying a cup of coffee, when she arrived home. It was the perfect continuation of the day, and exactly in keeping with Arden’s opinion that fate was out to give her a royally good spanking.
He looked perfect, as he generally did. His steely gray frock coat matched his eyes, and his ivory shirt warmed his complexion. He might have at least had the courtesy to look a little worse for wear, but then again he hadn’t been the one trying to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey.
His eyes widened at the sight of her. “You look awful.”
The insult lessened the guilt she felt over his earlier declaration of love. “How terribly convenient, seeing as that’s exactly how I feel.”
Others might have flushed at her words, but Alastair merely raised one cinnamon brow as he set his cup on the table in front of him. “Imbibed a bit too much last night, did you?”
“A tad,” she replied with forced lightness.
He knew why—it was plain as the knot in his cravat. The bounder didn’t even have the decency to apologize for admitting his feelings and ruining what, for Arden, had been a perfectly lovely friendship.
Of course she’d gotten cross-eyed drunk after he left. Her dearest friend loved her, and she was in no way deserving of that
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