lesson about the siren call of desire. One more complicating factor, he realized, when it came to the fate of Rowena Woolcott.
She was watching him, calibrating his response, as any young woman would, trapped as she was alone in a manâs bedchamber late at night. âI read about the Cruikshank murders,â she said. âHow you spent days and weeks collecting evidence and hunting down the felon,â she continued in a low whisper, as though recounting tales of knightly deeds. âThose poor women about whom no one cared, other than you, sir.â
Rushford scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning inwardly, the burn of stubble against his palm somehow welcome. âIs that what you believe, Miss? Madam? Forgive me, but I donât even know your name.â
She shook her head. âIt doesnât matter. For now.â
âAh yes. More mystery.â A deadly joke, of which only he was aware.
âBut I know you can help me.â There was a stubbornness in her tone. âAs you helped them.â
âFlattery doesnât go nearly as far as one might wish. I am not the helpful sort, believe me.â If the past three years didnât prove that point, nothing would. Ridding himself of Rowena Woolcott would be in her best interests, although she might not appreciate the fact at the moment. It dawned upon him then how simple it could be to be done with her. To frighten her. Drive her off. It was mere coincidence, as opposed to fate or poetic justice, that had delivered her once more into his hands. Thank God. âMay I pour you a brandy before I see you on your way?â he asked with no solicitousness in his voice.
Rowenaâs head jerked up, causing a thick strand of hair, the color of deep burgundy, to fall loose from her chignon over one shoulder. âBut I havenât explained. Everything.â
Rushford moved over to the bedside table and poured a healthy measure of brandy into a heavy lead crystal glass. âNo need.â He picked up the drink and strode directly opposite her. A faint scent of soap and something else, achingly familiar, slammed his senses. He shut down the memories, thrusting the glass into her slender hand. Challenging himself to touch her, to see if he dared, he closed her cold fingers around the glass. âI donât need to hear details. Because I am not for hire, madam.â
âBut I have money,â she persisted. âNot much but some.â Her fingers tightened momentarily around his, and to his surprise, she raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, closing her eyes as the warmth slipped down her slender throat. Send her on her way . The words pulsed in his brain. As he should have done that first time.
âI cannot help you,â he said simply. Decisively. Any other woman might have implored, begged, or wept, but Rowena Woolcott stared at him with a tensile strength that would have shaken a lesser man.
Her hand on his arm was surprisingly strong, the fingers long and elegant and heâd wager, accustomed to handling a horseâs reins with ease. There was a wildness about Rowena Woolcott, he noted not for the first time, a willfulness that refused constraints. She had scaled his town house, broken into his bedchamber, confronted himâhe stopped the flow of thoughts, the cool of her hand penetrating the sleeve of his shirt. Most of all, Rowena Woolcott had survived âas though he could ever forget.
She removed her hand, taking a few steps away from him, needing the safety of distance to collect her thoughts, to marshal her argument. âAt least allow me to tell you of the circumstancesâof my circumstances,â she amended, getting the facts out brusquely. âThis is all about two sisters and their aunt. And a man who wants them to suffer in the worst possible way.â
Rushford made his face granite. âNot my problem, alas. I am not a detective, as you seem to believe. The Cruikshank situation
Brian Herbert, Kevin J. Anderson