The Theft (Thornton 2)

"Oh, I understand all right. I've got one just like her at home. It's a married man's curse." He sighed and patted Ashford's shoulder, raising his voice to a normal tone. "Now, let me give you the fastest route back to the West End."

Three minutes later, Ashford climbed into the phaeton, waved appreciatively at the constable, and guided their horse onto the road.

Silence prevailed, during which time Noelle cast a furtive glance at Ashford, hoping to see gratitude on his face.

She didn't.

In fact, his jaw was clenched so tight, she feared it would snap.

"I think it's safe now," she ventured at last, when the East End had long since been left behind and home was mere minutes away.

"Is it?" Ashford ground out. "I wouldn't bet on it. In fact, if I were you I'd be more frightened by me than you were by those murderers and thieves. Because right about now I feel capable of doing almost anything."

Noelle swallowed. "Where are you taking me?"

"Why? Afraid I might kill you—as I did Lady Mannering?" He shot her a fierce sideways look. "Or hasn't that brilliant mind of yours gotten that far yet?"

"It has," she reassured him. "But I rejected the notion the instant it occurred. It's preposterous."

"Oh, is it? Why? I'm an expert rider. And I had more than enough time to leave Markham while my parents' guests slept, ride to London, steal and kill, and return to the party before I was missed."

Ashford's caustic words sent a shiver through Noelle—though not because she believed there was a shred of truth in them. No, it was his tone, low and menacing, filled with accusation and fury that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

"That's not why I deemed the idea preposterous," she informed him, trying to abate his rage with a confirmation of her faith. "I don't believe you're a murderer, Ashford. You're too fine a man to take another person's life. So there's no point in goading me as punishment for my interference."

"Goading you—is that what I'm doing? How very brave an assumption, given all you've witnessed tonight. But, tell me, if I'm such a fine man, how do you explain everything I did these past few hours?"

"I can't. Only you can." She inclined her head in his direction. "In fact, that's exactly what I'm waiting for you to do."

"Then you haven't long to wait."

Noelle glanced up, realized they were turning onto Bond Street, at the far end of which Ashford lived. "We're going to your house."

A hard nod. "But don't let that ease your fears. There are no servants at home to rescue you. They were all sent away tonight—for obvious reasons."

"So we'll be alone." Despite all that had just transpired, all that was still transpiring, Noelle felt herself tingle at the concept.

"Yes." Ashford halted before his gates, jumped out of the phaeton to yank them open. "Drive through," he ordered Noelle.

Silently, she complied, waiting until he'd shut the gates behind them and returned to climb into the carriage.

"Yes, we'll be alone," he repeated, urging his horse around the drive. "Until your father discovers you're missing and charges over to shoot me. Of course, I might already have done you in by then."

"Ashford—don't." Noelle lay her hand on his arm. That simple contact—and the dam burst. Swerving to the edge of the drive, Ashford brought the phaeton to an abrupt stop. He jerked around, grabbing Noelle's shoulders and hauling her nearly out of her seat. "What the hell were you doing back there?" he demanded in a voice that slashed through her like a knife. "What possessed you? Have you any idea…?" He stopped, drew a harsh breath. "Damn it, Noelle. God dammit."

He released her shoulders—but only long enough to vault from the carriage, then snake an arm about her waist, hoisting her out and holding her against him. He stalked around, leaned into the phaeton to scoop up the mask and bag with his other hand, then strode up to his front door. He opened it in one smooth motion, hauling Noelle inside and slamming the door behind them.

The entranceway was dark, as deserted as he'd claimed. Ashford flung the bag and mask aside. "Now," he began, turning to plant one arm on either side of Noelle's head, his palms flattened against the wall, effectively trapping her. "How dangerous have you decided I am? Because I'm only just realizing I'm more lethal than even I suspected."

Staring up into Ashford's face, Noelle saw the depth of his rage and knew she should be terrified. His eyes raked her with sparks of fire, burned through her like the tiny orange flames that blazed in their depths. A vein in his forehead stood out, and the muscle in his jaw worked furiously, pulsing its way down to the grim line of his mouth. He was another person right now, someone she didn't recognize. He was more unnerving than anyone she'd ever faced. Oh, she'd seen glimpses of this side of him—the coiled intensity that emerged when he spoke of Baricci or of André. But he'd never before turned that intensity on her, other than in passion. Still, she'd always known it was there: powerful, disconcerting, yet carefully leashed, monitored by self-discipline.

That was Ashford: leashed power and overwhelming magnetism.

Except that the magnetism was abandoned now, as was the self-discipline, supplanted by a raging torrent of anger. He looked livid enough to choke her with his bare hands.

Yes, she should be terrified.

But she wasn't.