Raven (Gentlemen of the Order 2)

Once nestled inside the vehicle, she said, “Well, it seems we’ve had a wasted journey. Dr Goodwin is proving to be rather elusive.”

Finlay’s smile turned sinful. “Not wasted. The drive here proved immensely satisfying.”

“As might the jaunt back to Wycombe.”

The heat in his gaze, and the sensual way he scanned her body, said he’d be pulling down the blinds before they reached Wolvercote.

“We’ve made some progress in our investigation,” he added. “We know where to find Dr Goodwin. If he sold the house, not leased it, we know he needed money. More importantly, we know he’s a liar.”

Sophia’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment for having trusted the man all these years. “Money, and his need to atone for Mr Archer’s misdeed, must be the reason he makes the weekly trip to Blackborne.”

“I’m not so sure.” With intense eyes, Finlay watched her unbutton her pelisse. “But we’ll find the doctor and discover the answer once we’ve visited Blackborne and dealt with your deceptive servants.”

“And how shall we pass the next few hours?”

He stroked his impressive beard. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Chapter 15

Beautiful women teased the eyes and tormented the soul. Those were the words Finlay’s father had uttered upon learning of Sophia’s marriage to Lord Adair. He had died a few months later, leaving Finlay alone in the world but for a distant cousin in the moorlands of Northumberland. His father had departed this plane, but the words remained.

Sophia certainly teased the eyes. Finlay had spent an hour studying every beautiful contour while she slept in the carriage, scribing every delightful aspect to memory. The last seven years had been torture. A waking nightmare. Sloane was right. Finlay was tired, weary, had longed for the peace that comes with death. But dark days pass—if one has the strength to cling on through the storm.

Opposite him, Sophia stretched and yawned as the carriage slowed to a stop before Blackborne’s imposing iron gates. Her eyes flickered open. “What? Have we arrived?”

“Yes.”

“What time is it?” she asked, her skin still aglow from sleep and their lovemaking.

Finlay pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the face beneath the light of the carriage lamp. “Almost eleven o’clock.”

They had stopped twice on the journey from Wycombe to Windlesham, had let the coachman take a quick nap while they ate supper, reminisced and drank copious amounts of wine.

“Blent doesn’t do his rounds until midnight, and the gates are locked.” She straightened and bemoaned her aching limbs. “The path through the woods isn’t wide enough for a carriage.”

Finlay’s body ached, too, from being confined for hours, from pleasuring the woman who’d shown him that happiness bobbed on the horizon.

“I shall climb the wall and retrieve the key to the boundary door.”

Her gaze dipped to his thighs. “Well, you certainly have the strength for the task.”

“And the stamina,” he teased.

“You’ll find the key in a wooden tea caddy on the windowsill. We can send Blent to remove the lock and chain from the gates. I doubt Mr Sloane’s coachman will want to spend the night sleeping atop his box.”

“The desire to sleep beneath the stars is in Turton’s blood. His grandfather served Livingston Sloane, the buccaneer. But you’re right, he’s exhausted and in need of a rest. And he will require Blent’s help with the horses.”

They alighted. Turton followed Finlay and helped to launch him over the brick wall. After finding the key and unlocking the boundary door, he permitted Turton to take another nap inside the carriage while he waited for Blent to arrive.

Walking the dark, unkempt path up to the gatehouse, roused memories of the night Finlay had been reluctant to hold Sophia’s hand. Now, he gripped it as if she were hauling him out of a choppy sea.

As they passed through the gatehouse, and the eerie manor loomed into view, he was overcome with trepidation. Yes, the hour was late, but the house seemed too dark, too quiet, as if it held another terrifying secret within its old walls.

When forming a plan of attack, he’d imagined interrogating the staff—an hour of barked demands and raised tempers—though he suspected Blent would tell the truth when confronted. Mrs Friswell would dig in her heels.

Afterwards, to calm his inner rage, Finlay would carry Sophia up to the master chamber, lay her down on the large plush bed and pleasure her with his tongue, his fingers, his cock. But now the prickling at his nape warned the night would not go as planned.

“What’s to say we won’t find Mrs Friswell entertaining the herbalists from Windlesham?” he said, noting there wasn’t a single flicker of candlelight evident in the vast array of windows.