‘Would they know you now?’ Guinevere smiled and he found he was smiling back, even as he marvelled at the effect she had on him, the way she undermined every one of his defences. ‘I expect you have changed somewhat.’
‘I was a lanky, skinny boy with short hair,’ Jared said, looking back through the smudged mirror of time. ‘I probably had a vague expression – I was certainly always in trouble for day dreaming.’
‘You have changed. I do not think anyone could accuse you of being either skinny or dreamy. You seem to have the focus of a rat trap and the muscles of an athlete.’ She reached out and touched his upper arm fleetingly, one nail scratching the swell of his bicep. ‘But there is no reason to think we would encounter your family. I suppose your real name is not Hunt? No, I did not think it was.’
‘Jared is one of my names. As I told you, it is an old family tradition. My surname I adapted a trifle.’
‘And I suppose you will not tell me what your brother did?’
Jared shook his head, his hair falling to shield his face. No, that he found he could not do, even with Guinevere. The shock and the shame and the betrayal must have cut even deeper than he had realised. He could not speak of it, as though the dishonour had been his, not William’s. But then everyone but William and Bella thought it was and, apparently, a clear conscience was not much help under the circumstances.
‘It was a woman, I suppose,’ Guinevere said and this time he managed not to react. ‘I am not fishing, just guessing. What else would wound a romantic young man more than that? No, I do not expect an answer.’ She threw aside the sheet and slid from the bed, unashamedly naked, without a blush. ‘We have much to do. Look up the Willoughbys in the book, plan a surprise visit to the Quentens – I wonder what excuse I can come up with for just passing so much out of my way?’
‘Sightseeing,’ Jared suggested as he got off the bed and retrieved his boots. ‘It has been suggested to you as a way of taking your mind off your troubles. You have a desire to buy Whitby jet mourning jewellery, to see
the abbey ruins, admire Robin Hood’s Bay. And suddenly it occurs to you to have a good look at a map and see how close you are to Lord Northam’s remaining family.’
Guinevere tied her garters, shimmied into her camisole and wrapped her stays around herself. ‘Please lace me up.’
Yes, she had most definitely been trained by the Inquisition. First she interrogated him, forcing him to confront feelings and memories he had firmly buried and now she was half-naked in front of him, the warm aroma of well-satisfied woman filling his senses, the enticing curves of her buttocks inches from his groin as she presented her back and the laces to him. Jared fought back the urge to toss her onto the bed and make love to her all over again, and whipped the laces through their holes, then tugged.
‘Ough! Faith is far less severe,’ she protested as he tied the bow.
‘She does not have a vested interest in the delectable cleavage that tight lacing puts on display.’ Jared spun Guinevere round and kissed the area in question before retreating to where his shirt lay crumpled on the floor. He pulled it on and decided that sometimes a strategic retreat was the better part of valour. He looked for his coat and his neckcloth and, more importantly, his sword belt, then realised all were down in the study. The unlocked study.
What kind of bloody bodyguard are you? he snarled at himself as he ran down the tightly twisting stair, the warm sensual glow of their lovemaking replaced by cold anger at himself. The rapier and belt were where he had left them propped against the desk, the neckcloth draped across the guard. The kind who gets run through with his own sword in the middle of lovemaking, that’s what.
The familiar weight of the weapon at his side restored some of his equilibrium, enough for him to tie his neckcloth with a steady hand. The faded red and gilt of the Landed Gentry binding was visible on a shelf close to the desk and he pulled it out and sat down to study it, focusing on the simple task to steady his anger. The edition dated back almost twenty years, Lord Northam’s bookplate inside was scuffed and faded. It must have been an old one from his library that he had brought up here to help populate the empty shelves.
Jared flicked through to Willoughby. There it was, confirming the headstone in the graveyard. Henry Fitzgordon Willoughby of Gordon Chase, Northumberland, married to Jane Arnold. Children Francis Arnold, born 1784 and Elizabeth, born 1777.
No other children, so the theoretical murderous land agent brother was ruled out, and there was no sign of a marriage for the vengeful Elizabeth. He needed the most recent edition to find out about that.
Jared closed the book with a thump, dislodging a faded pressed fern frond from between its pages, but he did not get up to replace it on the shelf. The room was quiet, the deep old chair made for comfortable contemplation and he settled back in it, although his contemplating was far from comfortable.
This was his first commission after leaving Cal’s household and he had committed what was probably the cardinal sin for a bodyguard: he had become emotionally entangled with his subject. He had emotions for Cal – he was his best friend and he loved him like a brother – but that was different. It made him fight the harder to guard his back, it had made him devoted to the Duke’s interests, but it had not clouded his judgement, blunted his professional edge.
If he made love to Guinevere again it would be in a locked room with shutters closed, a chest wedged against the door and a blade inches from his hand at all times. And she touches you and your brain turns to porridge, your reflexes migrate to your groin and you see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but her. The house could burn down around your ears and you wouldn’t notice until it was too late.
Jared sat and contemplated the truth of that, just as Monsieur Favel his swordmaster had taught him to analyse his every error. So, he did not make love to her again. That simplifies matters, he thought grimly.
They would go and see what the Quentens could teach them, then find out what was happening with the new Lord Northam and, if necessary, go into Northumberland and see if they could track down the vengeful Willoughby sister. All he had to do until then was to stop the authorities arresting Theo Quenten for murder and keep Guinevere alive while staying out of her bed and avoiding his own family.
‘Such a simple plan, in fact,’ he said out loud.
Chapter Nineteen
Jared was still contemplating the tasks in front of him as there was a tap on the door.
‘Sir? I thought you might want me.’
‘Dover. We are going to Whitby tomorrow, you too. Tell Thomas and one of larger footmen that they are coming with us. I have no idea what is awaiting us, if anything, and it may simply prove to be a social call and some shopping for jet jewellery. On the other hand – ’
‘We go armed and expect the worst.’ Dover’s broad grin showed a certain bloodthirsty eagerness.
Jared found he was grinning back. What the devil was happening to him? He never grinned. He rarely smiled except for effect. Guinevere was getting under his skin to a dangerous extent and that had to stop.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, deadly serious again. ‘And I would wager that the worst is about to befall us if we are not very wary.’