Hunting the Hero (The Wild Randalls 4)

He glanced at the clock again, wondering if she really was involved in the new prostitute’s tutelage or writhing beneath a man like the woman next door. Calista had told him she couldn’t be his alone. The madam expected her to service other men. But he didn’t like it one bit. Calista was his. He couldn’t imagine giving her up.

Jealousy was not a new sensation for him. He had always wanted what was his. The fact that he’d grown possessive over a woman so free with her favors, one he’d known less than a week, spoke volumes for his addled state of mind. He had meant his offer yesterday to make her his mistress. They could be very comfortable lovers.

But Calista didn’t want to belong to him or any man.

He paced to the window and peered out at the gardens Calista could never bear to look at. The sun was setting over the distant valley, bathing the clipped rosemary hedges in fading light. A pretty scene. He couldn’t understand why Calista disliked the view so much that she refused to look out the window. That same wild, earthy scent clung about her body and skin. A fragrance that drove him wild. Perhaps he’d lost his mind.

He turned as the door opened. Calista stopped in the doorway momentarily and surveyed him. He relaxed at the sight of her. She was wearing the blue velvet carriage dress he’d purchased to keep her warm. For one insane moment, he considered throwing her over his shoulder and stealing her away from this place, but then he noticed a footman lingered in the hallway beyond. He appeared idle, but perhaps he listened in.

From the wall beside them, a male voice shouted out and then the brothel’s other occupants grew silent once more.

Calista, and the footman beyond, behaved as if they’d heard none of it. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

Wary, shadowed eyes met his. She moved away from the door and into the room but did not close the door behind her. The footman came closer and paused where he could see into the room. Constantine walked toward the footman. “Is there a message for me?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good, then go away.” He closed the door on the man and spun about. “What was that about?”

Calista clasped her hands before her. “A precaution.”

That made no sense. “What for? Has a guest caused a difficulty for you?”

&nbs

p; “No, of course not,” she murmured softly. “Linnie is just being meddlesome. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He gestured to the couch where they began each day. The routine of simply talking over events in their lives soothed him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. “Shall we sit?”

Calista nodded and glided toward him. As she drew level, Constantine reached for her hand, but she kept them before her. He frowned at the absence of affection. He’d grown accustomed to her frequent caresses, and the lack troubled him. Something had changed.

He smiled to reassure her he would be the least of her problems. “Have you had a troubling day?”

“No, not really. It was an exceptionally pleasant one.”

“Did you meet with someone?” The moment the question left his lips he knew he sounded like a jealous lover. He paid for her time, her body to be his alone. He didn’t want to share her with other men. “Another man.” The harsh edge to his voice made Calista jump where she sat. He swallowed nervously. He’d have to do better at keeping his possessive tendencies under wraps.

Calista shifted slightly, adding another degree of distance between them. “A dear friend returned to visit, Cook’s son, and I spent the morning hearing Robbie’s news.”

White-hot jealousy burned the back of his throat over the question he wanted to demand answers to. He swallowed to avoid asking if she’d fucked him.

“And then we dined formally for luncheon to give Oralia more practice,” she added in a clear voice. “I swear that girl’s parents taught her nothing of deportment.”

“And who taught you to choose the correct fork? Your mother?”

Calista didn’t answer his question. She smoothed out imaginary creases in her carriage dress, and a frown appeared between her eyes. “You seem out of sorts today.”

“I wonder why?” Constantine raked a hand through his hair and stood. “Yesterday I made you a perfectly respectable offer and you turned me down without apology or hesitation.”

“I don’t want to be your mistress, Grayling. Not every woman dreams of that life.”

He would give his left arm to learn what she did dream of. If he asked, he doubted she’d honor him with a truthful answer. “So you prefer being whore to hundreds, thousands.”

“Not quite that many. I made my choices long ago.” She smoothed the folds in her dress again. “Regret is for the weak and sentimental. If I had either of those two character traits I would not have survived. T’is the reason I like to reinvent myself. I’ve had a dozen or more fresh starts.”

Constantine considered her admission. A dozen or more names and no one knew her. That meant she’d been running from trouble for a long time. What if she was a wanted woman? She might need a man she could rely on one day. “Then start over again as my mistress.”

“No. I couldn’t do that to you. You barely wish to enter me as it is.” She drew in a deep breath and stood. “Am I in danger with you? You’ve never struck me as a cruel or violent man, but after yesterday’s admission I’m not sure I’m capable of judging your character. Did you kill your wife?”