That description hit the mark; he saw the flare of connection in her eyes.
“I suspect there are incidents which already have followed, and there will almost certainly be incidents to come.” He hadn’t forgotten there was more, something in addition to the burglaries she’d yet to tell him. But that was the closest he dared come to pressing her; she was not the sort he could browbeat or bully. He was accomplished in both roles, but with some, neither worked. And he wanted her cooperation, her trust.
Without both, he might not learn all he needed to know. Might not succeed in lifting the threat he sensed hanging over her.
Leonora held his gaze, and reminded herself she knew better than to trust military men. Even ex-military; they were assuredly the same. One couldn’t rely on them, on anything they said let alone anything they promised. Yet why was he here? What had prompted him to return? She tilted her head, watching him closely. “Nothing has happened recently. Maybe whatever”—she gestured—“whole the burglaries were part of is no longer centered here.”
He let a moment elapse, then murmured, “That doesn’t appear to be the case.”
Turning, he faced the house, scanned its bulk. It was the oldest house in the street, built on a grander scale than the terrace houses t
hat in later years had been constructed on either side, walls abutting on both left and right.
“Your house shares walls, presumably basement walls, too, with the houses on either side.”
She followed his gaze, glancing at the house, not that she needed to to verify that fact. “Yes.” She frowned. Followed his logic.
When he said nothing more, but simply stood by her side, she set her lips and, eyes narrowing, glanced up at him.
He was waiting to catch that glance. Their gazes met, locked. Not quite in a battle of wills, more a recognition of resolutions and strengths.
“What’s happened?” She knew something had, or that he’d discovered some new clue. “What have you learned?”
Despite its apparent mobility, his face was difficult to read. A heartbeat passed, then he drew one hand free of his greatcoat pocket.
And reached for hers.
Slid his fingers around her wrist, slid his hand around her much smaller one. Closed it. Took possession of that much.
She didn’t stop him; couldn’t have. Everything within her stilled at his touch. Then quivered in response. The heat of his hand engulfed hers. Once again, she couldn’t breathe.
But she was growing used to the reaction, enough to pretend to ignore it. Lifting her head, she raised a brow in distinctly haughty question.
His lips curved; she knew absolutely that the expression was not a smile.
“Come—walk with me. And I’ll tell you.”
A challenge; his hazel eyes held hers, then he drew her to him, laid her hand on his sleeve as he stepped closer, beside her.
Dragging in a tight breath, she inclined her head, fell into step beside him. They strolled across the lawn, back toward the parlor, her skirts brushing his boots, his hand over hers on his arm.
She was screamingly aware of his strength, sheer masculine power close, so close, by her side. There was heat there, too, the beckoning presence of flame. The arm beneath her fingers felt like steel, yet warm, alive. Her fingertips itched, her palm burned. By an effort of will, she forced her wits to work. “So?” She slanted him a glance, as chill as she could make it. “What have you discovered?”
His hazel eyes hardened. “There’s been a curious incident next door. Someone broke in, but carefully. They tried to leave as little as possible to alert anyone, and nothing was taken.” He paused, then added, “Nothing bar an impression of the key to a side door.”
She digested that, felt her eyes widen. “They’re coming back.”
He nodded, his lips a thin line. He looked at Number 12, then glanced at her. “I’ll be keeping watch.”
She halted. “Tonight?”
“Tonight, tomorrow. I doubt they’ll wait long. The house is nearly ready for occupation. Whatever they’re after—”
“It would be best to strike now, before you have servants installed.” She swung to face him, tried to use the movement to slip her hand free of his.
He lowered his arm, but closed his hand more firmly about hers.
She pretended to be oblivious. “You’ll keep me—us—informed of what transpires?”