Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“You will remain with us until I have verified that you are who you say you are, Mr. Kindred,” Jason said.

“I don’t want to go to Botany Bay! Don’t put me name on no bill of ladin’. Don’t ye send me to the bugs!”

Hallie said, “Then you’d best be a very cooperative prisoner from this moment on, don’t you think? For goodness’ sake, polish those filthy boots.”

Jason took her hand, kissed her fingers, saw she was looking at his mouth, and smiled at her. “That was well done, Hallie. An excellent questioning technique. Mr.

Blaystock, huh?”

“I saw my father do that once, worked like a charm. Hmm.” She frowned, tapped a lovely shod foot.

Jason said, “What is it? You guessed right.”

“I know him,” Hallie said finally, looking back at the man who was now standing, his hands tied behind him, Horace’s big hand around his arm. “Yes, I’m sure of it now.”

Jason waited, didn’t say a thing.

“I saw him hold Lord Grimsby’s horse once when I was in Eastbourne, in front of Mountbank’s Stable off High Street.”

“Lord Grimsby,” Jason repeated. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Lord Grimsby had just spoken a few words to his wife, and was off to a tavern, once she was out of sight. I heard him yell something to this man. I’m sure it was our Mr. Kindred.”

“So,” Jason said, looking at the man now walking between Henry, Quincy, and Horace. “He’s not stupid, our dirty young man with his seedy-looking boots. He realized very quickly he could shift the blame onto Mr. Blaystock. He was quite smooth. Interesting.”

“Yes, it is. What are we going to do, Jason?”

Jason smiled down at her, saw her tongue slide over her bottom lip, sighed deep in his throat, kissed her hard, and stepped away from her. “What I’m going to do is try to keep my hands off you until we’re home. Er, Hallie, I meant to ask you, do you really want that chair to be at the foot of the bed?”

“You’re right. My gowns never land on the chair. I know, I’ll move the chair in front of the armoire. It faces the window and such a lovely view it is, don’t you agree?”

Jason stared down at her, fascinated and appalled.

“I’m joking, Jason. I’m joking.”

CHAPTER 37

“This one is too close.” Hallie kissed the long thin scar high on the inside of his left thigh.

“Yes, much too close,” Jason said, and tried not to think of her mouth caressing that scar he always noticed when he was bathing because it had been too close, of her palm now lying flat on his belly, fingers splayed. He was trying his best not to shudder like a palsied man. He said only, “Hallie.” Odd how whispering her name in moments like this flowed so steadily through him now, warm and strong. He said her name again because it felt so good, because her breath was warm against his flesh.

She looked up the length of his body to his beautiful face, stretched up to kiss his belly, then looked at his face again. “Not long ago I would have been alarmed that I was causing you distress. But not now.” She lowered her head, kissed the scar again, her touch so light he wanted to cry. “How did it happen?”

“What? Oh, the cut on my leg. James managed to get under my guard, poked his wooden sword into my belly, and I toppled backward over a log. A small and unfortunately very sharp branch was sticking up, and it tore right through my britches and got me.”

“Were you old enough to be mortified when your mother wanted to take care of you?”

“Oh yes, but my father saved me, bless him for all time, cleaned me up himself.” And he said her name again. “Hallie.”

She traced the thin scar over his right hipbone, the result of being thrown off his pony when he was six years old, he told her. Jason believed it was all over for him when she licked that scar, her fingers curling around him now, and he, quite simply, wanted to drum his heels against the mattress, and die. Thank God he wasn’t eighteen and still had a modicum of control over himself. Hallie, however, was orderly. She wasn’t to be hurried. After an eternity, she reached his chest. She was on her knees leaning over him, her hair loose, veiling her face, her fingers moving to the scar high on his shoulder. She lightly traced it. “This is the bullet wound.”

“Yes.”

“From five years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Jason. Tell me what happened. I think it’s time, don’t you?”