Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine 3)

“Needs some work.” Ian opened the front door and cool air rushed into the room. “I’ll be able to keep an eye on the cottage from the grounds, but lock this after we leave,” he called back to Francesca.

Francesca rolled her eyes.

“Francesca?” he prompted in that hoarse, compelling voice of his. She met his stare reluctantly. “Double lock it. Please.”

“Fine,” she muttered, willing to say anything to get him out of there. It felt like she hadn’t taken a full breath of air into her lungs since she’d entered the sitting room that morning. She finally did so after she’d slammed the door shut behind the two men and twisted the locks.

She couldn’t take this for much longer. If Ian didn’t leave Belford sometime very soon, she would have to be the one to go. It was a simple matter of survival.

But could she really do it? Could she really walk away from him after so many months of worrying, so many unbearable nights of feeling his absence like a gaping hole in her spirit?

If he could do it, you can.

Somehow, that incendiary thought didn’t help any.

* * *

Ian and Gerard returned after their inspection of the grounds, but thankfully her focus on the sketch gave her some measure of defense.

Or so she’d thought.

Someone tapped lightly on the door, but then immediately used the key to enter. Ian. He knew she’d be lost in her own little world. She glanced around distractedly from where she sat on a chair in front of the cottage picture window and saw him walking toward the fireplace, looking rugged and very appealing with a load of logs in his arms and his short hair windblown. He met her gaze, but didn’t speak as he put the logs in the firebox and kindled the fire. She resumed moving her hand over the sketchbook propped in her lap, distantly aware that Gerard stood for a moment at the threshold looking at her before walking out again, closing the door gently behind him.

The thought that she and Ian were alone in the cottage penetrated her awareness. She swallowed uneasily, her entire focus transferring from the view before her and the unfolding image on the page to the sounds of him moving behind her. What had Gerard and he talked about? Would he say anything to her now that they were alone?

She heard his boots scuffling on the marble hearth as he stood. He returned the poker to the holder, with a muted sound of metal on metal. She tried to locate him in the room by sound in the anxious silence that followed.

Her sketching hand went completely still a second later when she felt him touch her nape at her hairline, his fingertips cool . . . slightly abrasive. Shivers cascaded down her spine.

I’ll wait for you in my bedroom tonight.

Her heart seemed to jump into her throat. He hadn’t said the same words he’d uttered in the sitting room early this morning, and yet she’d heard them perfectly in her head. She sat looking out the picture window, frozen, every cell of her being focused on him standing just behind her. His fingers moved slightly, stroking her, creating a fresh wave of tingles down her spine . . . tightening her nipples.

“I’ll lock the door from the outside. Start back to Belford before it gets dark. If you don’t, I’ll come and get you.”

It could have been that he was alluding to the fact that she frequently lost track of time when she worked, and that she would be expected for dinner at Belford. It could have been that he was referring to her prickliness when it came to his presence, and he was letting her know point-blank if she stayed too long, she’d have to endure him.

Whatever the subtleties, he was making it clear that he’d claim her upon his whim.

Anger swelled in her breast at the thought, but that sensation was nothing in comparison to the other places in her body that his touch had enlivened.

Those places prickled with awareness long after he was gone.

* * *

That evening after she got out of a warm, relaxing bath, she found Clarisse in her suite hanging out a dark green dress for her to wear.

“I poured some club soda for you,” Clarisse said, nodding at a glass on a tray sitting on the coffee table. “Her ladyship told me to tell you that they met up with some friends who are staying in town over the holiday, and they’ve been asked to dine at Belford tonight—a Mr. Gravish and his wife. Her ladyship is friends with Mr. Gravish’s mother, and his wife was a school friend of Mr. Noble’s.”

“Ian you mean?” Francesca asked.

Clarisse nodded. “Yes, she knew him when Mr. Noble was still a boy, you know, in the local primary. Back when he first came to Belford Hall, I believe. One of the older maids told me he hadn’t ever been properly schooled before he came to England, and so her ladyship enrolled him in the local school for a year and gave him a private tutor in order to get him up to snuff. Mr. Noble was sharp as a blade, though, even if he was rough around the edges. It only took that year before he was ready for private, but that’s when he met Mrs. Gravish—I mean, she wasn’t Mrs. Gravish back then, of course.” Clarisse realized she’d been prattling on and gave Francesca an anxious glance. “Anyway, I’d started to stay that everyone is going to meet in the sitting room at seven before dinner,” Clarisse said. She held up a pair of brown suede pumps. “These with the dress, miss?”

“Sure,” Francesca said distractedly, thinking about what Clarisse had said about Ian as she removed the towel on her head and watched the young woman bustle around. “Did you have a good time at the ball last night, Clarisse?”

“Oh, yes. It was amazing.” She said excitedly before something seemed to occur to her and she hesitated.