Page 36 of West End Earl
“I’m sorry. You saw it, then,” he said.
“Yes. I ran for help.” She struggled to form the words. Talking about this was not something she did. Not ever. “Vicar Arcott and his son, John, came. The vicar knew about my runaway attempt. This grand charade was all his idea, actually—to swap clothes with my brother. He falsified the death record, and we buried Adam under my headstone.”
“Thus avoiding marriage to an old lecher.”
She managed a nod. Some said the truth would set you free. Feeling free would be a lovely change from this iron-heavy grief. “I took his place at school. Became my brother in every way I could.”
Cal slowly chewed a bite of sausage. “And now Milton wants Adam dead before he inherits.”
She shoved her plate aside, all appetite gone. “Vicar Arcott mentioned that Milton has made some poor business decisions recently. I think he needs money. Which makes sense if our theory about the insurance policy is correct.”
“So darling Uncle Milton gets your inheritance and the insurance money when you die. I’d really love to punch him in the throat.”
She giggled at the very Cal-like threat, then clapped a hand over her mouth. For an instant they shared a look that had nothing to do with the conversation, and everything to do with that surprisingly girlish noise.
The corners of his eyes crinkled in a familiar grin. “You laugh, but I would. I could take him.”
Phee leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. This teasing was familiar territory, easing light into the darkness that had crept in during their conversation. Tilting her head, she squinted. “I don’t know. He would probably fight dirty.”
Cal wiped his mouth with a serviette and rose from his seat. “I still say I could take him.” He paused next to her chair and propped his rather spectacular behind on the polished table beside her elbow. Crossing his arms in a mirror of her posture, he studied her. “You’re rather incredible, do you know that? Keeping a secret of this magnitude for this long is impressive. And the solutions you devised are rather clever as well.”
Her blush burned her skin as it crept from her chest to her face. The curse of being a redhead. “You mean my pizzle pocket.”
“Your—” He couldn’t finish the words before dissolving into laughter. Finally, he wheezed, “Is that what you call it?”
Straightening, Phee asked rather indignantly, “How else am I supposed to piss standing up?”
Cal covered his face with his hands as a snort escaped. After a moment, he smoothed his hair off his face and threaded his fingers together behind his head, still chuckling. Goodness, he was made entirely of long lines and trim muscles. Kingston hadn’t confined Cal’s hair to an orderly queue this morning. Probably because it was still damp from bathing. She liked it this way—loose and a bit wild, hanging past his shoulders. The strands caught the light streaming through the window, giving him a glow she should be used to by now. But no, there was still a funny flip in her stomach at the sight he made.
The spicy scent of him teased her nose, and a craving for gingerbread hit her with a fierceness that made her mouth water.
“I still can’t believe you call it a pizzle pocket. But I’m glad I found it that night. Even if it has made you distracting as hell.” His grin flashed, then faded, as if he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face. “It made me pay attention to all the things I missed before now.”
Phee fidgeted in her seat under the frank appraisal, rolling a fork between her fingers to watch the tines flash in the morning sun streaming through the window. “People see what you tell them to see.”
“Yes, they do. I’m sorry I didn’t see you earlier, Phee.”
Hearing her name on his lips brought her head up. Like it had last night, the world around them narrowed to only the two of them. The sound of his breath, slow and measured, filled the space between them.
One would think his eyes, being such a dark brown, would be just that—brown. But there were flecks of gold and green in there too. Like the rest of him, unable to be simple or monochromatic. There were always more layers to Cal. More color. More insight. More intelligence behind the humor.
It was hard not to fall face-first into the temptation he offered. Friendship, trust, the promise of kisses. An ally. Heady stuff. “I have a hard time believing everything you said last night. Fully, I mean,” she said.
Slowly, as if approaching an animal who would shy, he brought a finger to her bottom lip as he had the night before, barely grazing her skin. “Your secret is safe. I won’t tell anyone else. But I don’t know how I’ve spent two years looking at these extravagant lips of yours without wanting to kiss them.”
If he were a spider, this would be his web, and she would be caught. Nervous, Phee licked her lips and accidentally caught the tip of his finger with her tongue. His breath stopped altogether, and the blacks of his eyes flared. Cal held her gaze as he spread the moisture over her bottom lip, then brought that same finger to his mouth. Phee forgot to breathe as he sucked the very tip of his finger, then straightened.
His voice rumbled, rough and uneven. “I need to make a few calls. Promise me you won’t run away today. Please?”
A jumble of desire and confusion stole her ability to speak, so she nodded, then stared at his back as he left the room.
He’d called her Phee.
***
There was no way he could ride in this condition. A cockstand and a saddle seemed like an unwise combination. Cal managed to make it out of the breakfast room before he drew a full breath.
Holy hell, if this was what having Ophelia—Phee—under his roof would be like, he’d strain a groin muscle within a week. Leaning against the wall, Cal folded his hands in front of the bulge in his breeches and closed his eyes.
