Page 87 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
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Tidying up aftertheir midday meal, Belle bustled about the kitchen. With a glance through the window facing the garden, she spotted the new bodyguard squinting against the afternoon sun. Seeming to sense she was watching him, Mr. Northcutt turned toward her, his expression stony and unreadable. Since his arrival that morning, the man had kept a clear distance. He’d come inside briefly to eat the meal Mrs. Gilroy had prepared, taking hasty bites of the hearty sandwich before returning to his patrol. Now, he turned away from her, checked his pocket watch, and began to pace with long strides.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but the man seemed on edge. Of course, Mrs. Gilroy’s attempts at conversation might’ve had something to do with that. The housekeeper had spoken to him in her usual, forthright manner, but Mr.Northcutt clearly had no interest in gaining any familiarity with those he’d been hired to protect. Perhaps he did not wish to risk any appearance of impropriety, especially with Jon out of the house. But still, what would be the harm in offering a nod or a chuckle when an old woman attempted to break the ice?
Something about the man didn’t quite fit. She wasn’t surprised that the bodyguard was somewhat aloof. But why would Mrs. Johnstone have felt this man who seemed downright cold was a good fit for a household which included a curious child, two mischievous pets, and a slightly saucy old woman?
Oh, she was letting her nerves get the better of her. She had faith in Mrs. Johnstone’s judgment. What did it matter that the man’s personality was as stale as week-old bread?
“So, Mrs. Gilroy, I was wondering... do you still think Mr. Northcutt is—oh, how did you phrase it—easy on the eyes?” Belle asked while she and Carrie washed and dried the dishes.
“As a matter of fact, he is a rather handsome sort.” The housekeeper’s mouth pursed, rather like she’d tasted a lemon. “Pity the man possesses the disposition of an ornery goat.”
Belle bit back a chuckle. “Oh, he’s not so bad as that.”
“The way he reacted to Carrie did not sit well with me,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “And he was none too warm toward Heathy, either.” Her lips pursed again. “As my dear old mum always said, if ye want to know the worth of a person, take a good look at how they treat the wee ones and animals. That will always tell the tale.”
Belle took a freshly washed cup from the strainer. She’d scarcely had time to wipe it with her drying rag before Heathy suddenly began to bark. Without warning, the dog bolted from the room, the bell on his collar jangling wildly.
“Heathy’s not happy,” Carrie said, staring after the pup with the innocent eyes of a child. “I’ll check on him.”
As she rushed to follow the dog’s path, Belle reached out to stop her, but she couldn’t quite catch the girl as she scurried away.
The sound of Mrs. Gilroy’s gasp stopped Belle in her tracks. “God above, you startled me,” the old woman murmured, eyes wide with indignation. “Who are ye? Did Mr. Northcutt let you in?”
Turning to the doorway, Belle froze. The cup in her hand crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass scattering around their feet. For the span of several heartbeats, she stood transfixed.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t gather her wits.
And all the while, the man she’d run from met her eyes with a piercing blue glare.
Gideon.
“Hello, Arabelle.” His voice was as icy as a frigid January morn. “I’ve come to take you home.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Throughout most ofhis life, Jon had trusted facts and figures and rational analysis above emotion-driven decisions. Yet, he’d learned not to discount his gut. The last time he’d done so, he’d boarded a ship out of New York harbor and made the most foolish move of his life. Even then, his instincts had warned that no matter the rational justification he managed to cobble together, leaving Belle would be a mistake. Like a dolt, he’d pushed that warning aside. Now, he would leave that one fateful decision in the past as he started his relationship with Belle anew.
He’d scarcely slept the night before. Holding Belle in his arms, he’d drifted off despite his best efforts to stave off sleep. He’d wanted to remain awake, wanted to experience every sweet moment of the night. The feel of her soft skin against his. The taste of her tender kiss. The delicious sound of her quiet moans as they’d reached the heights of passion. The wonder of it all could not be matched. Never in his life had he felt such contentment. Such utter satisfaction.
If everything went to plan, he would ask Belle to become his wife. For the rest of his days, he would cherish her. Adore her.
But first, he had to earn Belle’s trust. Had to earn her faith in him. Had to erase any doubts in her mind that their lives should be forever intertwined.
Now, hours after their night together, a tonic for his weary soul, he’d strode into his office intent on retrieving the one thinghe would need when he uttered the question he burned to ask. While the sun was high in the sky, eliminating the risk that an intruder might conceal himself in the shadows of his home, and an experienced guard stood watch within the house, the rational part of his mind had insisted Belle would be safe for the brief time of his absence. But an instinctive tension stirred in his gut.
“Bloody hell, ye look like ye need a drink, my friend,” Logan MacLain marched into Jon’s office with his usual blunt assessment of any situation. “I know what ye’re thinking about doing. It takes a stout soul, but I know ye’ll figure it out.”
“Indeed, I will,” Jon said, a bit more confident than he felt. He sat upon a leather chair near his desk and stretched out his legs. “Take a seat, will you, so I don’t feel like a lazy dolt.”
Logan pulled up a chair, his gaze settling on the small box on Jon’s desk. “So, that’s it, is it?”
Jon opened the velvet-lined box. For a long moment, he studied the sapphire and diamond band his grandmother had given him on her death bed. This was the ring his grandfather had slipped upon her finger when he’d asked her to become his bride. The ring she’d worn when she’d given birth to his mother. The ring she’d envisioned on the hand of the woman he would marry.
For years, he’d kept it locked away in his safe. It had seemed a precious reminder of a great love. His grandmother, wise woman that she was, had encouraged him to seek a greater reward in life than profits and losses and the like. At the time, he’d listened to her gentle entreaties with respect, but deep within, he’d dismissed her words. Someday, he would marry. He’d known that much. After all, he had to carry on the family name. But he’d doubted love would have much to do with it.
Until now.
