Page 22 of No One's Bride
“This isn’t how it looks,” he felt compelled to say once they’d lit the lamps and found a seat in the study.
Daventry sipped his brandy. “And how does it look?”
Was the man being facetious? “You know damn well how it looks. Like our passion for old books has led to a passion of a different kind. I assure you. I came to the lady’s aid, nothing more.”
“What I think is of no consequence.”
“Then I trust you will keep your opinion to yourself.”
Daventry’s curious gaze flicked to the wooden box on the desk and the strands of straw littering the surface. “Tell me about the intruder, and how you happened to be passing.”
Sebastian took the comment as a veiled accusation. “I had my reasons for wanting More’s book, but I did not stage a robbery to gain the tome.”
“And yet it would be easy to manipulate the lady while she is without her parents’ protection.”
Sebastian shot to his feet. “I may have a heart of stone, but I would never hurt Miss MacTavish. The implication is reason enough to call you out.”
“I’m told you’re an excellent marksman.” Daventry gave a confident smirk, then knocked back his brandy. “But you’re not cold. Your heart growls with the passion of a disgruntled bear that savages anyone in its path. Imagine a life where love replaced hatred.”
Sebastian scowled. He did not need a lecture from a man who thrived on punishing wrongdoers. Injustice and fury were sides of the same coin. “You forget I’ve seen you fight. You’ve the devil’s darkness in you.”
Daventry did not deny the claim. “Life is about balance. I’m a different man when I make love to my wife. A different man when I educate my sons on the value of loyalty and forgiveness. But you’re right. Woe betide anyone who crosses me.”
A tense silence descended.
Sebastian never felt more alive than when fighting in the dank pits at the White Boar or flexing his foil at the School of Arms in Soho. Loving a woman would not bring answers. Hurting men was a means of punishing someone for the mystery surrounding his brother’s death.
Daventry gestured to the sinister box. “Were you not curious to study More’sUtopia? I’m surprised it’s not open on the desk.”
“Chadwick’s delivered the wrong book,” Miss MacTavish said from the doorway, the nervous edge to her tone in sharp contrast to her bright demeanour. “’Tis a mistake we must rectify tomorrow.”
They stood.
“We were debating the fact it might not be a mistake,” Sebastian said. Eager to see what she’d done with her hair, he permitted himself one glance.
The loose braid hung over her shoulder to rest gently against her breast. Errant red wisps escaped to caress her slender throat. She wore no corset beneath the plain green dress, and he was suddenly thinking about rosebud nipples again.
Like a woodland nymph, did she mean to entrap him in her womanly spell or was the damn grimoire conjuring these lewd images?
“Then what’s in the box?” Daventry asked.
“The grimoire, sir.” Miss MacTavish sat in her father’s chair behind the desk, and they resumed their seats. “A spell book from the sixteenth century. The one sold at auction yesterday.”
Daventry straightened. “May I see the book?”
“I—I think it’s best to leave it buried,” she stuttered.
“I’m afraid I must insist, madam. A man was murdered at the auction house, and now you tell me More’s book is missing.”
“Evidently, the person who won the grimoire now has a copy ofUtopia,” Sebastian countered. Yet a knot in his gut said things were more complicated, not at all what they seemed.
“Tell me what happened tonight,” Daventry demanded. “Leave nothing out. It is vital I understand what we’re dealing with here.”
Sebastian gave a detailed explanation, though did not mention hauling Miss MacTavish against his body in the dark. Said nothing about pressing the hard ridge of his cock against her buttocks.
“Might the intruder have been the shady fellow who wished to purchase the grimoire at auction?” Daventry mused.
“It’s possible. He was nimble and fast on his feet.”
