Page 5 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
Hmmm.He had kept a hip bath in the room. Empty now, but with a large sponge on the nearby stool. So he liked cleanliness.Don’t we all, sir!A good quality to add to his dark, compelling aura.
Usually, he sat at his dinner for more than two hours. She applauded his good taste…and his effort to aid his digestion. Vaillancourt’s men usually tended toward the erratic, the intense, the quick, so this man’s tendency to linger over his repast was odd. So was the deft artistry of his tailor, who hadsought in vain to make his client appear a country gentleman. This man who shadowed her these past three days could wear rags and yet would not be able to hide the poetry his profile inspired. Indeed, he needed not a stitch to make her widow’s empty arms yearn for so devastatingly handsome a lover.
Foolish, Amber. Put your mind to the job!
She glanced around, hands on her hips. Whatever his predilection to adorn himself so expertly—or even to dine so deliberately, if he were in the employ of the deputy chief of police (because who else wished to examine her closely?)—she did, of course, prefer him gone at least. Dead at best. Although he did focus on her in subtle ways, he was quite interested in her. Many men always had been, but with crude and lascivious motivations. Vaillancourt’s men had political designs in addition.
However, she had no desire to aid this particular man in his effort to insert himself into her life. Therefore, she had not gotten closer to him than twenty feet away. Still, she had noted his habits.Vin rouge.Beef. Polite regard of ladies. Congeniality toward men. Long walks in the mornings, wherein he learned the streets of the town. But the ones in Varennes were not so large or numerous. His perambulations, therefore, were laudable but necessarily repetitive.
Here in his rooms, she smiled to herself and rubbed her gloved hands together. She glanced about at the large expanse. He was neat. Hanging his nicely tailored waistcoats and frock coats on two different mannequin forms, he showed a tendency to be a dandy. He could never be mistaken for aposeur.He walked the earth as if he owned it all. Were he not in employ of Vaillancourt, she would wish to walk beside him, grasp his arm, feel his strength as he held her in a dance. Certainly, his breadth of shoulder and length of leg told the tale of a man whomastered every task with vigor and sturdy good health. A part of her quivered with longing for the touch of such a virile man.
She shook her head.Foolish! Look around! Who is this creature?
She pressed a hand to her stomach and quelled the old ache for a true lover. Maurice was gone, and this man…
This man was who?
He had no valet accompanying him here, but his small clothes, clean and folded, were put away in the tall chest of drawers. A hand-drawn map of the Meuse-Argonne area sat in the top drawer. It was folded just so. Upon the map lay small coins, French and old. Had he put them in such precise array to catch anyone who would peruse his personal items? Of course he had. Just as, under his bed, he had tucked his satchel, the thick leather straps smartly secured, to detect if anyone tampered with them.
Where her gaze took her was to the array of his personal items on the far bureau. The fellow carried his own soap, beautifully shaped in an oval. She bent to sniff the bar. Sandalwood and a trace of orange oil inspired her to grin. She liked citrus on the skin of a man. Maurice had always asked that lemon be milled into his soaps. This man, as particular as her dear husband had once been, liked his own razor and strap, too. No rough country barber could shave him with poorly tended implements. She put out a finger to touch the bristles of his hairbrush—a frisson zipped through her at the two stray strands of his rich brown-black hair that lingered there.
The stairs creaked.
She snatched back her hand.
Someone—a man—with a sure stride strode across the hallway planks.
Theproprietaire? At this hour?
It could not be… She’d seen him behind the bar.
No matter who it was, he was coming here, and she…
Frantic, she flew toward the only hiding place, a narrow closet wherein her man hung his greatcoat on a peg. He could not need it tonight.
Could he?
She slipped open the door, winced as the rusty hinge squeaked, and shut herself inside.
Just in time.
She heard the door handle jiggle, the portal creak open wide. Through the slats of the closet door, she could see him. Closer than she had ever been to him, she smothered her gasp of appreciation. He was taller than she had imagined. She was no petite woman, but he loomed, large and imposing, as he strolled about the room. Then he wandered closer, his frown arresting her breathing. His face, with its classic arches and shadows, captured her imagination. He was Mars, Thor, no man she’d ever encountered. The curve of his lips as he gazed around the room in some private satisfaction was as alluring as his kisses must be. But then he spun toward her, focused on her hidey-hole—and grinned.
“I know you are in there,” he said with a bass voice that could rival the depths of Lucifer’s. “Do come out.”
To run was impossible. She’d get one step and he’d catch her in those long, muscular arms. But before she complied, she stopped to consider one startling fact. If he wished to kill her, to do away with her in the name of Vaillancourt and the glory of the consulate, he would have simply opened the flimsy door and assaulted her. He could snap her neck and be done with her in ten seconds. So. He was on a different mission.
But what?
“I rather like it here,” she told him with a sniff. All bravado it was, too.
He settled before her door and, hands on his hips, scoffed. “I’ve no idea why, madame.”
He knew she was a widow? She wore no ring. She’d sewn that into her coat hem with her gold. Well then. Informed scoundrel, wasn’t he?
“I prefer dark, close spaces,” she told him. “Especially when I am being intimidated.”
“I assure you, madame, I’ve no wish to do that. In fact, I wish to save you from yourself.”
