Page 115 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Chapter 23
“Breathe,” Bink whispered, all but carrying Paulette up the steps and through the door, where he plopped her against the wall, flipped back the veil, and ran his hands over her arms.
The prickling in his hands was easing, the blood flowing back. Dear God, he’d wanted to throttle her, but her trembling was shaking his anger away.
He pulled her close, their chests heaving together. That was terror there. She was good and afraid, and rightly so. When Trish had pounded into his room to tell him Paulette left, all he could see was visions of a defenseless woman—his woman—walking the streets of London.
Who knew she could find the hackney stand so quickly, or be so foolish as to go there by herself, without him? Even without Agruen’s or Bakeley’s interference, there was the usual danger. London was no place for a woman alone.
The porter entered, and Bink set Paulette back from him.
“Mr. Tellingford’s clerk will see you now, Mr. Gibson.” The lean fellow eyed Paulette’s heaving bosom with far too much curiosity. Bink sent him a withering look that quickly detached the gaze.
“Come along, my dear.” He latched her to his side. The scolding would keep until later, to a more private setting.
“You came without me,” she whispered.
Well, perhaps theycouldhave a word or two now. “Only after I discovered you gone. What bloody nonsense was that?” he whispered as they moved down a corridor.
Their greeter ushered them into an office, introduced them to a clerk, and left.
“Mr. Tellingford is with another client.”
“He’s in?” Paulette asked. “So early? I didn’t expect it.”
“Would you like to take a seat?”
The man addressed his words to Bink, ignoring her. Irritating that. Worse, though was the thread of suspicion racing through him. He had a knife and a pistol, and—he patted her arm—Paulette was wearing her sheathed knife.
“Perhaps we should have expected anotherclientto be here, my dear.” He kept his voice steady. “And I believe we will stand.”
The inner door opened, and he shoved Paulette behind him.
“Brother.” Bakeley filled the doorway, his face breaking into a smile that looked like relief. Behind him Kincaid’s head bobbed.
Kincaid nudged past Bakeley and advanced on them. “You didn’t trust us.”
There was no accusation in his tone, only a bland matter-of-factness, but the older man picked up Paulette’s hand and chafed it. “You’ve made it this far, so you’ve been careful. Where did you stay the night?—no, no I won’t ask.” His sigh displayed an uncharacteristic fatigue. The man rarely slept, yet this was the first time he’d seemed tired. Bink imagined him scouring all the townhouses of Hackwell’s acquaintances, and all the hotels and inns. “We’re going to help you the rest of the way. You must trust us, Gibson. Paulette’s safety is paramount to us, as is yours.”
“Where’s your man, Stewart?” Bink asked.
“Did including him make you lose trust?” Bakeley asked. “He’s off arranging your rooms. Good God, when we saw that body upon the road—”
“Body?” Bink asked.
Kincaid sent Bakeley a glare. “Never mind that. You’ve arrived safely.” He squeezed Paulette’s hand. “It was excluding Paulette made you both lose trust, wasn’t it, lass?”
Paulette’s headswam with the up and down of fear and emotion. Kincaid’s touch was comforting, almost paternal, very trust-inducing, except…after all she’d been through that morning she had no certainty in her own judgment.
A body? There’d been a body? She must pull her head out of the water and start swimming.
“What of my servants?” Paulette said.
The chafing turned to patting.
“They’re safe. Don’t worry. They have the grooms and my men to assist them. They’re on their way to London.”
“I don’t know Stewart. I don’t wish to stay in some secret rooms he’s arranging.”
