Page 47 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Her gaze slid away and she bit her lip, as if mentioning the letter had been a mistake. It must be important.
“Did she not leave you that wee knife you have hidden under your skirt?”
Her eyes went wide.
“Or is it a wee pistol?”
Her lips firmed and he waited.
“It is a dagger.” The frown she sent him was mulish. “And it was hers. As was this dress, though I made it over a few years ago. You’re thinking it is dreadfully old-fashioned.”
Men don’t notice much below the bodice and yours is very fine indeed. “I didn’t pay heed to the fashion of the dress, only that it is very becoming. May I see your blade?”
She inserted a hand into a slit in her skirt and drew out a five-inch blade, sharpened to a gleaming point. She flipped it around and presented it to him.
And his breath caught at the trust she was showing. He cupped his hands under hers without removing the blade. A shiver went through her and he noted her hands were still cold.
“You are chilled. Shall I close the window?”
She shook her head. “What do you think? What kind of knife is this?”
He took it gently from her and turned it over. A Celtic knot looped through the hasp of the squat blade. “This is a dirk. Scottish. It’s a lovely blade. Looks to be well-balanced.” He touched a finger to the edge. “Very sharp. You are carrying it sheathed?”
“Yes.”
“May I see the sheath?”
Even in the candlelight, he could tell she was coloring deeply. “It is fastened to my leg.”
Visions assaulted him again—Paulette, lifting her skirts, those trim ankles, a garter high on firm thighs. Stubborn need surged into his loins. He leaned back and rested one ankle on the opposite knee. It was impolite, but expedient. “I would like to see the sheath some time also, if you would permit. Did your mother carry this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s another thing I found among her things when she died. She must have. This dress has several pockets and slits. And…there are pistols also.”
“She did not talk about the knife and pistols?”
“No.”
Her grandparents came from the peninsula, Bakeley had said. Her mother had weapons squirreled away. She’d told Agruen her mother was British. Her father had been one of Shaldon’s men.
Was her mother a spy also? “And what of this puzzle Agruen plans to solve?”
She shook her head and looked away. “I don’t know.”
That might or might not be true. He tried a different tack. “What is your plan?”
“As I told you, I’m going to London. I’m going to speak with a solicitor named Tellingford, and my trustees if I can find them. And I did plan to find Agruen. I want my mother’s ring back.” She frowned. “Perhaps he has it with him.”
Why a man would carry such a ring on a hunting trip, Bink couldn’t imagine, but he kept the thought to himself.
He saw her frown transform into hard determination. His nerves came to attention. “Leave that bit of searching to me.”
She inched a little closer on the edge of her seat. “Truly?”
Truly, and how, he did not know, for the man surely had a valet with him. Hackwell would keep the villain in thrall for a while, discussing his parliamentary scheme, and in view of Paulette’s pestering and Hackwell’s politicking, Agruen would likely leave in the morning.
But then, the manwasgood at assaulting women and running away.
Bink stood. “Come, lass. Let us get you back to your room.” He took her hand and drew her up. Light as a lamb, she was. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he blew out the candles. He could do without light if he was going to go searching.
