Page 69 of The Devil in Oxford
Annabelle would be fine.
Ruan had her, and if anyone could save her, it was him.
He stood at last, hand falling to his side as the air grew still around us.
I held my hand out to him, palm up. “Come on to bed, pellar.You’ve done well. I’ll come along after I speak with Mrs. Penrose and Mr. Owen. I need to tell them the rest of what we’ve learned tonight.”
He furrowed his brow, not understanding my words. For the last few nights, Ruan had been sprawled out on the small sofa in the drawing room, his long limbs slung over the arm. It was a wonder he was on his feet at all—and yet rather than go stay with Professor Laurent where he could have several rooms to himself, Ruan had stubbornly remained in this cramped townhome with an eccentric octogenarian bookseller, our Cornish housekeeper… and me.
“You want me to come to bed?” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“With you?”
Again, yes.
He drew in an uncertain breath.
“It’s not the first time we’ve shared a bed—and this one is at least twice as big as the one in Scotland. I promise not to ravish you, if that’s your concern. Or I could send you down to share Mr. Owen’s, he has one large enough for a king, but I must warn you he snores like an old hound.”
He let out a hoarse laugh, raking his hand through his tangled hair. “I’m too bloody tired to be ravished, but I appreciate the sentiment. It’s only that I…” He caught himself again.
Something about his uncertainty struck a chord. Ruan was afraid of us too. I sighed and took a step closer to him. “I’m more than certain how I feel about you, Ruan. I’m sorry for what I said in Scotland. For what I did. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take the sofa. At leastIfit on it. We still have to find Leona and you’re no good to me with an aching neck and bad temper. You need a decent night’s sleep.”
He didn’t speak for several seconds, didn’t move at all. His clever mind likely reminding him what a bad bet I was all around. Then the edge of his mouth turned up into a weary smile. “No… it’sall right. I accept your olive branch, Miss Vaughn, such that it is.” He stifled another yawn behind his fist before placing his palm in mine. He was trying to make light of it, but itwasan olive branch. A truce and a promise for better days ahead for the both of us.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWOCrime Before Breakfast
ANunfamiliar weight lay across my body. My eyes shot open, panic rising in my chest until I recalled the circumstances of said weight. Ruan was fast asleep on the edge of the narrow bed. His left arm thrown over his eyes, his right leg tangled with my own. I’d scarcely hit the mattress before falling fast asleep—still fully dressed from the previous evening’s misadventures. Too tired for ravishment indeed. There ought to be a word for that level of pure exhaustion.
Fiachna had positioned himself at his usual spot at the back of my knee. Ordinarily, it was not a problem, as I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in a scandalously long time. I leaned over Ruan and grabbed my pin watch. It was still dark out—but I had an appointment with Hari and the imposter.
Six o’clock.
I snapped it back shut.
I’d have to hurry. I wriggled out of the bed gently. As soon as I was up, Ruan rolled over onto the warm spot I’d left. I quickly changed into a fresh set of clothes and started out the door.
Fiachna meowed at me, stretching in the bed.
“Take care of things will you, old man?”
The cat meowed again and nestled himself against Ruan’s chest, purring loudly.
My cat and I were in accord when it came to Ruan Kivell.
OUR CAPTIVE REMAINEDbound in the kitchen, but this time he was awake. A pang of conscience struck me. In my utter exhaustion, I’d left a probable murderer with my octogenarian employer. What sort of a reckless fool did that? Mr. Owen, for his part, was enjoying himself immensely, sitting guard with his Webley revolver in his left hand, a teacup in his right. His dark brown eyes met mine. “How’s the lass?
“Same as last night. She’s awakened but isn’t speaking sense. At least, not yet.”
He lifted a piece of buttered toast from a plate, casting Inspector Beecham a dark glance. Beecham’s nostrils flared and he struggled against his makeshift restraints. Mr. Owen must have changed his bindings, as now his wrists were held fast by a leather belt. An old dust cloth was jammed into his mouth.
I quirked a brow. “And him? I take it he’s been talking a great deal.”
“Aye, I didn’t care to listen to his blathering,” the old Scot grumbled, gesturing with the revolver. The inspector let out a squeak through the gag.
“Anything enlightening come up during said blathering?”
