Running her hands upward, she slid them into his hair, ruffling the silky locks, then smoothing them. She glanced at his face, shadowed in the gloom. Wished he’d lit the candles again, for she loved to see him like this, sated, deeply satisfied, having found his release in her.
There was power, a delicious power, in knowing she had brought him to this.
Shifting her head, she brushed her lips to his temple. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me.”
He humphed. After a moment added, “Later.”
She smiled, lay back, knew that while they lay there together, neither fear nor the murderer could impinge on her world. That the only currency there was what lay between them.
The emotional connection, the shared physical joy-the ephemeral bliss.
The love.
It had been there all the time, waiting for them to see it, understand it, and claim it.
She glanced at him. Realized he was watching her.
Realized she didn’t need to tell him-he knew.
She rolled toward him, let their lips meet in a kiss that said it all. His hand was cradling her head when it ended.
Again their gazes met, locked, then he ran his hand down, over her shoulder, down her back, gathered her against him, let his hand rest on her hip. Closed his eyes. Settled to sleep.
An utterly simple gesture of acceptance.
She closed her eyes and accepted, too.
“We have a problem.” Stokes stood in the middle of the summerhouse, facing Portia, Simon, and Charlie. They’d just quit the breakfast table, this morning all but deserted, when he’d met them in the hall and requested a meeting. “Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead have asked to take their families and leave. I can delay them for a day or so, but not more. That, however, isn’t the real problem.”
He paused, as if debating with himself, then said, “The truth is, we’ve no evidence, and very little likelihood of catching this murderer.” He held up a hand when Charlie would have spoken. “Yes, I know that’s going to be black for the Glossups, but it’s actually worse than that.”
Stokes looked at Simon. Portia did, too, and realized that whatever Stokes meant, Simon understood.
He glanced at her as Stokes went on, “Miss Ashford appears to be the murderer’s only remaining mistake. After last night, we know that, no matter she doesn’t know anything that would identify him, he’s still convinced she does. The adder-that might have been an attempt to frighten her off, but the attempt last night was intended to kill. To silence, as he’s silenced Dennis.”
Simon looked at Stokes. “You’re saying he won’t stop. That he’ll feel compelled to keep on, to dog Portia beyond the boundaries of Glossup Hall, through her life, wherever she goes, until he can make sure she’s no longer a threat to him?”
Curtly, Stokes nodded. “Whoever he is, he clearly feels he has too much to lose to risk letting her go. He must fear she’ll remember at some point, and that what she’ll remember will point too definitely to him.”
Portia grimaced. “I’ve racked my brains, but I really
“That I accept,” Stokes said. “It doesn’t matter. He believes you do, and that’s all that counts.”
Charlie, unusually grim, said, “It’s actually very hard to protect someone who’s going about in society. Plenty of ways accidents can happen.”
All three men looked at her. Portia expected to feel fear; somewhat to her relief, all she felt was irritation. “I am not going to be”-she waved-” ‘cribb’d, cabin’d, and confin’d’ for the rest of my days.”
Stokes grimaced. “Yes, well-
Simon looked at Stokes. “You didn’t bring us here to tell us that. You’ve thought of some plan to put paid to this villain. What?”
Stokes nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought of a plan, but it’s not going to be something you”-his gaze swept the three of them-“any of you, are going to like.”
A momentary pause ensued.
“Will it work?” Simon asked.
Stokes didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t bother suggesting such a thing if I didn’t think it had a real chance of succeeding.”
Charlie leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “Just what are we aiming for here-the murderer unmasked?”
“Yes.”
“So not only will Portia be safe, but the Glossups, and whoever of Winfield and Calvin it isn’t, will be free of suspicion?”
Stokes nodded. “All will be revealed, the murderer apprehended, and justice done. Better yet, justice seen and publicly acknowledged as being done.”
“What’s this plan of yours?” Portia asked.
Stokes hesitated, then said, “It revolves around the fact that you, Miss Ashford, are the only means we have of drawing the murderer into the open.”
Deliberately, Stokes looked at Simon.
For a long minute, Simon held his gaze, his face unreadable, then he leaned back in his chair, waved one long- fingered hand. “Tell us your plan.”
16
None of them liked it.
All three agreed to it.
They could think of nothing better, and clearly they had to do
Portia wasn’t sure who looked forward to it least-she, Simon, or Charlie. The charade required them to trample on virtues they all held dear, that were fundamental to who they were.
She glanced at Charlie, pacing the lawn beside her. “I warn you-I know nothing about flirting.”
“Just pretend I’m Simon-behave as you would with him.”
“We used to snipe constantly. Now we simply don’t.”
“I remember… what made you stop?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.
“I don’t know.” She considered, added, “I don’t think he does either.”
Charlie looked at her; when she merely looked back, he frowned. “We’re going to have to think of something… we don’t have time to coach you. You don’t think you could, well, copy Kitty? Poetic justice and all that-using her wiles to trap her killer.”
The notion definitely held appeal. “I could try-like charades. I could pretend to be her.”
“Yes. Like that.”
She looked at Charlie, and smiled. Delightedly. As if he were a sought-after edition of some esoteric text she’d been searching for for years and had at last found-something she had every expectation of thoroughly enjoying.
The sudden wariness that flared in his eyes had her laughing.
“Oh, stop! You know it’s all a sham.” Her smile even more real, she linked her arm in his and leaned close, then cast a glance back, over her shoulder-to Simon, lounging on the terrace, frowning if not scowling at them.
Her smile started to slip; she quickly reinforced it and, determinedly brazen, returned her attention to Charlie. Unintentionally, she’d done just the right thing-played the right Kitty move. She could imagine how it had looked to the others seated or strolling, taking the early-afternoon air on the terrace.
Charlie drew breath, patted her hand. “Right, then-did I tell you about Lord Carnegie and his greys?”
He did his part, told her ridiculous tale after tale, making it easier for her to laugh, giggle, and lean heavily on
