He was about halfway home when he heard footsteps.
He turned around. Was someone behind him?
Nothing but shadows. He continued on his way. Surely he'd imagined it. He was still paranoid from the war, when every sound could mean death.
He turned the last corner when he heard the footsteps again. And then a bullet whined past his ear. 'What the hell?'
Another bullet whizzed by, this one grazing his arm and drawing blood. He whipped out his pistol and spun around. He saw a shadowy figure across the street, furiously reloading a gun. John lost no time in firing, and the villain went down as he took a bullet in the shoulder.
Damn! His aim was off. Gun still in hand, he started after his would-be assassin. The man saw him coming, grabbed his shoulder, and got to his feet. He shot John an apprehensive look, but his face was covered by a half- mask, so John had no way of recognizing him. With one last fleeting glance, the villain rushed off.
As John made his way across the street, he cursed his leg for slowing him down. Never had he been so furious at the fates for maiming him this way. There was no way he'd be able to catch up with his attacker. Accepting defeat, John sighed and turned around. This was trouble.
And he had no right dragging Belle into it.
His hand strayed to his arm as he finally realized that he was bleeding. He could barely feel the pain, however. His fury blocked out all other feeling. Someone was after him, and he didn't know why. Some lunatic was sending him cryptic notes and wanted him dead.
And whoever it was, he probably wouldn't hesitate to involve Belle if he realized how much she meant to John. And if he had been following him at all during the past week, he would know that John had spent every free minute in her company.
John swore as he mounted the front steps to Damien's house. He would not put Belle in danger, even if that meant he had to postpone his marriage plans.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 14
'Pardon me, my lady, a message has arrived for you.' Belle looked up as a servant entered the room. She'd been sitting in a dreamlike haze, replaying the previous night with John-for about the fiftieth time. She took the letter, carefully opened it, and read the contents.
Belle looked down at the note for a minute or so, puzzling over the formal tone. With a shrug, she just decided that some people always wrote formally, so she shouldn't be upset that he had signed the note 'sincerely' rather than 'love.' And it didn't really matter that he had felt the need to include his surname in addition to his given name. She tucked the note away, telling herself not to be so fanciful.
She shrugged. Maybe Dunford would be interested in escorting her and Persephone.
Dunford did want to go to the theater, and he had a fine time escorting Belle and Persephone. However, Belle's thoughts frequently drifted off toward the man who had sneaked into her bedroom the night before. She wondered what had kept him from joining her that evening, but supposed that he'd explain everything to her the next day.
Except he didn't come by the next day. Or the one after that.
Belle was more than puzzled. She was damned irritated. She'd been warned about men who used women for their own pleasure and then discarded them, but she just couldn't bring herself to place John in that category. First of all, she refused to believe that she could have fallen in love with a man who was so fundamentally dishonest, and second of all, it had been she who moaned with pleasure the other night, not him.
After two days of waiting and hoping for a glimpse of him, Belle finally decided to take matters into her own hands and sent him a note of her own, asking him to stop by.
There was no reply.
Belle grumbled in irritation. He knew very well that she could not call on him. He was staying with his brother, and both were bachelors. It was entirely unsuitable for an unmarried lady to call on such a household. Especially here in London. Her mother would have her head if she found out about it, which she very well might, considering that she was due back any day now.
She sent him another message, this one more carefully worded, asking him if she had done anything to displease him, and would he please be kind enough to reply. Belle smiled wryly to herself as she wrote the words. She wasn't very good at keeping the twinge of sarcasm from her tone.
A few streets away, John groaned as he read her note. She was getting annoyed, that was clear. And how could he blame her? After a fortnight of flowers, chocolate, poetry, and then finally passion, she had a right to expect to see him.
But what else was he to do? He had received another anonymous note the day after his attack which had simply read, 'Next time I won't miss.' John had no doubt that Belle would take it upon herself to see to his protection if she knew that someone was trying to kill him. And as he didn't see how Belle possibly could protect him, such an endeavor could only lead to her getting hurt.
He sighed with despair and let his head fall into his hands. Now that happiness was finally within his grasp, how could he spend the rest of his life worrying that a bullet was going to catch him unawares? He grimaced. The words 'rest of his life' suddenly took on new meaning. If that assassin kept trying, sooner or later he was going to get lucky. John was going to have to come up with a plan.
But in the meantime, he had to keep Belle at a distance-and away from the bullets that were aimed at his back. With an unbearably heavy heart, he picked up a quill and dipped it into an inkpot.
He knew that he ought to have simply broken things off, but he just couldn't do it. She was the one thing in his life that had brought him true joy, and he wasn't about to lose her. Carrying the offending piece of paper as if it might give him a disease, he made his way downstairs and gave it to a servant. Belle would receive it within the hour.
He didn't even want to think about it.
Belle's response upon reading his brief letter was to blink. This couldn't be real.
She blinked again. The words did not disappear.
Something was terribly wrong. He was trying to push her away again. She didn't know why, and she didn't know why he thought he might be able to succeed, but she couldn't allow herself to believe that he really didn't want her.
