‘Thank God you are safe.’
As soon as his hold relaxed, she pushed her hands between them, against his chest, leaning back to look into his face.
‘Mr Thomas...whatever is wrong? Why are you here?’
He met her gaze with eyes that swirled with anger and fear. What had happened? Why was he so anxious? How had he found her? She gradually became aware of their surroundings. They were entirely alone, in the private parlour she had reserved for use by herself and Aunt Lucy, who was resting in her room. How did he get in? Where was Brooke?
Matthew held her gaze, his ragged breathing loud in the silence of the room. She pushed harder against him and stepped back. Instantly, his gaze sharpened and he gripped her shoulders, preventing her from retreating further, wringing a gasp from her.
‘I have been searching for you...following you...trying to catch up with you...worrying about you...’
‘But...why? I thought you were—’
‘You need protection. I—’
‘Protection?’
Eleanor, now with her wits fully about her, stiffened. This was about Aunt Lucy’s ludicrous idea that the fire and the shooting were somehow connected. For one fleeting, joyful second she had thought maybe he had followed her for her own sake—because he felt something for her. As speedily as the thought arose, she quashed it, inwardly berating herself for being a romantic fool, beguiled by a handsome face and rugged charm. She and Mr Thomas were worlds apart.
‘It seems to me the only protection I am in need of is from you.’
Her heart quailed as his eyes flared and he stepped closer. The heat emanating from him surrounded her as his breath fanned her hair, but she was determined not to reveal her rising alarm and stood her ground, glaring up at him as his eyes pierced hers.
‘A young girl was attacked—’ He stopped abruptly, his voice cracking with emotion, his expression haunted.
‘What...? Attacked? But...what has that to do with me?’
‘I’ve been frantic. If anything had happened to you, I—’
‘Mr Thomas! You’re making no sense. You said someone had been attacked?’
Matthew swiped one hand through his disordered locks and took a hasty turn about the room, returning to stand in front of an increasingly concerned Eleanor.
He hauled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘She was asleep in the room that had been reserved for you. At the inn in Stockport. Luckily, she screamed and fought him off for long enough for help to arrive. Her attacker ran away, but she ended up with several knife wounds.’
‘Oh, the poor, poor thing.’ Eleanor’s stomach churned as the full significance of Matthew’s words finally sank in. ‘But...you said...in my room? That poor girl was attacked in the bed I would have slept in?’
Her hand rose to her mouth and she felt herself sway. Matthew was by her side instantly, arms around her as she leant gratefully into his solid strength. He helped her to the sofa and sat by her side, holding her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said faintly. ‘I am not normally...that is, it was such a shock.’
She raised her gaze to his, only to find his face much closer than she had anticipated.
‘For me, too,’ he murmured, his blue eyes darkening. ‘I can’t bear to think...’ His voice tailed away as he cradled her cheek and slowly lowered his head.
Eleanor stilled as warm breath feathered her skin. Lips—surprisingly soft and tender—brushed hers...once, twice...then settled, moving enticingly. She leaned into him, feeling his hand in her hair. Pleasure and anticipation spiralled through her as her lips relaxed and she pressed closer. As his tongue probed her mouth, she raised her restless hand to caress his cheek, but her action seemed to return him to his senses. He wrenched his lips from hers and jumped up from the sofa.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harsh lines bracketed his mouth.
Eleanor tried to gather her wits, to understand what had just happened.
‘I shouldn’t have done that... I had no intention... It was a mistake,’ he said, and then muttered, as if to himself, ‘I do not need complications.’
‘Complications?’
The word jarred, rousing Eleanor from her dreamlike stupor.
He looked distant and reserved and didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said, ‘Please forget that ever happened.’
‘You regret kissing me?’
Humiliation flooded Eleanor. She had allowed a virtual stranger to kiss her, and had kissed him back, without a murmur of protest. She was her mother’s daughter all right. Blood will out. Aunt Phyllis’s voice—accusatory, censorious—echoed in her head.
‘Yes. No!’ He turned abruptly from her, raking his hand through his hair once more before facing her again. His eyes met hers, and softened. ‘No, I cannot regret it. But I forgot myself. I was frantic with worry, but that is no excuse for my behaviour. You are a lady and I like to suppose myself a gentleman, despite my station in life, yet at the first opportunity I have behaved like the lowest of rogues.’
Complications. The word rankled. He obviously regretted his impulsive embrace. For that is what it had been—an impulse. He had found her alone and taken advantage, stealing a kiss simply because he could. Now, he was shouldering the blame in order to make her feel better and to excuse her shameful conduct in returning his embrace. Furious with herself, Eleanor turned and would have left the room without a further word had Aunt Lucy not chosen that very moment to come in, her bright gaze darting from one to the other before lingering for some time on Eleanor’s hot cheeks, triggering another surge of shame.
‘Why, Mr Thomas,’ Aunt Lucy said at length, her voice icy, ‘how very nice to see you again so soon. I had understood you to be heading in a quite different direction from ourselves. Had I been informed of your presence, I should have made sure I came down to greet you immediately. I am, after all, Eleanor’s chaperon. I can see I shall have to keep a wary eye on you, sir—it is so very easy for a woman to lose her reputation, as I am sure you are aware.’
Eleanor cringed inside. Not only did Mr Thomas now have a complete disgust of her wanton response to his advances, but Aunt Lucy’s suspicions had also been aroused. She could wonder at neither of them, for she had no less disgust for herself. Gathering her pride, she walked to the door and opened it, standing to one side.
‘Mr Thomas is just leaving, Aunt Lucy. He has said all he needs to say.’
She raised her chin, boldly meeting his gaze. He might have crushed her feelings, but she would rather die than reveal her humiliation.
‘Oh, no, I’m not,’ Matthew retorted, holding her gaze for what seemed an eternity before switching his attention to Aunt Lucy. ‘I have brought grave news, Lady Rothley, news that has serious implications for the safety of your niece.’
Eleanor clamped her teeth shut on the remark she longed to fling at his head. How had the mere touch of his lips managed to block the news of the attack from her mind?
‘What news do you bring? What implications?’ Aunt Lucy sank on to the sofa and beckoned Eleanor to sit by her side. ‘Please, Mr Thomas, be seated—’ she waved her hand at the chair opposite ‘—and explain yourself.’
‘Last night, a young woman was attacked in the White Lion in Stockport,’ he said. ‘She was attacked by an intruder wielding a knife as she slept in one of the bedchambers reserved for your party. I occupied the other.’
Aunt Lucy