Brandon rolled to his side and pulled her to him so that her backside lay tucked against him. Not for all the sterling in Britain would she have moved from that position, even if she could have willed her languid bones to do so. Overcome with an odd sense of completion, Nora fell asleep for the first time in years not wondering about tomorrow.
This was not what he had come here for, Brandon mused in the dark, watching Nora sleep beside him. He wished he could rest that easily. He idly fingered a long curl and let it fall against her exposed shoulder. He had come to strike a deal with her. He would warn her about the trap at St John’s in exchange for her promise that she would stop the raids. He wouldn’t expose her identity. She could move on. Then she would be someone else’s problem.
He didn’t want her to be someone else’s problem. He wanted her to be his problem, and his alone; not Witherspoon’s or St John’s, just his.
Tonight had complicated matters. He had not come here with any intention to bed her, but, having done so, he was forced to recognise that his attraction to Nora was more than easily slaked lust.
He would be severely compromised if the investors discovered this little liaison. Hell, the investors were the least of his worries. He was the local magistrate and he was bedfellows with the local underworld. Literally. Being with Nora could not happen again.
Nora, Nora, Nora, his mind chanted. At last, his passion had a name and visage beyond the alias and the mask of The Cat. They had made love twice more and each time had served to heighten his desire for her.
She fired his blood like no other. She was not interested in him for his title or his vote like the powdered women of the ton. She wanted him as a man and only as a man. The thought was stimulating and highly complimentary if he didn’t realise the reality behind it. She could not have him any other way. As a man and a woman, there were no barriers between them. Acknowledging him as an Earl and a mill owner erected plenty of obstacles.
Nora stirred beside him, reminding him that the night was passing and that he could not be caught at The Grange when the sun rose. He doubted his ability to resist another coupling if she awoke.
Brandon reluctantly rose from the bed, careful not to disturb her. He dressed in the dark, the lamp having gone out hours ago. He shrugged into the sleeves of his greatcoat and felt the imprint of the small notebook he carried in his inside pocket. Inspiration struck.
Kneeling by the sill, he took out the small lead pencil and notebook and wrote. He left the paper on the table next to her bed and said a silent farewell before exiting through the window.
He was gone. Nora knew it before she opened her eyes. The bed felt empty. A brush of her hand over cold sheets where he had lain confirmed it. Well, what had she expected? He could have not stayed. He couldn’t very well have walked downstairs and declared his presence to Hattie and Alfred or risk being seen leaving the Grange by anyone who happened to be taking a morning ride. It simply wasn’t practical.
Of course, ‘practical’ was merely a rationalisation to salve her wounded pride. He probably woke up and realised how foolhardy their passionate foray had been, just as she was doing now. And it was that—it was the most foolhardy thing she’d done since her brief marriage.
Nora rolled over on her back and moaned. What was it with her and handsome men? They were her Achilles’ heel. Her first husband had been handsome, conceited and lazy. She hadn’t discovered the last two traits until it was too late. Now it seemed she was on the brink of falling for another handsome face, this one entirely out of her league. A thief had no business giving her heart or her body to a peer of the realm. It would only serve to complicate things between them.
‘Hah!’ Nora snorted out loud to the empty room. ‘It was only sex.’ Perhaps saying it out loud would help her put everything into perspective. It wasn’t as if she was expecting him to offer for her after their night together—their incredible, exceptional night together.
It didn’t help. No matter how many times she said it, she could not convince herself it was only sex. She had wanted Brandon on a higher plane. She’d wanted him body and soul. And last night, he’d wanted her too, all politics aside.
Unless he’d been pretending. Doubt gnawed at her innards. Oh, please, no. Was it possible to fake the way he had looked at her? The way he’d seduced her with such reverence as if she were a goddess? Remembering made the doubt worse. Perhaps he thought to ensnare her, lure her close with protestations of love and undying devotion. She remembered his simple words: ‘You’re so beautiful.’
Nora cringed. Someone trying too hard would have made the mistake of using flowery language, comparing her lips to roses or some other body part to some other ridiculous commodity. Not Brandon Wycroft. He was a master at his craft.
Nora reprimanded herself. She’d willingly eaten from the proverbial tree of knowledge last night. She and Brandon had made love and now there was doubt, slinking like a serpent between them. Before last night, everything had been clearly defined; she wanted to see the mill fail and he wanted to see it succeed. It had all been so uncomplicated.
Nora’s eyes lit on the table beside her bed. A note. She reached for it. Nora, do not go to St. John’s on Wednesday night. It is a trap. B.
Nora crumpled the small sheet in her hand. The note was short, concise and, after last night, positively deadly. Was he telling the truth and wished to protect her from harm? Was it a lie? Maybe he hoped she would believe the note and forgo the raid. It might be nothing more than a ploy to get The Cat to stop the robberies. If the robberies stopped, the investors would stay. The mill would go forward. He would get what he wanted. He would win.
She hated herself. He had her right where he wanted her—between doubt and disaster.
‘She’s got you right where she wants you—panting like a stallion around a mare in season,’ Jack drawled, sprawled in a chair before the fire in Brandon’s library, a glass of brandy in one hand. His growing familiarity with that position was starting to irritate Brandon.
Brandon shot Jack a ferocious glare. ‘Don’t be crass. That’s not funny. I brought you here to help me, not to make jokes at my expense. So far, you’ve done nothing but drink my whisky and abuse my hospitality.’ Looking for insight into his problem, Brandon had confessed his night with Nora to Jack, daggers and all.
‘It’s not crass, it’s true.’ Jack twirled the snifter’s stem carelessly. ‘She beds you…’
‘She did not bed me,’ Brandon retorted, his pride stinging.
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Correction. You bedded her. That’s what she’s convinced you to think anyway. In return, you spilled the beans and told her everything.’
Brandon stared into the fire. He was mad at Jack for making his time with Nora into something manipulative and tainted. He was mad at himself for partially believing his friend might be right. There was nothing like a little disgust and self-loathing to queer his pitch with Nora.
He was conscious of Jack rising from his chair. Jack gained the door and turned back. ‘Tell me, did you ever get a look in that wardrobe she so zealously defended?’
Brandon met his question with stoic silence. No, he hadn’t and, worse, he hadn’t thought anything of it until Jack brought it up. Whatever she was hiding in there, she had successfully defended. So successfully, in fact, he hadn’t even realised she had diverted him until a day later.
‘That’s what I thought. Now, explain to me again how she doesn’t have you where she wants you?’
Brandon sighed and slumped down in his chair. By Lucifer’s stones, sleeping with Nora was the worst best thing he’d ever done.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday night found Nora guiding her horse up the dark Cheetham Hill Road towards the wealthy neighborhood where Magnus St John lived.
She