Page 73 of A Treacherous Treasure

“Bolt your door and, if I have your permission, I will sleep on the sofa in the drawing room.”

“I would feel safer having you here, but you will not be very comfortable on the sofa.”

“I shall be well enough. I can sleep anywhere. And I shall ask Mrs. Atwater for blankets and a pillow.”

“Of course.”

In spite of everything, his heart was leaping inside his chest. He’d have to sort out his thoughts and feelings later. For now, he only knew that the loveliest woman of his acquaintance had embraced and kissed him, and that was all he needed to know.

~ ~ ~

Rebecca’s heart was still beating so hard it stole her breath, and he was still holding her hand. He kissed it again with those wonderful lips before turning and walking away.

She closed her door and locked it, then bolted it, doing the same with the door that adjoined Arthur’s old bedroom. All the while she was thinking of Thomas drawing attention to the fact that he was spending the night in the drawing room by asking the housekeeper for blankets and a pillow, and thinking of him sleeping all night on the sofa. Because he wanted to keep her safe.

She clasped her arms around herself, sighing and whispering, “Thank you, God. Thank you.” But speaking to God made her wonder if she had done wrong by kissing Thomas.

She hadn’t planned to do it. But in that moment, feeling so shaken by what had just happened, having shot a man and then seeing that man dead, at least in part by her own hand, she couldn’t bear to let Thomas leave her, not at that moment. She needed his comfort. Her mother and sister were nearby, but he was the one she wanted to hold her.

How shameless she was. But she didn’t care. And Thomas hadn’t seemed to mind. She recalled how tightly he had held her, his hands on her back, his arms strong and unyielding. He made her feel safe and protected. When was the last time she’d felt safe and protected?

And his kiss . . . so gentle and yet so sure and firm. It had made her stomach turn inside out.

Then, after she wrapped her arms around him, the way he’d looked at her . . . How could she have resisted kissing him? And he hadn’t seemed to mind that either. He kissed her back and she’d reveled in it.

What might have happened if his servant hadn’t come up the stairs when he did? She both regretted his intrusion and was relieved by it.

But what kind of woman kisses someone who had never made her a declaration, to whom she wasn’t engaged, and, what was worse, less than an hour after a man had died in her home?

She stared at the floor where Mr. Fogg had lain bleeding from her gunshot. She could still see the faint stain and shuddered, remembering her terror at realizing there was a man in her room. And then the sound of the gunshot and the heavy thudding sound of him falling to the floor. She could still hear his whimpers and moans.

But how dare he come into her room? Anger warred with horror and regret.

“O God, thank you that I am safe, but please forgive me, if it was a sin to shoot him.” She didn’t believe it was, but the thought of it overwhelmed her. And her shooting him had made him vulnerable to the murderer who subsequently killed him.

Was it Adler? Had Adler agreed to help Fogg in order that he might get a share of the treasure and thereby be able to retire? Had her butler murdered Fogg to keep him from telling of his hand in the business?

She would never want to falsely accuse anyone, but if Adler was gone, if he had fled from the house, would that not prove his guilt? And though Mrs. Atwater had claimed Mrs. Heywood took a sleeping draught most nights, it seemed strange that she had slept through all the commotion.

Rebecca’s teeth were starting to chatter from the cold, so she climbed into bed with her wrapper still on and pulled the covers up to her chin. She pressed the back of her hand where Thomas had kissed her up to her cheek and closed her eyes, trying to remember every sensation of his kiss.

Such a strange, terrible, and yet wonderful night.

Chapter Twenty-One

Thomas lay awake most of the night, and just after daybreak, his old friend Rawson arrived.

Fogg’s body was still where they had left it, lying on the narrow bed in the little sick room off the kitchen. Thomas did his best to tell him everything as Rawson examined the body.

“It certainly looks as if someone did him in after the gunshot.” Rawson winced at the expression on Fogg’s face, frozen in place, as it were, for all time. “And you were with Mrs. Heywood when this happened?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone else with you?”

“Not the entire time. I was taking Mrs. Heywood to her room. She recently injured her ankle and needed assistance up the stairs.”

Rawson gave him a look, his brows arching, along with a wry smile. Thomas said nothing, for the servants were in the next room preparing food for the household.