The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler
Twenty-Nine
The ride home, while longer than it should have been, was not… horrible. Harlowe sat next to her rather than across. He pulled off her glove and linked his fingers with hers, his thumb massaging the soft part of her hand between her thumb and forefinger.
“We shall take this every day to look for Penny’s sister.”
Maeve’s throat constricted with emotion. She couldn’t speak, just nodded. Nor could she bring herself to look out the window for the tears rolling down her cheeks. His hand, holding hers, rested in her lap, and one large drop landed on his hand. His large, capable hand. She would make him a good wife. She would raise Nathaniel as her own. Into a young man of whom Brandon would be proud.
He took the handkerchief and wiped her tears away. “We’ll do our utmost to find her.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? I’ve acted like an ingrate. I ask you to marry me. I snub you in front of your family. You save me from my mother… It’s like you’re some kind of guardian angel.”
“That is a very apt description. One I have every intention of living up to.”
Maeve turned her gaze out the window and studied the shadowed crannies, but was unable to make anything or anyone out. Certainly not a ten-year-old girl.
They pulled into the drive at Cavendish, and Harlowe stepped down and took her hand. McCaskle met them at the door.
“Would you care to stay for tea, my lord?” Maeve asked him.
He took her cloak and handed it off to McCaskle. “I would be delighted.”
She led him into the parlor just off the foyer. She was too restless to sit. “I shall go mad with nothing to do.”
“Perhaps it’s time to dredge out Alymer’s scripts. How long do you think it will take you to complete them?”
“I’m not certain. I would have to go through them to refresh my memory. But you raise a good point. That is an excellent way to pass the time.” She rubbed her hands over her upper arms. “And what of your memoirs, Brandon?”
“I think we can put them on hold until you complete Alymer’s works. Bits and pieces of my memory are returning. I think it comes from being with you. There is something about you that… calms me, for reasons I cannot explain.”
His words unfurled a warmth in her chest.
Mrs. McCaskle entered with the tray.
“I’ll pour, Mrs. McCaskle. Thank you.” Maeve started to pick up one of the pastries and paused. “Er, who made the scones?”
“Me sister, ma’am.” She couldn’t quite contain her smirk.
“Thank you, Mrs. McCaskle. You’re excused,” Maeve said.
Brandon lowered his voice, even though she’d closed the door behind her. “She can’t be that bad a cook, can she?”
“The sister? No, she’s quite fabulous. Have I thanked you for the servants, my lord?”
“Has anyone ever mentioned how cheeky you are?”
Maeve poured a cup of tea, added sugar, and handed it to him. “I believe you are the first.”
He set the cup aside, then took her hand and pulled her to him. He leaned in until their mouths were inches apart. “I shall definitely be the last.” His lips slanted over hers, infusing her with a ferocious heat that took the chill right out of the room.
Truly, he was much skilled in this arena, she thought, as she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all her worth. His tongue mingled, meshed, dodged, and teased hers, sending her spiraling into a whirlwind of mounting desire as one message kept dancing about her head: kissing Harlowe was something she could definitely live with.
