down, he shoved a foot into his other boot.
She ought to take his answer as a compliment, but instead, it caused that uncomfortable niggling to start up again. That fear that she was missing something… and when she discovered what it was, everything would change.
And that change might cause her to lose him.
A bird swooped onto the flower box outside the window and broke into song, making her realize that she was being melodramatic.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Hettrick to have hot water sent up for your bath, and tea, and breakfast.” He’d shoved his arms into his dusty waistcoat and was running his hands through his hair.
“You are going to check on this Culpepper person?” She could tell by the tension in his shoulders, the awareness in his eyes, as he prepared to leave.
He nodded. “But I’ll be careful. And I shouldn’t be long. Make sure you—”
“—slide the lock when you leave,” she finished for him.
He stilled and turned back to face her, and oh, how she wished she could read his thoughts!
“Not much longer, duchess.” He strode back inside the room, gripped her shoulders, and in a move she was not expecting, captured her mouth in a violent kiss.
Yesterday, they’d kissed more times than she could count. Those signs of affection had been teasing, languorous, playful.
This kiss was nothing like those had been.
It made her feel like she was a captured maiden and he a ruthless highwayman. He kept none of his desperation hidden from her, taking, plundering, devouring her.
She clutched her arms tightly around his neck, thinking he was going to swoop her up, throw her onto the bed, cover her with his body, and alleviate her clawing frustration.
Perhaps she wouldn’t mind staying inside after all.
But then he released her suddenly. “What?” Tabetha stared at him dumbly.
He wiped his arm across his mouth, gasping, and then walked back across the room.
“Slide the locks,” he said before turning and closing the door behind him.
Tabetha’s knees gave out, and she was grateful for the bed behind her. She touched her face, which was tender from his beard.
“Meow,” Archie commiserated from across the room. He’d managed to remove the gown again and stood atop the table wearing nothing but his whiskers.
Which gave her an idea…
“I promised my husband that I’d not open the door for anyone but him.”
Stone smiled to himself as he stood outside their chamber. “Open up, woman.” The ostler from across the road had confirmed that Culpepper’s entourage had driven out of the village at first light, and Stone felt as though he could breathe for the first time in a week. He felt… lighter.
She was safe. They could return to London together, and she was also showing signs of getting her memory back.
And once in London, with Blackheart’s assistance, he was fairly certain that they’d not have any trouble obtaining an annulment.
Which was still an option. God help me. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone this long without relief.
He adjusted himself in his trousers, halfcocked, so to speak, and raised his fist to knock again at the same time it swung open. The reason for all of his persistent discomfort greeted him with smiling eyes and a wide grin.
“You’re back!” She didn’t bother trying to hide her excitement for the day, her hair piled atop her head, shining golden from the sunlight streaming through the window, and her mood one of flirtatious temptation.
And in her hand, a gleaming silver blade. A gleaming and very sharp-looking silver blade.
Stone held out a hand cautiously. Finally, it seemed, she was taking his warnings seriously. “Woah there, duchess. You won’t be needing that today.”
But she’d grasped him by the arm and was leading him to a chair, the back turned toward the table where a bowl of water rested along with soap, a shaving brush, folded washcloths, and a rolled-up linen.
“I’m going to shave you,” she announced proudly.
The door closed behind him with a resounding thump. “Er. No.”
She circled the blade in the air and then used it to point at the chair. “Come sit down. Trust me. I’ve done this before.”
He’d promised himself to keep her happy in whatever capacity that he could, but this was asking too much. He rubbed the thick beard he’d acquired since leaving London. “Not necessary, thanks. In fact, I’ve come to be rather fond of my beard.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
“I’m also fond of my face.”
“Please, Stone?” And there it was. That pretty little pout and those enticing fluttering lashes. How had he been immune