The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,79

with rows upon rows of full and dusty shelves. “The croissant we devoured won’t last long, and I’m a terror if not fed at regular intervals.”

“One shudders at the thought.” He winked and danced away from her swipe at him. “I know a pub around here that makes excellent meat pies.”

“Spend a lot of time in the industrial district, do you?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“A bit,” he said cryptically before transforming his features into those of an exaggerated Irishman with a severe squint. “If we dine there, you’ll have to call me Mr. Thom Tew and put up with me mates from the foundry. We sometimes sneak away and get drunk before the call of the labor whistle.”

Thomas Tew, another pirate.

Francesca shook her head at him as he sauntered toward the east side of the warehouse in long, lazy strides. “Five more pounds to whomever finds the documents first,” he called over his shoulder. “Or should we raise the stakes?”

The question sobered her a little. Could the stakes be any higher?

Three exhausting hours and a ruined riding habit later, Francesca had stumbled upon a box on a shelf marked UNSOLVED ARSONS. #187 (M) MALDON—MONT CLAIRE.

She opened it with a captured breath, half shocked to find that no ghosts rushed at her from beneath the lid.

Chandler stopped at her shoulder, gazing down into the box as she rummaged about in papers, ash samples, statements from neighbors, and even a list of suspects upon which Kenway never appeared.

She glanced over at him, her gaze snagging on the set of his stubbled jaw. Her skin that bore the abrasions of said stubble prickled with awareness. The insides of her thighs. Her breasts. Her throat. Indeed, she’d had to wear a high-necked lace blouse just to cover a few love marks he’d made with his teeth.

She’d made a few of her own.

Biting down on her lip, she firmly planted herself in the task at hand.

His presence was both a comfort and a distraction. Just knowing he was there beside her to lean on if necessary was such an alien reassurance. One she thought she might just get used to. Chandler at her side. A solid man with uncommon skills and a curious intellect to match her own. Everything was better with him nearby. More dangerous, perhaps. More complicated, but less lonely.

And most definitely more passionate.

When they were through with this, she was going to tell him everything, she decided. She’d whisk him off somewhere remote and exotic. Ride him into senseless oblivion, whisper her secret to him, and then beg his forgiveness.

She had the sense that he wasn’t a man prone to clemency, but he did understand the need for a good secret … and maybe hers wouldn’t knock his planet too far out of orbit.

Then why not tell him now?

She’d tried. So often the night before she’d opened her mouth to tell him.

And something had stopped her. He’d stopped her mostly by interrupting. She enumerated to herself the many logical reasons to maintain the farce, the chief of which was the unknown human variable.

When people, especially men, were hurt or deceived, they tended to become angry. An angry man was generally an unpredictable creature. Often cruel. And while a part of her was a little afraid of his antagonism, she was more afraid of the consequences thereof. Not emotional, per se—though that was plenty enough to keep her up at night—but legal.

Even lethal.

In the worst-case scenario, he’d turn his back on her—no—even more devastating than that, he could turn her in to his superiors. The subsequent litany of charges to be heaped on her shoulders would undoubtedly lead to the gallows. She was impersonating a dead countess, after all.

It wasn’t that she thought he would wish for her death—though perhaps he’d have reason to—but as much as she desired, admired, and all-out loved this man … she didn’t know who he’d become well enough to predict what he’d do. Everyone had a moral compass, and his was as of yet undefined.

Which was exciting at times, and also terrifying.

First, she needed to focus on the task at hand, to exonerate or condemn her parents in his eyes …

Best get to work.

Francesca whipped through the documents, scanning, dismissing, and handing one over to Chandler when she’d done so to select another. So far, none of this was new information, as through the course of her own investigation, she had talked to the same people, chatted with the investigators, and followed leads to their strange and