Murder on Charles Street - Leighann Dobbs Page 0,60
the kitchen that way.
“Help me put together this tea service. We should hurry.”
“They can wait.” His voice was thick and a bit rough. In the single candle lighting the room, the quiet in the wake of his voice made it seem as though they were the only two people in the house.
The whistle of the kettle punctuated the air. Harriet released a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and turned to fetch it off the stove. She poured the hot water into the teapot, added the tea leaves, and stoppered it up to steep.
Her back still turned, she told him, “We should return before tongues wag.”
He laughed, a low chuckle. “Whose tongues?”
“Lady Katherine’s.” She turned, raising her eyebrows at him and clasping her hands in front of her. “It’s unseemly for us to be alone together, and she knows it.”
That statement seemed to startle another laugh from him, this one louder. “When did ye become as uptight as one of those highborn ladies? No one cares if we’re in the kitchen together, least of all yer lady.”
Harriet swallowed hard, because she feared he was correct.
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, then reached out and brushed a wayward curl from her cheek. “Are ye afraid of me, Harriet?”
“No.” Something that felt suspiciously like a tingle lingered on her skin where the curl had been. It mirrored the warmth washing through her at the sound of her name. McTavish called every woman by an endearment—lass, dove, or any number of other patronizing words. Never by name… until now. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she stepped back. “We have work to do.”
“It can wait.”
She lifted her chin. “In that case, whatever it is you’re offering, I’m not interested.” She almost kept the quaver from her voice. She swallowed as if she hadn’t heard it and maintained eye contact. She was afraid if she looked away now, he would only accuse her of being a coward. Perhaps she was, but she had no room in her life for anything but her work. Especially not with a man who would flirt with a goat if it wore skirts.
“Och, now. I’d be more inclined to believe that if ye said it like ye mean it.”
A thump echoed elsewhere in the house. Harriet jerked back. “Did you hear that?”
For once, he dropped his flirtation, every bit as serious and concerned as her. They held each other’s gazes for a moment more before she gathered the tea service and hurried to the front of the house.
Katherine had spent far too much time in this chair, in this house over the past few days. If she had to spend much longer waiting for something to happen rather than actively chasing it herself, she would go mad. Unable to idle a moment more, Katherine stood, using the chair’s arms to propel herself onto her good leg. Her ankle twinged, refusing to hold much of her weight as she toured the room, stretching out her muscles and working out the frustration making her restless.
Wayland intercepted her, placing his bulk squarely between her and her circuitous route. “What do you think you are doing? You should be resting that ankle.”
She tried to step around him, but he was far more agile than Katherine in her injured state. He reached out to steady her by the elbow, aid that she didn’t need. She shook him off.
“Why are you here?”
Wayland dropped his hand, flexing it at his side. “I volunteered for this.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, I heard you yesterday. Why?”
His eyes caught hers, their depths unreadable. “You’ve proven your investigative instincts to me more than once. I trust you on this.”
Katherine’s breath caught. It shouldn’t have been such an intimate admission. After all, they were both esteemed members of the Royal Society for Investigative Techniques. They’d both worked several murders together. But hearing him speak the words aloud took her breath away.
She shouldn’t have rushed him out the door the other day when her father arrived. Papa might not like Wayland, but if so, it was only because he didn’t really know the man. In fact, the more Katherine got to know him, the more she saw the similarities in Wayland and in her father. They were both good detectives, both kind men who thought of others before themselves. In Bath, Wayland had befriended a veteran soldier and fought against Katherine’s investigation in order to prevent the poor man from more pain.
It wasn’t the only