The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,110
me awed, all the same.”
She turned away; her cheeks fiery.
But Jago wasn’t done. “And then there was our night together. I’m not a fool—I’ve experienced passion in the past. But not once have I ever experienced the deep, oppressive sense of loss I felt when I contemplated never seeing you again.” He raised her hand to his mouth, lightly kissing the back of it. “I know so little of you Benna, but I love—yes, love—the little I know. You have captured my heart, darling. If you would take me as your husband, you would make me far happier than I deserve.”
Jago was rewarded by an open-mouthed look of shock.
After a long moment, during which she only stared, Jago squeezed her hand. “Benna? I am beginning to worry.”
“Are you saying you love me?”
He pulled a wry face. “Lord, did I leave out that important bit? Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. I love you.”
The muscles beneath the skin of her face shifted, and the result was an expression he couldn’t quite identify. “And you want to marry me?”
Jago frowned at her tone, which was unmistakably … hostile.
“Well, yes.”
She yanked her hand away and surged to her feet, her expression one of such deep loathing that it felt as if she’d thrown acid on his face.
“Good Lord, what is wrong?” he demanded, getting to his feet. “What did I say?”
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, the expression so ugly that he almost didn’t recognize her. She slid her hand into her coat pocket and came out with a penny knife. A big penny knife.
Jago raised both his hands. “I won’t touch you if you don’t wish me to.”
She sneered at him, her eyes suddenly a wintry blue, her pupils pinpricks. “How long do I have?”
He blinked. “Er—”
She flicked opened the blade and Jago’s eyes widened. “You had better warn whoever is waiting out there that I won’t go without a struggle.”
Jago gaped at the knife in her hand. “Bloody hell, Benna. Be careful with that. It has to be—”
“It is four inches long, and I am not afraid to use it. Now, tell me how long I have before they come for me,” she repeated.
Jago felt as if he’d been catapulted into the middle of an intensely melodramatic—and bizarre—stage play.
“Good God, Benna, what in the world are you talking about? How long do you have before who comes for you?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Cornwall
1817
Present Day
The air in front of Benna rippled, as if she were looking through steam.
Rage vied with disbelief; why did this keep happening to her? Was she truly such a fool that she could not see when a man was using her?
Across from her, Jago’s brow furrowed, his expression one of deep concern.
He was an even better liar than Geoff.
“Benna?”
She could see his mouth move, but his voice was tinny and faint, barely audible beneath the roaring and crashing of her fury.
When you can spare a moment from your insane rage, you might want to recall this isn’t me you’re talking to, darling. I personally find your Jago far too honorable and noble—nauseatingly so, in fact—but what has he ever done to make you think that he is lying?
The question worked as effectively as a footbrake on her violently spiraling temper.
“Benna?” A deep vee of apprehension had formed between Jago’s coffee-brown eyes, which flickered from the knife in her hand back to her face. “Do you not feel well?”
“That night in the cottage you couldn’t have made it clearer that there was no future for us,” she accused, her voice as sharp as the blade in her hand.
“Yes, that is true.”
“What made you change your mind and decide that you loved me—that you should marry me?”
He blinked at the contempt in her voice but did not back away. “I wish I could say I was smart enough to work through it all on my own, but I wasn’t. Today, after no sleep for the past few nights, I went to see Elinor Worth.” His cheeks darkened at the admission. “She is somebody whose opinion I respect. Also, her situation was not so very different than ours.”
“What situation?”
“Her marriage.”
Benna squinted and shook her head. “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”
“You never heard how she first met Worth?”
“No.”
“Her father is Viscount Yarmouth.”
Benna actually knew that. “Why is that relevant?” she asked abruptly, her gaze drifting toward the door. Was he wasting time while he waited for somebody—another Willy Karp? Or would it be Michael, himself, this time?