The Missing Heir. Gail RanstromЧитать онлайн книгу.
back with a leather thong, was a medium brown with glints of light playing through it from the firelight. The set of his shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly and Grace knew he was aware of her presence.
Behind her, Dianthe drew in a soft breath and touched Grace’s arm as if she would pull her back. Grace shook her head to warn Dianthe to silence. She sensed that she could show no weakness or uncertainty.
Taking two steps into the library, she affected what she hoped would pass for a pleasant but firm countenance. “Good evening, sir. Is there something I can do to assist you?”
He turned to her and she nearly gasped. He was definitely not an Indian. He appeared to be perhaps four or five years older than she, his skin was deeply tanned but his eyes were a greenish hazel. He had a strong, straight nose—an aristocratic nose—and full sensual lips. A shadow of whiskers darkened his jaw and, when he moved toward her, the brandy in his glass scarcely shifted for the smoothness and grace of his gait. He moved like an animal, silent and steady. His chest, bare beneath the loose laces of his jacket, was strongly muscled and Grace found her gaze riveted there. She wanted to look away, but she just couldn’t. She was mesmerized.
He smiled and the flash of white teeth completely disarmed her. Her heart pounded wildly and her breathing deepened. He extended one large hand to take hers and bowed over it. His lips were firm and cool, and the contact made her head swim. Heavens! What was wrong with her?
When he straightened, he flashed another of those startling smiles. “Hello, Aunt Grace.”
Chapter Two
F rom her quickly hidden look of astonishment, Adam gathered that she had no idea what to do with the savage in her library. Interesting, the reactions he’d gotten from people who, four years ago, would have entertained him gladly. He surmised by the manner of her dress that he’d interrupted her as she was preparing for an evening out. She was every inch as stunning as her portrait—sultry, lush, distant. Untouchable?
She blinked and a guarded look settled over her perfect features. “I fear you must have me confused with someone else.”
Ah, that was good. Very smooth. Not a single gesture betrayed anything other than a natural confusion beneath the surface. Even her voice was calm. Admiration filled him at her aplomb. He’d known many ambassadors with less self-possession.
He released her hand reluctantly. She was the first Englishwoman he’d touched in four years, and he was startled by the suppressed hunger that surged in him. “My name is Adam Hawthorne—your husband’s nephew. Perhaps he mentioned me?”
Her dusky-rose lips parted slightly, as if she were struggling to say something but couldn’t think how to put it in words. “Adam?” she finally managed to say. “I…we were told that you were killed in an Indian attack.”
“The news of my death was a bit premature.” He grinned.
“Oh, dear.” She pressed one finger to the bridge of her nose in a gesture of distress and her eyes welled with tears. “I—I do not know quite how to tell you this, Mr. Hawthorne, but your uncle…my husband…is dead.”
Her sympathy caught him by surprise and he held his own grief inside. He would deal with that later, and in private. “Would that mean that I am not welcome here?” he asked.
“Oh! Of course you are welcome. You were Mr. Forbush’s only relative. He spoke of you often.”
“Did he?” She referred to her husband as Mr. Forbush? That did not exactly tell of an intimate relationship. Had all the fondness been on his uncle’s part?
“In glowing terms. He was very proud of you.”
He held up his brandy glass and said, “I hope you do not mind that I helped myself. It has been many years since I’ve had strong drink.”
“Of course not. You must make yourself at home.”
Oh, he planned to make himself very much at home. “Thank you, Aunt Grace.” He paused to give a self-mocking grin. “I am sorry if I sound flippant, but it seems awkward to call someone obviously younger than I ‘Aunt.’”
She gestured toward the sofa in front of the fireplace. “I am afraid this whole situation is a bit awkward, Mr. Hawthorne. To say I am surprised is somewhat of an understatement.”
“No less surprised than I to find my uncle had died in my absence.”
She glanced over her shoulder at a lovely blond creature who looked to be pinned to the spot. “Mr. Hawthorne, may I present my niece, Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”
He bowed, noting that the girl was staring at his laced buckskins. She stepped a little closer to her aunt. For protection?
Grace took a few more steps into the room. “May I prevail upon you to tell me the details of your…arrival here?”
He hadn’t the heart to go through that another time today. An abbreviated version would have to do. “Not much to tell,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was tempted to see if his worn buckskins had stained the silk damask. “I was taken hostage by a small band of Chippewa four years ago and when I was free to leave, I found there were compelling reasons to stay. I’ve only just come to a point where returning was imperative.”
“And here you are,” she finished, taking a chair across from him.
She folded her hands in her lap and Adam used the moment to congratulate himself on his assessment from the portrait he’d seen all those years ago. His uncle’s wife was, indeed, all cool composure on the outside. Cool enough to kill his uncle? Ah, but there was something else there, something the artist had been unable to capture with brushstrokes on canvas. A hint of fire and depth was carefully banked beneath the icy exterior. It was a smoldering heat that could clearly bring a man to his knees with desire, but not many would have the courage to penetrate her intimidating demeanor. But he had seen enough of the world to know that Grace Forbush was a woman who barely held herself in check. She was hiding more than that smoldering sexuality, and he would not leave London until he discovered what it was.
“I’d have written,” he said at length, “but there was nowhere to post a letter.”
She smiled and nodded, and a small shift of her shoulders indicated a decision. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Not long. I have a few business matters to conclude, and I’d like to contact some old friends, then I shall go to Devon. Or, depending upon the answers I get here, back to Canada.”
“Have you decided to make your home there?”
“No.” He glanced down into his brandy. Home. He’d traveled the world in search of it, but he’d never found “home.” Even England felt foreign now. He gave himself a mental shake and looked up again. “But there is a matter still pending.”
She looked curious but she was too well bred to ask the question. Instead she changed the subject. “Have you found comfortable accommodations in town, sir?”
He’d stayed in a flash house last night after debarking. He’d lain awake, waiting for one of the thugs who’d sized him up to steal the leather pouch with all he had left in the world. But no one had bothered him—likely because he’d slept with his knife in his hand—the deadly razor-edged knife that had become his constant companion in the last four years. “My ship docked late so I found a room near the wharves. Then, of course, there’s the money. As I’ve been reported dead, I imagine my accounts were closed?”
The lovely widow knit her brow and pressed an index finger to her forehead again. He wondered if she realized that she was betraying emotion with that gesture. “Mr. Hawthorne, you must stay here, of course.”
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Forbush, but—”
“No. I insist. You see, Mr. Forbush closed your accounts and, in the absence of another heir, absorbed your assets.”
Adam managed