Page 44 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

I n Belle’s eyes, the morning after her night in Jon’s arms came far too soon. She’d have happily lingered beneath her bedcovers for another hour or so, relishing the very recent memory of his adoring touch. Of his heady kiss. Tenderness. Passion. Pleasure. All blended in each delicious caress.

Arabelle, all I want is you . Even now, while she lay alone in her bed, gazing up at the ceiling, the notes of his husky rasp played in her thoughts.

Out of all the pubs in London, she had run into the Rogue’s Lair.

And straight into the one man in London who’d captured her heart.

Now, she never wanted to leave him. The hours she’d spent with Jon had healed the hurt of the past and soothed the grief over the time they’d lost. This was a new start.

Forcing herself out of the comfort of her bed and the thoughts of Jon that warmed her, Belle dressed and prepared for the day. It wasn’t long before Mrs. Gilroy rapped lightly on her door.

“Just so ye know, ye have guests,” she announced when Belle asked her to come inside.

“Guests?” Belle tried not to frown. “At this early hour?”

“Mr. MacLain has come to visit.” Mrs. Gilroy tapped her cane a bit nervously. “He’s brought a man with him. Says he’s here to guard the place.”

“What do you think of him?”

“He’s a fine enough specimen of a man. I certainly will not mind having him around. He’s easy on the eyes, he is.”

“Why Mrs. Gilroy, you scamp,” Belle teased.

“Before my dear George left this earth, I’d have never looked at another man. Well, at least, I would not have admitted to it.” A wry smile brightened her features. “But now, my hair may have turned to silver, but my heart is still young.”

“How long were you married, Mrs. Gilroy?”

“Nearly thirty years. Until my husband’s heart gave out on him.

We were in Cardiff, with the Mason family at their country estate.

Ah, Mrs. Mason was an angel to me. She made sure I would always have a place with them.

The woman has a kind soul, she does.” A pensive expression fell over her. “Just like ye, Miss Belle.”

The sincerity in the old woman’s slightly scratchy voice touched Belle. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Gilroy. I consider that high praise, indeed.”

“Ye haven’t been around me for very long, lass.

But I think ye’ve seen enough to know I speak the truth.

” A warmth lit her eyes. “That first night, I’ll admit I was not pleased to see ye at the door.

I’d thought ye’d be one of those high-brow snobs who think the sun and moon revolves around them.

But now I see ye’re exactly what the wee lass needed to brighten her days. ”

“Thank you,” Belle said, moved by an unexpected rush of emotion. “She is a precocious little girl, isn’t she?”

“That she is,” Mrs. Gilroy said with a nod.

For a moment, she looked as though another thought had perched on the tip of her tongue, but she did not give voice to it.

Glancing about, she seemed to stall before she met Belle’s gaze.

“I should be getting back to the kitchen. I’ll let the men know you’ll soon be out to join them. ”

“I won’t be long,” Belle said, stifling a little yawn.

Appearing to spot Belle’s telltale sleepiness, Mrs. Gilroy’s mouth pulled a bit tighter. Was the old woman doing her best not to chuckle? Had she heard Belle tiptoe from Jon’s bedchamber to her own not long before dawn?

The housekeeper smiled, the twinkle in her eyes suggesting Belle’s suspicion was correct. “For now, I’m hoping our guest has a hearty appetite this morning. I’m looking to get to know him a wee bit better.”

“Oh, Mrs. Gilroy, I think Carrie might need a bit more rest this morning. Please leave her to sleep a while longer,” Belle said as the housekeeper went to the door. “I’ll see that she’s dressed and ready for the day after I’ve spoken with Mr. MacLain and the easy-on-the-eyes guard.”

“A fine idea.” Mrs. Gilroy gave a brisk nod then headed to the stairs.

Not quite a quarter hour later, Belle joined Jon and his guests in the dining room.

At the first sight of Logan MacLain, she understood why the rumor mill had been abuzz with talk of the striking tavern keeper.

While his reputed unsavory past remained a topic in London’s gossip hives, most of the talk centered on the way a pretty librarian—of all things, as they liked to put it—had tamed the man they’d dubbed an outlaw, devil, and above all else, a rogue.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in black from his boots to the tie at his throat, he certainly did look the part of an outlaw.

Logan MacLain might’ve passed for a buccaneer of old.

With his sable hair and dark brown eyes, he was an undeniably handsome man.

Though the twitters about his wild and woolly past might’ve been quieted if the gossips had witnessed the scene that met Belle’s eyes as she entered Jon’s study.

As Heathy bounced about, yipping delightedly for MacLain’s attention, the man scooped up the dog in his muscular arms and bestowed affectionate pats on the pup’s furry head, an image that certainly contrasted with the man’s hard-edged reputation.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair combed back from his lean face and a neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard stood by the shelves, thumbing through a book. So, this was Mrs. Gilroy’s easy-on-the-eyes gentleman.

As she entered the room, she saw Jon leaning against his desk, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

Wearing black trousers and a plain linen shirt beneath a burgundy waistcoat, he might’ve been preparing for a day at his office.

But this morning, he’d been dealing with a far different matter—protecting her and the others within his household.

As he met her questioning gaze, his lazy smile warmed her, a vivid reminder of what they’d shared the night before. “Good morning,” he said, coming to her side. He’d managed a bland tone, but the subtle heat in his gaze was anything but proper.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, taking a seat on the loveseat as Jon went about the introductions.

The older man was an acquaintance of Mrs. Johnstone’s.

A former colleague, in fact, from her days as an operative for an agency that she’d been a bit hush-hush about.

A taciturn man, Henry Northcutt possessed the skills of an accomplished bodyguard.

And above all, he had earned the trust of Mrs. Johnstone, which evidently was no easy feat.

Listening to the man’s tight-lipped description of his previous position, providing security for an industrialist’s family in Glasgow, Belle could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for Mrs. Gilroy.

If the woman had hoped to strike up a friendship with this man of very few words, Belle suspected she might well be disappointed.

Not that any of that mattered. Not really.

For the next several days, Belle would be essentially a prisoner in this house.

Even the garden was now off-limits. But there was nothing to be done about it.

Given the strong possibility that someone had been snooping about the house, even the high wall around the terrace would not provide proper cover from anyone with an ounce of determination to find her.

Even a local lad might be employed to spy on the place.

“Hello.” Carrie’s softly spoken greeting pulled them from their discussion. The child stood in the doorway, looking rather puzzled at the gathering of men whose faces she’d never seen. “Who are you?”

Oh, dear. In that moment, Belle rather regretted her decision to delay Carrie’s morning routine.

The child had taken it upon herself to select her own clothing for the day.

And she’d evidently decided to be as fancy as she could be.

Decked out in a lace-trimmed velveteen dress, she’d topped it with what looked like fairy wings and a gleaming crystal tiara.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “What in blazes—” He broke off the exclamation as Belle went to take the girl’s hand and ushered her to the settee, wings and all.

“Well, ye don’t see that every day, do ye?” MacLain said with a hearty chuckle.

“I wanted to dress up,” Carrie said with a child’s honesty, waving the crystal-tipped wand in her hand as if she were casting a magic spell.

“And you did,” Belle said gently. “Perhaps the wings are not the best choice for breakfast.”

Jon scratched his chin, as if deep in thought. “Personally, I think the wings are a smashing choice.”

If he had declared his own intention to add a magic wand to his wardrobe, Belle might have been less shocked. For her part, Carrie grinned with delight. “You like them?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You found these in my sister’s old steamer chest, didn’t you?”

“In the wardrobe,” Carrie nibbled her lip.

A look of pleasant reminiscence fell over his features. “My mother used to host costume parties every autumn. As I recall, Macie wore these wings at one of the balls, quite some time ago.”

Again, Carrie chewed her lower lip. “Will she be cross with me?”

“Not at all,” Jon said. “I think she’d be very happy. It’s been far too long since we’ve had anyone wearing wings in this house.”

“Indeed,” Logan MacLain said, chuckling again. “Isn’t that the wand yer sister used to teach some uncouth bloke a lesson at Lady What’s-her-name’s masquerade?”

“I do believe it is,” he said. “That was some time ago.”

“Obviously before she’d spoken her vows with Finn,” MacLain said. “He would’ve used his...” He glanced toward Carrie. “He would’ve taught the dolt a more memorable lesson.”

“One he would not have forgotten,” Jon agreed.

“Gentlemen,” Belle spoke up. “Carrie does not need an education on lessons for the uncouth.”

Still waving her wand, Carrie scurried over to the chair where Mr. Northcutt was seated. “Who are you?”

The bodyguard stared down at the girl as if his ears had deceived him. But when he spoke, his tone was calm and smooth. “My name is Mr. Northcutt.”

“My name is Carolyn Marie Mason,” she said, sweeping the wand over him as if she were casting a spell. “My mama called me Carrie.”

“Then I shall as well,” the man said, sounding every bit the gentleman. He turned to Jon. “I was not aware there was a young child in residence.”

Belle spotted the housekeeper approaching just beyond the bowed door. Mrs. Gilroy rapped lightly against the wood. “Mr. Mason, if ye do not mind me interrupting, I’ll ask Carrie to assist me with the cat.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gilroy,” Jon said with a nod.

“Come with me, wee one.” She motioned to the child. “Cleo is being cranky this morning. I could use yer help.”

“She does like me.” The girl grinned and hurried after Mrs. Gilroy, her legs swishing against the velvet of her dress.

When she was out of earshot, Jon turned to Mr. Northcutt. The expression in his eyes was flinty. “I am Carrie’s guardian.” His mouth hardened. “I presume Mrs. Johnstone briefed you as to the residents of my household.”

“She did.” Mr. Northcutt rubbed a hand against his beard. “I did not realize the girl was so young.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

The bodyguard shook his head. “I will need to refine my tactics. The child’s presence is not truly significant. I will complete the job I’ve been sent to do.”

*

Tidying up after their midday meal, Belle bustled about the kitchen.

With a glance through the window facing the garden, she spotted the new bodyguard squinting against the afternoon sun.

Seeming to sense she was watching him, Mr. Northcutt turned toward her, his expression stony and unreadable.

Since his arrival that morning, the man had kept a clear distance.

He’d come inside briefly to eat the meal Mrs. Gilroy had prepared, taking hasty bites of the hearty sandwich before returning to his patrol.

Now, he turned away from her, checked his pocket watch, and began to pace with long strides.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but the man seemed on edge.

Of course, Mrs. Gilroy’s attempts at conversation might’ve had something to do with that.

The housekeeper had spoken to him in her usual, forthright manner, but Mr. Northcutt clearly had no interest in gaining any familiarity with those he’d been hired to protect.

Perhaps he did not wish to risk any appearance of impropriety, especially with Jon out of the house.

But still, what would be the harm in offering a nod or a chuckle when an old woman attempted to break the ice?

Something about the man didn’t quite fit. She wasn’t surprised that the bodyguard was somewhat aloof. But why would Mrs. Johnstone have felt this man who seemed downright cold was a good fit for a household which included a curious child, two mischievous pets, and a slightly saucy old woman?

Oh, she was letting her nerves get the better of her. She had faith in Mrs. Johnstone’s judgment. What did it matter that the man’s personality was as stale as week-old bread?

“So, Mrs. Gilroy, I was wondering... do you still think Mr. Northcutt is—oh, how did you phrase it—easy on the eyes?” Belle asked while she and Carrie washed and dried the dishes.

“As a matter of fact, he is a rather handsome sort.” The housekeeper’s mouth pursed, rather like she’d tasted a lemon. “Pity the man possesses the disposition of an ornery goat.”

Belle bit back a chuckle. “Oh, he’s not so bad as that.”

“The way he reacted to Carrie did not sit well with me,” Mrs. Gilroy said.

“And he was none too warm toward Heathy, either.” Her lips pursed again.

“As my dear old mum always said, if ye want to know the worth of a person, take a good look at how they treat the wee ones and animals. That will always tell the tale.”

Belle took a freshly washed cup from the strainer. She’d scarcely had time to wipe it with her drying rag before Heathy suddenly began to bark. Without warning, the dog bolted from the room, the bell on his collar jangling wildly.

“Heathy’s not happy,” Carrie said, staring after the pup with the innocent eyes of a child. “I’ll check on him.”

As she rushed to follow the dog’s path, Belle reached out to stop her, but she couldn’t quite catch the girl as she scurried away.

The sound of Mrs. Gilroy’s gasp stopped Belle in her tracks. “God above, you startled me,” the old woman murmured, eyes wide with indignation. “Who are ye? Did Mr. Northcutt let you in?”

Turning to the doorway, Belle froze. The cup in her hand crashed to the floor, sending shards of glass scattering around their feet. For the span of several heartbeats, she stood transfixed.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t gather her wits.

And all the while, the man she’d run from met her eyes with a piercing blue glare.

Gideon.

“Hello, Arabelle.” His voice was as icy as a frigid January morn. “I’ve come to take you home.”