Page 45 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

T hroughout most of his life, Jon had trusted facts and figures and rational analysis above emotion-driven decisions.

Yet, he’d learned not to discount his gut.

The last time he’d done so, he’d boarded a ship out of New York harbor and made the most foolish move of his life.

Even then, his instincts had warned that no matter the rational justification he managed to cobble together, leaving Belle would be a mistake.

Like a dolt, he’d pushed that warning aside.

Now, he would leave that one fateful decision in the past as he started his relationship with Belle anew.

He’d scarcely slept the night before. Holding Belle in his arms, he’d drifted off despite his best efforts to stave off sleep.

He’d wanted to remain awake, wanted to experience every sweet moment of the night.

The feel of her soft skin against his. The taste of her tender kiss.

The delicious sound of her quiet moans as they’d reached the heights of passion.

The wonder of it all could not be matched.

Never in his life had he felt such contentment. Such utter satisfaction.

If everything went to plan, he would ask Belle to become his wife. For the rest of his days, he would cherish her. Adore her.

But first, he had to earn Belle’s trust. Had to earn her faith in him. Had to erase any doubts in her mind that their lives should be forever intertwined.

Now, hours after their night together, a tonic for his weary soul, he’d strode into his office intent on retrieving the one thing he would need when he uttered the question he burned to ask.

While the sun was high in the sky, eliminating the risk that an intruder might conceal himself in the shadows of his home, and an experienced guard stood watch within the house, the rational part of his mind had insisted Belle would be safe for the brief time of his absence.

But an instinctive tension stirred in his gut.

“Bloody hell, ye look like ye need a drink, my friend,” Logan MacLain marched into Jon’s office with his usual blunt assessment of any situation. “I know what ye’re thinking about doing. It takes a stout soul, but I know ye’ll figure it out.”

“Indeed, I will,” Jon said, a bit more confident than he felt. He sat upon a leather chair near his desk and stretched out his legs. “Take a seat, will you, so I don’t feel like a lazy dolt.”

Logan pulled up a chair, his gaze settling on the small box on Jon’s desk. “So, that’s it, is it?”

Jon opened the velvet-lined box. For a long moment, he studied the sapphire and diamond band his grandmother had given him on her death bed.

This was the ring his grandfather had slipped upon her finger when he’d asked her to become his bride.

The ring she’d worn when she’d given birth to his mother.

The ring she’d envisioned on the hand of the woman he would marry.

For years, he’d kept it locked away in his safe.

It had seemed a precious reminder of a great love.

His grandmother, wise woman that she was, had encouraged him to seek a greater reward in life than profits and losses and the like.

At the time, he’d listened to her gentle entreaties with respect, but deep within, he’d dismissed her words.

Someday, he would marry. He’d known that much.

After all, he had to carry on the family name.

But he’d doubted love would have much to do with it.

Until now.

Until he’d fallen for Belle.

“It’s quite impressive,” Logan said, taking a good look at the ring. “A part of yer family legacy.”

“That was my grandmother’s intention.”

“Ye’re edgy as a rabbit looking into the eyes of a hound,” Logan observed with a chuckle. “Having doubts?”

Jon mulled the question for a long moment. “Not about Belle.” He ran his fingertip over the ring, envisioning it on her slender finger. “Not about this.”

“Then what is it?”

“I cannot put my finger on it, but there’s something about Northcutt,” he said. “Something about the man doesn’t sit well with me.”

“He’s not a talkative sort. But if the Dragon referred him, ye can be confident he’s up to the job.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Jon considered his words. “He answered every question we posed with knowledge born of hard experience. His credentials are impeccable. By all reasonable measures, I should have full confidence in the man.”

And yet, something gnawed at him. Something logic couldn’t explain away.

I was not aware there was a young child in residence.

Why in blazes had Northcutt seemed taken aback by Carrie’s presence? Surely Mrs. Johnstone had briefed him on the specifics of the assignment, including the members of Jon’s household.

I will complete the job I’ve been sent to do.

A sudden chill coursed down his spine. Something was off. Something about Henry Northcutt didn’t fit.

The sound of hurried footfalls along the corridor reached his ears. “Stop,” his secretary called, her tone clearly agitated. “You cannot simply barge in—”

Mrs. Johnstone strode into his office. “I was hoping to find ye here,” she said as Miss Smithson bustled up behind her.

“Mr. Mason, I tried to tell her you were not available,” the secretary explained.

“Thank you,” he said. “But she is welcome here.”

“Very well.” Miss Smithson turned on her heel and made her way down the hallway.

“There has been a most unfortunate development,” Mrs. Johnstone said. “A true crimp in the plan.”

“What are ye saying?” Logan said, rising to greet his aunt.

“As ye know, I met with the security agent yesterday evening. Preparations were in place for him to begin the assignment today,” she said. “But there has been an incident.”

Jon saw the lines of stress on her face. Heard the strained notes of her voice. What in blazes was going on?

“Last night, sometime after our meeting, Mr. Northcutt suffered an attack in his residence,” Mrs. Johnstone went on. “The physicians believe he will recover. But—”

“Bloody hell,” Logan swore under his breath.

An invisible fist plowed into his gut. By hellfire, why had he trusted the blighter to watch over Belle?

Jon bolted for the door. He had to get to Belle. He had to protect her.

Desperation coursed through his veins. In that moment, he knew the truth.

Not a bloody thing in the world matters. Only Belle.

*

In her life, Belle had thought she’d known true fear.

Once, as a girl exploring the woods behind her family’s country home with her brother, she’d come frighteningly close to a bear.

She’d stood frozen, pulling in ragged breaths as the large beast roamed past without a care.

On another occasion in those very woods, she’d come too near a snake that had scared her silly.

Heaven knew she’d run as fast as her legs could carry her that day.

And then, there’d been the time she and her cousin walked along a gloomy street, only to encounter a knife-wielding thief who’d cut the strap of her handbag and torn it from her grasp.

In those days, she’d believed she knew what fear was. But nothing she had ever experienced could compare to the quiet terror that surged through her at the sight of Gideon standing in the dining room, watching her like a hawk stalking a field mouse.

The tight-lipped bodyguard who’d betrayed their trust strode toward her.

He’d closed the door to the corridor, shutting Heathy out of the room, but the sound of the dog’s vigorous barking provided a mild sense of relief.

Heathy was alive and well, though Carrie didn’t understand that each frantic yip was in truth a good sign.

“I want to see Heathy.” The child gazed up at the treacherous guard with innocent eyes.

Dear God. The sight of the man who’d deceived them moving toward Carrie cut through the haze that had seemed to fall over her. She rushed to take the girl from his reach, to protect Carrie in her own arms, but he was quick.

Catching the child’s hand in his own, he met Belle’s desperate gaze with a quirk of his thin mouth. “She is safe.” His expression hardened. “For now.”

“Do something with that bloody dog, will you,” Gideon said as Heathy’s barking grew more insistent.

“Don’t you dare touch that pup,” Belle gritted through her teeth.

“Ye think to stop me?” Northcutt cocked his head. “Bold words, indeed.”

“Enough.” Gideon uttered the word as an order. Cold. Clear. Leaving no room for dissent. His narrowed eyes raked over her. “He will not hurt anyone. Or anything.” His mouth curved into a serpent’s smile. “Unless I say so.”

Belle pulled in a low breath. It wouldn’t do to show the extent of her fear. Gideon watched her with a hawk’s gaze. A silent prayer for strength whispered in her thoughts as she squared her shoulders and hiked her chin.

“My, Gideon, am I to understand you would stand by while your hired man uses force against defenseless females?”

“I would prefer this to be a peaceful reunion.” His eyes narrowed. “But if persuasion is necessary, I shall do whatever needs to be done.”

The curve of his mouth was meant to be taunting. He knew he could use the safety of the others against her. How had she been so blind to the deceit in his eyes? If only she’d seen through the charming veneer Gideon had worn like a mask.

“I would think you might offer a greeting,” he went on. “After all, I have looked high and low for you.”

Praying she could hide the slight tremor in her voice, she forced a steady tone. Calm. And reserved. “Hello, Gideon.” Each syllable tasted bitter on her tongue.

“A refreshingly civilized response.” His gaze drifted over her from head to toe. His expression showed his undisguised contempt. “Might I ask what in blazes you are wearing?”

“I believe you are familiar with the term, Gideon.” She forced a wan smile. “This is an apron.”

“I certainly know what that thing is.” His upper lip curled into a sneer. “But rather, why on earth you would don such a thing?”