Page 10 of To Heist and to Hold

No, he had been wrong. Her voice, with that faint huskiness, was so much worse than silence, acting like a physical touch.

He cleared his throat against the sudden heat that sizzled along his skin to parts of him he would rather not think about just then.

“It is imperative that we secure Mrs. Holburn as Mrs. Finch’s opponent,” he replied as evenly as he was able.

Which, to his frustration, was not very.

“And we could not simply write her?” She turned from the view at the window to peer at him with that overbright smile of hers that nonetheless did nothing to hide some peculiar frustration beneath the surface. “This seems a waste of your time when a messenger could get the job done just as well.”

Why did she appear discontented? Seeing as Mrs. Finch’s opponent was quite possibly the most important aspect of the match, Mrs. Marlow should be eager to be involved in this portion of the process. Truly, the woman was growing to be more of an enigma with each interaction.

“There is no time for a back-and-forth with Mrs. Holburn and her manager,” he replied. “We need to confirm her participation today if we are to have the advertisements and flyers prepared in time.”

“Ah.” She flushed, giving one last look out the window in Dionysus’s direction with an almost wistful expression before turning to face him once more, that same blank-eyed brightness from earlier back in place.

“Of course you’re right. I should never have doubted you.

You are a professional, after all, and have things well in hand.

It’s an honor to work with someone with your experience and care. ”

What the devil? The compliments poured from her tongue like wine. Yet though they sounded sincere enough, they tasted more like vinegar to him.

Not knowing how to respond, he leveled an emotionless stare at her.

His utter lack of response to her compliments seemed to confound her.

Her smile trembled, a small muscle twitching at the corner of her eye.

But where most others would have settled back in silence, she proved as stubborn as her strong jaw indicated.

“Might I sit beside you?” she asked, those eyelashes fluttering once more.

“While I appreciate you giving me the forward-facing seat”—here she paused, her expression saying she thought him a consummate gentleman, something no one had ever accused him of in his life—“I do like to see where I’ve been, rather than where I’m going.

” Then, without waiting for a response, she half rose from her seat, twisting her body, and slid herself onto the seat beside him.

Ethan could do little more than freeze, every part of him going rigid at the feel of her pressed so close to him.

And yes, that body part went rigid as well.

He swallowed hard. Damnation, one would think he had been without a woman for years the way he was reacting to something so innocuous as Mrs. Marlow’s warmth beside him.

Which was not lessened a moment later when her fingers curled around his arm.

“There now, isn’t this nice?” she said brightly.

No, not a damn bit. Or, rather, it was too nice.

So nice, in fact, that it took every ounce of willpower for him not to lean in and drag the sweet scent of her into his lungs, every bit of strength not to turn toward her and bury his face in her neck and taste her skin.

Instead, he ripped his arm from her grasp and lurched across the carriage, falling in an incongruous heap on the opposite bench.

Which was still warm from her bottom, something he was trying very hard not to think about.

“As you aren’t going to make use of it,” he muttered when she stared wide-eyed at him, “I may as well. Please,” he continued, louder now and with a raised hand, as she leaned forward, appearing as if she would follow him to this seat as well, “enjoy yourself there. I would not wish to take away the enjoyment of that view from you.”

He thought she would sit back and lapse into blessed silence for the remainder of their journey. It appeared that way at first, her body easing, the overly exuberant expression falling from her face. He very nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

Nearly.

Until that stubborn jut of her chin manifested once again, a strange, determined gleam sparking in her eyes.

Why, he thought a bit wildly as she gripped the cushion beneath her and leaned forward to move across to him once more, did she want so badly to attach herself to his side?

It was not as if they were separated by some great distance in this godforsaken carriage.

Before her bottom could so much as rise from her seat—ah, God, why did he have to think of her bottom again?

—he blurted, “So tell me, how long have you known Mrs. Finch?”

Which, blessedly, was enough to stop her forward momentum. Once more she dropped back, her eyes blinking myopically at him. “Mrs. Finch?”

“Yes,” he said, perhaps a touch too eagerly, desperate to keep her distracted. “Mrs. Finch. When did you first become acquainted with her?”

“Oh.” More blinking. “Er, two years?”

It was his turn to blink. “Are… you asking me?”

“No.” She flushed, that summer strawberry stain blooming across her cheeks again. “Two years. I’ve known her for two years.”

That out of the way, she nodded and looked pointedly at the seat beside him, her intentions clear. Which, of course, prompted not only his shifting to the middle of the seat but his next hasty question as well.

“And who did you manage before then?”

He really didn’t give a good damn whom she’d managed before, the question merely an attempt to distract her. But her answer, as utterly peculiar as it was, snagged his attention completely.

“No one.”

“No one?” A surprising thing. If one had been hired to manage one of the most famed women pugilists in England, one should have had some experience. Especially for something so important as a much-lauded comeback.

“Were you involved in pugilism before?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation, her attention still on his seat, which he was doing his damnedest to fill completely. “I’d never even been to a boxing match before meeting her.”

“You never attended a boxing match? Ever?”

His disbelieving question finally seemed to distract her from her goal of joining him on his bench. She stilled, pale blue eyes widening as they flew to his. Why did she suddenly look like a rabbit caught in a snare? “N-no?”

He raised one brow. “Are you asking me again?”

Again that delicious flush, though this time it crept down her throat to the modest neckline of her gown. “No. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you, no, I never attended a match before meeting her.”

“And you’ve only known Mrs. Finch two years?”

Here her chin, that delightfully, maddeningly stubborn chin, rose a fraction, as if in defiance. “Yes. Why is that surprising?”

His instincts were on high alert, like those of a hunting dog catching the scent of prey. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. It was her turn to pull back now, alarm flaring in her eyes.

“It’s just surprising, is all,” he murmured, watching her closely. “Why would someone of Mrs. Finch’s caliber hire someone with no knowledge of the sport to manage her career?” He paused, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Don’t you agree?”

There was a beat of silence, the only sounds the jangle of the tack and the clatter of the cobbles beneath the wheels and the horses’ hooves.

And in that short time, a myriad of emotions flitted across her face, from haughtiness to determination to fear.

Oh yes, fear was there in spades, though it was quickly stifled.

“Well, of course I’ve been involved in sport,” she replied, waving a hand in the air as if the very idea of her not having some sort of experience were laughable. “My husband was Gregory Marlow of Marlow Fencing Salon. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Oh yes, he’d heard of it. It had been a popular place up until the owner’s death some two and a half years before. And then… nothing. It had seemed to vanish off the face of the earth. He frowned. So this woman was his widow, was she?

“And you were involved in the running of the salon?”

“I was.” That chin came up a fraction more. “Not only the running of the salon, but I also instructed classes and forged our own weapons.”

That last gave him pause. “Forged your own weapons?”

“Yes.” She smoothed her skirts. “I assisted in my uncle’s blacksmith forge before my marriage. I brought those skills to my husband’s home.”

A blacksmith. The woman was a blacksmith.

Which would account for the incredible strength he had felt beneath his palms when she’d tripped and fallen in his arms just the day before.

This new bit of her history should have given him a better idea of who the woman was.

Yet she was even more of an enigma than before.

And in the space of a moment, she had suddenly gone from intriguing and maddening to being the most fascinating woman he had ever met in his life.

Something that did not help with his unwelcome reactions to her, he thought as the carriage, finally at their destination, came to a stop.

He stole a glance at her as she gathered her things, intensely aware of the rapid pounding of his heart.

He unconsciously rubbed a hand over his chest. No, it did not help him one bit.