“Yes, she did. Sorry she spoiled your fun.” James studied him for a long moment. “You know, an astute man would try to curry favor with the trustee who controls the money he wants. While astute is not a term I’d apply to you . . .”
“I don’t know who did it!” Archie snarled. “I don’t know who or how or anything about it. I didn’t even know it was true until you attacked me.”
“Believe me, if I had attacked you, you would feel a good deal worse now. This was nothing more than a friendly warning.” James stepped back, lowering his arm.
Archie tugged at his lapels and tried to pull his hauteur back into place. “I presume the killer must be Claude, since he’s your heir.” He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “But you’ve no proof.”
James snapped, “Don’t make something up. And don’t conceal anything, either. If I find out you did either, it’ll go worse for you.”
“I don’t know anything,” Salstone repeated, his voice bitter. “I’m sure there are any number of people besides Claude who would like to see you dead.”
“You are the one I would have put in first place if I thought you had the brains for it.” James turned and walked away.
chapter 33
James passed his study and headed toward the gardens, too restless now to sit. It was absurd to feel jealous. Damn Salstone anyway for putting such thoughts in his head.
There was no reason for it. Even if Laura had once been in love with his cousin—hell, even if she still loved him—she would never dishonor James or herself that way. For that matter, neither would Graeme. No doubt Archie had exaggerated the number of times she went there. And what did it matter anyway? She could have been paying a call on Aunt Mirabelle or Abigail.
Well, perhaps it was unlikely for her to be friends with Graeme’s wife, but Laura had long been a particular favorite of Aunt Mirabelle’s. Even if she saw Graeme, conversed with him, it would lead nowhere. James would regret it if Laura were pining after Graeme, but only because he disliked seeing Laura unhappy.
He was not a possessive sort of man. Never had been. He hadn’t felt as if he owned any woman, any more than he owned his solicitor or his man of business. It was all a matter of agreement and exchange.
Marriage was another form of contract. Both he and Laura knew that, accepted it. As for all that talk of a married couple becoming one, James didn’t believe in such nonsense. After all, he had seen firsthand how very separate a man and wife remained. Laura bore his name; she was entitled to his respect and support, his protection, but James certainly would not presume to say she belonged to him.
The problem, he realized in surprise, was that in some gut-deep, primitive way, he felt Laura was his. She had become his the moment he slid the ring onto her finger. He told himself the feeling was only because by marrying him, Laura had entered that small circle of people under his protection, like his mother and his annoying half siblings.
Except that the way he felt about Laura was in no way like the responsibility he carried for the rest of his family. It went core deep and it was . . . passionate.
Demosthenes whined at his side, and James glanced down, realizing that he had been standing for some minutes on the terrace, staring out blindly. “Sorry, boy.” He reached down and patted the dog’s side. “Be glad you’re a dog.”
James started down the steps, still sunk in thought. Feelings were bothersome things, but at least normally they were in the places they belonged, not spilling over and twisting through everything to complicate his life. But with Laura, it seemed impossible to keep himself in order.
He thought about waking up this morning with Laura in his bed. It was an odd experience for him. He always left a woman long before dawn. But he could hardly have tossed his wife out of his bed last night. After this, he would have to handle it differently; he would go to Laura’s room, where he would be able to leave when he wanted to. Laura’s bedroom was a more enticing place anyway, everything soft and feminine and smelling of her.
For several minutes after he awoke, James had just lain there, studying Laura’s face as she slept, taking in all the details as he would have liked to many times before but could not without embarrassing himself. She was curled up beside him, her hair spreading out over her pillow in a silken jumble. The pale morning light coming through the slit between the drapes cut a swath across her face and turned her hair to spun gold.
He had wanted to trace his finger over her brows or brush back the lock of hair that tumbled over her forehead. But it would have been unkind to awaken her just so he could touch her, and anyway, he would have looked damned silly lying there mooning over her sleeping form.