I had felt that way yesterday, however briefly, and the essence, the warmth of that sensation lingered, sorely tempting me to reach for it again. I had only to say a word, give a sign, and the love of a good man could be mine for the rest of my life.
Light, speedy footsteps pulled me from my musing. I turned from the window as Katie entered from the hall.
“Miss, a visitor for you.” Her smile held a hint of mischief that raised my guard, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when she added, “It’s that nice Mr. Andrews.”
The tension inside me tightened another notch. If not for Derrick Andrews, my choices, my life, would be a raked and gently graded path laid out before me. But the mere mention of his name tossed up insurmountable barricades and made me realize there could be no easy way for me. No satisfaction in a practical, logical decision. I was not to be so lucky.
“Tell him I’m not receiving . . . no, tell him I’m not at home.”
“Are you sure, miss?”
I hesitated. “Yes. No. I . . . um . . .”
Katie had turned to go, and now turned back, my words acting on her like puppet strings. A realization hit me a sobering blow: I would make no proper wife for either of the men currently haunting my dreams and waking hours. I was no sophisticated, poised lady, and in the elegant drawing rooms of the Andrews family, I would always yearn for my true self, and for the freedom that had become so precious to me. But with Jesse, I would just as surely pine for the excitement—and the passion—he could never give me.
Katie fidgeted with her apron. “Miss?”
“Oh . . . blast and dang it,” I said, quoting two of Uncle Cornelius’s favorite expletives. I hurried past her and found Derrick, hat in hands, waiting in the foyer.
“I know all about yesterday,” he said without preamble. “You went down to the beach and stumbled on another murder. Emma, this reckless behavior—”
“I was looking for Consuelo, not a murder scene. What happened is not my fault, and believe me, I’d have much preferred yesterday’s events never to have occurred. Poor Lady Amelia.”
“Yes.” He perused me in a manner that raised goose bumps at my nape and renewed the nervous fluttering inside me.
Without warning he stepped closer and took me in his arms—not like Jesse’s brief, comforting embrace, but a claim that made no pretense of politely asking but instead adamantly taking . . . while at the same time, somehow, giving. Almost suffocating, and yet spirit renewing.
“What if you had arrived at the beach earlier than you did?” His voice was as rough as sandpaper. “What if you had stumbled upon the killer?”
“I had Brady with me.”
“Hang Brady.”
“Don’t underestimate my brother,” I said defensively into his shirt collar. He held me tighter, then slowly released me and stepped back.
He raised a hand to cup my chin. “No one can stop you from walking into danger, can they?”
I stared back at him. I could have said I never purposely walked into danger, but simply embarked on any task that needed doing. My cousin needed finding. I couldn’t abandon the search, not for anything. But he and I would continue to see it differently.
“All right, then.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Come with me.”
“Where?” I trotted to keep up as he exited through the front door and circled to the back of the property. He didn’t slow his lengthy strides until we passed the kitchen garden and stable yard, and stood on the grassy verge overlooking the water.
With one hand he snapped open the buttons of his coat and shrugged the garment off. He tossed it to the grass a few feet away. “It’s about time someone taught you how to defend yourself.” He unknotted his tie and dropped it onto his crumpled coat.
“What do you have in mind?” I didn’t at all care for the predatory gleam in his eye. I began backing away.
“Flight,” he said, “is certainly a natural and legitimate response to a threat, and in all honesty the one I prefer you to choose. However, since you’ve proved stubborn time and time again, not to mention that sometimes flight isn’t an option, we need to explore other avenues. Now stop backing away.”
“Then stop frightening me. I don’t like that look on your face.”
“Are you a victim, Emma Cross? Is that how you see yourself?”
I halted my retreat and drew myself up. “Certainly not.”
“Then come at me.”
“That won’t be fair. You’re much bigger than I am. Besides, I’ve no doubt your expensive, private school education included the sport of boxing. You’ll be far more experienced than I.”