For Your Arms Only

silence for some time. Silence, Alec knew, could work wonders. More often than not, saying nothing was a good way to prompt someone to say something, especially women, especially when they had something on their minds. The glances he stole at her from time to time indicated that she did have something on her mind, from the way she kept rolling her lower lip between her teeth. The action left her lips deep pink and glistening, and far too intriguing. His eyes seemed drawn to her mouth every time he looked at her. He silently cursed himself as a sad, lonely wretch, sneaking peeks at a woman’s mouth and fantasizing about the curve of her neck.
“Major Hayes,” she blurted out at last, “I must apologize for the other day, when you first called at Brighampton. I reacted in haste and very much regret my actions.”
“Which actions, Miss Turner?”
She might be grinding her teeth, from the set of her jaw. “All of them,” she muttered.
The road made a sweeping turn to the west, following the River Lea. Alec didn’t slow the horse at all, and she almost leaned over the side of the gig to keep from touching him. He wondered if it was intense dislike, or something else, that made her do that, and then he wondered why he cared. “I took no offense.”
“I had a fear of horse thieves,” she said. “But I would not have shot you.”
“Don’t raise a gun unless you are prepared to fire it.”
“I only meant to frighten you—or rather, a horse thief—away.”
“You didn’t cock the pistol and you stood close enough that I could have taken the pistol from you if I wanted to. A real thief wouldn’t have been frightened.”
She was watching him from the corner of her eyes, looking slightly amazed. “You weren’t alarmed at all?”
“No.” Her interest, even mixed with caution and suspicion, was tantalizing. Alec kept his eyes fixed on the road, although he could feel the warmth of her body near his.
“Do you have pistols pointed at you often?”
“I was in the cavalry, Miss Turner. Pistols, rifles, heavy artillery—and most of them firing at the time.”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured. “I forgot.”
“Why should you have known?” He couldn’t resist turning to look at her. She had cocked her head at an angle to see him without having to turn and face him. A fine line divided her brows, and wisps of golden brown hair drifted around the brim of her bonnet. Alec knew he was being sized up. If she told him they didn’t want his help, he would really have no more excuse to stare at her. Not that it would change his mission from Stafford to find the sergeant, but he would have to do it without the intriguing Miss Turner’s cooperation. The job would be more difficult, and far, far less entertaining. That ought to be reason enough for him to stop provoking her, but instead he was behaving like a man gorging himself in anticipation of a coming famine.
She blinked and jerked her eyes away from his. “I didn’t know,” she said, staring straight ahead again. “I only knew your rank. I never thought officers cared much for being under fire.”
Alec smiled wryly at the subtle insult. That was a regular soldier’s view, and certainly true of some officers, but not true of him. Perhaps it would improve Miss Turner’s opinion of his character if he told her how many times he had led a charge directly into French fire. “May I ask why you were so quick to assume I was a horse thief?”
“Well…You were in the stable.”
“Right. Well, I did see a man leaving the stable, in a very suspicious manner. Perhaps he was your horse thief.”
Her expression grew uneasy. “Was there really another man?” she said, then blushed. She thought he had lied to her.
He let it go with a nod. “Yes. A big fellow, creeping rather furtively about before running into the woods. I presume he doesn’t work for you.”
“No,” she murmured. “I—I expect it was a creditor, or someone from Mr. Bickford’s stables.”
Creditors normally came to the front door and demanded their money. Alec added that mysterious figure to the list of things he must look into.
“I doubt he was a horse thief. It was broad daylight, after all; an odd time to steal a horse, don’t you think?”
“Having never stolen a horse,” she said, “I wouldn’t know the best time to do it.”
“I recommend after dark. Or in a pouring rainstorm, for no one wishes to chase after you then. Of course, you should take care to choose a placid horse in that event, who won’t take fright at the storm.”
She glanced at him in alarm. “You seem well-versed in the matter.”
He met her eyes. “Such knowledge comes in handy from time to time.”
She shifted away from him in her seat. “I wonder why Lord Hastings sent you to help us, then. Since we don’t, in fact, need any horses stolen.”
“I wonder why you are so reluctant to accept a well-meant offer of help. Perhaps you have reconsidered your desire to locate your father.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I have not! How could you think that?”
He pulled up the horse, stopping the carriage with a jerk that made her clutch at the seat cushion, and turned to face her. “According to your account, he left four months ago. You waited more than three months to contact Hastings, and when Hastings sent someone—me—to your aid, you gave every appearance of being unpleasantly surprised instead of delighted.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he draped one arm along the back of the carriage and leaned toward her. Just a bit, but she shrank away from him, clutching the basket protectively against her chest. “A suspicious man might wonder if perhaps it was just for show, that your father’s disappearance suits you very well after all and you’re merely going through the motions of searching to avoid revealing just how satisfied you