It caught her, dragged at her mind. Drew her in. Held her captive.

He urged her closer still, one hand sliding down her back to splay over her hips, her bottom, lifting her and pressing her to him.

Sensation streaked over her skin, prickling, heated; she clung tight, felt the world whirl.

And she was engulfed in his strength, enveloped by it, a potent masculine power that seemed to weaken every bone in her body, that promised heat and flames so dizzyingly pleasurable all she wanted was to wantonly wallow, to give herself up to them and be consumed.

On one level it was frightening, but she couldn’t retreat—had wit enough left to know she couldn’t panic, couldn’t run.

She was supposed to be a widow. She had to stand there, accept all, and respond as if she understood.

Eventually his aggression eased, the tension riding him gradually, step by step, reined in. Gripping his arms, fingers sunk deep, she felt that drawing back; the kiss lightened, became a more gentle if still intimate caress, lips clinging, teasing, still wanting.

At last he raised his head, but not far.

Her lips felt swollen and hot; from beneath her lashes, she glanced at his eyes. His black gaze touched her eyes, held, then he sighed. Bent and touched his lips to the corner of hers.

“I didn’t intend this. There were people in the corridor. A danger…”

Deep, gravelly, the words feathered her cheek; sensation, hot and immediate, flashed over her.

“I wanted to apologize…” He paused, raised his head. Again she met his eyes, again found them waiting to capture hers. Something predatory flashed in the rich blackness, then he continued, “Not for this. Not for anything I’ve done or even said, but for how what I said in the park sounded.”

His tone was still low, slightly rough, teasing something—some response—from her.

Her gaze had drifted to his lips; his hands tightened on her back, and she looked up, eyes widening as she felt the heat between them flare again.

He caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not Ruskin. I will never hurt or harm you. I want to protect you, not threaten you.” He hesitated, then went on, “Even this—I didn’t plan it.”

This. He was still holding her close, not as tight as before yet just as flagrantly. Only lovers, she was perfectly certain, should ever be this close. Yet she didn’t dare pull back, fought instead to ignore the warm flush the embrace sent coursing through her. What had gone before no longer seemed terribly relevant.

“So—” She broke off, shocked by the sound of her voice, low, almost sultry. She moistened her lips, tried for a normal tone. Didn’t quite manage it. “What had you planned?” She met his eyes, clung to her bold front.

He studied her face, then his lips twisted. “I spoke the truth—I do need to speak with you.”

He made no move to release her. How would an experienced widow react? She forced herself to remain passive in his arms and raised a haughty brow. “About what? I wasn’t aware we had anything to discuss.”

One black brow arched—arrogantly; holding her gaze, he deliberately shifted her against him, settling her in his arms—sending her senses reeling again. “Obviously”— he gave the word blatant weight—“there’s much we could, and later will, discuss. However…”

The room, a small parlor overlooking the gardens, was unlit, but her eyes had adjusted—she could see his face well enough. Although he didn’t physically sigh, she sensed his mind lift from them and refocus on something beyond. A frown in his eyes, he looked down at her, studied her face.

“When did you marry Carrington?”

She stared at him. “Marry?”

His frown grew more definite. “Humor me. When was your wedding?”

“Ah.” She struggled to remember when it must have been. “Eighteen months—no, more like two years ago, now.”

She dragged in a breath, struggled to ignore the way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her nipples tightened, and dragooned her wits into order. He was investigating Ruskin’s death; she couldn’t afford to prod his suspicions. “It was a very short marriage. Poor Alfred—it was terribly sad.”

His brow arched again. “So you’ve been Alicia Carrington for only two years?”

She checked her calculations. “Yes.” She bit her tongue against adding anything more; better to keep her answers short.

He didn’t seem to notice; he seemed, not exactly relieved, but pleased. “Good!”

When she looked her surprise, he smiled rather grimly. “So you can’t be A. C.”

“Who’s A. C.?”

“The person who paid Ruskin for his treasonous services.”

She stared at him. Her lips formed the word twice before she managed to utter it. “What?”

Tony grimaced. He looked around. “Here.” Reluctantly releasing her, he steered her to a chaise. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

It hadn’t come easily, his acceptance that if he wanted her trust, he would have to tell her, if not all, then at least most of what was going on, how he was involved, how she was involved—how she was threatened. He needed her cooperation for reasons that struck much deeper than his mission; that mission—his investigation—was a whip he could use to command her, but only one thing would suffice to make her trust him. To lean on him as he wished her to.

Appeasement—a peace offering, some gift on his part—was the only way to nudge her onto the path he’d chosen. The most important element between them right now was the truth; as far as he was able, he would give her that.

He waited while, with a suspicious and wary glance, she sat and settled her skirts, then he sat beside her and took her hand in his. Looked down, played with her fingers as he assembled his words.

Then, keeping his voice low yet clear enough for her to easily hear, he told her simply, without embellishment, all he’d learned of Ruskin.

She listened, increasingly attentive, but made no comment.

But when he came to how and where he’d discovered the initials A. C., her fingers tensed, tightened on his. He glanced at her.

She studied his eyes, searched his face. Then she breathed in tightly. “You know I didn’t kill him—that I’m innocent of all this?”

Not so much a question as a request for a clear statement.

“Yes.” He raised her hand to his lips, held her gaze as he kissed. “I know you didn’t kill him. I know you’re not involved in any treasonous use of shipping information.” He lowered their locked hands, then added, “However, you—we—have to face the fact that someone started the rumor I heard.”

“I can’t understand it—how could anyone know?”

“Are you sure, absolutely sure, that your secret, whatever it is, was known only by Ruskin?”

Frowning, she met his gaze, then looked away. Her hand remained resting in his. After a moment, she replied, “It might be possible that, in the same way Ruskin had learned what he had, then someone else might have, too. But what I can’t understand is how that someone could know Ruskin was using the information as he was.”

She looked at him.

“Indeed. Blackmail doesn’t work if others know.” He paused, then added, “From what I’ve learned of Ruskin, he wasn’t the sort to give away valuable information. He’d have charged for it, and—”

Releasing her hand, he stood; he thought better on his feet. “The dates of payments noted in his black book not only match the dates he paid his debts, but also follow by about a week the dates he noted for certain ships.” He paced, caught her eye. “However, there’s no other payment—any unaccounted payment—entered. So I think we’re on firm ground in assuming he hadn’t sold any information other than the shipping directives.”

Halting by the fireplace, he considered her. “So the question remains. Who would he have told about you, and why?”

Her brow creased as she looked at him; her gaze grew distant.

“What?”

She flicked him an impatient glance. “I was just wondering…”

When he moved toward her, she quickly continued, “When he left me, Ruskin was sure—absolutely confident—that I’d agree to his proposal. He”—she paused, blushed, but lifted her head and went on—“was so certain he expected to call the next evening and… receive my acceptance.”

After a moment, she met his eyes. “I didn’t know him well, but given his nature, he probably couldn’t help gloating. About me—I mean, about gaining a wealthy widow as his wife.”

Tony could visualize such a scenario readily, but he doubted it was her wealth Ruskin would have gloated about. Nevertheless…

“That would fit.” He paced again. “If Ruskin, quite unsuspectingly, mentioned his coup—and yes, I agree, he was the type of man to gloat, then…” Bits and pieces of the jigsaw slid into place.

“What?”

He glanced at her, and found her glaring at him; he felt his lips ease. “Consider this. If Ruskin was murdered by whoever he’d been selling his information to—”

“By this A. C., you mean?”

He nodded. “Then if he mentioned he was about to marry, quite aside from any risk from the blackmail going wrong—it’s always a risky business—the knowledge that Ruskin would soon have a wife would have increased the threat Ruskin posed to A. C.”

“In case he told his wife?”

“Or she found out. Ruskin even mentioning knowing A. C., even years from now, might have been dangerous.”

Alicia pieced together the picture he was painting. At one level, she could barely believe all that had happened since they’d entered the room. That searing kiss—it was as if it had cindered, felled, and consumed all barriers between them. He was talking to her, treating her, as if she was an accomplice, a partner in his investigation. More, a friend.

Almost a lover.

And she was reacting as if she were.

She was amazed at herself. She didn’t—never had— trusted so readily. Yet if she was honest, it was why she’d been so furious with him in the park, when, despite her totally unwarranted trust—one he’d somehow earned in a few short days—it had seemed his interest in her and her family had all been fabricated. False.

That kiss hadn’t been false.

It had been a statement, unplanned maybe, but once made, it couldn’t be retracted—and he hadn’t tried. It had happened, and he’d accepted it.

She had no choice but to do the same.

Especially as she, innocent or not, was being drawn deeper and deeper into the web of intrigue surrounding Ruskin’s murder.

“Is this what you think happened?” She didn’t look up, but sensed his attention fasten on her. “Presumably the man—let’s assume he’s A. C.—had arrived in the Amery House gardens via the garden gate. Ruskin went out to meet him—it had to have been an arranged meeting.”

Torrington—Tony—drew nearer. “Yes.”

“So then Ruskin babbled about his soon-to-be conquest—me—but…” Frowning, she glanced up. “Had Ruskin some information to sell, or had A. C. come there with murder on his mind?”

Tony mentally reviewed all Ruskin’s notes on shipping. None had been recent. Even more telling…“I don’t think there could be anything worthwhile for Ruskin to sell. With the war over, the information he had access to wouldn’t be all that useful….”

He was aware of her watching him, trying to read his face, follow his thoughts. He glanced at her. “I haven’t yet defined how the information Ruskin passed on was used, but it’s telling his association with A. C. began in early ’12. That was when naval activity once again became critical. From ’12 up until Waterloo, shipping was constantly under threat. Now, however, there is no significant danger on the seas.”

He was going to have to pursue that angle hard, and soon.

She took up the tale before he could. “If Ruskin no longer had anything of real use to A. C., then…” She looked up at him.

He met her gaze. “A. C., assuming he has a position and reputation to protect, would have been threatened by Ruskin’s continued existence.”

“If Ruskin was not above blackmailing me…”

“Indeed. He may not have called it by that name, but given his debts, he would have needed an injection of capital quite soon, and almost certainly would have looked to A. C.”

“Who decided to end their association.” She nodded.

“Very well. So while Ruskin is gloating, A. C. stabs him and leaves him dead. I come down the path—” She paled.

“Do you think A. C. saw me?”

He considered, then shook his head. “The timing— when I saw him on the street—makes that unlikely.”

“But then how did he know it was me Ruskin was blackmailing? Would Ruskin have told him my name?”