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‘You have a plan?’ Cleo asked. How ridiculous that she still clung to the hope that he could save her, set her free, show that she mattered more than his career, his good name. How selfish you are, Cleo Woodward, she chided herself. And how foolish.
‘Yes, I have a plan. You tell me what you want to do and I will help you do it.’
* * *
‘But I was doing what I wanted...’ Cleo looked as though she was holding on to her temper by her fingernails, but Quin suspected she was simply holding herself together by sheer will-power. She must be exhausted and frightened, he thought. And being Cleo she would not want fussing over.
‘You were doing the only respectable thing you could think of under the circumstances. Tell me what you would do if you had control of that money your father gave you.’
‘If! Oh, very well, if we must play foolish games. I would find a small house in some respectable town. One with a theatre, perhaps, good shops, a library, pleasant company. I would be a widow again. My husband would have died in Egypt. Perhaps I would give language lessons to young ladies... What is the point of this?’
She wants so little and I could provide it so easily. Quin spoke rapidly, working it out as he went. ‘I will give you the money to do that. I will put it all in George’s hands so I can tell your grandfather with a clear conscience that I do not know where you are. George will find you a house, manage the funds for you.’
‘But what funds?’
‘I will provide you with sufficient.’
‘I cannot take money from you! What does that make me?’ He expected anger, he had not foreseen the tears that sparked in her eyes or the look of hurt.
‘It makes you the lady to whom I am in debt for my life twice over. The lady whose life I have interfered in and to whom I now wish to make some small recompense.’
‘I should say no.’ Cleo stared into her teacup as though seeking to read wisdom in the dregs. She got to her feet and walked away from him to stare, apparently entranced, at a set of atlases on the bookshelf. He could almost hear her thinking. Quin willed himself into stillness and watched the tall, slender figure. She was tired, he could tell by the infinitesimal droop of her shoulders, the less-than-perfect balance of her spine. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, undress her and wash her in the warm bath water, then towel her dry and tuck her up in bed to sleep while he paced through a sleepless night of frustration.
The wave of tenderness, the acceptance of restraint. It began to puzzle him that he cared so much. Perhaps the way he felt was the weight on his conscience lifting, the realisation that he could help Cleo.
‘Do you give me your word that this isn’t simply a ruse?’ She turned as she spoke and he saw the mistrust and, beneath it, something utterly naked and vulnerable.
She expects to be hurt, used, betrayed, he realised. Her father, her husband, the French officials, her grandfather—and me. We have all deceived her for our own purposes. No wonder she cannot trust. ‘I give you my word,’ Quin said and saw the flicker in her eyes as she noticed his hesitation. He saw, too, the moment when she decide to risk it as she had before. Surely it meant something, that she was prepared to try again when he had betrayed her before?
‘I think I would like one of your hugs,’ Cleo said, and ran into his arms.
Quin held her tightly to him, buried his face in her hair and breathed in warm woman, plain soap, the faintly spicy scent of her skin, the indefinable something that was Cleo. He wanted to kiss her, but that was not what she needed now, so he contented himself with stroking her back and murmuring nonsense until she relaxed with a sigh and pulled back a little.
‘Does this mean I am forgiven?’ Quin asked.
‘Forgiven? Yes,’ she agreed.
‘But you haven’t forgotten and you still are not certain of me, are you?’ He was a fool to keep pressing when he knew he was not going to like the answer.
‘No,’ she said slowly, her eyes still locked with his. ‘I have learned that you are very clever with words and with the finer points of truth and honour.’
Well, you asked for that, don’t dig any deeper. ‘Come, the water will have heated. I will call for your bath. The room is this way.’
She followed him into the second bedchamber. Godley had made up the bed and turned down the covers. There was the tub before the fire and a pile of towels, soap and his big sponge. ‘Go behind the screen and start undressing and I’ll help with the water,’ Quin said.
Cleo looked around the small, very masculine room, smiled at him and slipped behind the Cordoba leather screen.
Quin and Godley carried in the buckets until the tub was three-quarters full, placed two jugs of rinsing water by the side and then the valet took himself off.
