Page 53 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

“Yes. And I’m not going to let you go by yourself.” She gave him a fierce look.

She was right, of course, and there was nothing he could do but grind his teeth and give in. He turned the horse in the direction she’d pointed. They rode for a time in silence, but it was companionable, not angry or awkward. It was the silence of two people who knew each other with such a bone-deep understanding that there was no need to talk, no expectation, no discomfort.

Well, no discomfort for her. Sloane himself was anything but comfortable. He was hot and hungry, every step a temptation, pleasure mingling with frustration in a potent stew. Annabeth was riding sideways on the horse, and his arms were around her, cradling her. Relaxed, she leaned against him a little, warm and soft. Trusting. Her scent teased at his nostrils—a mingling of perfume and flesh that was uniquely Annabeth; he would have known that scent anywhere, for it never failed to set up that low throb deep in his abdomen.

Worst—best—there was that constant movement of her body, flush against him between his legs, unconsciously provocative, so subtle yet so arousing that he had to hold back a groan. They could change positions so she could ride as she had the other night, sitting behind him, with her arms wrapped around him, pressed against his back. Which was worse, to have his arms around her or her arms around him, her hands on him?

The obvious solution, of course, was for him to dismount and lead the horse or walk beside it. But there was no chance he was going to do that. He wasn’t about to give up this moment. It had been twelve years; he’d forgotten how sweet she felt in his arms, how enticing and how satisfying. Heaven and hell it might be, but he was going to cherish it.

“There’s the brook,” Annabeth said, pointing. “Just follow it up and we’ll find the path.” After a moment she said, “Whoever it was must have followed us.”

“Yes. Unless you think our attacker is Feringham or the Haverstocks.”

Annabeth chuckled. “I think we can safely exclude them from the suspects.”

“They are the only people who know where we intended to go this morning, so the only other explanation is that we were followed here from the Haverstocks’. Which means someone has followed us the entire way. I was sure no one was trailing me. I should have paid more attention.”

Being with Annabeth was always highly distracting, but Sloane was disgusted with himself for not spotting a pursuer. He really was out of practice. But he’d better recover his skills, and quickly. Annabeth’s life was in danger. The kidnapping and the break-in were alarming, but he had thought it meant they needed Annabeth alive in order to find what they were looking for. But this time they had clearly tried to kill her.

“The fact that they shot at us shows that we are getting close to finding the document, don’t you think?” Annabeth asked.

“Or they’re simply afraid we’ll find it. If they knew for sure where it was, they would have already taken it.”

“And what exactly is ‘it’ again?” she asked, irritation creeping into her tone. “It’s a little hard to find something when you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t know exactly. And if I did, I couldn’t tell you.” That wasn’t much of a lie; they didn’t know precisely what was in the document, and he certainly couldn’t tell her the truth about her father. “Hell, I don’t know if the ruddy thing even exists. I’ll be surprised if we find it in your father’s workshop.”

Sloane hoped that the paper wasn’t there. The last thing he wanted was for Annabeth to read the confession of her father’s sins. But he didn’t know how to keep her from reading it if they found it together. Was he to snatch it out of her hands? Refuse to show it to her? He could imagine how well that would sit with her.

It would be better if the confession was in the Todds’ house. Sloane could sneak out and search it in the middle of the night, with no one the wiser. The problem was that he didn’t know where to search, and Annabeth would insist on going with him. This whole situation was a bloody stupid mess. Hunter Winfield could muck everything up even from beyond the grave.

“What if it doesn’t exist? Or we cannot find it?” Annabeth said. “Whoever is doing this wouldn’t know that. What would keep them from continuing to pursue me?”

“I’m hoping whatever we do discover will give us a clue as to who’s after you. And then I’ll find them.”

“How? And what happens then?”

“Trust me. You won’t have to worry about them anymore,” he replied grimly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ANNABETH HAD SOME difficulty locating the workshop. It had been several years since she’d been there, and new shrubs and trees had changed the landscape somewhat. Nor had she ever approached it from this direction. Being in Sloane’s embrace made it difficult to concentrate. Her mind kept straying off into thoughts of his body pressed against her back, his arms around her; and that fire that was building low in her abdomen.

Several times she’d had to wrench her mind away from the daydreams and ignore the growing ache between her legs, but she managed to find enough of the larger landmarks to lead them to the workshop.

Larger than a shed, smaller than a barn, it was a cube of a building, built of wood that had weathered over the years into a pale brown. It was hardly noticeable tucked in among the trees. Sloane pulled up in front of the building and dismounted, but Annabeth could only gaze at the workshop, tears filling her eyes.

Sloane turned, arms reaching up to help Annabeth down, but when he saw her face, he said, “Anna...you do not need to do this. We can come back later or I can go in and search by myself, if you’ll give me a bit of guidance.”

Annabeth swallowed, blinking away her tears, and shook her head. “No. I want to see it. I haven’t been in here since Papa died. I should have gone to the workshop and organized things, packed them away. But I could not face being in the same room where he’d died.”

“Very well.” Sloane grasped her waist, supporting her as she slid off the horse.

“Let me take care of the horse,” Sloane said, and led him back to the brook to drink, then tethered him to a tree surrounded by grass.

Annabeth waited for him, reluctant to enter the building alone. No doubt it was cowardly of her, but she didn’t want to face the memories and sorrow without Sloane. It shouldn’t matter; she shouldn’t need him. But she could not deny that she felt safe and secure with him, that the very feel of him gave her comfort and courage.