Free A Night of Secrets by Lori Brighton

questions.
    “Shall we?” He offered her his arm.
    Surprised, it took a moment for her to respond. What would he possibly want with her and why was he being so blasted polite? “What? You aren’t going to accuse me of murder? I assume your suspect list is ever expanding. Why, Mrs. Landry over there,” she nodded toward the old woman tottering across the garden, “looks awfully suspicious—”
    His face remained passive. “Do you really wish to discuss that now? Here?”
    His threat worked well. Although most had retired to their picnic baskets, there still were the few watching them with unabashed curiosity. With no choice, she slipped her hand over the smooth, fine material of his brown jacket. Their arms entwined, she couldn’t help but notice the muscle under her fingertips. As hard as a statue. There was something feral about the man… as if he was a wild animal, pretending to be tame.
    Strength and money, the man reeked of power. What more could he need? A wife, perhaps? Was Sally right; was Bellamont here to do his duty and settle into matrimonial bliss?
    “How is Lady Brockwell?” His tone was smooth, as if merely making conversation.
    Meg didn’t believe his sincerity for a moment. “As well as can be expected when someone accuses her of murder.”
    He didn’t respond, but she felt the muscles under her fingertips tighten as if he were annoyed. So the man was no unemotional statute after all. They reached the bottom of the steps and he slipped his arm from her, instead taking her hand. His fingers, cold and strong, wrapped around hers in a firm grasp. He wasn’t going to let her escape. Shocked, for a moment, she merely stood there, staring at the contrast of her fingers entwined with his pale hand. How she wished she’d worn gloves instead of lending her only pair to Sally.
    The contact of skin on skin was too intimate and she had to resist the urge to pull away. As if sensing her resistance, he rested his free hand on her lower back, his touch an odd mixture of opposing forces. Cold, yet the feelings he produced in her were so warm.
    “Are you always so loyal?” he asked as they made their way across the garden.
    “To my friends and family, of course.” Dear lord, but her voice sounded strangled, but she couldn’t help but feel there was some underlying threat she didn’t quite understand.
    “Well then, you would have been an asset in the war.” Idly his thumb stroked her inner wrist where the skin was sensitive.
    She stumbled, but he was there to support her. He’d been in the war? She could certainly see him commanding troops, but dirtying himself on the battlefield? She focused on his pale hands. Was there more to the man than he portrayed? A wealthy, lazy gent, she could handle, but a soldier— one trained in warfare?
    Cheerful chatter bubbled around the lawn, floating on waves of autumn air. Small groups of friends and family cluttered around blankets and picnic baskets, in a picture worthy of a painting. But for the storm clouds above, blotting out the sun, the day was perfect. Yet, there was still that underlying threat, thrumming a warning under her skin. Something she couldn’t quite grasp…
    “Meg,” Papa called out as he settled on their blanket under an elm. “And Mr…., Ah, Mr….” Her father’s bushy brows drew together like a white caterpillar across parchment.
    Meg pulled her hand from Bellamont’s, eager to escape his touch before her sisters noticed. But it was most likely too late; Sally and Mary Ellen clustered around Papa, watching them with wide eyes.
    “Mr. Bellamont, Papa,” Meg reminded him.
    Her father pulled the basket close and flipped open the lid. “Yes, yes, of course. Mr. Bellamont. Have you somewhere to rest and eat?”
    “No sir, I hadn’t thought to stay.”
    “Well then, we shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have plenty of things to do, unpacking and all.”
    “No, no, don’t be silly.” Papa lifted a cloth-covered dish, the aroma of