“According to Quentin, the investment was a loss. All of the cargo profits were stolen. Your brother was involved with the shipment,” he continued, “along with Carstairs and me.”

A guilty look crossed Emily’s face. “Daniel did nothing wrong.”

“I did not accuse him. But the man who murdered your brother is likely the same person who is trying to kill me.” There were too many connections, and he needed to fit the pieces together before the man could strike again.

“I thought you said he was dead.”

“I don’t think it’s over. He was a hired man, likely.”

Emily took a deep breath, her eyes cast downwards. “Someone attacked me as well. Just after you left for London, when I was at Falkirk.”

Her words stunned him. He listened to her explanation, while his mind seized the logistics.

Why hadn’t she told him sooner? Damn it all, he was her husband. He had the right to know when someone was threatening those under his protection. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He pushed me down, but that was all.”

His fist clenched, along with his gut. He wanted to ask her why she'd never told him. But then, he'd left her behind. Why would she?

He took a breath and asked, “Did you speak of this to anyone else?”

“Only you.” For a long moment, she stared at him, her face bathed in moonlight.

“You should have told me about the attack, Emily," he said gently. "I cannot protect you if you're holding secrets from me.”

Her expression appeared lost and lonely. Then she shrugged. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

He didn’t believe her. She’d waited this long to confide in him—what else did she know? Getting her to let down her defenses, to trust in him, would take time.

If that was what he wanted.

He studied her for a long moment, her blonde hair silvery in the moonlight. She wore the strand of pearls he’d given her, and the beads rolled against the curve of her breast.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she whispered.

He palmed her waist and pressured her toward the darkness. Without a word, he pulled her against the boxwood. Her breath hitched, her shoulders rising. With a single finger he twisted the pearls, drawing them taut against her bodice. Her mouth opened with a hush, her nipple tightening as he drew the strand over the hardened tip.

“I think you know why.” His own breathing grew harsh, but he continued the game. Teasing her. Tempting her. Leaning close, he kissed the softness beside her ear. She shivered, balancing her gloved hands upon his shoulders.

“Whitmore, anyone could see us—”

“Stephen.” He brushed his mouth against her cheek, moving toward her lips. “You used to call me Stephen.”