Nick had to say something. The quicker she accepted him, the quicker they could figure out who would try to kill her.
"Please, Abby, can't I stay here tonight? I won't bother you. I'll just stay in the barn and watch the house to make sure you're safe."
She frowned and wrung her hands together.
"If your grandmother approves of me, why can't you?" he added.
She lifted her gaze to his. "How do you know about my grandmother? How do you know what she told me?"
Nick shook his head. "I will tell you when the time is right, but not now. You're too distraught over your father's death to understand."
Tears filled Abby's eyes and she shook her head. "I don't want to trust you, but there's a part of me that does."
She would trust him in time, and his heart soared at that knowledge. He cupped her face and stroked her cheeks, wiping the falling tears with his thumbs. "I won't hurt you, Abby. I'm here to protect you. Please believe me. I'm not going to let anyone harm you."
She grasped his wrists but didn't pull his hands away. Her eyes pleaded with him. "Promise me," she whispered.
"On my father's grave."
She sniffed. "Your father is dead, too?"
"Yes."
"Then we understand each other."
Nick nodded. "In more ways than you realize."
She pulled away and wiped her eyes. "If you'll put the lantern back and extinguish it, I'll show you into the house. You can stay in one of the guestrooms."
Doing as she instructed, he blew out the lantern and placed it back on the shelf. After they walked out of the barn, he closed the double wooden doors. Abby shivered then rubbed her palms up and down her arms as she kept in step beside him. Nick shrugged out of the late Mr. Downey's jacket and placed it around her shoulders.
She tilted her head to look at him. "Thank you."
"Anytime, Abby," he said softly.
As they walked toward the house, Nick noticed her stealing glances at him. He grinned. Soon he'd convince her to trust him, and if all went well, she'd fall in love with him all over again.
"Mr. Marshal, why do you call me Abby when I specifically asked you not to?"
He shrugged. "Abby fits you, I think. If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop. But when I say that name, it's like an endearment, and I want you to know how much I care."
Even in the near darkness, he thought he could see her cheeks turn pink.
"My father used to call me Abby when I was young."
"Used to? Why did he stop?"
"I don't know, Mr. Marshal. Perhaps he thought the name Abigail was more mature."
They'd reached the door to the house, and he opened it for her. Just as she passed him, he took hold of her arm, stopping her. "I would love for you to call me Nick. Mr. Marshal was my father. I'm just Nick."
"I don't feel right calling you by your given name, but if you wish—"
"I do." He took her hands in his and squeezed them.
Abby stared at him for several long moments, appearing to study his lips. He wanted to kiss her but couldn't allow himself to do so, yet. She'd barely met him, and women in her time followed the rules of propriety.
"Come with me, Nick. I'll show you to your bedroom."
* * * *
The sun peaked through the curtains and woke Abigail. Groggily, she opened her eyes and glanced around the room. She wouldn't see her father today, or ever again. Emptiness filled her and her chest felt like a hollow shell. Would this feeling ever disappear?
As she sat up in bed, her thoughts quickly turned to her houseguest. What had possessed her to invite a total stranger to stay with her without the servants present? He was certainly handsome, but that shouldn't make her lose all common sense.
She forced herself out of bed and toward the water basin. She'd lain awake last night thinking about the man down the hall. He was so tender with his touch, so kind with his words, and so incredibly charming that she'd nearly swooned a time or two. Yet she couldn't become attached to him, because as soon as Harry discovered Nick was staying here, Harry would find a way to get him arrested.
Abigail hurried through her toiletry. She would go downstairs to see her guest, and she would make the best of the situation while it lasted. With any luck, Harry would stay away and not come to check on her today. That probably wouldn't happen, though; he was always intruding, even when her father was alive.
She brushed her hair and began winding it into a fashionable bun. Then she remembered Nick had said he loved her hair long. How would he know? They'd just met. She glanced at her window. He wouldn't have watched her from outside, would he?
Glancing back at the mirror, she studied her hair and decided to leave it down, only pulling the sides back with pearl-encrusted combs. All of her life she'd been proper. Now she didn't need to follow society's rules if she chose. She was an independent woman—or would be as soon as she figured out how to become one. Perhaps the first step to becoming independent was to tell Harry to leave her alone. She didn't need him hovering over her and making her feel like a small child.
Once she dressed in her black mourning gown, she hurried downstairs to start breakfast. It'd been a while since she'd entertained a guest, but since the servants had the day off, she'd have to do the cooking herself. Just before she reached the kitchen, the heavenly scent of griddlecakes and bacon wafted through the air. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and entered the large kitchen. Nick stood at the stove, cooking bacon in one frying pan and griddlecakes in another. Abigail smiled. Most men she knew wouldn't lower themselves to cook a meal, let alone admit they knew their way around the kitchen.
He wore the same shirt and trousers he'd worn the night before, but his vest and jacket were missing. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Abigail had to force herself not to stare at his muscular arms.
"Good morning," she greeted.
He turned to look at her over his shoulder. "It is a good morning, Abby. And you are certainly giving the beautiful sunrise competition today. You look absolutely breathtaking."
A blush encased her face. Many men had given her compliments, but it had never affected her like Mr. Marshal—Nick's had.
"Thank you." She stepped closer and ran her hand down her black silk mourning dress, wishing she were wearing something prettier. She nodded toward the stove. "Would you like some help?"
"Sure. Which one do you want? Bacon or pancakes?"
"Did you say pancakes? What are those?"
"Uh, what do you call them?"
"Griddlecakes."
"All right then. Do you prefer bacon or griddlecakes?"
"I prefer flipping the griddlecakes."
He handed her the spatula and winked. "Good, because I was never good at flipping."
Not a lot was said as Nick finished breakfast. For some reason, Abigail felt tongue-tied around him. During the meal, Nick made her smile more times than she could count, and his flirtatious winks melted her heart. Even though he was still a stranger, she took pleasure in his company. And although he made her nervous, it was different than other men had, and she was more at ease around him than she was around Harry.
After they ate, Nick shocked her by helping her wash the dishes. She'd been prepared to let the kitchen servants do them tomorrow, but Nick was adamant about getting them done.
Once the kitchen was clean, he walked by her side as they moved to the parlor. Abigail sat on the sofa, and he took the space right next to her. It pleased her to know he wanted to sit by her since there were three other chairs in the room.
"So, Nick. What kind of solicitor are you?"
"An extremely good one." He grinned.
"I'm serious," she replied, stifling a chuckle.
He crossed one leg over the other while resting his arm on the back of the sofa. His fingertips were only a few inches from her shoulder.
"When I first started, I practiced criminal law. But now I enjoy the other aspects of that profession."
"I hope you don't mind me asking what you're working on now," Abigail said.
"Of course I don't." He raised his eyebrows. "I'm actually trying to solve a murder."
She gaped. "Surely you're jesting."
"No."
"But solicitors don't solve murders. They just represent clients that have done the deed."
"And in this case it's a little of both. The murder was made to look like a suicide. I'm trying to prove it wasn't."
She nodded. "That sounds very intriguing. Anyone I know?"
He didn't answer right away but stared at her. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't know if you know the woman or not. However, you might be able to tell me something that could help my case."
"Oh, yes! I would love to help." Abigail had read many suspense novels, and she always enjoyed figuring out the story.
"Do you know a woman by the name of Cassandra Brown?"
Abigail pondered the name. "Forgive me, but I don't think I have heard of her before."
"How about Anthony Carlisle? I was told he's your cousin."
"Ah, yes. He is."
"Do you know where he lives? I would love to ask him a few questions about the case."
She frowned and shook her head. "My father and I have not been very close to that side of the family for a few years. Last I'd heard, Uncle Alexander took his wife and son and moved to San Diego, but I'm not certain."
"Your uncle was at the funeral, right?"
"You are correct. He didn't speak to me much, and I've forgotten what little he did say. My whole body was numb yesterday, as was my mind."
"I understand. I was the same way after my father died."
"How long did it take before those feelings of loneliness disappeared?"
Nick scooted closer and placed his hand on her shoulder. "The key to helping those feelings go away is to keep busy. Your father wouldn't want you to sulk all day and mourn him forever. He'd want you to live your life the best way you could."
Tears stung her eyes. Nick's words were so comforting. Would it be too bold of her to wrap her arms around him, to find solace in his embrace?
He lifted his other hand to cup her face, but she grasped it. "Oh, Nick. I'm so afraid. I've never been alone before. Father has always been here for me. He's always provided everything I need. Now, all of a sudden, I'm an heiress to all of his lands and holdings. I don't know what to do. He's sheltered me so long, I fear I'm not capable of making any decisions. And if I do make them, will they be the wrong ones?"
"Have faith in yourself, Abby," Nick said softly. "You're an intelligent woman. You're going to know the right thing to do when the time comes."
His finger slowly caressed her cheek. The warmth on her skin made her body tingle, and she couldn't help but close her eyes and snuggle against his touch. Soon he adjusted his touch, and his palm cradled her face. Holding her breath, she relished the softness of his touch. Deep inside her mind, a thought snuck in. Would he kiss her? Excitement built inside her chest and the foreign feeling surprised her. Why would she want a stranger to kiss her?
She blinked open her eyes. His face was closer to her than before. His smoldering gaze swept over her hair, her eyes, coming to rest on her mouth. Suddenly, her throat turned dry—as did her mouth. She licked her lips as the wicked thought entered again. Kiss me! her mind screamed, yet at the same time, propriety argued that this was not right.
His head descended toward hers, and she wondered if he could read her mind. When his lips brushed against hers, she closed her eyes, ready...anticipating the passionate kiss she knew would soon come. But a loud knock sounded on the front door.
She jumped back from Nick as if she'd just been stung. His eyes were wide as he stared helpless at her.
It was rather difficult to breathe right now, especially when all she wanted to do was return to the comfort of his lips.
Taking a deep breath, she stood. "Please forgive me, but I must get the door."
Nick nodded. "Would your reputation be ruined if people knew I was staying here?"
Why hadn't she thought of that? "Yes, of course."
He rose beside her and kissed her hand. "Then I will hide. Don't say a word of my presence to anyone."
As he hurried out of the room, Abigail smiled. What a wonderful man—how kind and thoughtful.
Now, she had to find out who was at the door and get rid of them.