Kitabı oku: «A Rake's Midnight Kiss», sayfa 5

Chapter Six

As everyone sat in the parlor before dinner, Genevieve watched Mr. Evans from her place on the window seat as unwaveringly as she’d watch a cobra. He played some silly card game with her aunt, who would be his willing slave even without her unconcealed ambitions for marrying him to her niece.

Within ten minutes of his departure from her study this morning, Genevieve had realized her terrible mistake. Why, oh, why had she been so forthcoming? She didn’t trust Mr. Evans. She hadn’t trusted him from the moment she’d seen his too-handsome face. Now he knew her authorship and her hopes for the future. Her recklessness placed her firmly within his power. Would he use his knowledge against her?

Years of thankless devotion to her father had taught her that the last thing she wanted was to subject herself to another man’s will. That was why she’d never marry—she longed to use her talents for her own purposes. Any husband would expect her to accept the helpmeet role she’d adopted too long with her selfish parent. Mr. Evans guessing her authorship wasn’t quite as onerous as submitting to a husband, but he still might try to influence her choices. Now that freedom beckoned, she could hardly bear that.

The vicar and Lord Neville swapped opinions over a table covered in folios. New acquisitions of his lordship’s, Genevieve supposed. She should be grateful that he shared his collection with the Barretts. But her charity with her father’s patron was in short supply. Since Mr. Evans’s arrival, Lord Neville had become a ubiquitous presence, like a grumpy rhinoceros guarding his territory. If she wasn’t tripping over one gentleman, she tripped over the other. She wished them both to perdition.

It had been a difficult week. She’d only just come to terms with facing down her charming but inexplicably inefficient burglar. She supposed she should be grateful that Mr. Evans’s arrival at least provided distraction. No longer did she jump at shadows. Instead she jumped at the sound of one particular baritone voice.

Mr. Evans glanced across to where she caught the evening light for her needlework. Behind her, the window was open in hope of attracting a stray drift of air. September had turned abnormally sultry and the parlor was stuffy. Or perhaps the crowded room was at fault. Her aunt, her father, Lord Neville, Mr. Evans. Not to mention Sirius and Hecuba.

Irritated with the heat, Genevieve brushed back stray tendrils escaping her chignon. Mr. Evans continued to stare. Did his gaze hold a conspiratorial light? Or was that her guilty conscience speaking? The secret of her father’s work wasn’t hers alone. She’d had no right revealing it to a stranger.

When the vicar had invited fifteen-year-old Genevieve to collate some notes on local churches into an article, she’d leaped at the chance. Any adolescent girl with pretensions to intellectual achievement would find such a request flattering. Especially motherless Genevieve Barrett who craved her father’s attention. Even more exciting when the piece she wrote appeared in a journal.

So the deception had continued and thickened until Genevieve’s work shored up the vicar’s fame and any suggestion that he share credit made him sulk like a child. Her resentment had curdled over the last year, as she realized that her father was content for this arrangement to last indefinitely.

Then Lady Bellfield had bequeathed her the Harmsworth Jewel and her research had uncovered interesting and potentially explosive facts about the object. The chance of independence from her father had finally become a reality and she meant to seize it with both hands. When she’d told the interfering Mr. Evans that her whole future depended on the Harmsworth Jewel, she hadn’t exaggerated.

But ruthless as she strove to be, that lost young girl still lurked in her heart. Even now when she was so angry that she could strangle her father with his clergy stole, she still loved him. She didn’t want to destroy his reputation, however unjustified it was. She just wanted to claim her work and use it as the basis for a life of her own.

How on earth had Mr. Evans recognized her authorship so quickly? A sharp brain lurked behind those languid manners, but nobody would call her father’s latest pupil an academic specialist. A premonition of disaster shivered through her—and Mr. Evans already made her as wary as a fox in hunting season.

Again she uselessly berated herself for succumbing this morning to guileless blue eyes and a ready smile and a voice that made her blood flow like warm honey. Mr. Evans had everyone dancing to his tune. Why was she the only person in this house to see that?

She stabbed her needle into her embroidery with a savagery that threatened to burst her bloated peonies. Neither her aunt nor her father heeded her suggestions that Mr. Evans should move back into Leighton Court. When Genevieve had insisted that she didn’t trust the way Mr. Evans infiltrated their life, both had said she was unreasonable. Her aunt had gone so far as to accuse her of jealousy now that Mr. Evans monopolized the vicar’s attentions. How ironic to hear that when Genevieve worked so hard to break free of her father.

“Your elephant grows apace, Miss Barrett.” Mr. Evans abandoned his card game and crossed the room to stand beside her, regarding her woeful embroidery with a quizzical expression. Sirius trotted after him to sit at his master’s feet. She liked Sirius. Genevieve wished the dog’s master was nearly as easy to stomach.

“You know very well it’s a peony garden, Mr. Evans,” she said frostily. After this morning, she’d prefer he kept a greater distance, physically and otherwise.

Her chill tone attracted her aunt’s notice, but no rebuke. Perhaps Aunt Lucy finally saw that her matchmaking was futile.

Mr. Evans remained unabashed. Of course. “That explains the pink. I thought perhaps the elephant was embarrassed.”

“You have no manners, sir,” she bit out, and bent over her embroidery frame, but not before she caught the unholy amusement in his eyes. He was a strikingly good-looking man, but when laughter lit his face, he was irresistible. Even she, who mistrusted everything about him, felt her heart beat faster.

“Sincerest regrets, dear lady.”

She knew he wasn’t sorry, so she didn’t grace his apology with acknowledgement. Furiously she stitched at the central flower which, now she checked, did rather resemble a pregnant elephant. A blushing pregnant elephant, curse Mr. Evans.

Despite lack of encouragement, Mr. Evans showed no signs of leaving. He sat without invitation—he was smart enough to know no invitation would be forthcoming. “Clearly my eyesight fails.”

He was dressed plainly, but even a country mouse like her noted his superb tailoring. He always made Genevieve feel a frump. Last night, she’d caught herself gussying up her yellow muslin with her mother’s silver brooch. She pinned it to her bosom before realizing what she did. With an unladylike imprecation, she’d flung the brooch onto her dressing table.

“Clearly.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of shifting away. Unfortunately, that meant remaining too near his long, lean leg, encased in fawn breeches, extended inches from hers. His boots were so shiny, she could see her face in them. How on earth was he turned out so beautifully without a valet?

Absently, Mr. Evans fondled Sirius’s head with one elegant hand. Yet again, she wondered at the contrast between the man’s sartorial perfection and the scruffy dog. Before she reminded herself that curiosity only inflated Mr. Evans’s pretensions, she spoke. “Your pet doesn’t befit your dignity, Mr. Evans.”

She caught his quick frown and for a moment, he wasn’t the impossibly polished man she feared, but someone considerably more intriguing. Then the expression vanished and he was once again someone whose motives she suspected to her last atom. “On the contrary, Miss Barrett. He’s far too good for a rapscallion like me.”

That she could believe. “I picture you more with a greyhound or a pug.”

His low laugh vibrated along her veins like a distant storm. She didn’t want to be aware of him as a male, but it became increasingly difficult to pretend that some deeply feminine and hitherto unrecognized element in her liked Mr. Evans very much indeed.

“A … pug? A hit. A palpable hit, madam. You seek revenge for the elephant, I see.”

“A dog with a pedigree, at least.”

At the mention of pedigree, a haunted expression darkened his eyes. She couldn’t imagine why. He reeked of good breeding. “Pedigrees are overrated.”

She frowned. Something stirred below this prickly, half-flirtatious conversation. Why did he clam up at the mention of pedigree? “How did you become Sirius’s master?”

He smiled more naturally, confirming her instincts that discussions of bloodlines discomfited him. “I’m not sure I’m his master. His colleague, perhaps. He’s been with me for three years. He turned up not far from my estate and seemed of a mind to stay. I’m glad. He’s deuced good company. And far too clever for the likes of me.”

Against her better judgment, Genevieve’s hostility ebbed. It was hard to maintain virulent dislike for a man so openly fond of his dog. She reminded herself that Mr. Evans’s kindness to animals didn’t make him one iota more trustworthy. For once, the warning didn’t strike true.

He glanced up from patting Sirius to stare into her face, catching her brief softening. Without her usual defenses, her heart stuttered to a standstill. Her entire body vibrated to his presence. Speech deserted her. She could only look. And admire. Never before had she been so aware of a man’s beauty. The perfect planes of his face, the glittering dark blue eyes, the long, powerful body—all melted resistance. Mr. Evans was a dangerously beguiling man. Particularly dangerous if he drew this response despite her inchoate suspicions.

His gaze sharpened. “What is it, Miss Barrett?”

“I—”

With a sharp crack, her embroidery frame snapped in two. He frowned and reached for her hand. “Genevieve—”

Dear Lord, she couldn’t let him touch her. Not when she was so on edge. Even as she cursed her betraying reaction, she jerked away before he made contact.

Her aunt chose that moment to rise and lift Hecuba from her snooze near the empty hearth. The hallway clock struck six. “Perhaps we should move through to the dining room.”

Only the greatest exercise of will stopped Genevieve from bolting for the door. Anything to escape Mr. Evans and that terrifying interval where attraction had turned her into a lunatic.

Pride straightened her spine and insisted that she had nothing to fear. Then she risked a backward glance. Mr. Evans lounged on the window seat and his expression as he watched her tied her stomach into sick knots. She’d expected her erratic behavior to bewilder him. But he didn’t look surprised. He looked like a man who eyed a prize for the winning. He looked like a man who put some great purpose into effect. He looked invincible.

Another chill rippled down her spine and she tore her gaze away. She revolted at the possessiveness that she read in his face. Even as unforgivably, unacceptably, excitement coiled low in her belly, reminding her that she might be a scholar, but she was also a woman. And the woman responded to Christopher Evans in ways that had no truck with intellect.

Slowly, his heavy eyelids lowered, hiding triumph. Her lips tightened and she whirled away to find Lord Neville regarding her with unmistakable disapproval. Her color rose and shame gripped her throat. As though she’d been caught dancing naked in a tavern or kissing a married man in church. For the love of heaven, was her every move under observation?

On a spurt of temper, she marched through to the hallway. Lord Neville followed. When he took her arm, sensitive as she currently was to overbearing males, she resented his proprietorial air. She tried to withdraw, but his grip tightened. Shocked, she looked up. The parlor door had swung shut, closing Mr. Evans and Sirius inside. Ahead past the stairs, the light from the dining room hardly penetrated this dark corner. For a fleeting moment, Lord Neville’s expression struck her as menacing.

What a fanciful idiot she was. Clearly she still wasn’t as easy with last week’s burglary as she’d hoped. Although perhaps she should blame Mr. Evans rather than the thief for her nerves. She’d known Lord Neville most of her life. He wasn’t her favorite person, but he had never hurt her. Nonetheless, she dearly wished he’d unhand her. And stop looming. She forgot what a substantial figure he made until he stood close.

“I can’t like that young fellow,” he said in a low voice. “He has an insinuating way about him.”

“Papa likes him.” She wondered why she didn’t join Lord Neville in deriding Mr. Evans.

His lordship’s smile was sour. “Your father is one of nature’s innocents. And Mr. Evans flatters him.”

This was nothing she hadn’t thought herself, but still she found herself reluctant to agree. “I doubt that Mr. Evans means any harm.”

What a lie that was. With Mr. Evans, she wasn’t sure of very much at all, apart from his ability to turn her into a nitwit.

“But we don’t know, do we?” Lord Neville’s fleshy lips turned down. “He has no right to use your Christian name.”

Her color rose. Hopefully the shadows concealed her embarrassment. “It was only once—”

“He offers you insult. And he has the run of the house.”

Annoyance made her draw herself up to her full height. This time when she tugged, he released her.

“Do you imply there’s something between Mr. Evans and myself?” Her voice was so cold, icicles practically hung from every word.

Even in the gloom, she read Lord Neville’s dismay at her reaction to his well-meant if inopportune advice. “Genevieve, you’re a woman of unimpeachable virtue. I lay no blame at your door. Any wrongdoing is entirely the gentleman’s fault.”

The apology didn’t mollify. “My lord, none of this is your business.”

Now she’d offended him. “A man of principle must speak when he sees a woman he … respects at risk of making a fool of herself.”

His concern struck her as overweening. After all, he was a colleague of her father’s, not a member of the family. “Lord Neville—”

Luckily for her relationship with her father’s patron, the door opened and Mr. Evans emerged with Sirius at his heels. The parlor faced west, so it was purely a matter of geography that the setting sun lit him like a saint in a painting.

She had no idea what Mr. Evans saw, but he went still and his tall body radiated danger. Sirius stood alert at his master’s thigh.

“Miss Barrett, are you all right?” he asked softly. With his back to the light, she couldn’t read his expression. His voice was steady and he sounded protective. Or he would if she trusted his sincerity. Even so, she battled a traitorous surge of warmth.

Lord Neville lurched around. “You interrupt a private conversation, sir.”

Did she imagine it or did Mr. Evans deliberately relax back into his easygoing self? “I go through to dinner, my lord.”

No love was lost between them. But tonight for the first time she wondered if mutual antipathy might verge on something stronger. Something approaching loathing. She’d always considered Lord Neville a dominating character. But it was the older man who shifted on his feet and turned to stump into the dining room.

“I take it he warned you against me.” Mr. Evans stepped into the hallway, clever enough not to crowd her. Right now she thought she’d clout the next man who tried to intimidate her with his physical size.

Genevieve glared at her rescuer, fleeting gratitude evaporating. “Shouldn’t he?”

She waited for Mr. Evans to claim ignorance of her meaning, but she misjudged him. He leaned close enough for her to see his half smile in the gloom. “Do I make you nervous, Miss Barrett?”

With a flick of her skirts, she turned and headed for the dining room. “Not at all, sir.”

She waited for him to challenge an assertion that they both knew was untrue. He merely gestured her ahead with the smooth dispatch that both attracted and frightened her.

Chapter Seven

Richard woke with a start. Lying motionless in his monastic bed, he tried to work out what had disturbed him. Everything was silent. Moonlight flooded through his open window. The night was stifling and he slept naked, although his clothes were conveniently to hand across the Windsor chair. His door remained open a crack for air.

Sirius stretched out under the sill, his brindled coat lost in the shadows. His great dark eyes glinted. Something had alerted the dog too.

Richard heard a door squeak down the corridor, then a surreptitious rustle as someone tiptoed toward the stairs. The rumble of the vicar’s snoring next door, audible even through the thick wall, indicated that the old man slumbered. Dorcas slept in the attics. Which meant the nocturnal wanderer was Mrs. Warren. Or most intriguing of all, Genevieve.

Carefully so the bed didn’t creak, Richard sat and reached for breeches and shirt. In this heat, even such light clothing felt constricting. As he tugged his boots on, he heard the snick of the kitchen door. Whoever left was as light-footed as a sylph.

He stood at the window. Below, someone wrapped in a dark cloak slipped through the back garden, plotting a deft path between cabbages and lettuces. The figure was anonymous, but he knew that swift grace to his bones. It didn’t belong to middle-aged Lucy Warren.

No, another quarry roamed the Oxfordshire countryside this quiet night.

He traced Genevieve’s progress toward the stables. If she glanced up, she’d see him. But she remained intent upon her errand, whatever it was. The nearly full moon lit her way.

So where did the enchanting Miss Barrett go?

Did she meet a lover? The thought pierced his gut like a saber. He’d never encountered a female so unaware of herself as a woman. Her unworldliness compounded the challenge, along with her intelligence and determination to dislike him no matter how he tried to charm her. He respected Genevieve’s resistance. Although tonight in the parlor, for one blazing instant, attraction had spiraled unchecked between them. Now he faced the unpleasant possibility that his charm failed because her interest was engaged elsewhere.

Devil take that.

Within moments, he’d followed her from the house. At his side, Sirius padded soundless as a ghost.

Gingerly Richard opened the back gate, then realized he wasted his care. She was no longer in sight. It should be cooler outside, but the air was as still and heavy as a damp blanket. With an impatient gesture, he brushed his hair back from his forehead and bent to whisper in Sirius’s ear. “Find her. Find Genevieve.”

Sirius trotted toward the high brick wall separating the stables from the adjoining Leighton Estate. Feathery tail idly waving, he slipped through the rusty gate that sagged from its hinges. Feeling like he trespassed upon a fairy-tale realm, Richard pushed past the wildflowers tangled around the gate’s base.

Sirius waited on a path leading into the woods. Once his master followed, he loped ahead. Under the trees, progress was more difficult. Richard picked his way forward, keeping an eye on Sirius. Luckily the trail was well trodden, indicating someone—Genevieve?—used it regularly.

It was cooler too. Fresh scents surrounded him. Leaf litter. Green foliage. Sirius’s confident progress indicated that Genevieve was still ahead.

Unless, damn it, Sirius chased a rabbit.

The path ended so abruptly that Richard nearly tumbled into the clearing. Cursing his conspicuous white shirt, he slipped under an oak’s shadow. He sucked in a breath, heart racing. Then another deeper breath as stabbing relief weakened his knees.

She wasn’t meeting a lover. She’d wanted a swim.

As she stroked across the water, each ripple caught the moonlight, turning the pool to silver. No man with an ounce of poetry in his soul could fail to relish this scene.

Richard didn’t know how long he stood, astonished and entranced. Something about her ease indicated she’d done this frequently, probably since she was a girl. She didn’t check nervously for intruders, although surely that was a risk. But who would be about at such an hour? No poacher with his head screwed on right chanced his luck on one of Sedgemoor’s estates.

Without conscious thought, Richard circled the pond, keeping to the dark, seeking to see without being seen. When he stumbled over a bundle under a rowan bush, he smiled with wolfish anticipation.

Reluctantly Genevieve swam toward the bank. The secluded pool in Sedgemoor’s woods had worked its magic once again. She felt better. More like the woman she’d been before the break-in and everything turning topsy-turvy.

Soon after she and her father had arrived in Little Derrick, she’d started coming here in secret. She’d been a bewildered ten-year-old, mourning her beloved mother, coping with unfamiliar surroundings and unfamiliar people, not least an aunt she barely knew. In the fifteen years since, she’d never met another soul during her midnight swims. Sometimes she thought she was the only person on earth to know of the pond’s existence.

Tonight she’d desperately needed the pool’s tranquility. The week’s events had troubled her soul. And fear of encountering Mr. Evans, not to mention memories of the aborted robbery, had confined her to her room every night since he’d moved in. In this oppressive heat, she’d stretched out on her bed, chasing a thousand useless thoughts around her head. She could have worked, but what she’d longed for was freedom.

She’d stayed out longer than intended, but she couldn’t bear to leave the silky water. She found her footing and waded to the bank where she’d left her clothes and towel.

Something rustled in the undergrowth and she stopped, alert. Suddenly her recklessness in coming here while a thief prowled the neighborhood made her stomach cramp with disquiet. Just because there had been no trouble for over a week didn’t make it safe to roam the woods like a gypsy.

“Who’s there?” She cursed the quaver in her voice.

She edged toward her clothes, wondering if fleeing into the trees would be a wiser move. But she couldn’t stay outside naked until dawn. Another rustle set her heart banging like a trip-hammer. If only she’d brought her pistol, but it was safely locked in her desk along with the Harmsworth Jewel.

Frantically her eyes scoured the darkness, but shadows defeated her. Moonlit in the clearing, she was completely vulnerable.

An animal ventured out to stand a few feet away. She was in such a state that she needed a few seconds to recognize Sirius’s shaggy outlines. Relief made her legs feel likely to collapse.

“You scared me, you silly hound.” She stepped forward to collect her clothes with renewed confidence. “How did you escape your infernal master?”

She’d developed a healthy respect for Sirius’s intelligence. If he’d answered, she wouldn’t be altogether surprised. On such a night, animals could talk and frogs might turn into princes.

Fumbling after her towel, she found only her gown. Puzzled, she kneeled, patting around the area. She raised her head. “Have you eaten my towel, Sirius? If you have, I’ll sic Hecuba onto you.”

“Don’t blame Sirius,” a familiar voice murmured from behind.

As she stiffened into horrified stillness, her towel dropped around her naked shoulders.

“Dear God …” Genevieve breathed, frightened, humiliated, and furious. With herself and with the vile Mr. Evans. She stumbled upright on trembling legs and whipped the linen strip around her body. Too little, too late, she acknowledged with a sick twisting in her belly. She whirled around in outrage. “H … how long have you been there?”

From a few feet away, he stood watching. Tall. Lean. Outwardly relaxed. But that didn’t fool her. He was on the hunt and they both knew it. “Long enough.”

Mr. Evans’s calm response didn’t quiet her panic. “You had no right—”

“Of course I had no right. But I defy any man with blood in his veins to abandon you to the moonlight, Miss Barrett.”

She was such a fool. The worst of it, even as shame strangled her, was that he’d destroyed her sanctuary. Whether she never saw another person here, she couldn’t feel safe again. He’d stolen this source of happiness as blatantly as her father stole her work. At this moment, she loathed Mr. Evans.

She chanced a quick glance at his face, his smug expression clear in the bright moonlight. She bit her lip as fury overwhelmed embarrassment. No man had ever seen her naked. This felt like a violation. “You’re no gentleman, sir!”

“Come, Miss Barrett, you can do better than that.” His laugh played a chromatic scale up and down her spine. “A woman with your vocabulary can summon an archaic insult or two.”

“Well, you’re a filthy sneak. Is that better?”

“Much.”

Genevieve’s hands tightened on her inadequate covering as she backed toward her dress. Bored with the conversation, Sirius trotted into the shadows. “This is such a joke to you, isn’t it?” she snarled, fighting tears. “I’ll thank you to go now.”

“Surely the damage is done.”

Carefully she bent, then straightened, her gown dangling from her shaking hand. “Ha ha. So amusing.”

Her temper slid off him like the water trickling down her bare back. She shivered. As she stood dripping with the pond behind her, a wicked little breeze flirted around her.

“This sneak’s reward was a beautiful naked woman.”

Her cheeks threatened to combust. Self-righteousness was difficult to maintain when one only wore a flimsy towel. She struggled for control, even as the need surged to scratch and kick at him until he was bruised and bloody. “Please leave, Mr. Evans.”

“Wild horses couldn’t tear me away, Miss Barrett.” He stepped closer. “Given how our acquaintance has advanced this evening, can’t you bring yourself to call me Christopher?”

“I can bring myself to call you a self-serving rat,” she said coldly. He remained a few feet away, but that seemed too close. She retreated another unsteady pace, the grass scratching her bare feet.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I can’t dress with you here.”

Moonlight silvered his features into beguiling black and white. “I could promise not to look.”

“You could demonstrate some honor and go.” She struggled to sound defiant. This was the most mortifying thing that had ever happened to her. And she had nobody to blame for this catastrophe but herself. How could she have been so foolhardy as to chance a swim when she knew Mr. Evans watched her like a buzzard watched a field mouse?

“Or I could just turn my back.” He suited actions to words.

For a fraught moment, she stared at him. She couldn’t trust him, but nor could she stand here covered in a strip of linen. She let the sodden towel drop and hurriedly tugged her old muslin dress over her head, fastening it with shaking hands.

“Can I turn around?”

“Yes,” she said sullenly, although she was angrier at herself than him. He’d only followed the dictates of his rodent nature. She should have known better than to come here.

“Do you feel better?” he asked neutrally, although the way his gaze ran over her body made her feel naked again. She resisted the urge to shield herself with her hands.

“Why did you follow me?” Although the answer was no mystery. He’d flirted with her from the first. Even without her flaunting herself, he’d leap at any chance to get her alone.

“I thought you met a lover.” The edge in his statement made her frown in consternation.

“I don’t have a lover,” she said quickly, before remembering that her swains weren’t Mr. Evans’s concern.

He arched one eyebrow in a fashion that made her shiver. Not with cold. “I could fill the position.”

This time she didn’t bother to conceal her retreat. “If my father knew you pestered me—”

“Do you intend to tell him?” he asked, as if her answer was of purely casual interest.

“Yes.” Although how could she? Anyone would say she’d asked for trouble by being out here. Anyone would be right.

Something dangerous flashed in Mr. Evans’s eyes. The breath caught in her throat and she chanced another step back, only to slosh into the pond. The shock of cool water around her ankles made her gasp. She stumbled as her bare toes sank into the mud. Mr. Evans moved swiftly to catch her arm and save her from a spill.

“Careful.” He spoke softly. She realized that he always did. Uncanny how much power that quiet voice exerted.

“Let me go.” She hated her breathlessness. She hated the easy confidence of his hold—and its radiating heat. She hated the way her nipples tightened painfully against her bodice. Fumbling, she raised her skirts above the water. She tried to wrench free, but his grip remained adamant.

“Seeing I’m to be hanged anyway, it may as well be for a sheep as a lamb,” he said thoughtfully.

Her belly dipped with dread and her knees wobbled. “What … what do you mean?”

He always watched her, but this time his gaze felt different. This felt like he placed his mark on her, claimed her in some atavistic way. “I want to kiss you.”

“You can’t.” Although if it cost only a few kisses to escape this disaster, she should be grateful.

“Indeed I can,” he said with one of those flashing smiles that always set her heart pounding. This time, her heart already pounded nineteen to the dozen. With fear, she told herself staunchly. Definitely not with anticipation.