“Well, you deserve to, but then, any pain I cause you comes back to me ten times over.”
Jemma jumped, stumbling back over the leg of a wing-back chair. The husky voice seemed to emanate from her armoire.
“Goodness, Jem.” A shadowy form came forward. “How you became adept at weaponry given your propensity for tripping constantly amazes me.” The shadowy form revealed itself as that of the Duke of Dunbar, wet and dripping water all over her floor.
“Nick?” Jemma clutched her dressing gown closer, wondering if she had fallen asleep and Nick’s appearance in her bedroom was a dream.
“You are so very lucky another man's name did not cross your lips. It would be bad for all concerned.” He shook himself like some giant wet dog, his coat spilling droplets of water all over the rug as he made his way to the fire.
Although his tone was light, Jemma did not miss the underlying threat in his words. “There is no other man, and well you know it,” Jemma countered, her pulse quickening at the sight of the large man standing in her chambers. “Keep your voice down lest you awaken the entire house.”
“True,” came the husky voice. “If any other man had come near you, I would already have committed murder.”
“I am in a murderous mood myself, as it happens, should the reverse be true.” The blonde she spied trailing Nick the night of the Cambourne ball flashed before her eyes again for the thousandth time.
Nick stilled and looked at her. “Agreed. Although I find the thought of you challenging Lady Tomlinson to a duel over me to be highly erotic. You'd best her, of course.”
“Lady Tomlinson would not stand a chance.” She lifted her chin.
Nick shook out his coat and laid it before the fire to dry. He moved to hold out his hands towards the flames, blocking every bit of the fire's warmth with his body.
“You’ve no call to be jealous. I’ve not touched another woman since Bermuda. I want no one but you.”
Jemma shivered again from the note of possessiveness in his words. How like Nick to speak to her so bluntly. Instinctively she knew he spoke the truth. Unsure of how to proceed, she said tartly, “Move Nick. It is like a giant tree blocking the warmth of the sun. I’m freezing. The cold of London, I fear, is something I shall never grow accustomed to.”
He complied, stepping to the side.
Jemma sighed in pleasure as the warmth of the fire hit her skin. She could sense him watching her, waiting for her to say more.
“This is most inappropriate, to visit a lady in her bedchamber. I am outraged at your impropriety,” she murmured, watching the play of the fire against his features. “How did you get in?”
“I’m a witch, remember?” he said somberly. “I made myself magically appear at your request." He wiggled his fingers as if casting a spell.
“You are not a witch, nor are you cursed.” She bit her lip. “I am sorry for the words I spoke. I was angry, I was—”
“Trellis.”
She shook her head at the word. “What?”
He nodded towards the window. "Trellis. Didn't think it would hold me, but it did." He grinned, clearly not wishing to accept her apology yet. “Not sure it will on the climb down. What a ruckus that will cause if I fall.”
“Yes, rather like the giant and the beanstalk. My windows are locked.” She made her way to an overstuffed chair before the fire. She sat, shifting just enough so that her wrapper slipped down one shoulder exposing it and the top of a breast.
Nick’s eyes flickered to her bared flesh, then back to her face. “Locks? Easily picked. I should speak to your uncle about the security of his home. It is quite poor. The rosebush barely put up a fight as I climbed.” The ring on his thumb caught the flames of the fire and winked at her.
Her thoughts were neither on the trellis nor the abused rosebushes. Shamefully, all she could think of was Nick and the intensity of their joining in the conservatory. Her intentions to clear the air regarding her family and Arabella’s knowledge of the past receded from the allure of the Devil of Dunbar.
“I’ve wondered,” she said casually, “what the ring is that you wear.”
Nick shrugged. “Surely you’ve heard the stories by now?” He turned his thumb towards her. “The damned one wears it.”
“You are not damned, Nick.” It made her heart hurt to have him think such a thing. How many people had mocked him or shriveled from him in fear because of that story? A rush of protectiveness for him came over her even as she acknowledged that he had little need of her protection, or did he?
“We must talk.” His lips curved upward. “Then I will permit you to take liberties with me.”
She looked away, wondering why she was so transparent.Because I love him, and well, he knows it.
“No more anger between us, Jem. I cannot bear it.”
