“An improvement.”
His face lit with an astonished grin, as if she’d presented him with a pirate’s treasure rather than a begrudging concession. Had he truly believed he’d never find someone willing to at least consider the possibility of his innocence?
If so, that made two of them. Evangeline had fully expected him to live up to his reputation as an irredeemable, soulless villain. Instead, he stood before her a man. A man asking for her help. He appealed to her not as a “witch” with psychic visions, but as a woman with a logical mind. When was the last timethathad happened? Never.
Just like he was the first man she could respond to as a woman. Couldn’thelpbut respond to as a woman.
She brushed her fingertips across his forearm, reveling in the ability to touch the dark hairs on his arm, the warm skin beneath, the coiled tension of muscle. She glanced up at him, embarrassed to be caught enjoying the simple pleasure of contact and unable to explain her action. She sought for a safe topic.
“Who do you think killed him?” she ventured.
Rather than respond with words, he claimed her mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. She half-expected to find her spine up against the closest wall, but he surprised her by gently ending the kiss completely, pressing his cheek against hers.
Evangeline blinked at the unexpected sensation of rough male stubble, and shivered to find it not at all unpleasant. If she turned her face a mere fraction, the sensitive skin of her lips would rub against the coarse hair, the line of his jaw, the pale scar marring its surface.
Before she could do anything so foolish, however, he lifted his head.
His fingers smoothed the flyaway tendrils from her face and tucked them behind her ears. His palms caressed the flushed heat of her cheeks, down the slope of her bare neck, along the curve of her shoulders. He squeezed her arms briefly, as if wanting to hug her but unable to make the attempt, and then his hands fell back to his sides.
Evangeline wasn’t sure if she should flee or embrace him. Without his touch, she was chilled, aching, uncertain. She stood there, staring up at him, sharing his breath, wishing she knew the right thing to say.
“I hate to blame anyone unfairly,” he confessed, his voice soft. “I was hoping your objectivity would shed some light. Have you no second choice? The new lord, perhaps?”
“Benedict Rutherford?”
Mr. Lioncroft nodded.
“I don’t know…He doesn’t seem to have a strong enough constitution to murder anyone.”
“Surely he’s strong enough to lift a pillow. A child can lift a pillow.”
“So can a woman scorned,” she said slowly.
He frowned. “You’re not suggesting—”
The door to the Green Salon flew open and Edmund Rutherford lurched in. “You are here,” he said. “I thought they were jesting.”
Evangeline glanced behind him at the empty doorway. “They who?”
“The Stantons.”
“In the corridor?”
“Nobody is in the corridor.” He unscrewed a small flask and sniffed the contents.
“So they sent you to watch us?”
“To fetch you and beg your assistance in a matter. That is, unless…Were you about to affect a compromising position?”
“Where did they go?” Mr. Lioncroft asked, ignoring the taunt.
Evangeline fought to do the same. “When did they go?”
“A few minutes ago, when that mousy maid with the bruised cheek came barreling down the corridor, blubbering about Rose being hysterical over the children.”
“The children? What’s wrong with the children?”
Edmund shrugged and recapped his flask. “They’re missing.”
