Elizabeth glared at him.
He smiled wider.
They were in the Great Hall. He was ostensibly working on his machines—in skintight buckskins and a sleeveless blue waistcoat, with no other coat or shirt to clothe him. He somehow always managed to be lifting a hammer or a piece of wood or some other task that required him to flex his arm muscles whenever she happened to glance in his direction.
Elizabeth was in the center of the room lying on a chaise longue she’d allowed him to provide for her. The tin bird sat on the stone floor within arm’s reach. She was paging through tome after tome she’d pilfered from the library. Unfortunately, this time, the number of literary volumes that mentioned birds created a stack as tall as her hip.
A loud yawn that could rival the roar of a lion sounded from just two feet behind her.
She turned her head to send Stephen a dismissive glare. He was engaged in the most outrageous display of ostentatious stretching, ensuring every nude muscle rippled for her benefit.
“Oh, drat, is my presence distracting?” he asked with faux innocence.
“Have younothingelse to do?” she demanded.
“You’re absolutely right. Itdoeslook like a hot, summery day. I think I’ll go toil in the garden.” He whipped his blue waistcoat from his absurdly wide and muscular shoulders and tossed the garment to the floor.
Elizabeth tried to ignore him, truly she did. But the unobstructed view of Stephen’s chest and abdomen had frozen her as efficiently as Medusa turned her beholders into stone.
Luckily, Elizabeth had not solidified into granite. Unluckily, she feared she was now drooling like a rabid dog.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” she managed.
“Mustn’t dirty my tailor’s fine silk.” Stephen made a production ofswinging his arse in her direction as he bent over to pick up his fallen waistcoat.
“Do not forget that I carry a sword,” she warned him.
“I have one, too.” He waggled his eyebrows over his shoulder. “Figuratively speaking.”
“Oh, for the love of…” She burst out laughing despite herself.
“Thereyou are.” His gray eyes sparkled as he loped up to her. “I feared I’d never see you smile again.”
“I’m laughingatyou,” she informed him. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’ve missed you.” He reached for her free hand, then paused. “May I touch you?”
Elizabeth’s entire body caught fire at the thought of his skin against hers.
“You may… touch my hand,” she allowed. Brief contact. Then she would toss him through the closest window so he could toil in the garden at his leisure, well out of her view.
He drew her to her feet, then placed her hand on his naked chest and covered her fingers with his own. “Do you feel that?”
“Your extremely boring, totally ordinary, not-interesting-in-any-way bare skin beneath my palm?” She sniffed. “I hardly notice it.”
“Not that.” His voice turned gruff. “The irregular beating of my heart beneath. It skips every time I see you. I never want to look away. Unless the reason is because I have closed my eyes to kiss you.”
She swallowed hard.
They had not touched in days. Not since he had clumsily prodded her prone body in search of injuries. Elizabeth had thought that she could not bear for him to ever come close to her again. Not if it made her think of that awful memory instead of pleasure.
Breaking the cycle by having her reach for him instead of the reverse was clever indeed. She couldn’t keep holding on to the vortex of anger and hurt and mortification she’d felt in that moment. Notwhen it was long past, and her greedy fingers were touching his bare muscles at last.
In this position, she wasn’t thinking about all the reasons to stay away from him. She was thinking about giving that strong chest a little squeeze. Maybe tossing her sword aside like he’d done with his waistcoat so that she could splay both hands across the heat of his chest. Maybe dribble him with a bit of warm oil and rub it in herself.
“You don’t fight fair,” she said hoarsely.
He widened his eyes. “Is it the clothes?”
