He took her around to the back, letting them in by the servant's entrance to avoid exposure on the street. Keeping her firmly anchored to his side, like two wraiths, they glided through the darkened house to his library. He led her to a chair by the fireplace then stoked the embers back to flames to take the chill out of the room and out of themselves. Though he doubted the warmth of a fire could warm the chill he felt in his heart when he sawher throw a leg over the window ledge and knew for sure her intentions.
When the flames leaped, casting light and warmth, he crossed to the windows to close the heavy drapes, to deny the outside knowledge that anyone was yet up and about. To deny the possibility that anyone should see a fragile silhouette in his window.
He would protect her honor as well as her life though his body beat with an insistent tempo claiming—nay, demanding—her honor as his own. His fingers curled into fists as he crossed back to the fire. He lit a punk and carried the flame to branches of candles on the mantel, taking his time, not looking at her as he sternly disciplined his body to follow his mind's set, if it could not its desire.
He knew she watched him. Wide-eyed. An innocent in spirit if not actuality. A nymph in a world of mortals. Her eyes would be their darkest blue shading into purple set in the face of smoothest alabaster. Her hair, loosed of the pins that typically confined it in its tight coronet and ringlets, would cloud about her delicate heart-shaped face. He remembered how it glistened like white gold in the moonlight and smelled of jasmine in its depths when he whispered in her ear.
How could she have been so foolish as to break into her brother's home? What was she looking for? Had she no idea of the risks she was taking? Did she love Waddley so that she could not let him rest until she discovered what or who killed him? And what did Haukstrom have to do with the mess? Damn it! Why couldn't she trust him?
He thrust a poker deep in the fire, stirring it higher. Rage, fueled by fear for her, burned like the flames before his eyes, running through his body along a fuse to his mind and heart. Damn it, he would teach her to stop her silly games before a life was lost or another injured grievously. The next life to be forfeit might be her own. Didn't she care? And what about Lady Meriton? She could be bringing her into danger as well.
A muscle jumped spasmodically in a firm, set jaw while tortoise shell eyes gleamed with gold fire echoing hearth flames. Slowly he rose from his bent position in front of the fire.
Stubborn, willful, arrogant chit! He would not let her play ducks and drakes with her life, not when she’d ensnared his heart. He swore he’d go mad if anything happened to her. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t mad now.
He turned toward her, his face twisted in grim determination. "Cecilia," he snapped, goaded past endurance.
"Yes?" She looked up at him, the newfound trust she had to offer shining in her eyes.
The sight unmanned him. He sagged back against the side of the intricately carved marble mantelpiece, his breathing harsh. "Cecilia," he began again, bemused. He shook his head. "Why?" he finally asked, his eyes steadfastly looking at her as if he would read the answer in her soul.
"Why did I break into Randolph's house?"
"No. I mean, yes, that too. But why do you offer me your trust now?"
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. She rose fluidly and took a step toward him. He lifted a hand as if to ward away her presence. She paused, smiling at it a moment, then walked straight into his arms, throwing her arms about his neck.
He held his head stiff a moment, regarding her warily through a veil of lashes. Her smile broadened in womanly wisdom as she pulled his head toward hers until their lips met.
At the touch of her lips, the invisible chains that seemed to hold him cobbled and fettered fell away. With a groan that came from the depth of his soul, he gathered her willingly to him, his lips searching out the contours of her face, memorizing each mound and valley, the shape of her ear, the sweep of her temple, the line of her pale brow, the hollows of her eyes, the curve of her chin, and the soft fullness of her lips. He traced the swan-like line of her neck to her delicate collarbone hidden behind an ill-swathed and tied cravat. Trembling fingers yanked the offending article away and parted the top of her shirt so his lips and tongue could trace the dips and hollows of soft, fragrant skin there.
She groaned against him, murmuring his name on little breaths of air as she sagged against him. His head came up to capture her lips again as he picked her up, cradling her against him like a child, and carried her to a sofa. He laid her down on the smooth satin, kneeling in supplication next to her.
She smiled and looked dreamily into his eyes, one hand coming up to spear his silky, coffee-colored hair with trembling fingers. "Why are you always there for me?" she murmured.
He caught her other hand, nibbling the soft pads of her fingertips. "I don't know," he said with stark, wondering honesty.
"From the night of Lady Amblethorp's musicale, something has drawn me to you like you were my lodestar meant to guide me out of this world-weary abyss of habit and decadence. You've destroyed my ennui, altered my status quo, and cut up my peace. You've made me care for someone other than myself. Nay, more than care. Though how that may be, I cannot say for you have bedeviled, beleaguered, annoyed, inconvenienced, tried my patience, irked, and goaded me beyond measure, you little baggage. And well you know it! My mind is full of you, only you until I'm not good company for any of my cronies. I find myself wondering what madcap lark you're up to when I should be exchanging amusing society anecdotes! I am a changed man—and only you can say for good or ill."
She sighed, drawing his head closer to hers that she might drink from his lips as she did at Oastley. "I thought I knew who I was and what I wanted. Now I can no longer answer that question or even imagine answers," she said whimsically while her hands lovingly traced the contours of his face. "I feel as if I've been let out of a cage but don't know what to do with my freedom. There is a churning restlessness within me that haunts me. It only seems to quiet when you're around. Please, James—" she murmured.
His mouth claimed hers while his hands caressed her body through the rough wool of the ill-fitting suit she wore.
Nimble fingers slipped the buttons of the waistcoat free and roamed heatedly over the cotton fabric of her shirt and the full mounds of her breasts. At his touch, she arched against him, mewing sounds emanating from her throat. His lips slid from hers to trail feather-light caresses down her neck to her collarbone. Her breathing grew ragged, and she murmured his name as a hand slid under her shirt to touch her hot skin with sensitive, trembling, cool fingertips.
"When George told me where you were, I didn't know whether I wanted to beat you or kiss you senselessly," he muttered.
"I'm glad we were lucky enough to have your man near at hand, though I chafe to think I was seen. I was so careful," she said, her hands eagerly untying his cravat and pulling the ends to draw him closer:
"Would you bind me to you, witch?" he growled, nuzzling her neck while his hand found and closed over the mound of her breast.
She inhaled sharply. "Yes! But tell me while I am still able to think, what gave me away?"
He laughed and climbed on the sofa, covering her slender body with his. "With you, my darling, I never leave anything to luck."
She stilled, her eyes slowly focusing on his face. "You've had me watched, haven't you?" she asked, her voice curiously empty.
He looked at her, a quizzical light in his eyes. "What is it? Of course, since the attack on Mr. Thornbridge. For your safety. You wouldn't trust me with your dragons, so not knowing what is going on, I feared for you. I couldn't trust you not to do something foolish."
