He was too busy drinking in her loveliness to reply.
“It’s so peaceful, so…” Her smile slipped and she cut him a glance. “So perfect for travel, isn’t it?”
He managed a nod.
“Well,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “We knew this day would come. Luckily for you, I woke up with a plan.”
“What’s that?”
“You need a disguise. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if news of a redheaded scoundrel has traveled to other nearby towns. You’re too noticeable, so I’m going to dye your hair black. In exchange, you’ll pose for me. Deal?”
It sounded absurd, but so had many of Imogen’s schemes over the years. He’d always been a willing participant. Why not indulge in one more? Before he could change his mind, he held out his hand. “Let’s get started.”
It was hard to pose for a photograph with scalp that itched like the devil.
Tommy gritted his teeth and struggled to maintain the position Imogen had put him in—boots planted firmly on the open threshold facing the outdoors, one hand resting lightly on the rough-hewn door frame, face tilted toward the sky. She’d put him back in his union suit and mangled hat, but a heavy wool blanket was draped from his shoulders to his knees.
“This tincture smells as bad as a miner’s week-old socks.” He battled the urge to dig his fingers beneath the cloth covering his dye-slathered hair.
“I thought scoundrels were made of tougher stuff,” came a distracted reply.
He braved a quick glance behind him and his chest tightened at the sight of Imogen bent over her box camera, fiddling with some part or another. She straightened and he took in her appearance. Her outfit was built for warmth, not fashion. A plaid wool skirt was topped by a gray, knitted sweater so large it hid the shape of her body. Likely a castoff from her father. It tantalized him, made him want to slip his hands beneath and determine the exact shape of her waist. Find a ticklish spot on her side to make her gasp and shudder.
Ah, hell. He was a scoundrel.
They’d rebuilt their friendship a day before and he was already back to lusting after her. Desperate to interrupt his thoughts, he grumbled, “Strange way to take a man’s portrait. Can’t even see my full face.”
“Perhaps that isn’t the story I wish to tell.”
“Let me guess. Your story is called Man Itches to Death in Revenge Plot.”
There was a soft chuckle. “It only itches because you’re thinking about it. Why don’t you tell me how many books you’ve stolen?”
“And exactly how long has that question been on your mind?”
“Since the moment I discovered you are a book thief. So, please acknowledge my self-control.”
“A whole four days,” he drawled. “Impressive.”
“Well?”
He debated telling her this was the first time, but what was the point? It didn’t matter if her opinion of him changed when she learned he was an accomplished thief; he was leaving anyway.
“A dozen books over the years. As I said, I manage a bookshop, so I can’t take too many risks. I’m very selective about what I steal, and I make sure not to repeat the same tactics twice.”
“What do you do with them?”
“I sell them for as much money as possible, of course.” Technically, it was true. She didn’t need to know the reason why he was accruing funds.
“Is that why you become involved with the bookshop in the first place?”
“Actually, no. That came first. After I—” After I was ordered never to speak to you again, he almost said. “After we parted, I wanted to make something of myself. I begged my parents to let me return to school, and they agreed on two conditions. One, I had to sever ties with the other young men I’d recently taken up with?—”
“They were ruffians,” she interjected. “Your mother and I hated them. They encouraged you to do all sorts of bad things.”
“Are you telling the story or am I?”
She groaned. “You are. I’ll be quiet.”
