Theodosia smiled. “For as long as I’ve had him, he’s had the terribly rude habit of throwing water at people. After the first few times I saw him do it, I decided to name him John the Baptist. He’s an extraordinary pet. He can mimic not only human speech, but animal sounds and other common noises, such as the rattle of carriage wheels upon streets. It doesn’t matter what sort of sound he hears, he can imitate it. But he often speaks when he should not, and he possesses the annoying aptitude for saying things at the most inappropriate times.”
John the Baptist nibbled at a piece of the apple Theodosia had given him, then spread his wings and opened his beak.
The sound of gunfire rent the air.
Both pistols drawn, Roman bolted to his feet, ready to shoot at the first thing that moved.
Theodosia smiled inwardly. “Mr. Montana?”
“Quiet,” he whispered, staring into the dark shadows of the woods.
“But Mr. Montana, it was only John the Baptist. He was mimicking the sound of gunfire. You see, he and I were near the saloon this afternoon when someone shot a gun from within the establishment. John the Baptist is merely repeating the sound he heard. I’m sorry he disturbed you. I just don’t know what to do with him.”
“Wring his neck!”
John the Baptist turned his black eyes to Roman.“State zitto.”
“Italian,” Theodosia explained calmly.“State zittomeans to hold your tongue. A polite way of saying ‘shut up.’ Of course, as I said earlier, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Roman pitched the bird a glare. Replacing his Colts in his belt, he crossed to where his saddle lay.
Theodosia watched him retrieve his bedroll and return to the fire. Though she saw him walking, she heard no evidence of his footsteps. He moved with the sleek grace of a cat. A black panther, she decided, watching his long ebony hair slide across his broad chest and thick arms.
Unable to resist, she studied him more intently. His face, bronzed by endless days in the sun or perhaps by Latin lineage, appeared sculpted. Ruggedly so, for he had high sharp cheekbones with deep hollows beneath them and an exceedingly square jaw that tapered slyly into a strong clefted chin.
His eyes blazed. Not with fireshine, nor with anger. With something deeper, something she’d never sensed in any man she knew in Boston.
Something primitive, untamed.
Silently, it sought, found, and beckoned to some unknown part inside her.
“Something wrong, Miss Worth?” Giving her his back while he spread out his bedroll, Roman smiled. She might as well have reached for him with her hands; he felt the caress of her eyes as though they touched him with delicate fingers.
“I don’t believe anything iswrong,but I am unaccustomed to the odd feelings that come to me when I watch you. It happened this afternoon when I first met you and again while you loaded my belongings into the wagon. It is happening a third time now. My breath quickens. Warmth flashes through me. I realize this is nonsensical, but if there were such a thing as a heated tickle, that would describe the feeling.”
Bent over his bed, Roman straightened slowly. His first reaction was shock. He’d never met a woman who talked so freely about desire.
But as he pondered what she’d said, he realized she didn’tknowshe was talking about desire. All she knew was that a hot tickle flashed through her.
Well, well, well, he mused. He’d finally discovered a subject the little genius knew absolutely nothing about. Oneheknew as well as he knew his own hand.
He wondered if she’d like a little schooling. He certainly didn’t have to be overly fond of her to tutor her. Stifling a rakish grin, he decided to play with her for a while. “Does this uh—hot ticklehurt, Miss Worth?”
She wrapped a long lock of hair around her thumb, contemplating her emotions. “It isn’t painful. It—well, perhaps it is painful in a certain sense. It’s much like a pang of want or need. Like hunger.”
“Sounds serious.” His lips twitched with restrained mirth as he stretched out on his bedroll and propped himself up on his elbow. “I might be able to help you figure out what it is, but to do that I have to ask you a personal question. Can I?”
“MayI,” she corrected him. “Yes, you may.”
He ignored her grammar lesson. “How many men do you know in Boston?”
She didn’t see anything at all personal about his question. “Fifteen or twenty, perhaps. Why do you ask?”
“What sort of relationships do you have with them?” He picked up a twig and began drawing swirls in the dirt while wondering just how bold Bostonian men were.
“I study with them.”
“Study? That’s all? Don’t they ever take you anywhere? To a party? Out for a walk?”Have any of them ever stolen a kiss on some moonlit balcony?
