“Strange…that’s what Horatio said to me,” he said, almost wistfully. “He came to me a year ago, tried to talk me into taking a different path. But I was too far gone to heed his advice. I was angry at myself—and I took it out on him.”
“I’m sure your uncle understood that you didn’t mean it,” she said gently. “After all, he left you an inheritance. He must have cared for you.”
“When I was twelve, I stayed with him for a summer. Those were the best months of my life…then my mama died shortly afterward. My father packed me off to Eton. I wrote countless letters to my uncle, never receiving a reply. Being an explorer, Horatio was always off on a grand adventure, and I understand that now, but back then…” His shrug was self-deprecating. “I hadn’t yet learned the lesson of self-reliance.”
Maggie had the vision of a motherless boy, sent to Eton by an uncaring father, waiting for letters from an uncle that never came. And her heart wept even more. Yet her practical nature told her it was too late for pity or sympathy. What she could offer Rhys now was support.
“You are not alone now. You have me,” she said resolutely, “and we have a treasure to find. You say I’m extraordinary, but the truth is I’m just stubborn. When I make mistakes, and I do so often, I pick myself up and try again. You can do the same. I believe in you.”
“By Jove…what did I do to deserve you?”
His hoarse reverence curled her toes. She said, “You paid me five hundred pounds.”
He blinked—then threw his head back and laughed. “Bloody hell, I did, didn’t I? You drove a hard bargain, Margaret Foley.”
“Good help is hard to find…um, Your Grace.” She wondered if it was even proper to call him by his Christian name now that she knew who he was.
“Showing me proper respect, are you? There’s a change.” His gaze turned solemn. “To you, I’m Rhys, just Rhys. Always.”
She masked her longing, her gaze falling on the scrap of paper on Rhys’s desk. The clue they’d found in the cave.
“Since you’ve retained my invaluable expertise,” she said brightly, “shall we get on with the business of solving Horatio’s clue?”
“In a moment.”
She tilted her head. “Do we have more pressing business to attend to?”
His smile was slow and sensual. Breath-stopping.
Her heart whispered devilishly,Take what you can…for as long as you can.
He cupped her face in his palms, bending so that his lips hovered above hers, the heat of his words making her tremble with anticipation. “Far more pressing business.”
15
Kissingher was like holding a match to kindling. No matter that his intention was to worship how extraordinary and rare she was, the mere touch of her lips incinerated his self-control. Desire that was physical combined with something else, something deeper, something he’d never felt before, raged over him.
In a swift motion, he spun her around, setting her on the desk. Objects scattered this way and that, but he took no notice. All that mattered was Maggie.
Maggie who forgave him for not telling her about his title. Who consoled him with her sweetly practical advice. Who made him feel as if he could be more than the sum of his failures.
God, hehadto have her. Now, now.
Crowding between her legs, he kissed her with gluttonous need. She tasted of sugared tea, lemon, and herself: sweet, tart, with a hint of spice. A flavor that he feared would ruin him for anyone else.
Their tongues twined as he found the buttons on the back of her dress, making quick work of them. As the garment slipped down to her waist, she jerked, tearing her mouth from his.
“We can’t do this here,” she said frantically.
“Would you prefer to go upstairs?” He kissed the curve of her neck, above her chemise, inhaling the scent of her skin. Who knew that roses and starch could be so arousing?
“Not at this time of day.” Her breathy protest tautened his stones. “Everyone would know.”
“Then we’ll stay right here, sweeting.” It wasn’t ideal, given that the sheath he intended to use was upstairs, but he would make do. The important thing was to have her—now.
He kissed her bare shoulder next to the strap of her stays. Her skin was softer than swan’s down. Far softer than the cheap linen of her undergarments. It was a crime for her to be exposed to such roughness.
“But Quince could come in—”
