“Gadzooks,what are you doing there?” she exclaimed.
“For God’s sake, lower your voice, or everyone will know I’m here. Could I explain inside?” he said tersely.
She pulled him into the room. Once she had the doors closed, she turned to look at him. Moisture glazed his stark features, his hair curling against his forehead in wet whorls. He was rumpled and wet from head to toe, his clothes dripping water onto the floor.
She repeated in hushed tones, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to give you something.” Looking thoroughly disgruntled, he said, “Do you mind if I dry off in front of the fire first?”
“By Golly, you must befreezing. Here, let me help you with your jacket.”
Between the two of them, they managed to pry off the sodden garment. After hanging it and his waistcoat to dry on the back of a chair, she went to fetch a towel for him from the washing stand. When she returned, he’d built up the fire in the hearth and was standing on the carpet in front of it, warming his hands.
The firelight cast his features in harsh relief. His damp shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the hard-paved contours of his chest. He’d shucked his destroyed cravat, and the open vee of his collar revealed the strong line of his throat and a glimpse of the hair-dusted muscle below. He’d removed his boots and socks; his soaked trousers molded to his powerful legs like a second skin. The sight of his large bare feet sent a quiver through her.
He was so deliciously primal and gorgeous, the very epitome of what a male ought to be. But what on earth had motivated him to climb her balcony in the middle of the night during a rainstorm? Her heart thumped, a honeyed awareness trickling through her. Wordlessly, she handed him the towel.
He dried himself off with efficient movements. With the towel draped around his neck, he slanted her a look. “Did I wake you?”
“No, I was awake. I’m, um, not a good sleeper.” Why did she suddenly feel tongue-tied?
Strained silence descended.
“I hope I didn’t startle you,” he said abruptly. “This morning, you said we could arrange some time alone together. I took you at your word.”
As he spoke, ruddy color rose up his jaw. His shoulders were tense as if he was… nervous?
“I’m glad you came,” she blurted.
His lashes flickered. “You are?”
“I, um, didn’t get a chance to talk to you this evening. To find out how things went with Burns.”
“Oh.” His brow furrowed. “In a nutshell, he seemed a havey-cavey sort of fellow, but neither your brother nor I believe he was the killer.”
“And Garrity?”
“We’re scheduled to talk to him in the morning.”
“Oh. That’s… good.”
Awkward silence stretched once again. Her pulse was racing.
“I brought something for you,” Richard said suddenly.
Going to his jacket, he plucked something from its pocket. Returning, he thrust a damp, paper-wrapped package at her as if he couldn’t be rid of it quickly enough.
“Um, what is it?” she said.
“Open it, and you’ll see.” His voice was grim, strangely resigned.
She took the package; it was as long as her forearm and oddly shaped. She unwrapped it with care—and blinked at the revealed objects. One item consisted of two sticks of wood tied together in the shape of a T. The ends of a short cord were connected to the top of the T, the middle section pulled back tautly and hooked onto a wooden latch on the body of the T. Nestled in the paper were also three little arrows, their tips blunted and made of wood.
Recognition dawned.
“Thunderbolts,” she breathed. “A miniaturecrossbow. Where did you get such a thing?”
“I used to fashion them for Wick and me when we were boys,” he said starkly. “We hid them beneath our desks and drove our tutors mad by shooting at things during our lessons.”
