“What periods interest you? You must have one or two. Otherwise, I suspect you would never have survived the country.”
Her mouth snapped shut. Apparently stunned by his estimation. He would go so far to say speechless. Those blue eyes took on a distant glow. “Mythology. I—”
He waited, his heart beating erratically. “You?” he whispered.
“I was attempting to write a fictional account of members of thetonusing traits of the mythological archetypes.”
Harlowe couldn’t restrain himself, his laughter erupting. How absolutely rich, and utterly creative.
Her hackles immediately rose. She sputtered. The very ruffling of her skirts told of her impatience.
He stopped her with one hand. “Why don’t you finish it for him? Alymer’s texts? You’re able minded, aren’t you?”
“Finish?” She stared back at him as if he’d told her she could fly to the moon.
He shut his eyes once again, curious at her reaction. The soft rose scent he was beginning to associate with her flooded his senses, and he concentrated on her voice. He wanted to smile but bit the inside of his jaw to stave off the urge. He was quickly learning that her sense of humor rivaled Lady Irene’s. Nil.
Harlowe chanced another covert glance and watched as her mouth worked. Opened, then closed, then opened again. The sight did something to the nether regions of his body he’d thought long dead, but was, in fact, very much alive. And starving.
Finally, she said softly, almost under her breath, “Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I finish it for him? Who is there to stop me?”
Maeve sat quietly at Harlowe’s bedside as he drifted off into a solid slumber. A thick lock of chestnut hair rested on his brow. She lifted her hand to brush it away—then froze, her gaze going to the door, her cheeks suffusing with heat.
Neither of the men Kimpton hired to help take care of Harlowe had returned, and Maeve was in no hurry to leave her charge’s side. She took comfort in the quiet of the chamber but for his steady breathing.
Parson was out for the afternoon and would likely be detained by Lady Ingleby until dusk, grilling Maeve’s maid for the slightest tidbit of information, she was certain Parson would happily provide. Parson had been in her mother’s employ since Maeve’s debut appearance six years prior.
When Maeve had married Alymer, she hadn’t needed Parson, instead taking a local girl from Alymer’s county to assist Maeve with her needs as she and Alymer spent all their time in the country. Maeve would be the first to admit her astonishment at not missing town in the least. But when Alymer’s heir showed up to take possession of the estate, she couldn’t very well stay with that lecherous old goat.
Most men, in her opinion, thought much too highly of their supposed self-excellence, cognitive abilities of which were usually substandard at best, and self-mastery. Though mastery-of-what left much to the imagination. She, for one, didn’t have that much imagination.
She turned her eyes on Harlowe and studied the hardened jawline and proud nose. He was young, she knew. Four years Lorelei’s junior, only a year older than Maeve, if she remembered correctly. She pulled her hand away, appalled at having forgotten herself.
He rolled to his stomach, twisting himself in the coverlets. The sleeves on his night shirt pushed up, revealing strong forearms and… scars circling his wrist. The muscle in one arm spasmed then moved to his jaw. Maeve reached over and gripped his arm, dug in her fingers to seize the muscle.
Harlowe jerked, flipped on his back and the next instant she was lying atop him, flattened against his chest.
“You think you can kill me?” The lethal husky resonance sent chills down her spine. He crushed harder until her ability to draw a breath grew impossible. “You understand, Markov?”
Markov?He was insensible.“Lord Harlowe? It’s me, Maeve. Maeve Pendleton. Lady Alymer.” Each syllable came out a panted breath.
“Maeve… Pendleton?” he breathed. His eyes fluttered open. One hand’s hold loosened and molded the back of her head.
To her astonishment, his mouth closed over hers in a bruising, overpowering kiss. Something shifted in the interim. A low groan from his chest vibrated through her. His lips softened against hers, and against her will, her own lips parted for him.
Her stomach turned into a riot of chaos at the invasion of his tongue. Each swipe against hers was a closer moment of swooning to her very death. Alymer had never kissed her in such a way. No man had ever kissed her in such a way. This was the reason the matrons of society hoarded the innocents. The exhilaration soaring through her must be akin to flying above the stars with nothing to catch her were she to let go and fall from the safety of his arms. She never wanted to move—
Suddenly, she was pushed back, staring into eyes of a green-gold hue, stealing her breath, the drowning sensation swamping her. Panic banded her chest as if she’d truly fallen into a deep vat of… water.
“Lady Alymer?” Harlowe growled. “Would you care to explain?”
The rose fragrance hit Harlowe with the force of a natural disaster. He held her fast against his chest. Unable to count the freckles on her nose for the sheer number of them. They were stark as something in her expression had shifted from her initial desire to anxiety.
She seemed on the verge of an attack of some sort.
He moved his hands to her upper arms and shook her slightly. It was a desperate move on his part, short of flipping her to her back and taking her right there as the hardened length of him dug into her thigh through the thinness of her olive-colored day gown.
“Not particularly, my lord,” Lady Alymer said in breathless dignity.
