“Mphm!” (For the record, she was calling him something a great deal worse than heartless.)
“Fear not, I’ll set the house down before I drop you from it.” She tried to bite his hand. “Probably,” he amended.
She tasted sweat and her own bitter, unspoken magic. She cursed the gentleness of feminine literature that had left her so unequally educated in violence...
And then Amy March rose unexpectedly from the dregs of her imagination, manuscript in one hand and sharp smile on her face.
Alex cursed as the woman went suddenly limp in his arms. Had he hurt her? He’d not intended to, only wanted to ensure she was restrained from tearing his house apart with that damned witchy voice of hers.
“Miss Pettifer?” he inquired. She did not reply—of course, he’d covered her mouth. Perhaps she’d fainted because of that. Her eyes were closed, her fine-boned face pallid, and if he was not holding her she’d tumble to the ground. Worried, he hoisted her, intending to lift her into his arms and carry her to the sofa. But as his grip loosened she suddenly pulled free.
He scowled. “You—”
Whether this was to be a statement of relief or a curse must remain unestablished, for he got nothing further said before she raised her skirt, swiveled, and delivered a brisk, angled kick to his leg.
In that moment, Alex discovered she was wearing knee-high boots, and that those boots were studded. He would have been seriously thrilled had he not been staggering in pain.
She should have run then. But she overthought it, and snatched up a broken crossbow from the jumbled stack against the wall, preparing to smack him with it. Alex lurched forward, grabbing her hand and squeezing until she dropped the crossbow. It landed on one of her feet, causing a small explosion of sparks.
“Ow!” she cried, more in fury than pain. But Alex was merciless. As she tilted off-balance, he pulled her against him and hauled her up, over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” she demanded, kicking helplessly inside the layers of her skirts as he carried her across the room. “Put me down at once, or I will—”
He put her down. But his arm was still around her, holding her body close, so close, so soft and luscious, like a dream.No, he told himself—a bloody nightmare. She scowled up at him through a tumble of hair, sparks of witchfire in her eyes.
Alex grinned. “I’m afraid our guest room is a little small,” he said, and reached out to open the closet door.
“Reciprico,”Charlotte snapped, and the door slammed shut.
Captain O’Riley snapped a few words of his own, none of which required translation to the Latin to give them force. Charlotte gasped. Pressed against the length of his body, she not only heard those words but felt them vibrating through her bones, heating her blood further.
They looked at each other, gazes clashing like swords. He lifted his hand toward her mouth, she muttered quickly, and it was a race both of them lost—for he silenced her mid-word, but she got enough of that word out to make some difference. An empty wicker birdcage, already dreaming of wings, lifted in the air and began rushing toward them.
Alex turned, hunching over her so the cage cracked against his back. It was an act almost Darcy-like, protecting Charlotte from the consequences of her own irate choices, and she might have been impressed, even a little sorry for what she’d done, had she not known that everything was his fault. He straightened, moaning slightly, and she kicked him in the shin.
Abruptly he pushed her back against the wall. The impact ignitednerves and tossed magic words through her brain. She murmured them against the barricade of his hand, and although they were muffled, the front door flung open. Wind roared into the cottage. Charlotte felt her magic roar in response. She went on incantating against the pirate’s skin, and small items began to fly about; her hair stirred.
Nowthiswas witchcraft, she thought in exhilaration. Never mind stealing briefcases. This was stealing the sky.
She saw herself reflected like a flame in Alex’s eyes. She inhaled his hot, angry breath and wanted more.
They glared at each other.
The house began to sway as witchery clashed with the flight incantation. The sofa was rising, windows swinging open. Charlotte wondered why she’d never before noticed the filament of gold in the pirate’s left eye.
Alex lifted his hand from her mouth, taking all her words away with it. He brushed the hair from her face. A sword spiraled past; a bottle smashed against the wall beside them. The pirate was breathing as if he’d run a mile, but Charlotte felt her own hectic breath beginning to ease. A sultry, heavy stillness settled through her, even as the world turned wild.
Alex lowered his head. Charlotte lifted hers.
Their lips touched.
The ground beneath them shook.
7
grounded—bad language—dangerous questions—just a small prick—bixby optimizes the search—a proposal of marriage—funny business—the scent of a woman
Kisses are foolish things. The pleasure of rational thought is not enhanced by them, and the inconvenience is often considerable. Therefore Charlotte was pleased—exceedingly pleased!—couldn’t have been happier!—when the hard landing of the house caused Alex to stumble away from her before their kiss could properly commence.
