“Sir,” Bixby argued, “I know you are a vegetarian, but that does not mean you should throw yourself off the roof.” (Aficionados of the paleo diet may disagree.)
“Thank you, Daniel.” Ignoring the butler’s expression of offended dignity, he began pulling on his coat. “I’ll be fine. Besides, we have no choice. It’s not like there’s a bicycle sitting around so Miss Pettifer can pedal over with the bomb.”
Charlotte came at once to her feet. She drew breath—
“No,” said the men in unison.
“But you have not heard me yet,” she replied reasonably. “I will not allow Miss Fairweather to interfere with the plans to recover my amulet. In the absence of a bicycle, I can incantate across to the lady’s premises.”
“No,” Alex reiterated. He put his hand on his sword pommel, as if that might in any way influence her. She looked at the hand, then up at his face, and blinked with absolute unconcern. In fact, so unconcerned was she, it practically served as a declaration of war. Alex took a deep breath to calm himself.
“No. One misstep or gust of wind and you’d fall. Eight hundred feet. To a ground that I can assure you is even more unyielding than a witch’s opinion.”
“I am not afraid of a little empty air.”
“You really should be.”
“Perhaps Miss Pettifer could levitate you instead, sir,” Bixby suggested. “She would not need to emerge from the hatch any farther than shoulder height, and with most of her situated on the ladder inside the attic, she would be quite safe.”
“So we are agreed,” Charlotte declared.
“No, we are not,” Alex said.
“I shall require a change of garments if I am to climb a ladder.”
“No.”
“Shirt.”
“No.”
“Trousers.”
“N—” He stopped, a speculative look darkening his eyes. “Well, perhaps it is a good idea, I suppose. So long as you stay on the ladder. Bixby, do we still have those clothes belonging to the young Viscount of Sheffield?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Fetch them for Miss Pettifer. Shirt. Coat, if there is one.Trousers.”
“I have my own coat,” Charlotte said. “I removed it when I entered your premises.”
Alex stared at her unfocusedly.
“Come along, miss,” Bixby said, gently placing his hand at her elbow. “Best not to mention removing clothes to the captain just now. Let us see what is available to outfit you more appropriately for shenanigans.”
Ten minutes later, Charlotte re-entered the cockpit. Alex glanced around and nearly choked on his own breath. She wore a white shirt that had been tucked into tight-fitting black trousers, and while her long coat protected him somewhat from the provoking sight of her hips, there was no reprieve from her thighs or her knee-high studded boots. He hastily turned away, wincing at the discomposure her revealed form caused in him. No doubt she would have smiled with triumphant irony had she been aware.
“So,” he said, then had to pause to clear his throat. “Are you ready to come—I mean—oh God.”
“You wish to pray before the endeavor?” Charlotte inquired.
He laughed, rubbing his eye and temple, and smiled sardonically out the window. “No, but my priest had better set aside a whole afternoon soon to hear my confession.”
“You’re Catholic?” She sounded surprised. “A Catholic pirate.”
“I’m Irish. Being both Catholic and a pirate are almost obligatory.”
Adjusting his own trousers, he turned, and focused determinedly on her face. This did not help much. She had tied her hair back at the nape of her neck, but one strand curved over her cheek, stirring him almost as much as the revelation of her legs. How could a woman look so artless and yet so sensual all at once? And how was a man expected to properly breathe in the same room as her?
