She’s a witch, he reminded himself.
A witch with gorgeous lips, so lush beneath his...
Witch. Enemy. Briefcase thief.
And the way she can kick a man with those fierce boots...
He clenched his jaw. This woman was no different from Deirdre Riordan—bees at her wrist, ruthless magic in her heart. And like Deirdre, she would hurt him, no question. Hell, she already had. He was going to have bruises on his leg where she’d kicked him, and that was nothing compared to the discomfort he currently endured in his crotch.
“Oh yes,” she said, her voice like velvet against his gritty thoughts. “This is yours.”
She brought something from her coat pocket, held it out. Alex extended a hand automatically and she dropped his ruby ring into it.
He stared at the ring, feeling utterly blindsided. Kindness was the last thing he had expected from this woman—or anyone, ever. Something painful leaped in his heart. The ring was still warm from having lain between her breasts; slipping it on his thumb, he took a rather shaky breath.
“Thank you,” he said, surprising himself with the words. “This is particularly precious to me.”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t buy much for the orphans,” she said, but he thought he heard an apology beneath the words. Suddenly he needed the restraint of every moral fiber he possessed to stop himself from taking the wicked little witch in his arms and kissing her, feud be damned.
But he saw the shadow in her eyes, and realized she probably felt vulnerable in the masculine clothes. And since he wasn’t the complete cad he was reputed to be, he gentled his smile. “Ready to go?”
Charlotte looked down at herself. “Hm, let’s see. I have a besom full of weapons in my pocket; I found my gun, so that’s tucked into mystudded, poisonous boots; I’m thoroughly trained in combat magic; and I moisturized this morning.” She withdrew her sunglasses from a coat pocket and put them on. “I’m ready.”
Alex swallowed dryly. “Er, good. Bixby!”
The butler appeared at once in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re going up. You have the helm.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Hmm. Get us alongside Fairweather’s house and keep us there until I give the all clear.” Turning to Charlotte, he grinned. “Tally ho!”
She tipped the sunglasses up to frown at him. “Is that some kind of insult? I demand an—”
Alex rolled his eyes and, stepping closer, clapped his hand over her mouth. She glared at him above his fingers, her own eyes a hot, flashing storm. Looking at them, he rather thought that was why he had done it. “It meansLet’s go.”
“Mphm,” she said. He laughed, releasing her. She jammed the sunglasses back down and marched furiously from the cockpit—then stopped, foot tapping against the floor, waiting for him to catch up and show her which way to go.
Behind them, Bixby almost certainly did not snicker, although it sounded a great deal as if he did.
Charlotte followed the pirate up through dusty attic darkness into the wild light. Alex pushed open the hatch and hauled himself off the ladder to the roof; she emerged more carefully. With her feet several rungs into shadows and her face lifted to the sun, she thought how metaphorical a moment it was—and then she stopped thinking at all. The sky, so vast, filled her with its fierce, cool emptiness. The way Alex walked the ridgeline as if he were walking a parlor floor captivated her pulse.
“Stay there,” he called over his shoulder.
The wind whipped his words like a red flag. “I will,” she said, but knew it for a lie. Riding a bicycle up over buildings had been too uncertain a venture to enjoy at the time, but ever since, she’d felt heavy, slow, as if her body was meant for flying and she’d just never realized before. She steadied her hands on the rooftop and, climbing the last few ladder rungs, sat on the edge of the hatch.
Her spirit flung out its arms and laughed. Her actual body, rigid with the posture drilled into her from earliest childhood, sat quietly and used its proper good sense to clutch the roof tiles. But Charlotte knew in her heart she was ruined. Just like that, between an attic and a rooftop: utterly ruined for genteel life. All her dreams of rural peace collapsed. To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure was not the most perfect refreshment after all. To breathe the wild blue wind was so much better!
No wonder pirates always seemed so satisfied—which Charlotte was learning meant something quite different from self-satisfied, the witch’s ground state of being. Everything in her longed to rise up and run after Captain O’Riley, who stood with his booted feet set apart on the ridgeline as he watched Miss Fairweather’s house grow nearer. He was so steady he might have been anchored there by magic. Charlotte found herself moving, drawn unthinking toward him, and scolded herself back into submission. Even when sitting on a pirate’s roof—or perhapsespeciallywhen—a lady must maintain her proper deportment.
Gently the cottage veered until it was easing alongside Miss Fairweather’s garish townhouse. Alex swayed a little at the shift of angle. With his long black coat and black-sheathed sword, sunlight flashing on the silver dangling from his ear and the various knives strapped about his person, he looked casually dangerous. He did not say “Ahoy!” but he smiled it, a smile of crookedness and contentment. Clearly,staying alive was less interesting to him than all-out living. Charlotte realized he wasn’t going to wait for her to safely incantate him between rooftops. The moment the houses aligned, he was jumping.
And if he fell—
She shook her head at the thought. Hemust notfall. If only because she’d never convince his butler to fly on in pursuit of Lady Armitage.
Besides, she was a seventh-generation witch and the Prophesized One who would next lead the Wicken League. She could easily keep him safe.
