She stared at him, open-mouthed. “Upon my word! Only two minutes ago you were asking, ‘Are you always like this?’ Such inconsistency is what gives pirates a bad name.”
“And here I was thinking it was the pillaging, terrorizing, and rampant hooliganism. I beg your pardon, Miss Pettifer, but as I tried to tell you at the time, what I actually meant was, ‘Are you always this strong, fierce, gorgeous, brave?’ A question entirely consistent with my more recent statement.”
“Oh.” She looked away, frowning. “Well. Hmph.”
He grinned. “Daft woman.”
“Poor communicator.”
“Fair enough. I’ll get explicit, shall I? Are you afraid of premarital sex?”
Her eyes narrowed as she considered this. At last she spoke, her tone cool. “I reiterate, I’m afraid of nothing.”
His grin deepened. He felt its pleasure all the way down in a part of his anatomy that really could not sustain much more pleasure right now. “Race you to the inn?”
“Certainly not!” she replied, indignant. “A lady never races. I shall merely make haste and await your presence.”
And with that, she gave her broomstick a flick, muttered a word, and flew off through the storm.
Then flew back again, picked up her sunglasses, which had fallen from her coat pocket earlier, and with a haughty expression flew off once more.
Alex looked heavenward for patience, but only got an eyeful of rain. It was enough to make him believe God was a witch. He began to walk.
And then, thinking of Charlotte Pettifer all warmed up with whiskey, he began to run.
11
only one bedroom—incorrect undressing—manhandled—charlotte wishes for some bedtime reading—alex is unhygienic—jane who?—third time, lucky—mutual defeat
Give a girl an education and introduce her properly to the world, and ten to one but she will find herself alone in an inn bedroom with a gentleman rogue. Charlotte (who really should have been allowed to see the interesting pages of biology textbooks after all, and therefore had her curiosity safely assuaged) stood beside the bed with her arms crossed sternly over the simple dress the innkeeper’s wife had given her, and glared at Alex.
And he, looking dangerous in borrowed trousers and shirt that strained against his muscles, shrugged in insouciant reply.
That they had landed less than a quarter mile from a public house was coincidental only if you forget this was England, where many thousands of pubs thrive around the country. That it had just one bedroom still available will not be surprising to connoisseurs of romance. The sole astonishment was it contained two beds.
Alex and Charlotte had quickly fixed that.
And now, the beds having been pushed together, the hot whiskeytoddies having been drunk, they stood waiting to see who would make the first move.
“I don’t know why you insisted on getting dressed, since I’m only going to undress you again,” Alex said.
“I don’t know why you are so confident of that,” Charlotte replied. She swayed a little, for there had been just enough whiskey in the toddy to loosen her muscles along with several of her dearest inhibitions. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Jane Austen’s heroines were shouting, waving volumes ofMansfield Park, and trying to remind her of the fate awaiting unchaste women. But they were drowned out by the echoing memory of Alex calling herstrong, fierce, gorgeous, brave.
Her heart sighed. Something about the man—his laughing eyes, perhaps, or wicked mouth, or dear lord his boots—caused her entire being to thrum. She felt as if she had been sleepwalking through life and had woken finally on that day in St. James’s when one conversation with him had literally flung her skyward. But there was no call to let him know this. “It goes to show your male arrogance,” she said, “that you assume you can simply undress me on your own authority.”
“Fair enough,” Alex said languidly. “So shall I just leave?”
“By all means, if you are a lily-livered, trembling—”
She stopped, blinking in surprise, as he stepped forward and began tugging at the buttons on her bodice. “No,” she said, smacking at his hands. “Not like that. You have to push them more care—”
He caught her chin, lifted it, and kissed her until words dissolved and her knowledge of correct button removal procedures was utterly lost from memory.
The bodice managed to get open despite his rough method, and after some struggle with sleeves, during which both parties lambasted each other (and kissed each other with increasingly urgent frustration), the entire dress fell in a heap to her feet. All that remained was a plain cotton chemise the innkeeper’s wife had also provided.
Charlotte stared down at the dress, rather dazed, and unsure what to do next. She’d just allowed a man to disrobe her. Jane Austen would be weeping into her inkwell.
Alex had the situation in hand, however. Literally. Taking hold of her by the waist, he simply lifted her up, kicked the dress aside, and set her down again.
