She stilled.
Good God, he was here. In the cottage.
She daren’t turn around, not when her traitorous eyes would seek the glimpse of dark hair at his open collar.
“Are you sickening for something, angel?”
His voice was smooth as treacle. The endearment a blade to cut the strings on her stays. To strip her bare.
She swung around, words dissolving in her throat.
He filled the doorway, his hands braced on the lintelabove, a devilish smile dusting his lips. “Are you going to invite me in?”
From him, even a simple comment felt ruinous. “You’re supposed to wait outside and knock at the front door. Not assume admittance.”
His forest-green eyes trailed over her. “I’ve never been one for etiquette. Everyone knows I’m rude and uncouth.”
“What do you want, Mr Hawke?” She forced her spine straight, and his gaze drifted downward, lingering where the fabric stretched over her breasts. A look as potent as a caress. “I’ve no time to waste. I must finish this list for Mr Beattie, or risk a court-martial.”
He laughed at that.
Oh, he was most dangerous when happiness glimmered in those intense eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at the man crippled by two white roses.
“You invited me to see the stars, remember.”
She frowned, annoyed he felt he could pick her up and put her down whenever he pleased. “You’re seven hours early. I presumed you’d found a better offer. You left the house at twilight carrying flowers.”
Was there a woman in the village? One stronger than her, able to shrug off his charm? Perhaps she’d never dared to taste the devil’s lips. If she had, he’d be trudging through the dark most nights.
A shadow crossed his face. His shoulders dipped, just slightly. There it was again, that rough sigh that sounded as though it had clawed its way up from deep underground.
“They were for my mother’s grave.”
The air chilled, as if his mother had reached through the veil to smooth the hair from his brow. Just as she longed to do now.
Inside she crumpled.
She knew that haunted look.
She’d seen it in her own reflection too many times.
“Few people pay their respects at night,” she said through a tightening throat. “Grief feels heavier in the dark.”
Like a cloak made of lead.
He straightened. “Perhaps I needed a reminder.”
“A reminder?”
“Of whose soul I must set free.”
It took a few seconds to make sense of his thoughts. He feared he was losing sight of his goal. He was his mother’s champion, not hers.
“No one would question your devotion to her. Everything you do is in the name of justice.”
His gaze roved over her. “Not everything.”
He didn’t need to say what he meant. It lived in the space between them. An attraction so compelling they both behaved like fools.
