Page 28 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“Thank you.”

The silence that settled between them was charged, like the air before a storm. “It’s late,” he said after a moment. “I should go. Don’t want the gossips thinking we’re more to each other than manservant and mistress.”

“No,” she agreed.

But was it his imagination, or had her breath had quickened at the notion of more? It was all he could do to keep himself from staring hungrily at the rise and fall of her bosom, disguised though it was by a light woolen shawl. God, but he could not remember ever wanting to kiss a woman as much as he wanted to kiss this one, right now. But how dangerous that would be, how disruptive to their mission, how spectacularly presumptuous of him, given all she had just revealed.

“I’ll say good night, Fanny.”

In spite of his determination to do the right thing, his voice rose on a questioning note, as if his leaving might be in doubt.

She nodded, then rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, her mouth puckered at first, in the manner of one who intends to offer nothing more than a swift peck of gratitude or to bid an acquaintance farewell.

Then her lips softened and clung to his. She tasted of peppermint, cool and sweet. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and devour her on the spot. But too soon, she rocked back onto her heels, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with the knuckle of her first finger. Her eyes darted first to the floor, then his shoulder, and finally his face, as if apprehensive of his reaction. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Her own eyes were uncharacteristically dark, but more with desire than with regret, he thought.

“Probably not,” he agreed, then grinned. “But maybe you’d better do it again to be certain.”

“Fitz!” She dipped her head, but not before he caught a glimpse of an answering smile. “Good night.” She stepped back to let him pass, then stopped him with a hand against his chest. “Don’t be late tomorrow,” she warned, recovering some of her usual severity, though there was still heat in her cool eyes. And in the warmth of her palm over his heart…

Suddenly his quarters in the attic seemed very far away—and not nearly private enough for the dreams he expected would plague him. He glanced toward the door that led to her bedchamber, where he’d carried her trunk on the day of their arrival. He could think of one sure way to make certain he was here when she wanted him in the morning.

Her fingers curled against his lapel, half pushing him away, half drawing him closer.

In the back of his head, he heard General Scott’s words about Fanny wanting the freedom to make her own decisions. But he had a choice to make, too. A choice and a chance to make her see that one of Scott’s men was capable of treating her as she deserved to be treated.

“Till tomorrow, Fanny.”

He left her with a wink and a bow and returned to his musty room and his narrow cot, filled with sensations he had not felt in a very long time.

Anticipation, chief among them.

And hope.

Chapter 10

Caro squinted against the light pouring into her bedchamber, testing what her eyes could bear. Her head still ached, and her mouth tasted as if she’d tried to eat her down-filled pillow. Overall, she felt rather like someone who had consumed several glasses of wine too many at dinner. She knew the feeling because she’d tried it as a means of forgetting…once. It had failed on several levels, chief among them the fact that she hadn’t forgotten anything.

But now, she really couldn’t remember. Judging by the light, it was midday, or even later. And she was still abed, still wearing her nightdress? That was more than merely oversleeping. But hadn’t she walked that morning, as she always did? She remembered strolling arm in arm with Fanny Drummond.… No, that had been the day before, the visit to the circulating library. They’d taken tea together, too. And when she had returned home…

A shudder—almost a spasm—passed through her, the sensation of falling and struggling to catch herself. Her limbs and her nightdress whispered across the bed linens as she tried to regain control, to master the throb in her head and the wave of nausea that accompanied it, to push herself more upright and take stock of her surroundings.

In a chair that had been moved from near the window to the head of the bed sprawled Hartwell, fast asleep. His head was tipped back against the chair’s back, his lips parted slightly. Something—the light, the pose, the reflected color of rose brocade—softened him. At this angle, the worst of his scars were not visible, and even his nose appeared merely patrician. Not difficult to picture how he would have looked before the accident, without the accident. Almost handsome…

“I won’t ask if you like what you see.” He spoke without opening his eyes, without turning his head, without giving any sign of wakefulness at all. But his deep voice was alert and mocking.

“I was never bothered by your scars. Never frightened of them.”

“Perhaps you should have been.”

“Why? Your scars aren’t what make you a beast,” she declared, her heart stuttering at her boldness.

He opened his eyes then, and turned to face her, destroying the illusion. “I would ask how you’re feeling,” he said in that familiar wry tone, as he sat upright. He wore no coat. The open book that had been resting against his chest began to slide down his waistcoat, and he caught it with one hand. “But your sharp tongue and quick wit suggest you’re on your way to a complete recovery.”

“Recovery?” she echoed in a confused murmur, gathering the linens against her chest, a pathetic shield against his dark, penetrating gaze. “I—I’m not myself, it’s true. My head hurts, and I can’t decide whether the sensation in my belly is queasiness or hunger.”

He closed his book with a snap and tapped it twice against his withered thigh before letting it rest there. “The latter, I would guess. You haven’t eaten anything since dinner, two nights past—and I rather suspect you didn’t eat much then.”

“Two nights past?” She glanced toward the bow window and the water beyond. Gray waves lapped lazily at the pebbled beach as flashes of memory came back to her. She had walked in the morning with Fanny, though she’d been tired after a sleepless night. Such a headache—her present one was nothing more than a shadow of it. And the taste of peppermint…