Page 93 of Souvenir Heart

He hesitated. “I might have taken the liberty of…liberating…some of your canvases.”

“Liberating?”

So much for Scott’s suggestion he show her his better side. He took a breath, deciding he might as well add ‘thief’ to her list of his sins. “I stole some of them.”

“Stole?” She released her knees and sat up straight. “How many?”

“Three.”

“Which three?” she demanded.

“The three displayed on the easels. Diana the cheeky huntress, the old man in black with the lace collar and cuffs, and your self-portrait.”

“You took them?” There was so much incredulous hope in her voice, if it was a flame it would illuminate the entire quarry.

“Of course,” he said, then dared to add, “I could never leave you behind.”

He braced for her shock, her outrage, but was struck instead by the weight of her body against his chest. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, silken tendrils of her hair brushing against his face, and the warm honeysuckle scent of her skin enveloped him.

Marcus forgot the darkness, the miles of earth above him, all the reasons he should keep his distance from her.

Forgot everything but her.

Fifty-Five

Marcus Tyndale had saved her art. Three years of sketches and studies, starting and stopping, then restarting, until she’d produced what she knew in her heart was her finest work.

Kissing him seemed the most natural thing to do. She started on his eyes, moved down his aristocratic nose, and was working her way down to his sensually severe lips when she heard him say.

“This is wrong.”

“What?” She drew back.

“Wrong,” he repeated, as if trying to convince himself.

“Why?”

“You’re vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?” She might have laughed if he hadn’t looked so tortured. In that moment, she felt anything but vulnerable. She felt exhilarated, invincible, as if she could fly. She studied his face; he was desperately serious. “Ridiculous man.”

“You’re in my care.” He insisted. “I’d be taking advantage of you.”

“In what way does this look, or feel, as if you’re the one taking advantage?” She unwrapped an arm from around his neck, tracing the line of his lips, wishing she could taste them. “You know, you’re shockingly noble for a man who professes to be a mercenary. Also, absurdly misguided.”

“Misguided?” His dark brows rose.

She nodded, settling more comfortably in his lap. “My father is paying you to bring me to England. Which makes you responsible for my escape. But not, M’sieur Tyndale, for my choices.”

“I fail to see the difference.”

“You rescued me from the Conciergerie. Saved my life. Saved my work.” She shook her head, still struggling to grasp the miracle of this revelation. “For which I am totally, unutterably, forever grateful.”

“So,” he said cautiously, “this is gratitude?”

She inched closer and let out a very French pffft of disgust. “For a man whose art shows such fine attention to detail and everyday life, you are shockingly obtuse. I am grateful, yes.” She leaned forward and nipped the lobe of his ear. “But does this feel like gratitude?”

She felt him shiver.