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He fit the tip of the blade into the edge and pried the side loose. The bottom popped up, normally held aloft with wine corks in each corner and a wire lever. “No more bloody puzzles.”

On the true bottom of the box lay a letter, sealed with wax with a blue dove painted over the seal.

Footsteps sounded up the narrow stairs, across the playroom. Clara grabbed Bram’s arm without thinking. If they were discovered, they would lose their advantage. She was supposed to be invisible.

“Do you trust me?” Bram whispered.

She nodded mutely, slipping the letter down the front of her stays, along with the new key.

It was all he needed. A nod of her head and he muscled her toward the desk, lifting her onto it. Her dress rode up to her knees, showing her silk stockings and the little red ribbons. He stared at them before finally looking back up at her, eyes flaring. “Have you been wearing those under your dress the whole time?”

She nodded again.

His mouth closed over her in a kiss that swept through her like a tempest, like he was pushed to his limits. One big hand closed around her knee, the other tangled in her hair, all while he continued to suck at her lower lip, lick into her mouth, drag his teeth under her jaw. She melted—her bones simply melted away as heat rushed through her, pulling at her belly and lower. She widened her thighs so he could press even closer, the length of him against her softest, most intimate place. She whimpered, could not help herself. His thumb stroked up past her red ribbons, touching her bare thigh.

She kissed him back just as hungrily, until he groaned, pushing against her, grinding up until she whimpered again. She needed more. All of it. He kissed her throat, his mouth hot and clever, a pulse answering in her breasts, in her quim. She rubbed against him, helplessly chasing that delicious friction, the groan rumbling in his throat.

“Just what do you think—” The intruder cut himself off.

Bram turned his head, but only slightly. His pupils were wide, darkening his eyes. Her skin prickled from the scratch of his beard. He was still fitted against her, arms wrapped around her, her legs dangling on either side of him.

“Is there a problem?” he demanded of the footman, one of the ones who looked too large and angry to be a footman.

“No one’s allowed up here,” the footman said, scowling.

“It’s a house party, mate,” Bram said easily. “And a Devil’s Night. Can’t blame me.”

The footman snorted. “Try the gate at the back of the garden.”

He left, but his footsteps stopped on the stairs. He was not going to go anywhere until they had. Never mind—they had what they needed, with no one the wiser.

Bram stepped back. She smoothed her dress down, the white so stark against the black of his trousers. “All right, pirate?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, forcing herself to smile briskly. “Of course.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Should I apologize?” he asked.

She would crumble away into humiliated ashes if he dared. “Certainly not.”

He had kissed her to save them from discovery. Not because he could not stop replaying their moment in the caves in his head the way she did. Constantly. So that it was difficult to think of anything else.

Once again, she had to remind herself that he touched her out of necessity. Not desire. After all, any man might desire a woman in a grotto devoted to orgies. Even someone like her. And she already knew he was set on being a protector. It was just in his nature.

“That was close,” she murmured. She moved to hop down, to remember who she was.

His hand remained on her knee, gripping tight. He stayed where he was, his eyes fierce and calculating. “Clara, have you really been wearing those under your dresses this whole time?”

“Yes.”

He stepped back very carefully, as if she was the dangerous one. He ran a hand over his jaw. “I’ve survived hurricanes and cannon fire and bloody Napoleon. But I don’t think I’ll survive you.”

Suddenly, she felt rather better about the whole thing.

The footman was indeed waiting on the landing, not even pretending to be occupied with some other chore. Clara kept her gaze lowered—she did not want him to remember her.

“My apologies,” Bram said, without an ounce of actual apology in his voice. “Won’t happen again.”

Clara refused to acknowledge that depressing thought. Not while she was still damp and slick under her dress, aching for his fingers and his tongue.