Chapter 4 #2
She reddened even more. “I’m far from a girl. And I read other things, too. History, and, ah…” She couldn’t think of anything else, so her words faded away. “It’s silly, I know.”
“Don’t have to defend what you read. You don’t even have to belittle whatever you like. It’s your own business what pleases you. Everybody else can go hang.”
“I…oh.” No one, not even her father, had ever tolerated what she enjoyed reading. To have a highwayman in her bedchamber be the lone person to accept that she adored yarns and legends and tales—she almost, almost relaxed in his presence.
“What do you take pleasure in reading?” she asked, then regretted her question immediately, already knowing the answer.
“I don’t know my letters,” he said simply.
“I see.” She burned with awkwardness at her misstep.
“Now, Gideon,” he continued amiably, as if she hadn’t just embarrassed herself, “he is a great one for books. Always got his nose in some book whenever we—ah—find some from a carriage we stop.”
“Ah.” How could she forget that these men were criminals?
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t already hunted down your library,” Desmond continued, jovially, as though fond of his book-thieving comrade.
“He won’t take any of the books there, will he?” Anxiety edged her voice. “They’re all rather precious to me.” Many were special editions that she’d ordered from the Continent.
“Stealing from a carriage on the Gloucestershire road and stealing from a private home are awful different situations,” Desmond said confidently.
“I will have to take your word for it.”
“Besides,” he added, “whatever books Gideon winds up taking, he always donates them to circulating libraries. It irritates Cyrus to no end. He’d rather we sell them, but Gideon insists.
Says it’s better that many people should have access to a book rather than it moldering in one person’s private collection, where it might mildew for years on the shelf, unread. ”
“Oh, well, I suppose that’s a positive.” But even if it did result in something good, theft was theft. That wasn’t right—was it?
Silence fell, and, familiar as this room was to her, the bed within it loomed like a portent.
She couldn’t help but look at it, and he did, too. His jaw went taut.
“Please,” she said nervously. “Don’t—”
“Peace, Mrs. Ballantine.” He held up his hands. “I’ve got no designs on your person. But I can’t leave you on your own.”
“I’m not going to run.”
He shook his head, almost as if in regret. “That’s a gamble I can’t take.”
“What do you propose?”
After a quick glance around the room, his attention landed on a wingback chair in the corner.
Her reading chair. Some of the damask upholstery had frayed, and the horsehair filling poked out near one of the armrests, yet for all that, it was a cozy place to spend several hours poring over volumes of folklore she’d ordered from London.
He picked up the chair as if it weighed no more than a piece of dollhouse furniture. Then he set it down in front of the door.
“How did you…?”
He flashed her a grin. “I’m used to muscling my very large horse around.”
“Your horses,” she began.
“We put them in the stables. Your lone gelding seemed glad for the company.”
“Who’s going to tend to them while you’re here?”
“Liam’s fond of horseflesh. He’ll see to the beasts.” He dropped down into the chair, his long legs stretching out in front of him.
The chair had seemed commodious when she used it, but with his much larger frame in it, shoulders pressing against the winged sides, knees extending well past the seat, she doubted he was at all comfortable.
Once he’d situated himself, he gestured toward the bed. “Go on.”
“Do you honestly expect me to sleep when you’re…?” She waved in his direction. “What if you change your mind and decide to harass me during the night? What if one of your comrades decides he’d like a go?”
His expression turned serious. “None of that’s coming to pass. I’ll stay in this chair until you wake. And if anyone comes in here with the aim to give you trouble, they’re going to have a hell of a fight on their hands.”
She stared at him for a long, long time.
He stared back at her, his gaze unwavering, his broad hands holding the armrests.
Even though he dwarfed the chair, he sat in it with a kind of regality.
No…he didn’t seem regal like a king in a mirrored and gilt throne room.
More like…a warrior king presiding over his hall of rangers. A leader, ready to go into battle.
Finally, she moved toward her bed. She kicked off her slippers, then hesitated before slipping off his coat. Did she smell of him now, his scent clinging to her skin, her hair?
A noise made her look toward him. His nostrils flared, and his gaze was sharp. It was almost…almost as if he could scent himself on her. But men didn’t have the keen senses of animals.
Carefully, she set his coat down on the bench at the foot of her bed.
She missed the warmth of the garment immediately, despite the fire now blazing in the hearth, and so she hurried into bed.
Yet as she slid under the comforter, she didn’t remove her nightrail.
Perhaps it was a foolish adherence to propriety, especially when her night clothes were hardly modest, but it offered a small degree of additional coverage, and so, she kept it on.
The bed was chilled after her absence, and she wouldn’t risk getting up and filling a bedwarmer with coals. She scuffed her feet back and forth, trying to warm the sheets.
“If you’re cold,” came Desmond’s voice from near the doorway, “you’ve only to ask for company. I’ll provide my body heat.”
She lifted up on her elbows to glare at him. “You said you had no designs on me.”
“Only offering my services.” His smile was lazy as he leaned back in the too-small chair. “You are always welcome to say no.”
“Then, I decline.”
“As my lady wishes.”
She pressed her lips together, but he only looked back at her with that same indolent yet alluring smile. Well, he seemed content enough without ravishing her.
The moon still continued to dance through her nerves.
Although, it was difficult to know whether it was the moon’s influence that roused her, or the presence of five strange men beneath her roof.
They seemed to meld together, the men and the moon, until she’d no idea what stretched her senses tightly, only that she had never in her life felt more alert or aware, a crackling energy pulsing beneath her skin.
She had to push those feelings away and try to get some rest. God only knew what the following day would bring, since the gang of highwaymen wasn’t going anywhere whilst Hugh recovered.
Laying back in bed, she drew the covers up as high as they would go. Every instinct in her insisted that, with Desmond not but a few feet away, she keep her eyes open. For a long while, she looked at the flickering firelight dancing on the walls.
The chair creaked as he shifted. But he didn’t get up.
“I truly don’t think I can sleep,” she said flatly.
“Makes sense that you’d be riled by what happened tonight.” His voice was very deep, resonant with northern vowels. “But I think I know how to fix this situation.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“First, close your eyes. That’s generally what’s needed to sleep.”
“My father treated a patient who slept with her eyes open. It greatly alarmed her husband.”
“An uncanny habit, but not yours. No, I want you to close your eyes.”
She wanted to object, but instead, she did as he instructed, squeezing her eyelids together so tightly that she felt the pleats forming on her forehead.
“A little less enthusiasm,” Desmond drawled.
Exhaling, she forced herself to relax, her brow smoothing. “Now what?”
“Now,” he said, “all you need to do is listen.”
A demand sprang to her lips, wondering what, precisely, she was supposed to listen to, but she held it back.
Instead, she waited. Logs popped in the fireplace.
Beyond her window came the cries of nocturnal birds and the whirr of crickets.
These were all perfectly ordinary sounds, ones she’d heard every night for the past seven years.
Hardly worth her attention. Perhaps she ought to ask—
“Once upon a time,” Desmond began, low and effortless, “there was a fair-haired princess who lived in a manor house, all alone in the forest—”
“That’s—”
“Quiet,” he insisted softly. “Let me go on.”
She subsided, but it all felt rather ridiculous. She, a grown woman, being told a fairy tale that might be about…her?
“This princess was a great healer, and she healed all manner of creatures that lived in the woods. Rabbits, foxes. Wolves.”
His voice truly was wondrous, deep and smooth in the depths of night. It drew around her like a cloak of silken velvet, like an enchantment called up from the depths of the forest, and in waves, her body relaxed and quieted.
“One night,” he continued, “five big wolves came to her door, and at first, she was frightened. But she was brave, far braver than she gave herself credit for, and she tended to the injured wolf with great care and wondrous skill…”
A moment later, Clara slept.