motives in the event; he had been, as he always was, caught up in the exhilaration of the game. Well, he had played desperately and won. Until she had called him traitor he had not realized that he had also lost.
He had compromised a young woman of noble birth and remarkable character to whom he could offer nothing—not position, not fortune, not name. To protect her in the weeks ahead, he must claim her as his mistress, yet he meant in time to return her to her parents, heart-whole, as innocent as she now was. And somehow he would preserve her reputation as well as her life.
Once, on a dare, he had climbed into the ring at Grantham with one hand tied to his side, and faced the local champion. He had won the match to the cheers of all his friends, but his ribs had ached for weeks. On that thought his eyes at last closed.
Margaret’s first conscious act was to prop herself up so that she might see the floor. Had she dreamed her encounter with him? To her surprise he had not wakened before her but lay wedged between her berth and the opposite wall in what could hardly be a comfortable position. No light from the windows above had yet reached his face to rouse him. With his eyes closed, his hair tousled, and his limbs sprawled, he looked less the man and more the boy. But there were shadows under the eyes and a darkening of beard on his chin that dimmed the luster and vibrancy of him. His energies were not inexhaustible after all, she thought. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing, and she recognized the opportunity she had wished for. She slipped from the bed, gathering the nightshirt about her, and stepped lightly over him so that she might reach the bottle-green coat upon its hook. The papers were not in any of its pockets. There was only a small pistol which she had not realized he carried. While it might be useful to him, she had never fired a gun and did not know the first thing about guns. She stepped back over him and knelt on his left in a tiny patch of floor. His head was awkwardly pillowed on his greatcoat, but she doubted the papers were there. No, the papers could only be on his person somewhere.
She examined the folds and creases of his waistcoat for any hint of the packet. She could detect nothing. The taut lines of the breeches about his hips and thighs could only be the contours of his body, from which she looked away. Still he had not stirred. Did she dare to unbutton the waistcoat itself, to feel along the ribs? It was unthinkable that she would touch him so. Though he had touched her often that first night, his touches, distracting as they had been, had always furthered his plan. Well, she must accomplish her own plans. She must stop him from betraying England and save him from the gallows of her nightmare or worse.
She sat back on her heels and clenched and unclenched her hands, nerving herself for action. As lightly as she could she slipped the first button free of the restraining silk. She glanced at him; his eyes remained closed. Again she reached for one of the tiny buttons. She had unfastened five when she paused in her labors. She had opened a distinct gap over his heart; but so many buttons remained, and her progress was so slow. She could not expect him to remain asleep much longer. In desperation she leaned over him, the fingers of her left hand spread and pointing toward his waist. Lightly she rested her palm against his chest, allowing her fingers to feel delicately for the upper edge of the packet.
“Good morning, Meg,” he said. He did not move. “Do you care to explain yourself? Or may I place whatever interpretation I like upon the present circumstances?”
She withdrew her hand at once, her face burning, feeling oddly conscious of her body under the loose-fitting nightshirt. “I hoped to find the earl’s papers,” she admitted.
“You searched the green coat?”
“I did,” she replied, unable to look at him.
“I trust you left me my pistol, in
He had compromised a young woman of noble birth and remarkable character to whom he could offer nothing—not position, not fortune, not name. To protect her in the weeks ahead, he must claim her as his mistress, yet he meant in time to return her to her parents, heart-whole, as innocent as she now was. And somehow he would preserve her reputation as well as her life.
Once, on a dare, he had climbed into the ring at Grantham with one hand tied to his side, and faced the local champion. He had won the match to the cheers of all his friends, but his ribs had ached for weeks. On that thought his eyes at last closed.
Margaret’s first conscious act was to prop herself up so that she might see the floor. Had she dreamed her encounter with him? To her surprise he had not wakened before her but lay wedged between her berth and the opposite wall in what could hardly be a comfortable position. No light from the windows above had yet reached his face to rouse him. With his eyes closed, his hair tousled, and his limbs sprawled, he looked less the man and more the boy. But there were shadows under the eyes and a darkening of beard on his chin that dimmed the luster and vibrancy of him. His energies were not inexhaustible after all, she thought. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing, and she recognized the opportunity she had wished for. She slipped from the bed, gathering the nightshirt about her, and stepped lightly over him so that she might reach the bottle-green coat upon its hook. The papers were not in any of its pockets. There was only a small pistol which she had not realized he carried. While it might be useful to him, she had never fired a gun and did not know the first thing about guns. She stepped back over him and knelt on his left in a tiny patch of floor. His head was awkwardly pillowed on his greatcoat, but she doubted the papers were there. No, the papers could only be on his person somewhere.
She examined the folds and creases of his waistcoat for any hint of the packet. She could detect nothing. The taut lines of the breeches about his hips and thighs could only be the contours of his body, from which she looked away. Still he had not stirred. Did she dare to unbutton the waistcoat itself, to feel along the ribs? It was unthinkable that she would touch him so. Though he had touched her often that first night, his touches, distracting as they had been, had always furthered his plan. Well, she must accomplish her own plans. She must stop him from betraying England and save him from the gallows of her nightmare or worse.
She sat back on her heels and clenched and unclenched her hands, nerving herself for action. As lightly as she could she slipped the first button free of the restraining silk. She glanced at him; his eyes remained closed. Again she reached for one of the tiny buttons. She had unfastened five when she paused in her labors. She had opened a distinct gap over his heart; but so many buttons remained, and her progress was so slow. She could not expect him to remain asleep much longer. In desperation she leaned over him, the fingers of her left hand spread and pointing toward his waist. Lightly she rested her palm against his chest, allowing her fingers to feel delicately for the upper edge of the packet.
“Good morning, Meg,” he said. He did not move. “Do you care to explain yourself? Or may I place whatever interpretation I like upon the present circumstances?”
She withdrew her hand at once, her face burning, feeling oddly conscious of her body under the loose-fitting nightshirt. “I hoped to find the earl’s papers,” she admitted.
“You searched the green coat?”
“I did,” she replied, unable to look at him.
“I trust you left me my pistol, in
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