And Owen… Owen was very much the wolf she’d imagined the night before. Clever, dangerous, powerful, a little unpredictable perhaps—she lifted a brow as his arm slid farther onto her side of the chairs—and decidedly pushy.
“They ought to make these larger.”
Owen glanced up from his book. “Beg your pardon?”
“Armrests. They ought to make them larger to accommodate individuals with oversized elbows.”
“Oversized elbows.”
“Yes.” She used two fingers to very deliberately push his oversized elbow off her chair.
“Ah. It isn’t the size of the elbow, sweet; it’s the length of the arm.”
She blinked once at the careless endearment and the little dart of pleasure it brought her. “Then perhaps you have overlong arms.”
“They are in proportion to the rest of me, I assure you.” His green eyes twinkled with a humor she didn’t understand a moment before he tapped the page. “Tell me about this.”
She leaned over for a closer look. “It’s an old encryption. Father was hired by a man he called…oh, let me think…Stump. That was it. From Devon. Stump hired him to decipher a letter he took off a land smuggler. He wanted it for blackmail. Father told him he couldn’t make heads or tails of it and then blackmailed the smuggler himself.” A freighter, as she recalled. It had been a profitable, if short-lived, venture. A smart blackmailer didn’t linger or push for more than his mark could afford to pay.
“No honor amongst thieves,” Owen muttered and once again edged his arm a little closer to hers.
“No mercy for the weak would be more accurate.” She shrugged when he lifted a brow. “Stump was an inept thief with no connections and even less intelligence. A pigeon in swindler’s clothing, if you will. That made him fair game. If he had been a man capable of defending his own, Father would have done the job fair.”
“There is no honor in that, either.”
“No, but no less than is found in the rest of the world. Demanding exorbitant rent from a tenant farmer for a leaky cottage and a patch of infertile ground or paying a maid slave wages might be legal, but they’re hardly honorable.” She relaxed back in her seat. “The strong have always taken advantage of the weak.”
“You pay your maids quite well.”
“How did you know that?”
“I know you,” he said simply. He studied her quietly a moment. “I should probably mention whilst you’re still smiling that I also know your Mrs. Lewis rather well. I remember her trial.”
She considered that admission as the little voice did its best to undermine her resolve to trust. “Owen, Mrs. Lewis has friends in the village. She has built a life for herself here.”
“If I had any interest in destroying that life, I’d have seen to it years ago. I looked into all your staff when you settled here.”
“Oh.” She wondered what it said about her that she found that bit of intrusion sweet instead of suspect. “I see.”
She also saw that his arm was continuing to encroach on her space. Amused, she nudged it away.
He put it right back. “I am curious as to why you chose to bring Mrs. Lewis from London. Were you aware of her history when you hired her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you think she stole Mrs. Smith’s brooch?”
Lottie chose her words carefully. “I think that after decades of loyal service to the Smith family, Mrs. Lewis deserved better than to be dismissed for theft after her grandniece was seduced by their son and Mrs. Lewis insisted he take responsibility for his child. The accusation left her destitute and unemployable by most standards. It was unjust.”
His lips twitched with humor. “You haven’t answered my question.” He leaned closer, letting his arm come to rest against hers. “Do you think she stole the brooch?”
Lottie was certain of it. Despite being alone and unemployed, Mrs. Lewis’s grandniece had managed to remain out of the poorhouse during Mrs. Lewis’s incarceration and trial. As few had believed the Smith family accusations, Lottie found Mrs. Lewis’s guilt to be a delicious bit of irony. “I do, yes.”
“Her guilt doesn’t concern you?”
No more than it did him, apparently. “As I said before, she is a good woman. She did what was necessary for her niece.”
“There are better ways to accomplish the necessary than through thievery.”
“And there are worse ways.” Uncomfortable with how that sounded, Lottie sought to explain herself. “I don’t condone stealing.” Anymore. “But I’ll not condemn Mrs. Lewis for it. A man ought to provide for his children.”
“Agreed. But the question of whether two wrongs make a right…” Owen shrugged. “It has always been an interesting moral dilemma.”
Given the dire circumstances, Lottie doubted Mrs. Lewis had put a great deal of thought into the question of morality before she’d pocketed the jewelry. “My father used to say morality was a currency. The very poor sell it off quickly because it is the only thing of value they possess, and the very rich spend it frivolously because they’ve other commodities with which to replace its value.”
“And the middle class?”
“They’re stuck with it. They don’t want it, necessarily, but neither can they justify its expenditure.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No.” She drummed her fingers against the armrest and tried to ignore how warm Owen’s arm felt pressed against her own. “I think people just enjoy feeling superior.”
“No, you don’t.”
She gave him a pointed look. “It is certainly the case with some.”
“With me?”
“You don’t believe yourself superior to those men you catch and put away?” Or those he would have put away, given the opportunity. People like her.
“I know I am a better man than most of them, if that is your question. I don’t hurt the innocent for profit. But understanding that my actions make me a better man by comparison is not the same as enjoying a sense of superiority.” He tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “Although, in fairness, I do sometimes enjoy a great sense of superiority at the inevitably successful conclusion of a challenging hunt. I find it gratifying.”
She lifted a brow and smirked. “Inevitably?”
“The opportunities to prove one’s superiority to one’s fellow man are bountiful. I enjoy any number of them.”
She laughed at that. “You make it difficult to have an earnest discussion.”
“You make it difficult to have an easy one. You should laugh more often. With me,” he qualified and leaned over to lightly cup her face in his hand. “You should laugh with me.”
She wished she could laugh right then. She wished she could swat away his hand with a careless laugh and witty rejoinder. Yesterday, she might have managed it, though the laugh would have been cutting, the wit scathing. Today, however, things were different.
Without anger and mistrust as her shields, without the assumption he meant to manipulate or mock her with the inviting smile and gentle caress, she was unsure how to react.
Strange, she thought, that she should be more certain of him now and less certain of herself.
She reached up, intending to draw his hand away.
Instead, she simply covered it with her own. For one brief moment, she held it against her cheek. She didn’t want to push him away. She didn’t want to relinquish his touch.
But nerves got the better of her. “Perhaps I shall,” she said in an unsteady voice, and, releasing him, she returned her attention to the book on her lap. Avoidance might not be the most noble course of action, but it was often the safest.
* * *
Owen drew his fingers away but couldn’t force his gaze to follow suit.
Lottie was blushing a little, a fact that charmed and fascinated him. The scent of her teased hi
s nose. Tart, he thought, wondering how she managed it. It wasn’t merely lemon juice in the laundry. He didn’t smell it anywhere else in the house, and there was an earthy quality to it, lending an unexpected warmth.
“Is it perfume?”
She glanced up from her book but didn’t quite meet his gaze. “Sorry?”
“The tart. Is it perfume?”
“Oh. No. Soap. It was a gift from Esther.” Her lips curved in affection. “She has a fondness for surprising people with presents and a talent for picking just the thing.”
“Where did she find it?”
“Kithan, two villages over. It’s quite dear, I’m afraid. I shan’t have it much longer.”
“I’ll buy you more.” A barrel of it.
She gave him a quizzical look. “Why would you?”
Because it was sweet and sharp. It was Lottie. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he leaned in closer, breathed her in. “What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze traveled to his mouth, snapped away, then traveled back again, almost reluctantly. “I never asked.”
He considered that, and her. “Don’t,” he decided. “Don’t ask. I like the mystery of it.”
That, too, was Lottie. Mysterious, enigmatic, secret. He’d never been able to resist the lure of a secret.
She smiled at his comment and he leaned closer still, even as he called himself a fool. This was not why he had sought to make things right between them. He had counted it as a possibility, even entertained the notion of that possibility blossoming into solid probability, but it was not the reason.
He’d only wanted…
He couldn’t remember. For the life of him, he could not remember what his intent had been yesterday, or earlier today, or even five minutes ago.
He could think only of what he wanted now.
She was beautiful. She was smiling at him. That wonderful secretive smile that wrapped around and drew him in as thoroughly as her intoxicating scent.
And he wanted her. Right now.
“I should wait,” he heard himself murmur as he slipped his hand around her neck and brought her, unresisting and flushed with surprise, closer. “We should wait. I was going to wait.”
He didn’t wait. His mouth settled over hers almost before the last word was out.
He tried to tell himself that it was just a test, just a little experiment to see if reality held up to imagination. God knew, he had spent an exceptional amount of time imagining how Lottie would taste, how she would feel in his arms. It was only natural a man would take the opportunity to satisfy a curiosity that had hounded him for years.
But he wasn’t fooling himself. It wasn’t simple inquisitiveness that drove him. It was desire—but in its infancy yet, a low burn rather than a raging inferno. He could keep it there. For both their sakes, he could keep that fire banked.
Not every kiss was the prelude to something more; not every moment of passion need burn out of control. A kiss could be simple and carefree. It could be fun. He would like that for her, for both of them.
Mindful of the flame, of his intentions, he kept the kiss light and easy, brushing his lips over hers with care. He found the sweetness he’d imagined on her lips and in the soft mingling of their breath. And he discovered the hint of tart beneath, tempting him to take a deeper taste. But he held back. Even as she sighed, a whisper of air against his mouth, and brought her hand to his face, he held back.
It was only a test, he reminded himself. It was only a sampling. Later he could think of more. Later, when he knew what to expect, how to prepare himself for that first intoxicating taste of her, that first feel of her lips moving under his with a mesmerizing blend of hesitancy and confidence. It wouldn’t shock him then when she responded to his touch—not with a bid to take charge as he’d anticipated, but with a soft yielding that threatened his own control.
He would be prepared for the way she shivered when he pressed kisses along her jawline and the way she melted when he lingered at the corner of her mouth. He would know that the feel of her small hands coming to rest against his chest caused the flame of desire to burn brighter and that when she moaned, soft and sweet in the back of her throat, his good intentions would start to evaporate in the heat of that fire.
He realized he was gripping the back of her gown too hard and forced himself to edge the kiss back into safer territory. He nipped at her bottom lip gently and swallowed her soft gasp of surprise.
Fun. The kiss could be fun and light and playful, he thought…until she nipped back. Which he ought to have expected, really. Lottie might yield to temptation, but she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.
He felt his own shiver, his own need to yield. Suddenly, the kiss no longer felt playful. It felt poised on the brink of something far more significant and far more dangerous.
He needed to end it, needed to pull away. And he would. In a moment. Just a moment more, he told himself, just an inch closer. Just one minute to know the sensation of holding Lottie Walker fully in his arms the way he’d always imagined.
Pressing forward, he tried to wrap his arms completely around her, but he was stopped short by a solid barrier at his waist. He had the fleeting thought that armrests should not be made larger, but rather removable, or possibly eliminated altogether. He couldn’t get close enough. It didn’t matter that he was drowning in the taste and texture of her; it wasn’t enough.
A plan of action formed in his mind—one that began with hauling her out of her chair and culminated with the both of them on his bed. The image was so real, so tempting, and so monumentally foolish that it succeeded in shocking him back to sanity.
This was not the way, he told himself as he pulled back. This was not the time.
His resolve wavered again when he looked down into Lottie’s face. Her lips were swollen, her eyes were closed, her skin was flushed, and her hair was mussed. His formidable pirate queen, always so composed, was now beautifully, perfectly undone. It took everything he had not to reach for her again.
He would do well to remember his loss of control. He would remember and he would prepare.
Also, he would never, ever again purchase a chair with a thrice-damned armrest.
He cleared his throat in an effort to break the spell of the moment. It mostly failed. “I’ll apologize for that, if need be.”
Her lids fluttered open and she regarded him with hooded eyes. “Are you sorry?”
The taste of her lingered on his tongue. “No.”
“Neither am I.”
He dug his fingers into the chair to keep from reaching for her again. He was staring and panting now, and he didn’t care.
Lottie’s gaze dropped to his mouth. She leaned forward. Her lids slid closed—and then flashed open again when a long, low rumble shook the house. “Is that thunder?” She shoved away from him without ceremony and darted to the window. “Damn it. Damn it. It is.”
Owen stayed where he was and struggled to find the composure he hadn’t expected to lose. His gaze flicked to Lottie. Out of reach. And that was for the best. He needed time to think things through, to decide what he wanted.
The physical was easy. There was no question of his desire. But what else? What came after?
What had come before? he wondered. For eight years, he’d kept an eye on the Walker family, but he’d not followed Lottie’s every move. He knew nothing of her daily activities, the small events in her life—her day-to-day routines, her habits and hobbies, her friendships and acquaintances, her lovers. Had there been lovers?
She was thirty years of age and in possession of a fluid sense of morality. It was difficult to imagine she’d not indulged herself at some point.
It was even harder to decide if he cared for the idea or not. It stung to think of her in the arms of another man, to imagine some nameless, faceless libertine taking down that silky black h
air, pin by pin, and stripping away her clothes, putting his hands on her.
Jealousy, selfish, dark, and acidic, burned under his skin. With a roll of the shoulders, he acknowledged the emotion and did his best to set it aside. He didn’t mind the sense of possession and competitiveness the feeling engendered, but the sharp edge of desperation cut painfully into his pride.
Besides, it might be to his benefit if she’d had affairs. Virginity complicated things. Tremendously. A man didn’t go about seducing virgins. A good man didn’t.
His gaze flicked back to Lottie’s profile and latched on to that deliciously secretive mouth.
Good was such a relative term. Open to all sorts of interpretation.
He would give some thought to that, and then all the rest, later. Much later, when her taste wasn’t still on his tongue, clouding his judgment.
For now… He took a steadying breath, scrubbed his hands over his face, then rose to join her at the window.
The sun was still shining overhead, but a hulking wall of clouds billowed and swirled on the horizon. Beside him, Lottie was quiet, her back rigid.
“Are you afraid of storms?” he asked. He couldn’t recall her ever mentioning it.
“No, but Peter and Esther will be caught in it.”
“Not necessarily. They’ll see it coming.”
As they stood there, the wind picked up, sending loose leaves tumbling across the lawn. Blowing toward the storm, he noted, and he hoped Lottie didn’t recognize it as an ominous sign.
“Perhaps they already have,” Lottie said. “Perhaps they will cut the day short and make it back before the storm arrives.”
It was moving too quickly, Owen thought, but he kept that observation to himself. He wasn’t concerned. There was plenty of time for the group to seek shelter. And, if not, there was still no cause for alarm. People were caught in storms all the time—rarely did they emerge the worse for wear.
But Lottie was worried, so he ran a soothing hand up her back and pressed his fingers gently against the tight knot of muscle at the base of her neck. “Perhaps.”
A Talent for Trickery Page 9