“I don’t want to be marked in my usual disguise.”
“So you’re wearing a costume over a costume?”
Kit felt a punch in his stomach as she shoved the domino at him. “Here, I’ll trade you,” she said.
“No.” Kit held the Harlequin out of reach, though he enjoyed the touch of her hand, groping blindly against him. If it weren’t so cold and their situation so peculiar, he would have leaned into it and…
“Then hurry,” she whispered. “We need as much time in the library as possible.”
With a groan, Kit turned around. They had traded their heavy traveling coats for cloaks, but he struggled with his coat and did not dare ask for Miss Ingram’s help.
In polite company, men were rarely seen in their shirtsleeves. Did Miss Ingram even realize what she was asking of him? Kit was beginning to wonder if she’d been raised by wolves or in some foreign tribe that did not adhere to the dictates of society.
Folding his coat as best he could, Kit tried to pull the tunic over his shirt, but it was too small, requiring him to strip down to his skin. But he was already warmer than when he’d entered the building. And the more he took off, the hotter he grew.
Kit tried to concentrate on undressing, but it was difficult when he caught a whiff of feminine scent and heard his companion rustling beside him, much too close for comfort. In response, he inched away from her, lest she come in contact with an unexpected expanse of his flesh. But there was too little room, and he banged against something that was hanging on a hook. It tottered precariously, rattling in the silence.
“Shh!” Miss Ingram whispered, and before Kit knew it, her hands were on him, steadying him. It was far worse than the accidental brush he had feared, for her gloveless fingers were splayed full upon his bare chest.
“Wh-wh-what are you doing?” she asked, sounding decidedly unlike herself.
“I’m trying to put on a tunic that was made for someone half my size,” Kit whispered. It wasn’t as though he was taking off his clothes for any other reason. And if he were, he wouldn’t be doing it here in the Earl of Cheswick’s potting shed.
“I should have taken the Harlequin,” she said. “I’m smaller than you are.”
“Yes, but, no,” Kit muttered, as he tried not to imagine Miss Ingram stripping down to her skin. And in the ensuing silence, he simply stood where he was, unwilling to move from beneath her caress. The air in the confined space seemed to crackle with the tension between them, and Kit was tempted to cover her hands with his own.
Since neither one of them seemed to be breathing, the silence was broken only by the distant sounds of arrivals and their servants until Kit heard something else. Was it a rat, scuttling around them, or was someone outside? The reminder of just where they were chilled him like a dose of cold water. Miss Ingram, too, was startled into action, for he felt the loss of her hands as she broke away. They both stood motionless, listening, but the scraping stopped.
Still, it was an impetus to be about their business, instead of dawdling dangerously. There was too much at stake, not the least of which was Miss Ingram’s tattered reputation should they be discovered in a compromising position.
Tugging the tunic over his head, Kit leaned down to remove his trousers, then pulled on the bottom half of the Harlequin costume. But he could not rush, for fear of tearing the material, which was tighter than anything he had ever worn. Straightening, Kit inhaled deeply, just to make sure he could breath, then tried to adjust the snug areas of the material as discreetly as possible.
“Perhaps we should be husband and wife.”
Kit froze.
“It might make a better story should we get caught in flagrante delicto,” Miss Ingram said. “A brother and sister wouldn’t be sneaking off to the library for an assignation.”
Of course, she was talking about their masquerade; Kit had never considered any other possibility. And she was probably right. If the library were empty, then it would not be unusual for a couple to meet there, though they were more likely to be married to others. Still, a certain degree of intimacy would be implied.
“It’s Kit,” he said, abruptly.
“What?”
“No one calls me Christopher.”
“Oh. Kit.” She must have turned toward him because Kit could have sworn he felt the warmth of her breath when she spoke his name.
“Hero,” she whispered. “My name is Hero.”
“Out of the play?”
Kit could hear her shrug, though she did not reply. “You remind me more of Beatrice,” he said, referring to the feisty heroine of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.
Of course, calling each other by their first names was inappropriate, but so was changing their clothes here in the dark together. And so was planning to sneak into the Earl of Cheswick’s masquerade ball.
“Let’s go,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. Groping around in the dark, Kit found a dry bucket and stuffed his clothes in it. Hopefully, they would be there when they returned. Reminded of what he currently wore instead, Kit wrapped his cloak around himself.
Inching forward, Kit nudged the door open a crack and peered out. The scuttling sound began at once, and he froze where he stood, half-expecting an assailant to loom out of the darkness. But when he saw a squirrel dart up a nearby tree, and he loosed his pent-up breath and slipped from the shed, his companion not far behind.
By the time he shut the door, Miss Ingram—Hero—was already headed toward the house, and Kit hurried to follow. They skirted the stables, with its light and activity, yet Kit remained alert, lest someone notice them wandering the grounds. But no one marked their presence, and they reached the tall doors that opened onto the lawn, where the party would spill out in warmer weather.
Despite the cold, they could claim they were snatching a few moments alone in the moonlight, away from the colorful figures that could be seen moving about the glowing interior. Still, they chose the doors farthest from the assembly and made their entrance as discreetly as possible to avoid notice.
Inside, the vast room they had viewed earlier in the day sparkled with light and activity, and Kit blinked against the sudden change. People in outrageous costumes were milling upon, clutching glasses of punch and gossiping, while dancers took up much of the floor, moving to the music of an orchestra.
“A little chilly out there, isn’t it?” a low voice asked. The man, dressed as a house, leaned toward Hero, dark eyes leering through the window that opened across his face. “I’ve got a fire going in here.”
Ignoring him, they slipped past a witch, a monk and a man wearing a toga to disappear into the crowd.
“We should separate and meet in the library,” Hero whispered, but Kit shook his head. Although he’d not been to many masquerades, he had just been reminded that some people were emboldened by their disguises. And this was no simple country gathering with its innocent pleasures. Kit knew from Barto that the higher ranks of society often displayed the lowest levels of morality.
“Go on,” Hero urged.
“No,” Kit said, even as she darted behind a tall character with a towering turban. He turned to go after her, but a hand on his arm stayed him.
“Do I know you?” a Columbine asked. She was dressed in extremely low-cut servant garb and might have been looking for her Harlequin. But Kit was not it.
“No,” he answered, trying to get by her.
“But perhaps I’d like to,” she purred, her fingers tightening on his arm. The woman’s face was completely masked, which meant the bosoms bursting forth from her tight bodice were probably those of a female past her most alluring age.
Still, Kit would not insult her. He took her gloved hand from his arm and kissed the fingers. “Perhaps another time, fair Columbine,” he said, and he moved past a shepherdess and her sheep before the woman could grab him again.
Having made his escape, Kit realized that Hero had disappeared from his immediate view. And his search for her quickly became frustra
ting. There were plenty of black dominoes, but as he scanned the crowd for a slight figure dressed in boots, he saw none with her lurid mask, at least none turned his way.
“Well, hello, there.” A six-foot nun with a baritone sidled up to him.
“Pardon me,” Kit said, making his exit before the fellow could become more familiar. Pushing past a bewildered-looking pair of Quakers, he realized that the longer he lingered, the more unwelcome attention he was drawing to himself. And still he could not find Hero.
There was nothing for it but to go to the library—and hope that she was there.
Chapter Six
Hero moved easily through the rooms, drawing no notice on her way to the library. As Mrs Spratling had claimed, it was not in use, but a fire burned in the grate, casting a warm glow upon the tall shelves. Shutting the door behind her, Hero lit a candle and set it upon a drum table, so as better to see the titles.
When she heard the door open and close in stealthy fashion, she saw no reason to turn and greet Mr Marchant. Kit. They had only recently parted after being closeted together far too long, and Hero shivered at the memory of his skin beneath her fingers. Smooth and so very warm…
She heard his quiet footsteps as he neared her, and her heart began hammering at his approach. What was he about? He should be searching his own shelves, not looking over her shoulder. Yet that’s just what he was doing. In fact, he was leaning against her, his breath hot against her cheek—and reeking of wine.
With a start, Hero turned around to face, not Kit Marchant, but a stranger dressed in green, a great plume dangling from his cap. He was reaching for her, and Hero evaded his touch by stomping down hard upon his foot.
“Ow!” the man muttered. He seemed no more than a drunken guest, but Hero moved away quickly. Had he seen through her disguise, or was he indiscriminate in his tastes? Hero did not know, but she did not care to find out.
“I beg your pardon. I did not think anyone was here,” Hero said in her deepest voice. She glanced toward the closed door and wondered where Kit was even as she cursed herself for relying upon him. Didn’t she know better? She had become careless and witless and must face the consequences of her own inattention.
That meant dealing with this interloper so she could get back to searching. Hero glanced at the door, but she didn’t want to leave the room, for fear she would not be able to return. Looking back at the man, she attempted to gauge the threat. He wasn’t tall, but he was sturdily built. Just how drunk was he?
“Here now, Master Scarlet,” he drawled. “What kind of greeting is that?”
He must have been referring to her bloodred mask, or perhaps he thought her someone else, for he was dressed as a fellow of the greenwood. “You must be mistaken,” Hero said. “I know you not, sir.”
“Well, let us remedy that, by God,” he said, lurching forward. An elegant rosewood couch stood between them, but it provided little protection. Hero did not intend to participate in some French farce, but neither did she care to resort to her pistol. The success of her venture depended upon secrecy, and she did not want to cause any outcry.
Hero edged around the couch, but her companion was not deterred. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game, grinning behind his half-mask and feathered cap. The green hose he wore beneath his short tunic left little to the imagination, and Hero was alarmed by what she saw.
“You are confusing me with another, sir,” Hero said, backing toward the door. “I am not Will Scarlet. Now be off with you before I crack a cudgel upon your skull.”
Hero heard the door open behind her and felt her heart constrict. If someone was blocking her escape, she was well and truly trapped. But instead of welcoming the newcomer, her companion warned them away.
“We are occupied here,” he shouted.
“We are not!” Hero called out. Turning her head slightly, she glanced toward the entrance and felt a mixture of relief and joy at the sight of Kit Marchant.
As usual, he was completely unruffled by the scene before him. “Excuse me, but this is my assignation, Sir Robin, arranged earlier this evening,” he said.
For a moment, Hero thought the interloper would argue. Kit must have, too, because he stepped forward, sweeping his cape out of the way, as though prepared to draw a sword, even though Hero knew he didn’t have one.
What he did have was an extremely close-fitting costume, and Hero drew in a sharp breath at the sight. The shiny material with its garish red, yellow and blue diamonds seemed to hug every well-formed inch of Kit’s body, revealing each sleek muscle, especially in the area of his groin, where a strategically positioned piece of red cloth called attention to that part of his anatomy.
Hero felt an answering rush of color flood her cheeks. Although she knew little of such things, her assailant’s hose appeared ill filled by comparison. Indeed, as if echoing her thoughts, the man erupted in a loud harrumph and staggered toward the door.
“Well, I can see why you are wearing that, my friend,” he said with a nod. “And I concede to my better.”
When Robin Hood had quit the room, Kit turned toward her once more. “At least some good has come of this damned constricting costume,” he said.
Then he looked down at himself for the first time, and despite herself, Hero found her gaze following his own. For a heart-stopping instant, her wits fled, and all she knew was the hot swell of what she could only guess was desire.
“Is it my imagination or is there a star on my—?” Kit began to ask, but he must have heard Hero’s choked sound of dismay because he didn’t finish. Instead, he lifted his head to slant her a glance, and in his dark eyes Hero saw a glint of seductive promise that robbed her of breath.
That look alone was far more dangerous than anything in Sir Robin’s arsenal, and Hero had to struggle to keep a tenuous hold on her rioting senses. She tried to remember where she was, what she must do and, most of all, who she was, as her fingers clung, trembling, to the back of the couch.
A loud thump and raucous laughter from outside the room saved her from herself, for it seemed to call Kit to attention. Striding across the thick carpet, he easily lifted a heavy chair and put it in front of the door, so that they would have some privacy and warning, at least, of interruption.
Flushing, Hero ignored the giddy thrill that seemed to produce and turned her back upon the compelling figure of Kit Marchant. But he was not so easily put from her mind, and even as she scanned the shelves, searching for the Mallory, Hero was aware of his presence, both a comfort and a danger far more perilous than a host of drunken masqueraders.
Kit kept an eye on the hands of the ormolu clock, for he did not know how long the ball would continue. Usually, such events dragged through to the wee hours, but he had no wish to be found here after the other guests had left or sought their beds.
Already, he was weary of an activity that seemed pointless. And the sooner he got out of his costume, the better; he was beginning to feel as though blood was being cut off from necessary parts, parts that he might some day want in working condition…
Kit pushed aside that thought and all that came with it to concentrate on getting Hero out of Cheswick safely.
“The Mallory at Oakfield had been slipped between another cover to conceal it, which is why it remained hidden all those years,” he said, hoping to put an end to the search.
As usual, Hero was undeterred. “We have no evidence that Martin Cheswick did the same.”
Perhaps because half the instructions he received were missing, Kit thought, though he said no more. Even if the book was here, which he doubted, they would need to pull out each volume and examine it in order to find what they were seeking. And that sort of task was not going to be accomplished in one evening.
Still, Kit ran his fingers over the spines, looking for anything unusual, while the clock ticked, the only sound besides the crackle of the fire. When it came, the noise of something else was startling in the stillness, and Kit looked to the door, where the chair held fast despite
being rattled.
Hero was already glancing his way, but she was crouched before another bookcase on the opposite side of the room. It was hardly the pose of two lovers, and Kit hurried toward the rosewood couch, motioning for her to join him.
Without hesitation, Kit pulled her down against the round pillow and leaned over her, all the while staring at the door. But after the initial rattling, it fell silent. In the quiet that followed, he waited, yet heard nothing else. Perhaps some other guests, seeking an assignation, had realized the library was occupied and moved on.
Kit loosed a low sigh at the respite and turned his head toward Hero. She had removed her mask, and had he seen his relief reflected on her features, he would have got to his feet and returned to the search. But in the candlelight, her beautiful face glowed, just as when he’d first seen her, like a beacon in the dark that he could not ignore.
Her hood was thrown back, revealing wisps of golden hair that escaped their confinement to catch the light. Her usual cool expression was gone, her eyes heavy lidded, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. Abruptly, Kit realized that he was bent over her, his chest nearly touching hers, his mouth only inches away from her own.
Without pausing to consider his actions, Kit lowered his head to brush his lips against hers, tasting, exploring and delighting in the soft curves. Beneath him, he heard Hero’s low hum of surprised pleasure, and he smiled. For one long moment, they were in agreement, savoring their shared sense of discovery and the heat that flowed between them.
But even in his current state, Kit recognized a potential firestorm, and he pulled back slightly. Lifting his hand to Hero’s throat, he stroked his thumb against the line of her jaw, teasing the corner of her mouth until it opened for him. Her eyes closed, his formidable companion looked oddly vulnerable, and Kit felt something expand within his chest. Leaning close, he kissed her again, more deeply, as if he could take her inside himself, hold her to him at last…
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