The Least Likely Bride

Chapter Nine

Brian Morse leaned back against the wall in his customary place in the inglenook of the Anchor’s taproom. He rubbed his thigh and as he moved his arm the thick scar beneath his ribs seemed to stretch and throb. The pain was always with him. The pain and the knowledge of defeat. It was there in the deep lines of his face, in his limp, in the constant dragging pain. No one had expected him to survive after Cato’s sword had brought him down, and he hadn’t wanted to during those months of agony. But somehow he had done so. After many months his body had somehow healed, not straight, not clean, but healed nevertheless.

He raised his tankard to his lips, glancing towards the door. He was expecting Godfrey Channing with a progress report. Channing married to Olivia was a pleasing prospect. A man with a vast ambition and no morality whatsover. Thus a very dangerous man. A man clever enough to conceal his true colors to achieve his purpose. But he would show them eventually. When it was too late for the Granvilles to do anything about it. And then, oh, then, Olivia would pay the price and Cato Granville’s pride and arrogance would turn to dust. It was a wonderfully subtle revenge.

The door opened and Godfrey came in. He’d changed his earlier puce and scarlet finery for riding dress and had the air of a man well satisfied with himself. He spotted Brian immediately through the blue smoke of half a dozen clay pipes and strode across to him through the clotted sawdust on the floor.

Brian indicated the pitcher of ale on the table in front of him, and with a nod of thanks Godfrey raised the jug to his lips and drank deeply.

“The evening went according to plan?” Brian inquired over the rim of his tankard.

“I believe so.” Godfrey set down the pitcher and sat on a stool. “Granville was interested in what I had to say and wants me to spy on the king.”

Brian nodded. “I’ll give you bits and pieces of information about the progress of the Royalist uprisings and the Scots march that you can pass on to the king in some secret fashion. Then you simply tell Granville what the king knows. He’ll think he’s finding you very useful. And if you’re useful to Granville, he’ll welcome you into the bosom of his family with open arms.” His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. “And what of my little rabbit?”

“Little rabbit?” Godfrey looked puzzled.

“Olivia, my little sister. It was a pet name I had for her when she was a child. Such an endearing little rabbit she was. Particularly when she ran.” The smile flickered again.

“I think she’s rather appealing,” Godfrey said. “I won’t have to keep my eyes closed in bed.” He gave a coarse laugh and drank from the pitcher again.

“I haven’t seen her for several years,” Brian mused. “She must be all grown up now. Does she still stammer?”

“I didn’t notice. She didn’t say very much. But my interest in her mouth has little to do with what might come out of it.” He laughed again.

“You’d better not let her know that. I told you, she has a brain.”

“Oh, she’ll soon learn there are other things more important than books,” Godfrey said carelessly. “I’ll keep her far too busy to bother her head with such nonsense.” He drank from the pitcher again and glanced at the watch in the shape of a skull that hung from his belt. “Well, I’d best be on my way. I’ve an appointment at midnight.”

“Your customer?”

“Aye.” Godfrey looked a little startled. “What d’you know of him?”

Brian shook his head. “Nothing. I merely overheard your conversation about a potential customer for your culling with George here… just before you and I began our association. And an appointment at midnight…” He shrugged.

Godfrey remembered. “Aye, well, you’re right. And once we’ve struck this deal, I’ll be a lot plumper in the pocket.”

“Come to my lodgings in Ventnor in two days’ time. I’ll have some more information for you.” Brian leaned back against the wall again, half closing his eyes.

“I’ll be visiting the lady Olivia tomorrow,” Godfrey said over his shoulder as he turned to the door.

“Ah, yes, my learned little rabbit.” Brian smiled to himself. “You’d better do some scholarly reading first. Just so that you have something to talk about.”

Godfrey grimaced as he left, but he was willing to listen to a man who was so clearly intimate with the habits and predispositions of the Granvilles.

Precisely at midnight, Anthony descended the narrow cliff path to Puckaster Cove for his rendezvous with Godfrey Channing. Gone were the elegant bronze silk, the lace ruffles, the black pearl, the onyx signet ring. He was dressed once more in the fisherman’s garb, a limp mustache framing artistically blackened teeth, his face painted as before. The knit cap was pulled down low over his forehead. The sword at his hip was the pirate’s plain, serviceable blade.

He left two men behind him on the undercliff, assigned to watch his back. As the pirate’s footsteps faded on the sandy path, Sam muttered to his companion, “There’s times when I reckon the master’s off ‘is ’ead. What’s all this, then, about sendin‘ Mike to the lass’s ’ouse, tellin‘ ’im to make a plan of the ‘ouse?”

“Mike’s good at scoutin‘, though,” the other replied, sucking on a blade of grass. “Best man to send, I reckon.”

“Aye, but why’d he ‘ave to send any bloke, that’s what I want to know.” Sam peered down at the cove through the screen of scrub that concealed them. The master had reached the beach and was standing, hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking out to sea, his posture as casual as if he were taking a moonlight stroll.

“It’s not like the master to let a woman get under ‘is skin,” Sam’s companion observed. “Easy come, easy go, is ’is way.”

“Aye,” Sam agreed, then he inched forward. “Reckon this is the bloke now. Seems t‘ be alone. You take a look along the path, while I keep watch ’ere.”

The other man eased away down the path, and Sam took his cutlass from his belt and watched the beach.

Anthony didn’t turn as Godfrey approached across the sand. He continued to look out to sea, whistling softly between his teeth. Only those who knew him very well would recognize in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, that every muscle was taut, every inch of his tall frame ready for trouble.

Godfrey coughed loudly. Without turning, the fisherman observed easily, “Beautiful night, ain’t it, sir?”

“I care not,” Godfrey said. “Are you alone?”

A murdering popinjay who cared nothing for beauty. Anthony’s lip curled but he said only, “As alone as you.”

Godfrey glanced around. The beach under full moonlight was deserted. “We have to climb.”

“Then lead the way.” Anthony turned then and offered his black-toothed smile. “Let’s see what ye’ve got fer me.”

“You have the money? I’d see it before I show you anything.”

“Not very trustin‘, are ye, sir?” Anthony dug into the pocket of his filthy britches and drew out a leather pouch. “There’s five ’undred guineas in there. Ye’ll get the rest on delivery.”

Godfrey’s eyes gleamed as he hefted the pouch on his palm. He untied the leather drawstring and peered inside. Gold glittered. “You’ll have to move the goods yourself,” he said.

Anthony reached over and took back the pouch. “ ‘Tis understood. But let’s be seein’ what you ‘ave, fine sir.”

Godfrey turned back to the cliff path. Anthony followed. He could barely contain his contempt. After the evening at Carisbrooke he now knew whom he was dealing with. People were always willing to retail gossip, particularly if the gossip was malicious. He knew much more about Lord Channing’s affairs than that gentleman would ever wish to be revealed. He knew that the lordling’s greed was fueled by necessity. He was deeply in debt. A man who aspired to power and influence needed wealth to smooth the path, and the Channings, while noble, were poor, their estates laid to waste by generations of greed and stupidity.

The present Lord Channing had a certain cunning to aid the greed. He seemed to plan well and carefully. He employed men to take the biggest risks for him. But the cunning went hand in hand with a complete absence of respect for human life… unless, of course, it was his own. He took where he could and from whom he could.

Anthony lived his life beyond the law, but this man was vermin in his eyes.

Godfrey turned to the right when they reached the undercliff. The uneven path was rocky, more of a goat trail than a path. He picked his way carefully, while Anthony strolled along as if walking on greensward.

Sam and his fellow watcher kept their distance, moving like wraiths in the shadow of the cliff.

Godfrey stopped in the middle of the path and waited for Anthony to come up beside him. “Disarm yourself. I’m not such a fool as to show you the goods when you’re carrying a sword.”

Anthony shrugged and unbuckled his swordbelt, laying it on the ground.

“What else are you carrying?”

Anthony bent and drew a knife from his boot. This he laid beside the sword. Then he extended his hands with another shrug.

Godfrey nodded. “This way.” He turned to the cliff face and pushed through a cascade of weeds and vines. Anthony followed.

They entered a cave, black as pitch. Godfrey felt around at the entrance. Flint scraped on tinder and a small light glowed from a lantern. Godfrey held the lantern high to show the bales and crates piled up against the walls.

“Take a look.” He put his free hand to his sword hilt and drew the blade an inch or two from its sheath.

Anthony’s smile was not a pleasant one as he heard the sound, but his back was to Godfrey and the other man didn’t see his expression.

Anthony examined the wares. They were in good condition for the most part and would sell well at auction in Portsmouth. He loathed wreckers, but was too pragmatic to look a gift horse in the mouth. Later, when Godfrey Channing was no longer useful, the pirate would impress upon him the error of his ways. For the moment, he would use him. And the king’s cause would be the beneficiary.

He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and moved among the goods, marking his choices with a cross. “I’ll take these four chests, the figured silks, the two bales of velvet, the Brussels lace, the case of delftware and the other of Venetian crystal. The rest is dross.”

A crispness sharpened the fisherman’s drawl. Godfrey didn’t notice the slight change in the vowel sounds. He knew only that this was a man who would do business.

“A thousand guineas,” he said. “We agreed on a thousand guineas.”

“Only if I took the whole. I’ll pay eight hundred for what I’ve named. Not a penny more.”

Eight hundred was eight hundred. “Done.” Godfrey rubbed his hands together. “How will you take delivery?”

“Leave it to me, young sir.” Once again it was the fisherman who spoke. “They’ll be gone from ‘ere by mornin’.”

“And payment?”

For answer, Anthony tossed the pouch across to him. Godfrey, caught by surprise, grabbed for it and missed. It fell to the ground with a heavy clink. He bent and picked it up, unaware of the fisherman’s curled lip and contemptuous eye.

“The rest will be delivered to the Anchor at midday tomorrow. I reckon George’ll be wantin‘ his share. Seein’ as ‘ow your ship’s not come in.” The fisherman laughed and it was not a kind laugh.

Godfrey’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have spitted the man on his blade. He demanded angrily, “What time will you take delivery? I’ll be here.”

“Soon after dawn, I reckon,” the fisherman drawled. “No need for ye to be ‘ere, though. My men know what to do.”

It must now be around one o’clock, Godfrey calculated. Dawn was but four hours away. He’d get no sleep tonight. “I’ll be here,” he stated. Did the man think he was fool enough to let him take delivery unsupervised?

“Please yerself.” The fisherman shrugged and turned to the concealed entrance of the cave. “Stand watch if it pleases ye. My men’ll not lay down their arms, though, I give ye fair warnin‘. They move fast and quiet and will be out of ’ere by six. They’ll not take kindly to bein‘ followed, either. An’ their manners aren’t as gentle as mine. So keep out of their way.”

And he was gone, leaving Godfrey alone in the cave with his rage and his five hundred golden guineas.

Anthony retrieved his weapons and strode back along the trail. Sam and his fellow materialized from the shadows of the cliff some hundred feet from the cave.

“You can find it again?”

“Aye, sir.”

“At dawn, then. You’ll need ten men, probably three boats. The goods are marked with a chalk cross.”

“Should us expect trouble?”

“I don’t think so. The little man’s too greedy to risk this sale. But be on the watch anyway.”

“Aye, sir. You goin‘ back to the ship?”

Anthony smiled then and lightly clapped Sam on the shoulder. “No, not yet, my friend. And there’s no need to be anxious. I have my wits about me.”

“I ‘ope so,” Sam muttered. “Mike’ll be waitin’ at the top fer ye, I suppose.”

“I certainly hope so.” Anthony laughed and loped off down the oath.

Mike was waiting at the head of the path. Two ponies grazed placidly on the springy grass of the clifftop.

“Success, Mike?” Anthony unbuckled his swordbelt.

“Aye, sir. I’ve drawn ye a rough plan. Miss has ‘er chamber at the side of the ’ouse.” Mike unfurled a sheet of paper. “See ‘ere, sir.” The drawing of Lord Granville’s house in Chale was a competent piece of draftsmanship, every door and window clearly marked. “There’s this ’ere tree, see. Magnolia.” He pointed to the tree beside the window in question.

“How very convenient,” the pirate murmured, peeling off his mustache with a wince. “You’re positive that’s her chamber? I’d hate to barge in on my lord Granville and his lady.” He thrust the ratty mustache into the pocket of his britches and took out a handkerchief and a twist of paper that contained salt.

“I ‘ad it from Milly, sir. She’s a maid there. I’ve known ’er since she was a babby, an‘ she was ’appy enough to offer me a pot of ale in the kitchen an‘ chat, like.”

“What about dogs?” Anthony’s voice was muffled as he scrubbed his blackened teeth with the salt.

“A couple of hounds, but they’re kept in the kitchen at night. They’ll rouse the house if’n they ‘ear ye, though.”

Anthony thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket and examined the map. “The kitchen’s at the back of the house?”

“Aye, sir. There.” Mike pointed.

“Then they won’t hear me.” He folded the map and reached into his pocket again. He drew out a slim volume, weighing it for a moment on the palm of his hand, a half smile on his face. Then he tucked the map inside its front cover and pushed the book into his pocket with the handkerchief.

He took the reins of one of the ponies. “Keep hold of my sword and I’ll be back here before dawn.”

“Shouldn’t I come with ye, sir? Watch yer back, like?”

Anthony shook his head and swung himself astride the pony. “This is a frolic of my own, Mike. I’ll watch my own back. Be here at dawn to take the pony.” He grinned, raised a hand in farewell, and nudged the horse into a canter.

He left his mount at the gates to Lord Granville’s house, hobbling him so he wouldn’t stray, then stood back in the lane to survey the obstacles to clandestine entrance. The gates were locked; the red brick wall was high but presented no problem to a man accustomed to climbing the rigging of a frigate.

He was up and over the wall in a moment, landing in the soft earth of Lord Granville’s garden. It was very dark and quiet in the shadow of the wall, the silence of the night broken only by a blackbird’s trill and the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth beneath the trees.

Anthony approached the sleeping house through the trees. There were no lights visible; only a curl of smoke from the kitchen chimney gave evidence of habitation. Keeping to the grass, he walked soundlessly around the side of the house.

The magnolia was a venerable tree massed with thick, glossy leaves. A sturdy branch reached almost to Olivia’s window. And the window was most conveniently ajar.

Anthony swung himself into the branches of the magnolia and climbed swiftly. In a few minutes he was sitting on the window ledge of Olivia’s chamber. The room was faintly lit by the moon, and the curtains around the bed were drawn back to allow the cool night air to reach the sleeper. Even so, Olivia had kicked aside the covers. She lay with her back to the window; her nightgown was twisted and caught up around her waist, leaving her lower body naked in the moonlight.

Anthony’s smile deepened. He took the book from his pocket and withdrew the map. The reverse side of the paper was blank. He dug into his other pocket for the lead pencil he always carried and looked again at the bed. Frowning slightly, he sketched the sleeping girl; a few sharply drawn lines committed the image to paper. The flow of her hair, the curve of her spine, the turned flank and the flare of her backside, the long, entwined legs, her slender feet with their rosy heels.

He examined his work with a critical air, comparing it with its subject, then folded the drawing. Taking the book from the window ledge beside him, he tucked the sketch between its leaves.

He took off his boots as he sat on the window ledge, then slipped into the chamber, his stockinged feet making no sound as he went to the door and turned the key.

A small table stood in the middle of the room, with a book open upon it beside a sheaf of papers. Olivia had been translating a passage from Ovid before she’d gone to bed. Curious, he read the translation. There was nothing of the amateur about it. Every word was carefully and cleverly chosen to reflect the meaning of the original. Olivia Granville was a formidable scholar.

Soundlessly Anthony approached the bed. He placed the book with the sketch on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. Olivia stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Lightly he caressed her bare skin, little flickering brushes of his fingertips. She wriggled as if irritated by a bothersome fly. He smiled and continued to touch her.

Olivia stirred, straightened her legs, turned onto her back. Then she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide, sightless, her mouth opened on a scream.

Swiftly Anthony placed his hand over her mouth. “Hush, my flower. It’s me.”

She fought him, pushing him from her, her body twisting in terror as she struggled to escape the loathsome secret touches that had invaded her sleep.

“No, no, no,” Anthony said into her hair, holding her tightly the more she fought him, holding her face buried against his chest, afraid that she would scream and bring the house upon them. “Forgive me, I didn’t know I would frighten you so much. Hush, love, hush.”

And slowly his words penetrated the fog of nightmare. Slowly Olivia realized that this was Anthony, not Brian. The touches had been loving, sensuous, gentle. They bore no relation to the rough, contemptuous cruelty of the past.

The terror died slowly from her eyes, and her body stilled in his arms. Anthony loosened his grip, feeling her surrender, and smiled ruefully into her bewildered countenance.

Olivia simply looked at him, her eyes still wide, a lingering terror remaining in their dark depths.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you so,” he said, reaching to brush a lock of hair from her brow. “You must have been so deeply asleep. I wished only to bring you pleasure.”

Instinctively Olivia grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her waist. She crossed her arms over her breast, shivering slightly. “I thought… I thought…”

“What did you think?” He caressed the curve of her cheek.

She shook her head. “It was just a nightmare. But it seemed to be really happening.”

Gently he took her hands, drawing them away from her body. “How mortifying to be the subject of someone’s nightmare.” He was still smiling ruefully, but there was a question in his eyes.

Olivia averted her gaze. There was an instant’s silence, then she said, “What on earth are you doing here? My father’s in the house.”

“He’s not going to know I’m here.” Anthony caught her chin, turning her to face him. “Kiss me and then you’ll know I’m no figment of a nightmare.”

“No!” Olivia jerked her chin free of his hold. “You c-can’t just c-come in here… come through my window like… like Romeo… and expect me to turn into Juliet.”

“I thought Romeo didn’t get further than the balcony,” Anthony observed. But he sat back from her now, his hands resting easily on his knees.

“You certainly don’t look like Romeo,” Olivia said. “Why are you dressed like that? Is that paint on your face?”

“I had business to do. I didn’t have time to take it off.”

“Just what are you?” she demanded.

“A pirate… a smuggler…” He laughed slightly.

“And a man who frequents the king’s presence chamber pretending to be a dandified half-wit. And now look at you…” She flung out a hand at him. “What are you supposed to be now?”

“A fisherman.”

“A fisherman?” Olivia stared at him, momentarily defeated. “How many people are you, Anthony… or is it Edward?”

“Hard as it may seem to believe, just the one,” he said simply. “And Anthony will do for you. Right now, though, I’ve a mind to play physician.” He reached forward and twitched aside the covers. “Turn over and let me have a look at your thigh.”

“It’s all healed up,” she said, grabbing for the sheet again. “Phoebe looked at it.”

“Nevertheless, I prefer to judge the progress of my handiwork myself.” His eyes darkened and he placed his hands, cool and strong, over hers as they clutched the sheet. “Why would you be so shy with me now, Olivia, after all that we shared?”

She didn’t answer him, repeating instead softly, “Why did you c-come?”

“To look at your wound and to return this.” He took his hands from hers and there was no disguising the disappointment, the flash of frustration in his eyes. He reached to the bedside table and gave her the book he had brought.

“You left your Aeschylus behind on the ship.”

“Oh.” It was the book she had been reading when she’d fallen off the cliff. She opened it and the folded sheet fell to the covers, the map uppermost. “Who drew this?”

“Mike. I wanted to be sure I found the right window.”

Idly Olivia turned the map over in her hands. She stared at the sketch. “This is me! You drew me, while I was asleep! How c-could you!”

“Because it was irresistible,” he said. “And you know my passion for anatomy.”

“You are despicable!” Olivia declared. “Spying and c-creeping up on people. Despicable!”

Anthony contented himself with a raised eyebrow. He rose from the bed and began to wander around the chamber, whistling softly between his teeth. Head on one side, he examined the pictures on the walls; he ran a finger over the spines of the books in the shelf; he picked up her ivory-backed brushes and the little pearl-studded hand mirror.

“Good God, I’d forgotten for a minute I was still covered in paint. You don’t mind if I use your washcloth?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but proceeded to make free with soap, washcloth, and water, scrubbing the rouge from his cheeks. “There, much more presentable, don’t you think?” He laid the mirror down and turned back to her with a smile that demanded approval.

Olivia told herself she would not laugh. She had been watching his careless peregrinations in an incredulous silence, wondering why it was so impossible to shame him. And now he was looking at her like a hopeful wolfhound.

Anthony grinned, reading her mind as he had so often before. His eye fell on the chessboard on its inlaid table beside the empty hearth.

“Shall we play chess?” he asked casually.

“Shall we do what?”

“Chess,” he said. “An unexceptionable activity, I would have thought, since we will be safely separated by a board.” He picked a black pawn and a white one from the table and came over to the bed, holding them behind his back. “Choose.” He extended his closed fists to her.

Wordlessly, Olivia tapped his right hand. He uncurled his fingers and revealed the white pawn.

“White opens,” he said.

“And white will win,” Olivia declared, pushing aside the covers. A game of chess in the middle of the night! It was insane, but it also excited her. And on some strange level it felt perfectly natural to do such a thing with the pirate.

She went over to the chess table, noticing how smooth and cool the wooden floor was beneath her bare feet. She replaced the white pawn on its square.

Anthony lit the candles on a two-branched candlestick that sat on a little shelf to the side of the chess table.

“Before we start, can you still feel that wound?”

Olivia hesitated. “It throbs sometimes. It feels tight, a bit stretched if I walk fast.”

He sat down and beckoned her. “Physician’s hat, I promise you. There’s no need to be shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Olivia said with perfect truth.

“Well then…?”

Olivia thought of the sketch he’d made of her. It was all too absurd. She went over to him and turned around, raising her nightgown. His fingers were cool as they brushed over the wound.

“It’s healing nicely,” he said dispassionately, letting his hands drop.

Olivia shook down her nightgown. “I already told you that. Phoebe looked at it.”

He laughed. “She has some skill, does she?”

“As a herbalist, as much as you, I daresay,” Olivia retorted. “Except that she’s not a surgeon.”

“I must discuss such things with her at some point.”

Olivia spun around on him. “And just how do you propose doing that?”

He laughed again. “With a little ingenuity. Have faith, my flower.”

“What kind of flower?” she asked involuntarily.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He smiled lazily. “Sometimes an orchid. Tonight at the castle you were an exotic orchid in that flaming gown with your midnight hair. But at other times, you’re more like a daisy or a marigold, wild and slightly raggedy.”

Olivia thought it was a compliment, but when he was smiling in that secret way he had, it was hard to tell.

“Let’s play chess.” She sat down at the table opposite him.

“By all means,” he agreed cheerfully. “A nice safe thing for us to do.”

Olivia looked at him suspiciously but his expression seemed quite serene. She moved pawn to queen four.

Anthony shot her a quick amused glance from beneath raised eyebrows. It was an unusual opening.

He imitated the move.

“Pawn to queen’s bishop four,” Olivia said, suiting action to words. She sat back and watched his reaction.

Anthony knew the gambit she was playing. If he didn’t stop it, he would find himself entangled and slowly squeezed to death.

“White will win,” Olivia stated again.

“Oh?” He moved his pawn to king three.

Olivia without pause for thought moved her knight to king’s bishop three. “White has the advantage, but I never lose,” she said. “Even if I’m playing black.”

“What a cocky young thing you are,” he said, making his responding move.

After that they played in silence.

Until Olivia said quietly, “Check,” as she moved her rook. “And mate in three. Unless you want to play it out.”

Anthony examined the board. He examined it for a very long time. He’d sensed his defeat coming several moves back and had done, he thought, everything he could to circumvent it. But she had him. There was no denying it. And much to his surprise the loss piqued him.

His long, slim forefinger tipped over his king. He sat back in his chair and regarded her.

“Still say I’m cocky?” Olivia asked, unable to hide a rather smug smile.

“I think you have to give me the return match,” he said, a smile flickering in his eyes now. There was something quite endearing about her smugness.

“Best of three,” Olivia said instantly. She began to replace the pieces on the board.

Anthony glanced at the window. The night darkness was lightening. It would soon be dawn. “No more now,” he said, rising from his chair. “I need to be away.”

Olivia followed his eyes to the window. “Oh, yes, I suppose you do.” She sounded disappointed. “I know I would win playing black.”

“We shall see about that, my flower.” He tilted her chin on a fingertip, then in one swift graceful movement bent and kissed her mouth.

He drew back immediately before she could react, before her eyes could cloud over in the way they had when he’d touched her before.

Olivia stood very still. Her heart was beating rather fast, and although the kiss had been so swift and so light, she could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. And she felt only pleasure.

“The next match will be on my home ground,” he decreed, going to the window. He straddled the sill. “Mike will contact you. Just do as he says.” He touched his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss, then he swung himself over the ledge and was gone.

Olivia went to the window and gazed down. She thought she saw him disappear into the trees, but he moved so swiftly and silently it was hard to be certain.

Just how did he think she could drop everything and come running when he summoned her? Did he think his own plans were more important than hers?

But of course he did. Whatever those damned plans were. They were as dangerous as they were outside the law, that at least was a safe bet.

She went back to the bed where the sketch he had made lay amid the rumpled covers. The fine hairs on her nape lifted as she looked at it. It was so sensual. It was as if every stroke of his pencil was a caress over the body he was sketching. She remembered how his hands had felt on her body when they’d made love.

She tucked the paper back between the pages of Aeschylus and climbed into bed. Her hand slipped beneath her pillow, her fingers closing over his kerchief. She fell asleep with it balled in her hand as she had done every night since she’d returned from her dream on Wind Dancer.