“Then we have our man.”
She rose. “Shall we bring him in for questioning? Perhaps we could use one of the inn’s outbuildings? I could develop several devices that would be beneficial in an interrogation.”
Damn fire was definitely too hot. “Torture?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Stop crafting medieval devices that belong in a dungeon for a moment and consider we might be better served simply by catching the man in the act. We follow him.”
She slumped. “That isn’t very exciting.”
“Field work rarely is. Or so I hear.” He stood and moved back from the hearth. The conversation was almost at an end, and now was the time for him to take his leave. Except he didn’t want to leave. How would he find a way to take her in his arms and then to bed?
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “The excitement comes with the capture and the mission’s success.” Suddenly, she embraced him. “We almost have him, Pierce!”
“Oh! I beg your pardon.”
Embracing him had been a mistake. One moment, Eliza’s mind was on the highwayman and the accolades they would receive when they completed the mission. The next moment, all thoughts of the mission had fled, and she could think of nothing but the way Pierce’s body felt pressed against hers.
“Anything but my pardon.” His arms came around her, slid up her back, and enveloped her in his warmth. She was already surrounded by his scent. In London, he had a sophisticated scent—bergamot mixed with the aromas of ink, fine paper, and antique books. She could still detect those scents.
“You smell all wrong,” she said. “Like...horses and leather.”
“Is that why your breathing is so fast?”
Was she breathing fast? That scent... It made her think of danger and intrigue and forbidden passion.
His hand slid to the nape of her neck, his fingers caressing the sensitive, almost ticklish, flesh there. She hadn’t taken her hair down, and now his hand dove into those upswept tresses, loosening them, and relieving the ache.
“You are so proper,” she whispered. “So correct except...when you’re not.”
“You have that effect on me. I love how you”—he lowered his lips to hers—“taste.”
The first touch of his flesh to hers always excited her. When he kissed her, he lost all formality. She knew the real man, and that man burned with need and desire to rival any man.
He teased her lips open with his tongue—when had he learned that little trick?—and at the same time pulled pins from her hair, catching them before they could fall to the floor. Her hair tumbled down, and that first feeling of release was wonderful. And then his tongue mated with hers. She didn’t know how else to think of it. The way he stroked and teased mimicked lovemaking perfectly. She must have made some small sound of approval, because he nipped at her lower lip.
“You like that?”
Her ears rang like they did after a particularly violent explosion. She opened her eyes, dismayed to find the room seemed to tilt. “Have you always kissed me like that?”
“I’ll always kiss you like that from now on.” His hand cupped her jaw, and his thumb slid along her cheek, the friction warming her skin.
“From now on? Is there more?”
“Much more. In fact, there’s something I want to show you.”
The books again. She did not know if she could survive more of his book learning. She did not know if she could survive without him showing her. He bent, and before she realized what he was about, he had his hands behind her knees. She almost toppled over but clutched him just in time. “What are you doing?”
“Sweeping you off your feet,” he said, sounding annoyed. He tried it again and all but sent her sprawling on her arse.
“Wait!” she called before he injured her or the noise from her fall woke the entire inn. “Try it this way.” She put her arms about his neck and stepped up onto one of the chairs by the fire. “Now.”
He took a moment to figure out the logistics, and then he cradled her in his arms. He staggered a little, which did nothing to boost her confidence, but then he gained his feet and carried her to the bed.
“Am I heavy?” she asked.
“Light as a feather,” he said, sounding strained.
Poor Pierce. He really was trying. Perhaps he’d always wished to be a strapping sportsman, whereas she had always dreamed of being a diamond of the first water. But here they were—Eliza and Pierce—two very ordinary people...well, except for the espionage bit.
He tried to set her on the bed, but stumbled at the last moment, and she went toppling down. His face went white, but she laughed. He colored, and she feared it was from embarrassment, but then he moved over her, kissing her, and she knew he wanted her far too much to be embarrassed. The kiss was unskilled, all passion and longing, and she couldn’t stop herself from wrapping her arms around him and kissing him back.
This was folly. Involving herself further with him would only make it more difficult when they had to part. But she wanted him so much. How could she not want him when he was so sweet and clumsy and—how could she forget—so newly skilled in the arts of pleasure? Just for tonight, she wanted to ignore the fact that she was Eliza Qwillen and he was Pierce Moneypence. She wanted to be just a woman who needed the comfort of a man.
He drew back and tugged at her wrapper, and she felt bold. She rose to her knees and stripped it off, then discarded the nightgown too. “I love how you look at me. Your eyes turn so dark and lovely.”
“I love to look at you. I can’t drink my fill.” His gaze roved over her, taking her in slowly, and the reverence with which he reached out to stroke her left her breathless.
She was no great beauty. Her hair was too curly and wild. Her arms
