“Is something in your eye, missus?” Peg asked, stopping at her table.
Eliza almost jumped. “No. No, I was admiring your ceiling. The beam work is splendid. Tudor?”
Peg looked up and then down again. “I couldn’t say, missus.”
She could feel the tingle of Moneypence’s gaze on her. It started at the nape of her neck and slid languidly down her spine, heating her flesh as it spread. She risked a glance at him. Moneypence gave a short nod and looked back at his tart.
Two hours later, the inn was silent as the winter night, and Eliza was warm by the fire in her small room. She hadn’t undressed, but she’d rung for the maid to bring the water for washing so the servants would not be waiting on her. She’d have to find a way to undress herself or sleep in her stays.
She had been sitting and waiting for him too long, that was all. He was on her mind. It wasn’t as though she desired him. Very much.
In truth, she missed him. She missed their discussions of everything from flowers to politics. She missed hearing about all of the clerical sorts of things he’d done each day and telling him about her latest success with a new pistol that looked like a lady’s fan. She missed having him in her life.
And, oh very well, she missed having a man hold her, having him kiss her, feeling the weight of his body beside hers. On top of hers.
Of course, Moneypence chose that moment to tap softly on her door. Pulling it open, she yanked him inside and shut it again.
“Did anyone see you?” she asked.
“No. I was discreet. Are you well? Your face is flushed.”
She touched her cheeks. They were indeed warm, probably because of the direction of her thoughts just a few moments ago. “I’ve been sitting too close to the fire.”
“Am I correct in assuming you wished to speak to me?”
“Yes.”
His eyes were dark and his light brown hair flecked with snow. She’d forgotten what it was like to be this close to him. His scent, bergamot mingled with the clean fragrances of hay and fresh snow, made her heart beat a little faster. Her gaze dipped to his lips. Would his mouth be warm or deliciously cool against her hot skin?
“About?”
He sounded impatient for her to continue and brushed snow off his sleeve to punctuate his annoyance. “About this mission. I’ve changed my mind.”
“You’re going home?” he said with a hopeful tone.
“No.” She flicked a piece of straw from his hair. “We should work together.”
But he didn’t speak.
“I was making a list of our suspects,” she said, “and between the two of us, we would generate such a list more quickly. You spoke to people I did not at dinner.”
“I see. And what if I don’t want your help?”
“You wanted it earlier.”
Slowly, he unwound his scarf from his neck. “You can’t keep changing your mind.”
“I haven’t changed my mind. I have only reconsidered this one point.”
“How do I know you won’t change it again?”
Frustrating man. Why did she feel as though he was speaking about more than this mission? “I won’t, but if you don’t want to work with me—”
She’d waved her arm at him, and he caught her hand in his. His skin was cool, giving her a little shock. “I didn’t say that. I merely wanted to make certain I understood where we stand.”
“We’re colleagues working together on a mission for the Barbican group,” she said. “Nothing more.”
He looked down at her hand.
Heaven help her. She was making little circles with her thumb on his palm.
“I beg your pardon.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he didn’t release her. She didn’t try very hard to free herself either.
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I’ve missed your touch.”
“I’ve missed yours.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them. Why hadn’t she simply suggested they work together and ordered him out? She would never rid herself of him now, and the worst of it was that she didn’t want to.
“Have you?” He moved closer, and his scent washed over her. She almost closed her eyes to bask in it. “What else have you missed?”
Nothing. That was what she should say. That was the answer that would make him go.
“Your kisses.” She was very bad, indeed. He would kiss her now, and that had been what she’d wanted all along.
But he didn’t take her mouth with his. He squeezed her hand lightly. “Shall I kiss you now?”
No. But she didn’t say it. To her credit, she didn’t say yes, either. She did tilt her head back, giving him clear access to her lips. Oh, but she was wanton! He put an arm about her waist and pulled her close. Her eyelids closed, and she waited for the feel of his strong mouth on hers.
“Did you know,” he said, “the Dungeon has volumes on topics other than intelligence matters?”
Her eyes snapped open. “What?”
“The Dungeon,” he repeated.
“I know what it is.” Every agent for the Barbican group knew the Records Room, where all of the research and confidential files were kept. The place was a veritable maze where, it was rumored, an agent could become lost. “What does the Dungeon have to do with anything?”
Now his finger traced a light path up her back, tickled the bare skin at the nape of her neck. “There are books there, Eliza.”
Of course there were books there. It was a library of sorts. “What books?” Had he heard the catch in her throat?
His wicked smiled grew even more wicked, if that was possible, so she knew he had. “Books about kissing.”
Her pulse raced, and the blood thrummed in her ears. “Kissing?”
He held her close, their bodies pressed together intimately, his touch on her skin light but possessive. “Among other...activities.”
“I see.” She could barely draw a
