“I read the books, Eliza.”
She was dizzy from the warmth in the room, from his scent, from the feel of his body against hers. “Books? More than one?”
“Most definitely. Wicked, wicked books about wicked, wicked acts. Nothing you would want to know about.”
“No. I’m not wicked.”
“If you change your mind,” he said, releasing her, “you will tell me, won’t you?”
She nodded, words escaping her as she focused on not grabbing him back and pushing her aching breasts against him. The need for him to touch her, kiss her, do all manner of wicked things to her was overpowering.
“Shall we go for a walk in the morning and discuss suspects?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, surprised her voice sounded even.
He bowed, and she realized he was leaving. She wanted to shout, No. She wanted to keep him there. She clasped her hands tightly to restrain herself as he silently opened her door, peeked out, and then disappeared without a word.
Eliza slumped into her chair by the fire, heaving in a great breath and still unable to fill her lungs. This was the drawback to working with Pierce Moneypence. Everything had been perfectly fine—lovely, in fact—until he’d proposed marriage. She hadn’t minded a proposal of marriage. She’d never had one before, and as a spinster, she’d rather thought she never would.
But a woman wanted a marriage proposal for the right reasons. She wanted a man to propose because he couldn’t live without her. Because he was desperately, madly, and unreasonably in love with her. Pierce had proposed because, after bedding her, he thought it was the right thing to do, not to mention a wife might further his career. There was nothing romantic about a proposal of that sort. A proposal of that sort was the antithesis of romance.
Still...books describing wicked acts. What sorts of wicked acts? And heaven forgive her, but she wanted Pierce to demonstrate.
Three
He waited in front of The Duke’s Arms for Eliza to fetch her pelisse and muff so they might stroll. Thankfully, the snow had stopped. The ground beyond the inn was pristine white and sparkling in the morning sunshine. It was a perfect day for a walk. In fact, he nodded cordially to a woman walking past the inn, a pretty dun rabbit in her arms. The woman and her bunny seemed to be enjoying the sunshine.
He’d almost forgotten what sunshine looked and felt like. The winter, especially in London, had been so dreary. The door to the inn opened, and there stood Eliza. He forgot all about the beauty of the sun on the new-fallen snow. She was breathtaking.
Her pelisse was cranberry in color, and the vibrant shade did wonders for her complexion. Her cheeks were pink and her lips ruby. He was not used to seeing her out of the dim lamplight available in the bowels of the Barbican headquarters. In those gloomy corridors, everyone took on a sallow, sickly pallor. But here Eliza looked young and fresh and pretty. Her mass of brown hair had been pulled back by a ribbon that matched her hair and flowed down her back in a riot of curls. He hadn’t realized her hair was quite so long or how young she would look without it pinned up. He couldn’t remember ever having seen it unpinned, not even when he’d shared her bed.
She was a small woman, petite and slender. He knew her body—not as well as he might have liked—but well enough to be able to trace its curves even within the covering of the pelisse. She had shapely legs, small, pert breasts, and a tiny waist.
She pushed her spectacles onto her nose, a gesture he recognized as a nervous habit. The spectacles were necessary because she could not see long distances. When she was reading or at home, she often removed them. He liked her better with them on, though. They gave her face definition and enlarged her light brown eyes so he could see the flecks of hazel in them.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“Just a few moments. The weather is perfect. Shall we walk, Miss Qwillen?” He used her surname in the event anyone was listening.
“Certainly.”
“Did you sleep well?” He nodded to one of the locals tending to a horse in the yard.
“I did. And you?”
He cut her a look. “Very well,” he lied. The stable had been cold and drafty, just as Pierce had expected. The cold had cooled his ardor. The noises the horses made had woven themselves into his dreams—nightmares of stallions chasing him down in order to chomp on his fingers. He shuddered.
They walked in silence for several moments, until they were well away from the inn and then, as though of one mind, turned toward the road away from the little village of Hopewell-on-Lyft. The road traveled through a wooded area cut in half by the River Lyft. The woods worked to the advantage of the New Sheriff of Nottingham. They would not walk as far as the woods, but the relative isolation of the path was preferable.
“I took the liberty of inquiring as to the arrival of the next coach,” Eliza said.
“And?”
“Just before noon,” she answered. “That will give us time to make a list of suspects and to observe who is and is not present should the highwayman make another attempt.”
“I can hardly think the man would be so foolish as to strike again so soon. The coachman will certainly be ready for him with a blunderbuss, if not a more deadly weapon.”
“Be that as it may,” she said, stiffening, “it does no harm to be prepared.”
He could not argue. He really had very little to say to this woman who seemed so cold and efficient. He’d liked her much better last night, when he’d met her in her room. She’d been warm and more like the Eliza he’d known before. He’d easily been able to picture taking her to bed. Last night he had been certain his revelations about the books in the Dungeon had
