The Scoundrel in Her Bed (Sins for All Seasons #3)(7)
If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t now be creeping through the residence, up the wide swath of stairs. He imagined the earl’s daughter descending them in a ball gown of clover green that matched her eyes. He suspected her dance card would be filled within a few minutes of her arriving in the ballroom. He knew all about balls because they were good for a burglar’s business, especially when the guests stayed over. More jewelry to rob because it was seldom locked up when people retired late and were too weary to properly see to things. The gang boss had sent him to case out a few balls, then ordered him to rob one of the residences. It had been the most terrifying and exhilarating night of his life. Until now. His heart was thumping hard, not from fear but from anticipation.
At the landing, he turned down a hallway, and when he reached the first door, he paused, pressed his ear to the wood, and listened. Heavy snoring, male snoring. The next door revealed nothing but quiet on the other side. Probably the lady of the manor, but he needed to check. Slowly, ever so slowly, he released the latch and then inch by inch eased open the door. Fancy houses also tended to have silent hinges, the servants keen about keeping them oiled.
He was halfway to the bed when he gained a clear view of the occupant, a lady—her mouth unpleasantly open and folds of skin gathered at her neck—at least as old as his mum. He made a quiet but hasty retreat, closing the door in his wake. Picturing what he now knew of these rooms and the windows through which light had spilled into the darkness, he ignored the next three doors and slowly opened the fourth, knowing immediately he’d found the correct bedchamber, because it smelled of her: flowery but not sickeningly so. Something rare, a scent he’d only ever inhaled once, when he’d walked past her to get to her mare. The fragrance had haunted him ever since, until this moment when he could inhale it and feel a sense of calm.
On feet as light as a cat’s, he edged toward the bed, grateful it was summer, and she’d not drawn the heavy draperies around the bedstead. Carefully, he set his lantern on the table beside the bed, turning it just so in order to direct the flickering flame so it illuminated her face. Lost in sleep, she appeared more innocent and kinder than she had when they’d first met, when she’d smacked him with her ineffectual balled fist. Her injured arm was still encased in the splint, would no doubt be for a few weeks if his experience dealing with broken bones was a true indication of how things went. Her hand rested, palm up, on the pillow, her fingers curled. Her other hand was hidden away beneath the blankets. Her hair, a shade reminiscent of the brightest of moons, was plaited, the braid draped over her shoulder, the tail of it curled beneath her small breast, temptingly so.
With a silent curse, he tore his gaze from a spot where it should not be looking and cleared his head of thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking. She was a lady, an earl’s daughter. It was folly to think there might ever be anything more between them than a casualness brought about because of a need to reassure her. Folding his hand around her slender shoulder, surprised by how dainty it felt, as though it could easily shatter beneath a tighter grip, he shook her. “M’lady?”
Slowly she opened her eyes. They widened. More quickly she opened her mouth. Swiftly, he covered it with his hand before she could cry out. “Shh. I mean you no harm. I bring word of Sophie.”
She blinked. Beneath his palm, he felt her mouth relaxing. “Promise not to scream and I’ll remove my hand.”
She nodded. Cautiously, he lifted his hand slightly, prepared to drop it back into place rapidly if needed.
“You’ve come to tell me you’ve killed her,” she fairly spat, the sadness in her eyes belying the tartness of her words.
“Not exactly. But she is in heaven, of a sort. I thought you might like to go there yourself.” It had cost him a month’s wages to have the horse spared, and he wanted to see reflected on her face that it had all been worth it.
Furrowing her brow, she shoved herself into a sitting position and yanked the covers up to her chin. “I don’t understand.”
“I want to show you something, now, tonight. I have my wagon—”
“You expect me to go with you, a person I don’t even know? Someone who sneaks into my bedchamber?”
Fairly certain she was past the point where she might scream, he straightened, disappointed by her stubbornness and reluctance. He hadn’t thought this through. Just because he’d felt a connection, had been drawn to the green of her eyes, didn’t mean she was intrigued by him in the least. “I just want to show you that she’s unharmed.”
“Are you striving to trick me?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a commoner. You might be seeking to take advantage of me. Or, heaven forbid, kidnap me, and then make my father pay you an exorbitant amount in order to get me back.”
Nicking a vase was one thing, but nicking a person? Was her opinion of him truly that low? Christ. What the devil was he doing here?
“Never mind. This was a stupid idea.” He spun on his heel.
“Wait.”
He shouldn’t. He’d been a fool to come here, to care what she thought of him, to have a need to show her he wasn’t a heartless bastard—just a bastard. He nearly laughed at the final thought. Swinging back around, he wished she didn’t look so delectable and earnest, leaning away from the headboard now, leaning toward him.