Twelve

Dear St. James,

I appreciate your daily updates on Isabelle’s health. Her mother is quite distraught over this whole ordeal, so your ongoing news of Isabelle’s recovery is welcome indeed. We’ve spread the false tale to cover her absence, just as you asked, even when speaking with Isabelle’s sister. Do you have any new information on the artwork? I received the note with Isabelle’s forged signature upon it just as you warned me I might. Dreadful business, this. I enclosed it with this note for your safekeeping.

If you were not working to solve this matter on my behalf, I would be in severely troubling times. I will owe you for the remainder of my life for seeing to my daughter’s safety as you are doing. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with such a task. If I can assist in the search for either the artwork or the two remaining letters, do not hesitate to ask. Pass along our concern for Isabelle, if you will.

—Knottsby

• • •

The sun was setting behind the building across the street, casting long shadows at their feet. He’d arrived only a few minutes before, meeting Hardaway in the alley behind a row of shops, yet Fallon was already anxious to be done with their business here.

There was nothing wrong with the area. It was a rather respectable section of London in terms of typical Spares work, but he was away from headquarters, and that had him tapping his fingers against the outside of his thigh in impatience. He’d been avoiding his bedchamber and its current occupant for two days now, but this was his first time outside of the house’s walls since he’d brought Isabelle home with him. Somehow being a carriage ride away left him anxious to return even though he would keep his distance once he was back under the same roof.

She’d tried to claim she loved him. Fallon took a steadying breath and surveyed the opposite side of the street. He was certain if he stayed to hear the words two days ago, I love you would have been said. That couldn’t happen. Isabelle—in a general sense—couldn’t happen.

He forced his mind back to his current mission, leaning out to glance farther up the street. Grapling couldn’t be staying in an area this respectable, could he? He was on the run from Fallon’s men. He would be easily discovered in such a place. And this was no location for an underhanded sale of any sort. Looking over at Hardaway leaning against the alley wall at his side, Fallon questioned him. “You’re certain this is where he’s reported to meet with potential buyers to be rid of the art?”

“I already told you it was,” Hardaway said without taking his eyes from their target. “At some point, you need to learn to trust me—or anyone, for that matter. I have reliable sources in town. I’ve been at this awhile.”

“I know you have,” Fallon conceded, turning back to the brick building where the deal would supposedly happen moments from now. Meat hooks still hanging in the window suggested the place had once been a butcher’s shop, but a layer of dust and empty counters inside indicated the shop had long since closed its doors. And now Grapling was using the location to meet potential art buyers? It was the wrong location for such an activity—far from the harbor and surrounded by too many homes where someone could take notice. Experience told Fallon that they’d followed a false trail, but he said nothing more. They had to follow every possibility until they found what they were looking for. Thus far they had only two of the four confession notes—the one left at the scene and the one sent to Isabelle’s father. She was still in danger, and the artwork was still at large.

“We’ll find him, St. James,” Hardaway said a moment later.

“Any luck finding the last two copies?”

“We’ll find those as well.” Hardaway shifted beside him, bending to pick up a rock from the ground. He tossed it back and forth between his hands. “How many jobs have we pulled since we started the Spares?”

Fallon had never counted. It was a statistic he should know. He made a mental note to look it up later tonight. “I’d have to search through figures, check my files… Even counting the few from the early days before we had headquarters?”

“You and your details and exact numbers.” Hardaway shoved him in the shoulder. “An arse load! A fuck ton. More than the number of barmaids I’ve winked at over a pint.” Hardaway turned back to their watchful vigil. “St. James, we’ll sort this out as well. Enjoying your time with the lady involved at least, eh?”

Fallon shrugged, focusing on the far entrance to the brick building, making certain they missed nothing. He hadn’t enjoyed his time with Isabelle as much as he would have liked. Having her near him was driving him steadily toward madness. They could have no future together. Starting anything with her wouldn’t end well. But keeping things businesslike between them was killing him at a rapid pace.

Even his men could sense that he had been a bit off these past few days, and that was a suggestion of weakness he couldn’t allow. He had to get his head straight again. Perhaps they could once again be friends—at least once she wasn’t sleeping in his bed and lounging in various stages of undress in his bedchamber. The only solution was to find the man responsible for all of this and send Isabelle home to her father. So he was here, chasing a false lead.

“No wonder you’re as jumpy as a frog on a fire,” Hardaway accused. “You’re playing this all wrong, St. James.”

Fallon swung his head back around to Hardaway and raised a brow. No one had ever accused him of not playing the proper angle in a game. He always thought five steps ahead of everyone around him. He thought too much, which was the bloody problem now. He was too wise to allow Isabelle into a compromising situation and imagine they would both walk away unscathed.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one being driven to the edge by a woman—not at the moment anyway. Last night was another story. She was tall, long legs on her—legs that could wrap around a man twice.”

“A mental image I don’t need, but thank you.”

“I get that you’re doing the gentlemanly bit with this lady.”

“I’m doing the ‘I can’t marry her when this goes wrong’ bit with this lady. Can you imagine trying to run the Spares with a wife? She would want a sedate home life and me there to participate. I don’t have time for country life, and she deserves that and more. I’m sure she’d force me to move from headquarters.”

“Would she?” Hardaway asked, eyeing him skeptically for a second before shrugging off his pondering. “Anyway, in typical fashion you’ve thought this out ten years ahead of schedule. All I’m saying is you should enjoy this time for what it is. The poor lady is trapped in your bedchamber with nothing to do. A little romance might brighten her days. And we both know you aren’t going to take a holiday—ever. That’s what this is—a holiday—only you get to keep working, which also makes you happy. You do everything for others. Do this for you.

“I know I was against it at first, but St. James, I’ve never seen you like this. As long as you don’t get her with child, no one will ever know. You’ve already made certain the tracks are covered. She’s already in your blasted bed. Look up from your responsibilities with the Spares and live life. The lot of us will survive your lack of management for the…” Hardaway looked him over for a second, scrutinizing him before continuing. “We’ll survive the three minutes it will take you to regain your sanity,” he finished with a grin.

Fallon punched the man hard in the arm. “Perhaps that’s how long you took with Miss Legs last night.”

“It was a glorious night. At one point I had her—”

Fallon held up a hand to stop his friend. “If I promise to consider furthering things with Lady Isabelle, will you promise to never tell me this story? Contrary to your belief, some tales are better left untold.”

“A fair deal.”

Fallon would consider enjoying his time with Isabelle more. He’d been considering it every second since he’d met Isabelle. Considering it was what kept him in his library attempting to work at all hours of the night so he wouldn’t have to be near such temptation.

A few minutes later, Hardaway sighed. “Grapling should have arrived by now. I think I received some bad information.”

“Or intentionally misleading information. Have us follow a trail on this side of town to conduct the true meeting in the logical location.”

“By the harbor,” Hardaway supplied.

“He can’t sell art that was stolen from the walls of the British Museum to a local,” Fallon added.

“A damned diversion. I’ll check the usual places across town, and then I think a visit to my informant is in order.” Hardaway flexed his fingers into a fist, a menacing gleam in his eye. It was rare that anyone saw this side of his friend, but those who did regretted it immediately.

“I’ll be at headquarters if you find anything.” Fallon pulled out his pocket watch to check the time in the fading daylight. If he hurried, he could get a report from the men ending their day in the field and speak with those going out for the night before they left. He had to keep all his men focused on their tasks, especially with Grapling on the loose. “I’m sure my presence has been missed by now,” he muttered.

“I’m certain it has,” Hardaway said with a chuckle.

Fallon ignored him and took a step back toward his carriage, which was parked on the next street over. “Don’t enjoy your work too much tonight. I know your love of cracking skulls.”

“Don’t forget to enjoy your work all night tonight,” Hardaway called after him. “We have a bargain.”

Fallon raised a hand in farewell but didn’t turn back. He knew from years of experience that Hardaway liked to have the last word in any conversation, and Fallon was happy to let him—on this occasion.

No matter the bargain his friend thought he had, Fallon couldn’t take advantage of Isabelle’s trusting nature like that. She was searching for love from a gentleman who had time to devote to her, someone who wore garish colors and had nothing more to do in an evening than dance at a ball.

The truth was no lady in society would ever mix well with the lifestyle he’d chosen. But as Fallon climbed into his carriage, a question Hardaway had asked tapped at the edges of his already-frayed thoughts. Would she? Would Isabelle force him to move away from headquarters and give up everything he’d built if she knew the truth about him?

No lady would fit well into the life he’d carved out for himself, but Isabelle was no average lady. He would never admit that Hardaway of all people had been right, but perhaps by closing Isabelle off and keeping his distance he’d undersold her. After years of assessing gentlemen to discover their talents, he had to admit that he hadn’t given her the same courtesy.

Perhaps the connection between them would break on its own. Perhaps she would grow weary of his company. Perhaps a million things, but Isabelle was worth the risk of discovering the answer.

He opened the door to his carriage and braced his boot on the step. With a glance up to his driver, he called out the one place he wanted to be more than anywhere else. “To headquarters.”

* * *

“I don’t require anything further, Mrs. Featherfitch,” Isabelle called out when she heard the door open. “Enjoy your evening.”

She’d played more hands of solitaire than she could count over the past few days, just as Victoria had taught her to do on long rainy days at home. Unfortunately the game appealed to her sister more than it did to her. She’d even lost interest in the book she was now reading, but with nothing else to occupy her time, she didn’t look up. She enjoyed a good story, but one could only read so many books in a day without conversation with a real person before losing one’s mind altogether. Mrs. Featherfitch was thawing to Isabelle by minute degrees, but she still wasn’t someone Isabelle would want to spend the afternoon chatting with. She wanted to see Fallon.

He hadn’t come back to see her in two never-ending days. Was telling a man you loved him so terrible a thing to say? And she hadn’t even gotten the words out. Imagine if she’d finished her sentence. Then he would burn his own home to the ground with her in it just to avoid seeing her.

She sighed and ran a hand through her loose hair, cringing at the thick weight of it around her wound. She hadn’t been able to wash it since the day before Victoria’s wedding, and she didn’t want to think about what might still be matted above the slowly healing cut. “Rapunzel’s hair must have been positively filthy,” she mumbled to herself. Her own hair hung in a thick clump down her back. She twirled it into something resembling a braid and shifted it to lean back on the sofa.

“I would think so.” A deep voice rumbled from across the room. “After years of a witch’s dirty feet and hands dragging against Rapunzel’s hair as she climbed the tower…”

Fallon! She grinned and sat up. He hadn’t left her forever! “You’ve forgiven me? I shouldn’t have said—”

“I’ve been busy,” he cut in. “I shouldn’t have left you alone so long. Have you turned into Rapunzel in my absence?”

“Unfortunately I have her hair… In condition, not in length,” she clarified.

“Do I have a witch to kill?” he asked with a wry grin.

His steps seemed lighter as he crossed the room to her, the expression on his face more pleasant than when he’d abandoned her days ago. But she was so grateful he’d returned, she didn’t question the change.

“I hadn’t even considered the grime the witch would have added to her flowing tresses.” She tossed her book aside and turned to look up at him as he neared the back of the sofa where she’d spent the day. “Poor Rapunzel. She must have longed for a lady’s maid if only for her dirty hair. You’ve only had me locked away for near a week.”

“This is hardly a doorless tower, Isabelle,” he said even as he glanced back to the closed and locked door and winced.

“Nevertheless…this cut isn’t becoming any cleaner with time.”

“I could have Mrs. Featherfitch bring a bath. She’s no lady’s maid, but I’m sure if pressed, she could assist you.”

“No!” Isabelle scrambled to her feet.

“Did something happen with Mrs. Featherfitch?” he asked, moving closer. Concern drew his brows together as he studied her.

How did she explain that though the woman was pleasant, Isabelle didn’t want to spend the evening listening to stories of Fallon’s love for the previous owner of this home? She could handle the woman’s misconceptions about why Isabelle was here, but conversations with the housekeeper always ended with tales of Fallon’s great love for another lady. She looked down at her hands as she muttered the only thing to be said in difficult situations—the truth. “I don’t like the stories she tells.”

He rounded the sofa, nearing her with slow steps. “You have her reading to you? I underestimated your boredom. I should have come sooner.”

“No.” Isabelle forced herself to look up and meet his gaze no matter how difficult it was. This was Fallon, her friend. And no matter who still held his heart, for her part, she loved him. “She tells me… She talks of the past, the history of your home.”

“Oh.” He had the good grace to shift uncomfortably on his feet for a moment before he said more. “I apologize for that. She should know not to speak of such things.” Some emotion crossed his face for only a fraction of a second, but Isabelle could have sworn it was disappointment mixed with frustration.

She couldn’t allow there to be a dispute in his home because of her, not after the inconvenience she’d been to him. “It isn’t your housekeeper’s fault. Please don’t be angry with her. I asked questions. I’m sure I’m to blame. Isn’t there anyone else who can wash my hair? I would do it myself, but I’ve always had a maid. The cut on my head is healing, and…I suppose I could try if I had a pitcher of water.”

He fell silent for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. She’d noticed it was the face he made when he was deep in thought, so she didn’t interrupt him, only met his gaze in the quiet room.

“I’ll do it for you,” he finally said, closing the gap between them and lifting a hand to her hair where it fell over her shoulder. “I want your stay here to be enjoyable, Isabelle.”

“You…” She should have taken a step away from him at the shock of his offer, but she didn’t. After all, she’d never been one to sidestep an adventure. “That seems…” Wonderful, delightful, dangerous, and exciting all collided into a mangled pile of words in her mind. The man she loved was going to run his hands through her hair. She blinked up at him, eyeing his weary eyes and the stubble of beard starting to appear across his jaw. He looked every bit the pirate tonight. “All right.”

Isabelle saw only a glimpse of Fallon’s slow smile before he turned away and went to work. But that smile—there had been some secret, entirely male thought behind it, she was certain. Just the brief sight of it as he looked at her made her knees weak. She sank to the sofa, staring at the fire as her heart pounded. This was a very poor idea indeed. Evie certainly wouldn’t approve. But Isabelle was already locked away in Fallon’s bedchamber and had been for days. She might as well enjoy her imprisonment with clean hair not matted with dirt and blood from the museum. That’s all this was.

A moment later, Fallon instructed her to go behind the screen in the corner and to stay out of sight until everyone was out of the room. She sat quietly on the small stool, hidden from view of the servants, and watched through a small crack as footmen brought bucket after bucket of water into the room.

Fallon watched over the process as he did everything else in his life, with great attention to detail and a commanding presence. If only he looked after himself with such care. But for Fallon, she was learning, everyone else’s needs came before his own. He was even seeing to her needs when he must have been exhausted. He hadn’t returned here to sleep in some time. It was already early evening now. Had he eaten? Someone needed to look after him as well as he looked after others.

Perhaps that was what Lady Herron had done for him when she was alive. It wasn’t Isabelle’s place to take up the task. She was here for only a short time. If he didn’t wish to hear about her love for him, he certainly wouldn’t wish her to fuss at him about his eating habits and lack of proper sleep. He wanted only her friendship, and she would have to be content with that, sad though the fact might be. Perhaps unrequited love was simply her plight in life. She shook off the melancholy thought and watched Fallon check the temperature of the water.

Even with such a simple task as having water brought in, he oversaw the operation as if they were on the front lines of battle and this was the most important mission in a great war. She couldn’t look away. When the last jug of water steamed in a pitcher before the fire and his staff had left the room, he turned toward the screen. “Come here, Rapunzel.”

Isabelle rose from the small stool and moved toward him with hesitant steps, but there was a confidence in Fallon’s stance that pulled her forward. Perhaps having one’s hair dealt with by a man wouldn’t be odd at all. She did trust him. And for his part, there was only friendship between them. It was only the new experience that had her body filled with butterflies.

“You’ll want to change into this so your dress doesn’t get wet,” he instructed, handing her a slightly wrinkled piece of linen.

“One of your shirts?”

“It should hang to your knees at least, for modesty.” He was already removing his coat and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I’m a bit larger than you are.”

She watched as he removed his waistcoat as well and then his cravat. His shoulders were broad beneath all that clothing. He was indeed larger than her, and she couldn’t keep from staring. He was looking down as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing muscular forearms. She cleared her throat, trying to collect herself. “Is this terribly wrong?”

“Not at all.” He glanced up at her, his expression one of completely businesslike efficiency. “Once you’ve changed, sit on the floor where I have the towels covering the rug. I’ll give you some privacy.”

She moved back to the floral dressing screen in the corner and pulled her day dress over her head. It was odd. Even if it had been for only one short second, he’d looked at her earlier in a way that made her heart race. Now he seemed to be disconnected from the situation, guarded. “You act as if you’ve done this before.”

“I have.”

“Oh.” Her dress fell to the floor behind the screen, followed shortly by her petticoat, stockings, and stays. She should have been expecting such a response, it should even put her mind at ease, but it didn’t. “I don’t suppose you’ve rescued other ladies from art thieves.”

“No. You’re my first prisoner here.”

“That’s what I thought.” She suppressed a sigh and pulled his shirt over her head. Even though it had been laundered, it still smelled like Fallon, clean yet with some mysterious scent that made her pick the fabric from her neck and sniff it. She looked down, noticing that he’d been right—his shirt did fall just below her knees. He was the sort of man who knew everything at all times, she was beginning to discover.

How did he anticipate the correct outcome to any situation? Perhaps he would teach her. It was a skill that could save her from further heartache in life. She would have known of Victoria and Lord Hardaway’s engagement. She’d have seen ahead of time the threat posed by going to the museum alone even if the visit had sounded lovely when Mr. Grapling had suggested it. And she’d have been prepared to encounter Fallon’s already-claimed heart.

An uncomfortable silence grew between Isabelle and Fallon that for the life of her she couldn’t find a means of breaking. She stepped out from behind the screen and moved to the area of the thick rug where the towels had been spread out for her, not daring to look up and meet Fallon’s gaze where he stood before the fire. But once she’d settled herself on the floor, pulling the shirt down over her knees, the quiet of the room began to close in on her.

The seconds were counted in the sounds from the fire at her side, every crackle of burning ember, another moment passed. Then Fallon closed the distance between them.

He knelt beside her, and his thigh brushed her side through the thin shirt. It occurred to her for the first time just how intimate washing a lady’s hair could be. But she seemed to be the only one unbuttoned by the experience, as he set to work gathering her hair in his hands. There was still a silence hanging between them, but it grew steadily more intense as he slid his hand to the back of her neck. He held her head in the palm of his hand as he guided her to lean back against the side of the tub. She blinked up at him, trying not to think of how his arm curved around her, holding her steady, or the warmth of his fingers against the back of her head.

“I cared a great deal for her,” he said and settled her gathered hair in the water with his free hand.

“Oh.” Her heart was pounding. She really did need to get a hold of herself. This wasn’t the makings of one of her dreams. This was Fallon washing her hair. Her friend Fallon. Her friend, she repeated to herself.

He ran his fingers up the back of her neck to make sure no strands had escaped his grasp, and she shivered. His touch was gentler than that of any maid she’d ever encountered. She was trying not to think about the fact that a man was caressing her skin, even out of perfunctory need. Unfortunately, their current topic of discussion was unsettling as well.

“You don’t have to tell me about Lady Herron. Really. It must be difficult for you to discuss her, and I don’t need to know. Just know that I’m…glad for you that you had her in your life.” Those last words almost killed her to say, but she’d done it and now it was over, dealt with. They could discuss something else now. Fashion? The weather? Anything was better than conversing about Fallon’s lost love. She exhaled.

The movement of his hands over her scalp stopped, and he looked down, meeting her gaze. “I’m glad she was in my life as well, but she wasn’t in my life the way you’re thinking of it.”

Isabelle’s eyes went wide. She almost sat up straight to have this conversation without distraction, but then he poured warm water over her head, and she found herself sighing into the firm hold he had on the back of her head. Even her back, rigid a second ago, settled against his thigh. She rested against him as warmth trailed in rivulets over her scalp. “She wasn’t your lady? I mean… I wasn’t thinking of anything so…”

“Scandalous?”

She opened her eyes—they had drifted closed with the soothing effect of the water—to see he was smiling down at her.

“Pearl liked scandal, enjoyed the talk, even encouraged it.”

“She sounds like Victoria.”

“Perhaps she once was,” he mused with clear fondness ringing through his words as he applied soap to her scalp. “When I met Pearl, she was in a very different stage of life than your sister.”

“Mrs. Featherfitch told me she was a widow, that she was much older than you are now. She said your position here was that of a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“I was many things to Pearl,” he began to explain as he massaged the lather with his fingers. His strokes somehow managed to be firm and gentle at the same time. Isabelle sighed into his touch, like a cat begging to be scratched. Her eyes drifted shut, and she simply listened. Fallon’s deep voice washed over her like the warm water that steamed around her.

“She gave me guidance in life when I was lost. She housed me, clothed me, and in exchange, I cared for her.”

Cared for her sounded like an entirely different relationship than Isabelle had been led to believe. “How so? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask. Whatever happened between you and Lady Herron is none of my concern. It’s your private business. I have no place to ask—”

“Pearl was above all else a proud woman. When she became ill…she couldn’t have society guessing the reality of it. She needed a companion to look after her medical needs without anyone discovering the truth of her condition. She had a specific list of requirements for her companion that included being muscular and quick witted.” He broke off with a thin smile and shake of his head.

“She found me—young, taking dangerous chances with my life and walking a thin line toward destruction—and she took me in. The first ball I attended with her, she clung to my arm the entire evening. No one knew it was due to the weakness in her legs. People see what they wish to see—she taught me that—and they saw an elderly widow together with a gentleman a quarter her age, chatting, laughing… I enjoyed my time with her. My own mother died when I was a boy. Pearl…Pearl was special.”

His mother—had he just compared Lady Herron to his mother? This was entirely different from the tale she’d been told. She opened her eyes and tried to catch his gaze beneath the constant motion of his arms, arching her neck up to catch his attention.

He paused, sliding both hands around until her head was cradled there in his hands, and looked down at her. “Relax. I have you.”

Isabelle stilled and let her shoulders sag back against his thigh once more. She stared up at him in awe, unable to look away. He focused once more on her hair and set back to work rubbing away not only the dried blood from the wound in her hair but also the tension from her entire body. Her heart was pounding at the intimacy, but his confidence allowed her to simply feel. “You were her companion and caregiver?” she asked a moment later. “Why would Mrs. Featherfitch, your own housekeeper, have such a poor view of your past?” She knew her hair would soon be clean, but she didn’t want him to stop. She’d never felt such longing to have someone continue to touch her, to stay draped across a man’s lap while he talked to her.

“Mrs. Featherfitch doesn’t know the truth. No one does…except for you.” His gaze dipped to meet hers. His dark eyes usually hid every inner thought, but now they simmered with a desperate need for her to understand what he was saying.

Only her. She didn’t understand anything about their situation, but she knew one thing for certain: this moment of truth between them was special. She reached up and placed her hand against his jaw, the rough surface of his beard abrading the palm of her hand in a pleasant way. “Why? Why me?”

He tilted his chin into her touch for a second and exhaled a small ragged breath. “I needed to tell you the truth.”

“Truth is a noble virtue.” The heat of a blush flooded her cheeks as she looked up at him. “Sorry. I won’t romanticize this. I know you don’t want that.” She dropped her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. “Why not tell your staff the truth as well?”

“They were her staff first.” He poured warm water over her head and trailed his fingers through her hair to rinse the soap from her scalp. “And we made a bargain. She left me her home for use as I saw fit, and in exchange, I agreed to keep her secret.”

She opened one eye and quirked a brow up at him as he continued to rinse her hair. “But that paints you as a kept man who took advantage of an old lady as a result.”

“So be it.”

“You don’t wish to clear your name?”

“No.” He looked down at her, his honesty resonating in his words. “Only yours.”

“Fallon…” She was at a loss for the appropriate response. His sacrifice for the sake of the dignity of a widow who had passed away long ago was straight from a tale of brave knights laying down their lives for their ladies fair.

He said nothing, only continued to stroke his fingers through the long strands, loosening any tangles that had formed. Although she knew her hair must be clean by now, he seemed in no rush to have her move, instead running his thumb with a featherlike touch around the wound in her hairline where she’d been hit. He narrowed his eyes on the injury for a second before smoothing her hair back and looking down at her. His other hand was still wrapped around her, holding the back of her neck steady. If she could stop time, she would want someone to paint this moment, exactly like this, with Fallon looking at her like she was an exotic flower, his hands on her, holding her before him. It was a beautiful moment she would hold on to forever—if not in paint, then in her memory.

With a rueful smile, he let his free hand slip back to brace it on his hip. “This is the life I’ve chosen, Isabelle. And in truth it isn’t at all like one from the pages of some great story, even though that’s the way I know you’re painting it in your mind. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You’re heroic whether you like it or not, sir.” Lifting herself up a fraction, she poked one finger at his chest in accusation. Water streamed from her hair, pouring into the tub behind her.

But instead of allowing her to drop back once more and continue on as she’d planned, he held her there, studying her. “I thought to you I was an old pirate lacking a heartfelt smile.”

She searched his dark eyes for a second. Did he not want her to view him in those terms? They weren’t particularly flattering descriptions, but he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her to be more than friendly with him. “I’m unsure what you are,” she hedged even as she thought, My friend, my love, the unlikely man of my dreams. She’d already scared him away once when she spoke from her heart; she didn’t want to do so again.

“I see you aren’t taking back your insults.”

“Perhaps I misspoke when I claimed you were old.” She didn’t think of the strong man who was holding her as old at all. The only sign he showed of age, after all, were the crinkles at the corners of his eyes on the rare occasion when he smiled, and she found that rather endearing. Surely there was some middle ground to be found between professing her love and having him believe she thought the worst of him. “I only meant… I meant that you…”

“You don’t even have a good excuse,” he said in mock dismay as pulled her upright, released her, and threw a towel over her wet head.

“You act responsible for the world,” she tried to explain as she attempted to wiggle away, only to have him pull her back to where he now sat on the thick rug, facing the opposite direction. “And you’re wise, which makes you seem old, but clearly you’re quite young.”

“Now you’re making up stories.” He chuckled as he reached around her to dry her hair.

The position put his bare throat just in front of her. It was a commonly overlooked part of the male body. She’d devoted pages to bums in her diary, but now, sitting so close to him, she found herself entranced with this exposed piece of quality male flesh. His shirt was splayed open at the neck, revealing a most intriguing part of him that was usually hidden away from view.

With the towel disguising her exact actions, she angled her face forward until she could feel the heat of his skin just a heartbeat away from her lips, quietly investigating. “You like my stories,” she murmured, her voice coming out rougher than usual.

She thought she heard a mumbled curse, but with his hands holding a towel over her head, who could tell? “I do like your stories.”

“Do you want me to tell you the one about the sour old pirate who never smiled?” she asked, straightening her back even more to inhale the scent of his skin just below his jaw.

“Only if he meets a wood nymph who insults him at every turn.” His deep voice rumbled through her, setting her nerves on edge.

He smelled of worldly man, one who had seen adventure and lived to tell of it. Her lips almost brushed a spot at the base of his throat, and she saw him swallow. “They became great friends,” she continued, forcing her mind to remain on their story, but her voice came out just above a whisper. “In an odd twist, he kidnapped her.”

“To rescue her from danger,” he supplied, his movements slowing, though his muscles stayed tensed around her.

“Mmmhmm.” What would he taste like if she dared to stick her tongue out and try? She couldn’t, obviously, since they were only friends. Fallon didn’t want…

“And then he kissed her because he couldn’t take her curious breaths against his neck anymore.”

She could feel the heat rise in her face before his words fully registered in her mind. “He did?” she began, but she fell silent when Fallon pulled the towel from her hair and tossed it aside.

The firelight danced across his face, illuminating the strong line of his jaw and catching the waves of his hair where it curled ever so slightly around the rim of his ear. She looked into his eyes—dark and hot as he watched her—for the space of a heartbeat. Every muscle in her body went tense. His thumb traced the top of her cheekbone as he slid his fingers into her hair. The rough touch of his fingers dragged against her smooth skin. Would his kiss be the same?

Her gaze dropped to his lips and the secrets they held. This was it—the magical moment when Fallon would kiss her. The fire crackled beside them; flowers were all around; he was holding the side of her face in his palm. It was perfect. All there was left to do was actually survive the kiss without shattering like the fragile glass she felt she was made of at the moment. Her heart pounded in her chest as anticipation spun her stomach into knots in her belly.

“Isabelle, you’re shaking,” he whispered. In the next second, his hand was on her waist. He pulled her closer to his side until she was leaning back against his angled knee, his other hand still in her hair. He studied her as he ran his hand up and down her side, skimming over her body with only the simple linen shirt between them. His movements were slow and methodical. Thorough, just like Fallon. His palm slid around the outside curve of her breast before slipping back down into the dip of her waist and over her hip, then back up again. His eyes never left hers. Her breaths were shallow as tension built within her. She leaned into his body, her limbs turning liquid. He was so close, surrounding her, invading her senses.

She’d curled her fingers up into a fist as she waited to be kissed, but she relaxed now and reached for him, sliding her hand up his chest to slip around his shoulder. Where his shirt left his skin exposed, the heat of his body soaked into her fingers. All of Fallon she’d experienced so far was hot, strong, and inviting. She tilted her head into the hand that still held her cheek, his fingers in her hair, as she stretched her own fingers out, reaching, wanting more.

“Better?” he asked, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a hint of a knowing smile.

She couldn’t look away.

She tried to answer, but only a faint sound came from her throat as she studied the tempting curve of his lower lip. Her eyes drifted closed, their connection taking over her body.

He brushed his lips over hers, and she found herself leaning forward as he held her suspended in that moment with him. With every press of his mouth against hers, he drew her in. His touch was unhurried, as if they had forever to be like this. Yet something had sparked between them, and his slow and steady movements only made it burn bright and hot. She delved her fingers into his hair with one hand and reached up to brace herself against his shoulder with the other, wanting to soak up all that he offered. He was holding back, she could tell. Barely restrained power—she could feel it in his gentle hold on her head and the drag of his palm up her side. She dug her fingers into his arm and pressed her lips to his, pleading for whatever he was keeping from her. She wanted to know everything.

Only he pulled back a fraction, breaking their kiss to study her with heavily lidded eyes. He slipped his hand from her hair, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingers as his thumb passed over her bottom lip and tugged it down. She watched him, waiting.

She had no experience to lean upon. Certainly she’d flirted plenty, but that’s all it had ever been: innocent flirtation. She wasn’t like Victoria. She couldn’t command men about. She was just Isabelle. Kisses for her had been the sparkly, rose-scented clouds that dreams were made of. But Fallon was real. How did she tell him what she wanted?

He must have read her muddled thoughts somehow because a second later his mouth was back on hers, more commanding than before. She leaned into him, wanting more, and he bit at her bottom lip, the place that he’d toyed with only a second before with his thumb. Her lips parted as she allowed him access to her mouth.

He made a noise deep in his throat at her surrender, one that rumbled through her body with delicious tremors and pulled her closer in his embrace. Then he tasted her, his tongue tangling with hers. She roamed her hands over his back, his shoulders, as she arched into him.

He smoothed his hand up her side and cupped her breast in his palm, tracing hypnotic circles around the peak with his thumb all while plundering her mouth like the pirate she’d accused him of being. Taking. Demanding…but giving back more than she could handle.

That was when she realized all of her dreams of romantic kisses with handsome knights hadn’t prepared her for the reality of Fallon. Her head spun with desire. She slid her hand around the thick column of his neck to where his shirt gaped open, and she slipped her hand inside. The muscles in his chest flexed beneath her grasp.

He broke their kiss but didn’t pull back from her. Resting his forehead against hers, he murmured, “Isabelle, you were supposed to stop me.”

Her breath was ragged as he continued to tease the sensitive peak of her breast through the linen of his shirt. “Why would I stop you?”

He chuckled. “Right now, I haven’t a clue.” He moved to the side of her neck, and her head fell back to give him as much of her as he wished.

The stubble of his jaw abraded her skin even as his soft lips trailed down to the base of her throat. He caught the pulse that beat wildly for him there and tasted it with his tongue. Moving his lips over her collarbone, he dipped his attention to the breast he’d palmed earlier, grazing his teeth over the peak through the thin fabric of the shirt. The sensation sliced through her body, and she was reaching for him in the next second.

She pulled at the linen that he still wore, wanting to feel him, to taste him as she’d imagined doing earlier this evening. She didn’t have any idea what she was doing, but as long as she was with Fallon, nothing else mattered. She knew now that she didn’t have to fear the unknown with him. He held her steady in the palm of his hand, leading her with every touch, every press of his lips, and every flick of his tongue. Every soft murmur against her skin guided her forward.

He paused to study her, a question in his dark gaze, but in the next second he was reaching up to rip his shirt off over his head. She watched as the white linen slid up his body to reveal tightly corded muscles, a broad chest with a smattering of hair covering the surface, and powerful arms that returned to her before the shirt had even hit the floor.

She trailed a hand over his chest. He would rule the seas with ease just like this. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to a spot on his shoulder. His skin was hot beneath her mouth, and she inhaled the warm air that surrounded him. Unable to resist, she darted her tongue out and tasted him. Salty skin—the most masculine and delicious concoction she could have imagined. She smiled against his neck as he roamed a hand down her back and over her hip to grab her bottom. Her eyes widened at his touch, but she didn’t move away, only moved her mouth over his shoulder, breathing in everything about him. Learning. Memorizing.

When she lifted her head from his neck, he kissed her again with a thoroughness that left her disoriented when it ended. She blinked at him and saw him smile. It wasn’t the wry lift of the corner of his mouth she saw often on his face but a true smile. It was a smile just for her, and she knew it came from his heart—even if he would claim otherwise if asked. There was a truth in his smile, one that didn’t require words. He was happy here with her. He may have walked away two days ago when she’d tried to tell him she loved him, but tonight he was hers, she was his, and this was what he wanted. The magic that surrounded them was what stories of love were made of, and she wanted to hold on to it forever. Nothing beyond this room mattered.

“Our tale is one of pirates and wood nymphs,” he mused as he brushed his lips over hers again. “Kisses were always bound to happen. Untrustworthy fellows and all…”

“Fallon?”

He raised a brow in question but didn’t reply.

“I trust you.”

His hands froze on her as he looked into her eyes.

“I do. I’ve never been with another like this. And…I…wouldn’t want to. Only you.”

His eyes narrowed on her for a second, his question clear even though he said nothing.

It was true, she’d recently claimed she loved his friend, then had been on the path toward love with another before he’d brought her here. And really, she’d done the same over Fallon before she’d learned about his past. She’d been the ninny that her family often accused her of being, but so much had happened since she came here, even if it had been a short time. Now, sitting here in Fallon’s arms while her hair dried by the fire, she was in a different world, one she didn’t want to leave. He was the true noble and trustworthy gentleman of her dreams. She knew his deepest secrets and loved him all the more for what they revealed about him.

What she felt for him was larger than the color of his coat or his ability to dance the quadrille. She knew Fallon, and she loved him.

A knock sounded at the door, making her jump. Fallon didn’t flinch but smoothed her hair from her face and placed a kiss on her forehead. Releasing her, he grabbed his shirt with a sigh and pulled it over his head.

“Remain here, out of sight.” And with that, he left her.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and watched him answer the door. He leaned an arm against the opening above his head, blocking all view into the room with his body. She smiled at the disheveled look of his untucked shirt and rumpled hair. He appeared as if he’d been enjoying exactly what he had been before the knock at the door. She bit her lip and admired his tall, lean form from across the room.

A low male voice came from the hall. What was the nature of Fallon’s relationship with his staff? Now that she knew his great secret, it made her curious.

“…He says he can only meet with us tonight. Parliament will be in session tomorrow and… Otherwise the deal… The profitability of the job will…”

Fallon glanced back to her for a second before nodding and murmuring something to the man. A second later he shut the door and moved to retrieve his discarded clothing from the chair. “I have to go take care of some business. I don’t know when I’ll be free to return. I know we were…” He looked down at the cravat in his hand for a second before his gaze met hers. “I apologize for leaving you like this.”

He was going out now? At this hour? “You haven’t eaten. It’s late as it is.”

“I’ll have something sent up for you,” he offered as he gave his hastily tied cravat a final tug and stuffed his arms in his coat.

“I’m fine. I was thinking of you,” she countered.

“I’ll survive. It’s what I do.” He shrugged his coat into place, ran his fingers through his hair to push it back out of his eyes, and gave her a quick nod of farewell. “Get some rest.”

She stared after him for a second wondering what that footman had said to make him leave so quickly. “What about you getting rest?” she asked, but he was already gone.

The man survived, as he said, on little food, even less sleep, and not even an evening to himself. What kept him so terribly busy? Why was a footman alerting him to a business matter in the dead of night? Although he’d told her some of his secrets, apparently Fallon St. James was still a mystery.

* * *

“Come live with me and be my love.” The words floated into the dark room and Isabelle sat straight up in bed, her eyes wide open.

Singing. She’d heard distinct singing. It had not been a dream this time. Fallon wasn’t the sort to even hum, let alone belt out a verse in the dead of night. “Fallon?” she asked anyway. Staring at the flickering light visible beneath the door—the only light in the room—she waited for an answer that she knew wouldn’t come. Fallon had yet to return.

“Shut it!” came a bellow from somewhere beyond the locked door, making Isabelle gasp and pull her knees tight to her chest. Who had that been? A servant? Surely not, yet Fallon hadn’t mentioned any other houseguests to her.

The presence of another live person should bring her peace at such a time, but it also proved that the voice she’d heard was real. She wasn’t alone.

“Who’s there?” she called out, pulling the blankets closer around her in defense against the unknown.

“And we will all the pleasures prooooove.” The deep voice sang out again, striking and holding a rather high note at the end of the verse.

Isabelle raised a brow at the closed door. Whoever was singing seemed to be quite deep in their cups. Had Fallon brought friends back to his home? It didn’t seem likely. “He left to attend a meeting. He’s still out,” she murmured to herself.

“That hill and valley, dale and field,” the singer in the hall continued.

Isabelle could now hear laughter in addition to the singing—a woman’s laughter. She drew a sharp intake of breath and strained to hear more. “What is happening in your home, Fallon?”

“And all the craggy mountains yield.” Another chirp of laughter accompanied a distant thud.

Isabelle could barely breathe. There was someone else in Fallon’s home, and he wasn’t present to see to it. Would he have mentioned a scheduled houseguest to her? Or they could be intruders! Someone was here to steal from Fallon while he was away.

“There I will make thee beds of roses. And a thousand fragrant po-ooosies.” The last word was drawn out in a poor attempt at opera.

Falsetto? “Get a hold of yourself, Isabelle,” she muttered as she watched the gap of light under the door for movement. It was only an unfamiliar house, new surroundings… There were no intruders, only foxed houseguests of Fallon’s that he’d neglected to mention to her. Yet she pulled the blankets up to her chin all the same to hide from whatever was making such a racket.

A door slammed shut somewhere in the house, and Isabelle jumped. Then all was silent. She sat, waiting, listening, and wondering if she was safe here after all. But the longer the silence extended, the more she grew irritated with herself for fearing Fallon’s friends. She was certain whoever was in the hall earlier wasn’t the violent sort.

“Intruders with a plot to steal from Fallon,” Isabelle whispered as she fell back onto the pillows behind her and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve been reading too many of the books Mother sent for me,” she muttered. “I require something else to help fill my idle hours, or I’ll never sleep again.” Surely there was something within the walls of Fallon’s bedchamber that she could do—a project of sorts. With a gasp and a smile, she knew just the thing.