Page 3 of A Rogue to Watch Over Me
A man strode through the door, the solidclunkof his boots against the wooden floorboards jarring her from the task at hand. Tall, dark, and effortlessly imposing, he met her eyes as he headed directly to the desk behind which Amelia stood.
“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured.
Oh, dear—indeed.
“It’s him.” Edith’s not-quite-a-whisper brought a hint of a smile to his full mouth.
Amelia’s breath caught.
Logan MacLain.
In the flesh.
Long-legged and lean-hipped, the sable-haired Scot possessed the look of a raider of old. Clad in an ebony coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, black trousers, and polished leather boots, Mr. MacLain certainly would have made a most dashing outlaw.
Pity he was not a buccaneer at the helm of a ship, pistol at his side, spiriting her away to an oh-so-decadent fate.
Good heavens.
She gave her head a little shake to banish the scandalous notion. What had come over her? She might not be an entirely proper lady. But she was, if nothing else, a sensible one. Perhaps Bea’s flights of fancy were contagious.
She fashioned a bland expression, even as her pulse sped, if only just a bit. She certainly was not expecting to see the man face to face—close enough to touch.
Close enough to detect the faint aroma of bergamot soap on his skin.
If not for the way he’d neglected to wear a tie around his neck—or to fasten the buttons at the collar of his pristine white shirt, for that matter—Mr. MacLain might have passed for a gentleman. Or perhaps not, she reasoned, even as her attention lingered over the vee of deep brown hair at his open collar. Decidedly improper.
Drawing her gaze like the glow of a flame lured a hapless moth.
With a little gulp of breath, Amelia forced her attention higher.
Ah, that might have been a mistake.
My, he was an appealing man. Logan MacLain’s straight, dark hair brushed his collar. Perhaps too long to be in fashion, yet she longed to touch the rich brown strands. His classicallycarved features were undeniably rugged, while his dark brown gaze held hers in a most intriguing manner.
Mr. MacLain was undeniably handsome. Undeniably bold. And so very tempting.
Don’t be a goose, Amelia.
Reining in her rebellious thoughts, she drummed her fingertips against the desk. Beatrice’s talk of the rogue around the corner had taken its toll. It wasn’t like her to be rendered nearly speechless by the mere sight of a man. A man who had no business crossing the threshold of her library, at that.
Amelia stepped away from her desk and squared her shoulders. She’d simply send him on his way. Of course, it was actually quite a simple task.
But when she spotted the gleam in his dark-as-midnight eyes, she sensed she’d made another mistake.
“Sir, this library serves an all-female clientele. Perhaps I might point you toward the establishment you seek.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I am in the right place, lass.”
This was certainly unexpected. Undeterred, she held her tone steady. “It would seem you have been misinformed. I must ask you to leave.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “Ye’re Amelia Stewart, are ye not?”
“I am.” Determined to project a look of confidence, she cocked her chin. “If you have business to discuss, I will provide you with the name of my solicitor.”
“I’ve no need to speak with anyone but ye.” He spoke in a rich, husky brogue, his tone quiet, yet firm and all too appealing.
He took a step toward her. Then another. One more stride, and he’d be close enough to touch her.
