Page 18 of No One's Bride
Indeed, when Lord Denton moved the straw, she stumbled and had to grip the desk for support. Hidden in the depths of the box was not Thomas More’s vision of a perfect world.
It was Ailsa’s worst nightmare.
ChapterFour
Sebastian stared at the red leather grimoire, confusion and shock battling for prominence, though the emotions had as much to do with his body’s reaction to the scantily clad Miss MacTavish as they did finding the ancient spell book.
Much like the words bound within the tome’s old pages, the lady had her own dark secrets. By day, she posed as a plain spinster. An annoying bluestocking who shied away from convention. By night, she was the epitome of a Scottish temptress. A siren with a flame of red hair and a body made for sin. Curves so soft, Sebastian grew as hard as a butcher’s block whenever he touched her.
A vision of pert nipples and round buttocks flashed into his mind.
Why the devil hadn’t he noticed before?
But when a man was engaged in verbal warfare, he considered his battle plan, not what lay hidden beneath his enemy’s armour. That said, did the Scots not flash their tackle to intimidate their rivals? Had Miss MacTavish thought to unnerve an English gent in much the same manner?
Sebastian mentally shook himself.
His only concern should be how the lady had the blasted grimoire in her possession. And why she’d stumbled back in horror as if the inanimate object might leap out of the casket and seize her soul.
“It cannae be,” she gasped, clutching her throat.
“There was obviously a mistake with the delivery,” he said, clinging to logic as one might the mast of a sinking ship. “Did you check the details on the docket?”
She blinked rapidly. “I—I cannae remember.”
Lord Almighty! What had happened to the shrewd woman he considered his equal in the game of persiflage? This lady could barely catch her breath, let alone form a word.
Keen to get control of his emotions and the situation, Sebastian rounded the desk. He gripped Miss MacTavish by the upper arms and urged her to look at him.
“For a sensible woman, you’re acting like a dimwit.”
For a sensible man, he was acting like a rakehell. How could he be the voice of reason when his traitorous gaze dipped to the neckline of her nightgown?
Thankfully, she failed to notice. “Ye dinnae understand what this means. This amounts to more than a simple mistake at the auction house.”
He understood perfectly well. “At best, it’s a mistake we will rectify tomorrow. At worst, it amounts to robbery and deception.”
“’Tis worse than that.”
“The only thing worse than that is murder.”
“Or marriage,” she snapped.
“Marriage?” Had she lost all grasp of her senses? Scouring every recess of his mind, Sebastian focused on the only logical conclusion for her odd outburst. “Are you referring to the auctioneer’s assistant reading the love spell today?”
“I’m referring to the mystic’s prediction at the Bartholomew Fair.”
He snorted. “The mystic who told Helen she would marry a man who fell in a cowpat?” It sounded so ludicrous, he had paid little attention to the ladies’ excited chatter.
“Aye!”
“It was said in jest. Fortune tellers make their predictions sound exciting. They mean to give value for a crown.” And play havoc with an innocent mind. Torture a naive soul.
“All three previous prophecies came true.”
Sebastian shrugged. “It’s likely a coincidence. Crones persist in being vague. What has it to do with the mistake at the auction house?”
She pursed her lips and seemed reluctant to explain.
