Page 46 of No One's Bride
A secret lover? Her mind conjured an image of a shirtless Lord Denton. Did he have the capacity to write flowery love poems? No doubt such words were foreign to his vocabulary.
Ailsa assessed the room. “Under a loose board. Or on top of the armoire, too far for someone to reach without standing on a chair.”
The viscount snatched a chair from the corner of the room, stood on the seat and searched the armoire. Finding nothing, he brushed dust from his hands and coat before using his strength to move the heavy furniture.
Something hit the floor with a thud.
“I suspect we’ve found Hibbet’s secret papers,” he said, grinning.
Ailsa crouched and reached behind the armoire, stretching to grasp the spine of a small book. It wasn’t dusty, and a quick flick through the pages showed numerous annotations. “’Tis a book of magical sigils.”
She handed the book to Lord Denton, watched a frown appear between his brows as he examined the ancient symbols.
“These are identical to the ones found in Michael’s grimoire.” The pain of losing a beloved brother darkened his features, gathering in his blue eyes like a violent storm.
How long had he silently sought answers?
How many times had she mistaken grief for arrogance?
She touched him gently on the arm. “Perhaps ye might let me look at Michael’s book.” A problem shared was a problem halved. “Together, we might attempt to understand his frame of mind before he died.”
He looked at her hand before slowly meeting her gaze. “You have enough to contend with at present. And I’ve never spoken to anyone about Michael. I wouldn’t want to burden you.”
“’Tis nae trouble. Friends should help each other.”
“Is that all we are? Friends?”
His intense stare brought a change to the atmosphere. A wind of enchantment breezed over her, stirring the carnal hunger she fought to keep at bay. An invisible power compelled her to brush the rakish lock of hair from his brow and caress his cheek.
He closed his eyes briefly, a soft hum leaving his lips.
The sound held her captive until the distant ring of a bell in the street ruined the intimate moment. “Is that Mr Gibbs, do ye think?”
Like a hawk, his ears pricked.
Then they both heard the clip of footsteps on the landing.
“Quickly.” Lord Denton slipped the book into his pocket, grabbed her hand and drew her behind the closed curtain in the bedchamber. Thankfully, it overlooked the alleyway and not Broad Street. His finger came to rest on her lips. “Don’t make a sound.”
The space was so small they were squashed together—her breasts crushed against his solid chest.
“Who do ye think it is?” she whispered, trying to think about their predicament, not the sudden rush of heat pooling in her loins.
“We’re about to find out,” he said as the lock clicked and the front door creaked open. He snaked his arm around her waist, holding her tight to his body.
Ailsa’s heart hammered so hard she had to concentrate on calming her breathing. What if the murderer had been waiting to return? What if he needed to search the apartment and found them hiding behind the curtain? What if nothing ever felt as good as being held in Lord Denton’s embrace?
“If we’re found, I’ll attack him while you run,” he whispered against her temple. “Run and don’t stop until you reach Mr Gibbs. Do you understand?”
Now was not the time to argue, so she gave a curt nod.
Sensing her anxiety, the viscount pressed a kiss to her forehead, a reassuring brush of the lips to remind her she was not alone. Needing to reinforce the point, his mouth came to rest on her cheek, moving slowly back and forth in a caress that did nothing to settle her rising pulse.
Madness was in the air tonight.
Why else would she turn her head and kiss him?
Amid the quietness, they stood still, their mouths touching, their breath mingling, mating. He coaxed her lips apart with soft teasing strokes, tightening the coil of lust in her belly.
