Samantha James (8 page)

Will you come with me to Paris?

What would he say if she said yes? He knew she wouldn’t; Fionna didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. And oh—how there was a part of her that longed to call his bluff!

But there was also a part of her that yearned and wondered what it would be like to do as he said. To allow herself to be spirited away, to cast away her worries and cares—to indulge in the moment, to indulge herself simply for the pleasure of it.

She had thought she could read him, but all at
once Fionna wasn’t so sure. He made her feel out of kilter, wholly off-balance. The other night in his arms, it had felt so good to lean on him, if only for a while. To forget the load she had borne for so long now.

And she could see it, God help her, she could, an erotic vision that ran through her mind, filled her world; her hands running over his shoulders—dark and burnished as his face. His form, long and muscular and naked, all fluid masculinity as he raised himself above her.

Heat seemed to gather at the place between her thighs. Her breasts were swelling, as if her nipples sought to stab through every layer of stiff, starched cloth. She knew that if she looked down—if
he
looked down—there would be no hiding the sight of her nipples standing pebbled and hard beneath her gown. She wanted to clamp her hands over them; better still, she wanted
him
to clamp those strong, masculine hands over them both and…

Reality weighted her, heavy as stone. In truth, she thought achingly, it had never left.

For it was up to her to see to her mother. There was no one else. There was only her.

And in that instant, Fionna almost hated Aidan for tempting her. For teasing her so. This was no doubt just a game to him. A game for a wealthy gentleman to land a woman in his bed—no matter who that woman was.

Fionna was a woman who did not play games. Levelheaded, he’d called her. And she was. She couldn’t afford to play games. Fionna Hawkes was too sensible. Too responsible. And indeed, she decided with a faint twinge of bitterness, Aidan was right about something else as well.

Family was everything.

She snatched her hand away and stood. “I think it’s time we left, don’t you?” She managed some sort of sound; for the life of her, she couldn’t discern what it was. “Goodness, will you look at the time. Why, it’s half past four already!” She turned, scrambling for her cloak, scrambling for composure the entire way home.

Once there, she didn’t go to the bookshop entrance. Instead, she went to the rear alleyway and fished her key from her reticule. She pushed it into the lock, opened the door wide, and stepped into the small hall in front of the stairs. She pushed back the hood of her mantle and started to turn, a polite good-bye on her lips. To her shock Aidan was already inside, had closed the door, and was stripping off his gloves.

Fionna blinked, then squared her shoulders. “Sir!”

“I was hoping you might ask me in. A spot of tea, perhaps?”

Tipping her chin to accommodate his height, Fionna looked him square in the eye. “Not today.”

Not ever.

“Ah,” he said.

Before she knew what he was about, he’d peeled off both of her ivory kid gloves, dropped them onto the marble-topped table, and taken both of her hands in his. Fionna was trembling. She thought of wrenching them away, but his grip had tightened ever so subtly, and to do so would make a scene. Better to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Better to pretend disinterest.

Yet in shock she watched him lift her hands to his lips, brushing his lips lightly against her knuckles.

“Do I embarrass you?”

At the feel of his mouth on her skin, everything inside seemed to melt.

“No,” she said faintly.

“Distress you?”

She stared straight ahead. Her gaze was level with the column of his strong, brown neck, the points of his shirt. “Aidan,” she said with a tiny shake of her head, very low. “I…”

Her jaw seemed to have locked in place—why, her entire body. She could say no more. She’d certainly lost the power to move.

And Aidan…she was heatedly aware of those sapphire eyes roving her features until she longed to scream.

“No need to say more,” he said very quietly. “I see I am to take my leave now.”

He released her hands. It came then, when she least expected it…perhaps when she should have
most
expected it.

His lips were rather cold from the frigid air outside.

His kiss was not.

And it was like nothing she’d ever imagined. She thought immediately of Raven and Rowan, for it was one thing to write about a kiss, having never truly experienced it…

And quite another to actually feel it.

And feel it she did, a kiss so heated and intense, it burned clear to the very bottom of her soul. The taste of him was like nothing she’d ever expected; the combination of warmth and cold turned to fire with blistering heat. His kiss sent heat blazing to every part of her.

His hands stole inside her cloak, closing around her waist and pulling her hard against him. She chafed at the burden of his greatcoat. She itched to rip it open, tear at his shirt until she could feel warm, masculine skin and truly know what it was to
feel
a man’s flesh.

And when he finally released her mouth, all Fionna could think was that she wished it would never end.

For a woman who had conveyed reluctance, she’d certainly been eager enough, hadn’t she?

She buried her nose between the third and fourth buttons of his coat, her eyes squeezed shut. Her emotions lay scattered in all directions.
Yet all she could think was that now she truly
was
embarrassed.

And most surely distressed.

His mouth lingered on the fine hairs of her temple. “Fionna?” he whispered.

“Yes?” A rather incoherent mumble into cold, fuzzy wool.

“I have a confession to make, my mysterious little miss.” She could feel him smiling against her forehead. “You would most definitely turn Alec’s eye. You’ve certainly captured mine. But if Alec were ever to display any fancy for you at all, I would simply have to claim all rights. After all, I saw you first.”

Fionna’s eyes snapped open.

He continued. “If that should chance to occur, I would have no choice but to fight him for you. My dear mother would be most disapproving, to see her sons brawling…of course, I would have to try to dissuade Alec some other way, to save face, you see. I love my brother, but I should hate to see him humiliated when I soundly trounce him.”

“You’re the larger of the two, eh?” Lord, but she sounded weak as a mouse.

“I daresay we’re evenly matched in size and height. But it’s not a question of strength; rather, strength of will, you see.”

Fionna had a very good idea where he was going with this. It was his way of telling her he would not be deterred, no matter her objections.

Little by little, order in her mind began falling into place once more.

“Now come, sweet. Permit me one last kiss before I leave.”

“I shall not! Aidan McBride, you’ve already trespassed where you should not. This is most indecent.”

“I don’t think either of us really care, Fionna.”

Fionna’s jaw dropped. “You are quite autocratic, you know. Why, I do believe you are the most arrogant gentleman I have ever met.”

“Yes, I believe you’ve already made your opinion rather clear,” he said with the merest thread of laughter in his voice. “And I can well imagine I am. Now come here, love.”

Sweet. Love.
She ought to have berated him for such familiarity. Then it didn’t seem to matter, for already his arms were tightening. He’d never released her, she realized hazily, so where else was there to go?

And with that kiss, every vestige of thought fled her mind. For that was how he made her feel—mindless and breathless and wanting.

Then it was over, and he was gone, with a rush of frozen air.

Fionna sank back onto the stairs. Madness, she thought shakily. It was madness the way he made her burn hot as fire, the way his mouth unraveled all resistance…the way all she wanted was to call him back and sink into his arms once more.

Madness, indeed.

If Fionna had thought that memories of Aidan McBride would recede, she was mistaken. In truth, Fionna would have preferred it so. But if
she could not banish the man as she once had, well, then…she might as well take full advantage of it.

She immersed herself in
Demon of Dartmoor
. Her writing flowed fast and furious over the next few nights. Raven and Rowan kissed—and kissed again, despite the fury of danger into which they had been plunged. For within the pair burned a frenzy of desire that raged in heart and mind and body…

The days were just as any others. She visited Mama on Tuesday afternoon, after the shop closed. The next day she waited on the occasional customer, reworking her manuscript in the back when the shop was vacant, plotting and pondering the evening’s work. She maintained her routine, walking most every night, ever cautious, varying her route and time a bit. All was quiet. Nothing plagued her, neither footsteps nor that furtive sense of someone near. How silly she had been! Surely it had all been a figment of her imagination.

Wednesday began the same as any other. It proved a slow day in the shop. Early in the afternoon she opened a package of maps a customer had ordered—the battlefields where Napoleon had fought his many engagements, and their history. She had ordered several other copies, which she placed on a shelf in the far corner of the shop, where other accounts of history’s generals were housed.

A stack of books remained tucked in the crook of one elbow. Far from the windows, aware that she couldn’t be seen by anyone who might chance to pass, she placed one hand on the small of her back, stretching this way and that. Her back ached a bit from bending over and unpacking her latest acquisitions.

There, she decided. Much better.

Humming a merry little tune, she turned.

A tall figure stood directly in her path—nary the span of a hand lay between them.

Fionna jumped. The books in her arm toppled to the floor. How on earth she managed to suppress a shriek she had no idea.

Aidan smiled at her, a lazily engaging smile—one that might have surely thawed the ice from surely the most hard-hearted of women.

Not so with Fionna.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “Did I startle you?”

“You know very well you did. Why, I didn’t even hear the bell!”

“Ah,” he said blithely, “probably because it didn’t ring.”

The declaration earned him a glare. “And why not?”

He assumed a distinctly thoughtful air. “Well, perhaps because I removed it before it
could
ring. I wanted to surprise you, you see.”

“Well, you not only surprised me,” Fionna admonished sternly, “you very nearly frightened the life from me!”

He bent and gathered up the books scattered about their feet. “Where shall I put these?”

“On the front counter will do.”

Fionna followed in his wake. When he laid the books on the counter and turned his attention back to her once more, she leveled on him a look of utter reprimand. “I thought you were in Paris for the week.”

“I was. Now I am returned, as you can see. And here with you.”

“Indeed.”

“So anxious was I to see you, Fionna, that I returned from Paris early.”

She snorted.

“You doubt me?”

Fionna pressed her lips together. He was so smooth, so glib. Despite her resolve to ignore him, she glanced back over her shoulder.

He regarded her, one dark brow slightly aslant—a devilish expression. Oh, yes, that was it, precisely. He was surely the devil in disguise. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened—a woman seduced by a handsome face while beneath lurked the soul of a devil. She’d employed that particular device in
Satan’s Path.

“What!” he exclaimed. “Why do you look at me so? Is there somewhere else I should be? No. I recall quite distinctly. My presence is not required at my office. Indeed, my presence is not required elsewhere—why, anywhere!”

Throughout his speech, he maintained that dev
il’s smile, that air of assured masculinity. No doubt he’d seduced many a woman with that mysterious smile. As it was, Fionna discovered she had to drag her gaze from his mouth. The memory of his kiss still scorched her lips, clear to her very soul. And now, seeing him once more…Her body was seized with a near-painful awareness.

She reminded herself rather sternly that Aidan McBride was no devil. And she was hardly in danger of being seduced!

“Your presence is not required here either, sir.”

“You are upset that I startled you.” He tugged off a glove and took her hand. “Allow me to make amends.”

Despite the cold outside, his flesh was warm, his fingers strongly curled around hers. She stared at his hand as if it were an adder—or tried to, anyway.

“There is no need to make amends,” she said shortly. “But I will thank you not to do it again.”

“Agreed.” He squeezed her fingers. “Now come with me. I have something I’d like you to see.”

“Aidan—”

“Come now. Must you always be the contrarian?”

She sighed, a sound of frustration or surrender, she didn’t know.

“A short walk,” he cajoled. “I should imagine your mother would have approved. You told me so yourself.”

“Aidan, are you listening? I can’t. I have—”

“Work to do,” he finished for her. “It’s admirable that you take your work so seriously. It’s a trait to be commended, you know.”

“Why, thank you,” she said dryly, finally tugging her hand away. She picked up a small stack of books and turned away. “Yet it’s you, my lord”—she was aware of him trailing directly behind her—“who always manages to keep me from my work.”

She halted, only to discover she now faced him directly.

The sound she expelled was one of utter impatience. “Aidan McBride, must you forever—”

Her eyes narrowed on a point directly behind one broad shoulder.

Aidan frowned. “What? What is it?”

Even before he turned, she stepped with determined precision around him and insinuated herself between him and the place where the shelves stretched up, nearly to the ceiling.

A dainty finger waggled. “What the devil,” she muttered, almost to herself.

Aidan watched as she dragged a book from its berth. Her expression turned from one of puzzlement to an utterly fierce scowl.

He took it from her. “What the devil indeed?” he said with a laugh. “
Demonology
by Elton Spears.” Glancing up, he read aloud the other titles on the shelf from where it had been withdrawn. “
Celtic Witchcraft and Spirits
by Sir James O’Malley.” He
glanced up at the titles beside it. “
Spells and Potions of the Middle Ages,
author anonymous.”

Fionna drew a deep breath. “You do not understand. That book does not belong there. It is out of order.”

“And?”

“And—it is out of order!”

Aidan shrugged. “No doubt someone looked at it and failed to replace it where it belonged. It must happen all the time.”

“That is true. But it is quickly set to rights, by me. I am a woman of regularity, Aidan, a woman of utmost regularity. Furthermore, no one was in this section of the shop today.”

Aidan opened his mouth. Before he could say a word, she spoke. Her tone, like her expression, was troubled.

“I am meticulous about such things, Aidan. The shop isn’t so large that it is difficult to keep track of things. All is in order when the shop closes, when it opens—every book in its proper place. Naught is amiss. Each day, every day,” she stressed. And that volume in particular, she thought to herself, for she had another copy upstairs that she used occasionally for her own works.

To Aidan it was a trifling matter, yet she remained adamant. Distressed, even. And mistaken, no doubt, not that he intended to point it out, not when she was so clearly upset.

He slipped the book back into place—its proper place. “There,” he pronounced. “And now naught is amiss in Fionna Hawkes’s Every Book and Cranny, so there is no longer any need to fuss.”

“Pray do not make light of me,” she said quietly.

“Come, love. Cease your fretting and walk with me. I beseech you, do not be miserly with your time.”

She flared. “I am
not,
” she pointed out, “fretting. I am not being miserly with my time. Moreover, I am certainly not your
love.
”

“Ah,” he murmured. “Fionna’s Law?”

“If you prefer to think of it that way,” she said pleasantly.

“Well, then, let me apprise you of Aidan’s Rules. You are altogether too serious, Miss Hawkes. Thereby, a breath of air is in order. A brief late-afternoon stroll will revive you, I suspect. Refresh you for whatever plans you have for the evening.”

“I have no plans for the eve—”

She stopped short; he grinned outright, his teeth very white in his tanned face. Her pulse was all at once beating like the wings of a bird.

Well, she decided, she’d fallen into his trap rather neatly, hadn’t she? This man had a way of making her feel things she would rather not feel; saying things she would rather not say. And when he gazed at her the way he was now, the warmth she saw there made her pulse leap high in her throat.

He offered his arm. “Shall we?” he murmured.

Fionna hesitated but an instant. “Let me fetch my cloak,” she said rather breathlessly. “I’ll be just a moment.”

Upstairs, her emotions were all a-riot. Her step quick, she retrieved her warmest cloak. She was eager, she realized. Tying her bonnet before the mirror, she regarded her image. Color had rushed to her cheeks; her eyes were bright. The incident with the book had disturbed her, and rightly so. It was just as she’d told Aidan—she was very thorough about such things. And yet, perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was mistaken. Heaven knew he’d distracted her thoroughly from the very moment they’d met!

Perhaps he was right in another way. Perhaps she was too serious. She couldn’t deny that her mother’s plight was ever in her mind.

And she liked him. She liked
being
with him. She enjoyed his wit, his engaging manner. Even—heaven help her—the way he’d begun to tease her. The things he said…the
way
he said them…the way he gazed at her sometimes. There was no mistaking it for anything but what it was—flirtation. Unsubtle. Unguarded. No, more than that. A smoldering desire—

Oh, she tried to pretend she did not know it for what it was. She pretended she did not like it.

But she did.

No, she could not have called herself an honest woman had she not responded to it. To
him.

And she was very much afraid he knew it.

They walked south toward St. James, until they came to an area of exclusive shops. Aidan did not hesitate, but walked straight toward a shop with wide, high, elaborately carved double doors. He held one open that Fionna could pass through.

“Good day,” greeted the shopkeeper smoothly. He was a short, well-dressed man, and Fionna had the feeling it took him but half a glance to peg Aidan as a man who could afford to spend a goodly sum if he so wished. “I am Mr. Francis. May I direct you to something in particular?”

“Mr. Francis.” Aidan shook his hand. “I should like the opportunity to peruse a bit. I’ve recently returned from India and am still in the process of searching for just the right clock for my entrance hall.”

Mr. Francis smiled. “Ah, I hear the heat in India can be quite ravaging. I should imagine you are glad to be back in England.”

“I am indeed. Particularly when time has such a tendency to fly while in the company of such a lovely lady.” He smiled at Fionna, a glint in his eye, then turned back to Mr. Francis. “Alas, however, one still has need of a timepiece or two, eh?” Before Fionna could blink, Aidan tucked Fionna’s hand firmly into the crook of his elbow, anchoring it there with the pressure of his own.

Fionna was too well mannered to make a scene, but the glance she shot Aidan was ful
minating. He merely turned slightly, which of course brought her body closer into his own. It was nigh impossible to maintain any distance between them!

Mr. Francis was oblivious. “May I point out, sir, the floor clock behind you. It’s a bit different than the usual, but the Earl of Harris has a similar one at one of his estates.”

Aidan and Fionna both turned. The clock he referred to was square and almost stocky, gaudily edged with gold.

“A remarkable piece,” commented Mr. Francis. “Keeps perfect time.”

“You are right, Mr. Francis. It is rather unusual.” Aidan slanted a glance at Fionna. “What do you think, Fionna?”

Fionna nearly choked. The clock was hideously gaudy.

And now the rogue was gazing at her with unabashed laughter. “Fionna?” he queried anew.

“It is just as you say”—she had to cough to conceal her mirth—“quite unusual.”

Aidan turned to Mr. Francis. “A bit ornate for my tastes, I believe.”

Mr. Francis waved a hand. “Well, we have an excellent array. Do you see anything you like, sir?”

“I see much that I like.” Aidan’s gaze had settled on Fionna’s lovely profile while she was busy looking around. She was unaware of the way his eyes slid hungrily over her profile, sliding down
to the frogs that held her cloak in place, as if he longed to slip each one from its berth and delve beneath to discover what lay beneath.

Mr. Francis had bowed low. “If you are in need of my assistance, you have only to call,” he said cheerfully.

After a moment, Aidan released her hand. “A bit of browsing perhaps?” he suggested.

Fionna nodded, all at once feeling uncharacteristically shy.

Aidan sauntered down the aisle in front of them, while Fionna turned and roamed down the next, quite enjoying herself, actually. Other than her lovely rosewood writing desk and some small accessories now and again, she’d never had the opportunity to properly choose her own furnishings. The furniture in her present apartments was lovely, but it had belonged to her mother. When they had moved to London, not only had they sold off the land and house, but much of the furniture, for there simply wasn’t room. Fionna had taken what she needed for her apartments.

At the end of the third aisle, she paused. Almost lovingly she ran a hand over the smooth, gentle curves of the clock before her. Memories flooded her, ones she hadn’t recalled for years now. There had been a similar clock in the entryway of their home. She used to play endlessly in front of it, lining up her dolls, watching her father sitting in his study on one side, her mother
busily stitching at her embroidery on the other side. And at night, it was the sound of those low, mellow chimes that oft were the last she remembered just before drifting off to sleep.