by Sara MacLean
He shifted in his chair at the thought, the tightness in his breeches reminding him of his location—of his mistake.
He had never been so frustrated in his life: frustrated by his inability to understand the situation into which he had been thrust; frustrated by the compelling female who had turned him inside out earlier; and frustrated by the godforsaken rain that was trapping him in this house.
“She’s got to be in some kind of trouble.” He stood again, returning to the window before smacking his palm against the wainscoting and turning back to Rock. “This incessant rain does not bother you? ”
One side of the Turk’s mouth kicked up in a ghost of a smile. “Even men of our ilk cannot move mountains, Nick.”
The words rankled. “I do not want to stop the rain, Rock. I simply want to be able to leave this house.”
“Do you? ”
Nick’s eyes narrowed on his friend. “Yes. You doubt me?”
“Not at all.” Rock returned to his book, refusing to rise to Nick’s bait.
He’d always been difficult in that way.
After a long moment, Nick threw open the window and leaned out into the darkness. There was only the storm beyond the house, nothing but a black, yawning emptiness.
He had wanted her that afternoon.
And now that he could not understand her, he wanted her more.
He gritted his teeth.
A drink would do him a not insignificant amount of good.
He pulled himself back inside, ignoring his wet hair, and moved to the sideboard, tearing open the cabinets there. “There has got to be some kind of liquor in this house.”
“You are doing it again, you do know that, don’t you?”
Nick snapped to attention, turning to face Rock. “I am afraid I do not follow.”
Rock’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he went back to reading his book. “Of course you don’t.”
Nick’s gaze narrowed at the words. “What does that mean? ”
Rock did not look up. “Only that, for as long as I have known you, you have been an easy mark for a mysterious woman. Even easier for a mysterious woman in trouble. Do you deny it? “ Nick stayed silent. Rock continued. “I pulled you from a prison in the heart of Turkey, barely able to move from the beating you had received because of a woman. We’ve been in more fights than I can count because of your desire to save every girl you’ve deemed mistreated. But, leaving aside the fact that we came to Yorkshire to save some girl you’ve never met, of course … you are right. We are not at all trapped in this room, with nothing but books to entertain us, because of your misplaced sense of duty to every female that you meet.”
Nick scowled. “Did you not just advise me on the immovable essence of nature? If it were raining any we would be required to build an ark. I did not summon the weather, Rock.”
The Turk’s black gaze cut across the room. “You did not. But if Lady Isabel were Lord Reddich, would we have become trapped here in the first place?”
Nick did not like the question.
When Rock silently turned a page, he crouched low, hunting for a bottle. At this point, he was not willing to be picky. He’d drink what he could find.
Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed a night like tonight—the weather prohibiting him from leaving the house, from having to see or be seen.
Not tonight. Not while he was under this roof. Under her roof.
Not when thinking about this particular storm made him think about auburn curls dripping with rainwater, the lovely swell of a breast slick with the remnants of the afternoon storm.
He gave a short, harsh laugh—devoid of humor. He was in a strange house, in a strange library, with Rock and his notes on an orgasmic Roman statue. He was lusting after the most perplexing female he had ever met—who happened to be the mistress of the most perplexing house he’d ever visited.
And he was expected to do it all without a drink.
The universe was clearly conspiring against him.
He wanted out of this room.
Turning on one heel, Nick headed for the door, the quick movement attracting Rock’s attention once more.
“Where are you headed? ”
“I am returning to the statuary. I cannot concentrate here.”
“Interesting.”
Nick stopped at the dry tone, throwing a wicked glare in his friend’s direction. “Is there something you would like to say, Rock? ”
Rock smirked. “Not at all. I am merely amused that we fled the clawing masses of women in London only to land ourselves here—with an even more dangerous mass of women.”
“That is something of an overstatement. They are harmless.”
“Are they? ”
Annoyance flared at the casual question. One day in this house and Nick was spoiling for a fight. “I am going to work.”
He continued across the room and yanked open the door, determined to put Isabel from his mind.
If only she hadn’t been in the hallway, he might have had a chance at doing so.
But she was there, frozen in movement, only the swirl of her skirts indicating that he had startled her. Nick felt a pang of disappointment at her attire—appropriately feminine, but far too conservative for the bold, exciting woman from earlier in the day. The dress was black, so black that, with her back to him, she might well have faded into the darkness if not for his keen awareness of her.
After a long moment, the tension between them became too much and she turned her head slightly, the light spilling from the library catching the angle of her jaw, the line of her neck, and Nick was mesmerized by the alabaster skin there.
She spun back, and the scent of orange blossoms surrounded him. He ignored the snake of pleasure that wound through him at the surprise in her wide eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
He relaxed into the door frame and spoke. “Lady Isabel. Was there something you needed? ”
It was her library, for heaven’s sake. And her hallway. Well, James’s library and hallway, more accurately, but the point was, it wasn’t Lord Nicholas’s library.
And so there was absolutely no reason for Isabel to feel as though she were an errant child, caught skulking about. She had a viable claim to the space.
She could skulk if she liked.
Except … the way he was leaning lazily against the doorway, as if he had nothing better in the world to do but watch her … and smirk at her … made her feel as though he knew that she had been standing outside the door to the library for nearly a quarter of an hour, trying to gather the courage to enter the room.
She had decided to visit them in the hope that she could distract them from sharing their information. It had taken the combined efforts of Gwen and Lara to get her here, once the decision was made.
Every moment she had stood staring at the immense door, she had told herself, was a moment during which Rock could be regaling his friend with tales of his discovery in the stables. Or a moment during which Lord Nicholas could be regaling his friend with tales of his rooftop adventure earlier in the day.
She had been about to knock.
She really had.
Until she had decided that she really should make certain that he received a proper breakfast in the morning. And she had headed for the kitchens.
He had chosen that exact moment to open the door.
And he’d been so casual about it! Infuriating man.
Well. She, too, could sound casual.
“Lord Nicholas! Just who I was hoping to find!”
Hm. That did not sound at all casual. Rather, that sounded like a startled piglet.
Isabel quashed the little voice in her head.
“I am glad that I could accommodate your wishes,” he drawled.
He was backlit by the light from the library, the flickering candlelight from the dark, dim hallway barely enough to illuminate his strong features, but she could see the small smile play across his lips.
“You are teasing me.”
“Only a littl
e,” he acknowledged, holding the door wide to allow her entrance.
She stepped inside, just barely over the threshold, and he closed the door, trapping her.
Isabel paused, a foreign pang twisting in her gut as she considered the warm room, taking in the papers scattered across the unused writing desk on one side of the space. Regina had checked in after she had seen them safely ensconced; it appeared that they had made quick work of making themselves comfortable once the footman had left.
In one corner of the room, Rock was closing a window. He turned when he heard the door and offered Isabel a friendly smile and a short bow. “Lady Isabel,” he said, “I was just checking the force of the rain.”
“It has started to abate,” Isabel said, eager for the safety of the topic. “I should think the roads will be passable tomorrow.”
“How frequently do you find yourself without access to town?” Nick asked.
“It is not uncommon. Part of Townsend Park’s charm is its seclusion from the outside world. There are worse things than being flooded—or snowed—in.” At his noncommittal grunt, she added, “Of course, our belongings are not in town. I am sorry that you are so very inconvenienced.”
He watched her closely for a long minute, and Isabel resisted the urge to reach up and check the state of her hair. Instead, she willed herself to meet his gaze and remain as calm as he seemed. The silence stretched between them, and she took in his wet hair, the lone drop of rainwater making its way down his nose. Had he been outside?
The thought had barely formed before Nick took a small step toward her. When he spoke, the words were low and liquid, setting her nerves instantly on edge. “Was there something you needed from us?”
Why was she there?
To keep him from discovering their secrets. And ruining everything.
Well. That was not an appropriate response.
For a brief moment, she was paralyzed, clutching the bottle she held tightly in her hands. Finally, the amusement flaring in his blue eyes propelled her into speech.
“I brought you drink,” she announced a touch too loudly, holding the dusty bottle aloft. At the blank stares of the men, she pressed on, the words coming altogether too fast. “I haven’t any idea what it is—we’ve a crate of it downstairs—in the cellars—there are other things down there, too—but this seemed most useful at this moment.” She paused, then dug herself deeper. “Well, not for me—I certainly don’t need to drink—but I understand that men—like you—well, perhaps you’d like it.” She stopped then, taking in their surprise, their raised brows, their utter stillness in the face of her flood of words. Shut up, Isabel.
She flattened her lips into a thin, tight line and held the bottle out toward Nick, a peace offering of sorts.
He took it, his cool blue gaze focused on her. “Thank you.”
The words, low and quiet, shot straight to the core of her, turning something there to liquid. A blush rose on her cheeks, unbidden and without cause. She looked away from him, to Rock—larger, darker, and, somehow, infinitely safer. She took a steadying breath. “You are welcome.”
Nick’s hands worked at the wax seal on the neck of the bottle, and Isabel was drawn to the movement. She noted the care, the certainty of his fingers—the same fingers that had caressed her that afternoon. They were bronzed from the sun, perfectly manicured, but strong and capable—nothing like the feminine hands of the wealthy men from aristocratic families whom she had met in the past.
They were quite lovely, really.
She was thinking about the man’s hands. When she snapped her attention away from them and returned her gaze to his, she noticed the knowing gleam there, as though he could read her thoughts. As though he knew that she was admiring his hands.
How very embarrassing.
For a fleeting moment, Isabel considered escaping the room—running and never looking back. When Rock tilted his head in her direction, however, she was reminded of the reason that she had disturbed the men in the first place.
She must stay and entertain them. And keep Rock from revealing the secrets of Minerva House, and Nick from revealing the secrets of its mistress.
If she were not the subject of such intense scrutiny, she would have stomped her foot. Men were trouble, indeed.
Masking her frustration with what she hoped was a cordial smile, she said, “You will need glasses, of course.”
Nick nodded once, and headed for the sideboard on the far end of the library, crouching low and retrieving three crystal tumblers.
Isabel did not conceal her surprise. “You have made quick work of making yourself at home. I see that you already know the location of our barware? ”
He offered her a sheepish grin, a dimple flashing on one cheek, and she had a glimpse of the troublesome, charming child he must have been.
She found she liked that idea.
“Just a cursory reconnaissance, I assure you. Rock was watching me the whole time—he shall vouch for my behavior as entirely aboveboard.”
Isabel looked to Rock, who, in mock seriousness, announced, “Lord Nicholas is ever the perfect gentleman.”
Isabel couldn’t help her smile when she returned her attention to Nick and said, “I am afraid I find that very difficult to believe.”
The words were out before she could think better of them, and she was immediately aware of the possibility that Rock would read some clandestine event into them. Not that such a leap would be incorrect. Wide-eyed, she quickly shifted her attention back to Rock, uncertain of her next step. When the Turk laughed, big and brash, she let out a little breath that she had not known she had been holding.
“I am sorry that we haven’t anything better than … whatever that is,” she said, eager to change the subject, waving one hand in the direction of the dusty bottle in Nick’s hands. “We do not have much cause for liquor, I am afraid.”
Nick poured two fingers of amber liquid into each of the glasses, then crossed the room to offer the drink to Rock and Isabel.
“No, thank you,” she said, moving closer to the paperstrewn desk at the far corner of the room. She waved one hand in the air as she added, “I should like to know what it is, though.”
Nick took a drink, then leaned against a low bookshelf, watching Isabel with a heavy-lidded gaze. “It is brandy.”
Her head snapped up from the desk. “Really? ”
“Yes. Rather spectacular brandy, I might add.”
Isabel looked to Rock for confirmation. When the Turk nodded his agreement, she said, “I confess I am surprised. I cannot imagine that my father would have allowed a case of spectacular brandy to languish away in the caverns beneath this house. Not when he could have put it to perfectly good use in his own belly.” She returned her attention to the table. “I am very impressed with the quantity of work you seem to have accomplished in a mere afternoon.”
Nick moved toward her, glass in hand. “I am eager to get back to the work once daylight arrives.” He paused, considering her for a long moment before returning the conversation to her father. “How do you think your father came into possession of a case of French brandy? ”
Isabel considered the crystal tumbler in his hand, the wash of amber liquid beneath his strong fingers. She remembered the trip when her father had brought the liquor home. It was the last time she had seen him. The time he had tempted her with a trip to London, with the promise of a season. The time she had thought he had changed … until she discovered his plans to marry her off to the highest bidder.
She’d gone to her mother, begged her to help. To come to her defense. And her mother, desperate to regain the love she had lost, had refused to help her. Had called her selfish.
The earl had left within a week, anyway, apparently realizing that an unwilling, dowry-less daughter wasn’t worth very much on the marriage mart.
He’d never returned.
And Isabel’s mother had never forgiven her.
Well. She certainly could not tell Lord Nicholas the truth.
Isabel did not look up, willing her voice to remain steady. “I learned long ago, my lord, never to question my father’s actions. I imagine the brandy arrived by the same means as everything else in this house—nefarious ones.”
“Perhaps not.” She could hear the care in his tone.
“Yes, well. We shall never know now, shall we?”
She was no longer focused on the papers at which she was looking, but Isabel reached out, moving one page to the side, nonetheless. Her gaze ran, unseeing, across his words, until she registered the strong, fluid lines of the word orgasm, and started.
What was he writing about?
She tilted her head to gain better access to the words on the paper before he interrupted, amusement in his tone. “Lady Isabel?”
She looked up with a too-bright smile, ignoring the heat that spread across her cheeks, and met Nick’s smug, amused gaze. The infuriating man knew precisely what she had read.
He was wicked.
Well. She would not let him get the better of her.
“Please. Do not stand on my account. Shall we all sit?” She waved one hand at the cluster of chairs where Rock had set aside his book, and said, “Did you find something of interest to read on this horrid night?”
It was the Turk’s turn to look sheepish at her question. He moved quickly to the book, lifting it into his enormous hands before she had a chance to see it. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
One side of Isabel’s mouth lifted in anticipation. “Oh? What is it?”
Nick’s snicker attracted her attention for a brief moment, but when she looked at him, he lifted his glass to his mouth and, with a shrug, said, “I haven’t any idea what he’s reading.”
She looked back at Rock, and the look he tossed in Nick’s direction could only be described as violent.
What had started as a means to redirect the subject from her father now became a matter of utmost importance. Was the Turk blushing? “Rock? ”
“The Castle of Otranto”
Isabel gave a little laugh at the title—she couldn’t help it. The gothic novel was one of the girls’ favorites, the convoluted story of a doomed lord, a forced marriage, and the rise of a prince. It was decidedly not the type of book one would expect to find in the hands of a giant.
