Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“I can’t sleep.”
“Surely you’re fatigued.”
“Yes, but—” She bit her lip. “I need an animal in my bed.”
He could only stare at her.
“At home, I always have at least one in bed with me. Usually more. Bixby, of course, and a kitten or two. I can’t sleep alone.”
“What about the bird? Surely it can keep you company.”
“Delilah? She’s asleep in her cage. And even if she weren’t, one can’t exactly snuggle with a parrot.” Her eyes swept the sitting room. “I was hoping there might be a newspaper or book here, so I could pass the time.”
“Well, there isn’t.”
She pushed the door open further, revealing herself to be clad in nothing but a Grecian-inspired arrangement of draped bed linens. The graceful angles of her bared shoulders and arms stood bright against the darkness. Her knot of steam-dampened hair could be so easily undone. A flick of his wrist would send it spilling free, flowing like molten gold between his fingers.
And those bed linens . . . a single tug, and they’d be a puddle on the floor.
She was trying to kill him. He was sure of it.
“What on earth are you wearing?”
“You told them to take all my clothes for laundering.”
“I didn’t think you’d give them your shift, as well.”
“It was all mud at the hem. I couldn’t wear it in that state.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve no garments at all?”
Don’t tell me that.
Please tell me that.
She stepped forward, trailing a swoop of white bedsheet behind her like the train of a bridal gown. “Are you certain there’s nothing to read? I thought I spied a quarterly of some sort on the mantel.”
“No.”
She shrank behind the door again, looking like a kicked puppy. “You needn’t shout at me.”
“Go back to your room. Cover yourself with something other than bedsheets.”
“I have a corset and I have stockings. Shall I wear those?”
Jesus God.
Holding his trousers closed with one hand, he lunged to one side and snagged his shirt from where it hung drying by the fire. He tossed it at her, and it hit her in the face.
As she slowly drew it downward, she gave him an offended look. “Was that truly necessary?”
“Yes. Go on, then. I’ll be in once I’ve finished my letter.”
Once she’d finally retreated and closed the door behind her, Gabe exhaled in relief. He tucked his now-softened cock back into his trousers. There was no way he could take up where he’d started. God only knew when she might decide to pop in again, and what she might be wearing—or not wearing—if she did.
Instead, he sat down and wrote his letter—with pen and ink. He took his time choosing every last word. His penmanship had never been so legible. But a few paragraphs simply refused to stretch into hours. Eventually, he ran out of excuses and crossed the antechamber. As he opened the door halfway, he sent up a prayer.
Please let her be asleep in bed.
She wasn’t asleep. She wasn’t in bed.
She was on the bed. Clad in his shirt, which he’d been a bloody fool to loan her.
Draped in bedsheets, she’d been a Grecian goddess. An aloof deity meant to be worshipped, adored, even feared—but never embraced.
Seeing her swimming in the billowing waves of his shirt, however, with her fair hair hanging loose about her shoulders . . . ? The intimacy of it shook him to his core.
She looked not only desirable, but necessary. A part of him. The better part, of course. The part where his redeeming qualities might be hiding, if indeed he possessed any. Gabe doubted he did, but he found himself longing to search her thoroughly, inside and out, just to be sure.
This was a dangerous situation. No otters. No carriage. No coachman. Just a man, a woman, and a bed.
“Gabriel?” Her voice was husky, sweet. “Aren’t you coming in?”
Don’t do it, he told himself. Let her be. She’s safer without you. Close the door, turn the latch, slide the bolt, and nail it shut for good measure. Leave.
Instead, he entered.
Chapter Twelve
When his silhouette appeared in the doorway, Penny gulped. Audibly.
This was an ancient coaching establishment, centuries old. The floorboards had worn to a dark, grooved polish, and the floors tipped at drunken angles where the walls had settled into the ground. The rooms had low ceilings and even lower door mantels.
When Gabriel entered the room, this all conspired to impressive effect. He filled the doorway, looming and large, and as he walked toward the bed, the floor groaned and creaked beneath his feet.
Out of an instinct of self-preservation, she wriggled to the far side of the mattress and drew the quilt up to her neck. Rationally, she knew she had nothing to fear. Not from him, that was. But as he slung his formidable, masculine body onto the other side of the bed, she was a tiny bit afraid of herself.