A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 12

She'd never seen so many men crammed into one space in her life.

Flick stood at her room window and looked down on the sea of male humanity filling the courtyard of The Angel. She'd been right in guessing that the prizefight crowd would congregate at The Angel; the throng seethed as men entered from the street while others drifted into the bars, returning with jugs and glasses. The courtyard of The Angel was the place to be.

Pitch flares had been placed around the courtyard, their flickering light strong enough for her, up in her chamber at the front of the house, to see faces below clearly. She'd snuffed her candles before parting the curtains. Luckily, the windows were hung with lace as well as the heavier drapes; she could stand close to the glass and peer down without risking anyone seeing her.

The noise was amazing. A multilayered rumble, it rose like a cacophany of deep-toned bells struck and rung without order. The occasional gust of laughter erupted, now from one group, then another. From her vantage point, she viewed the scene like some godlike puppeteer.

She'd been watching for close to an hour. The inn's bars were doing a roaring trade; she was grateful the staff had found time to bring up her dinner on a tray. She'd eaten quickly, then the serving girl had returned and taken away the tray. Since then, she'd been watching Bletchley.

He was halfway down the courtyard out in full view, a heavy figure in an old frieze coat, his scarlet neckerchief a useful feature to distinguish him from the many other older men in unfashionable attire. The fashionable and unfashionable mingled freely, their shared interest transcending social bounds. Bletchley stood, feet wide, his bulk balanced, quaffing ale and nodding as those in his circle expounded their theories.

Gillies was watching him, too. Bletchley had gone into the inn twice-Gillies had followed, sliding away from the group he was part of to slip inside. Each time he'd returned to resume his position as Bletchley did the same, a fresh pint in his hand.

Flick shifted her weight, then folded her arms. She was tired of standing, but if she sat, she wouldn't be able to see into the courtyard. The discussions below were gaining in intensity; in a number of groups, she saw money being waved about. There were gentlemen aplenty, well dressed, with the long aristocratic features that screamed wealth and affluence. Flick studied various hard faces, and wondered if they were members of the syndicate. Perhaps it was a group of blades, the most dangerously irresponsible of the younger gentlemen. She'd heard tales of incredible wagers; such men might well need cash, and they didn't appear to possess overmany scruples. But who? Who?

Her gaze passed over the crowd, then returned to Bletchley to see him squinting at an old watch. Tucking it back into his pocket, he drained his pint, collared a harassed serving boy and handed it to him, then, with a nod, excused himself to his cronies and headed away through the crowd.

Flick straightened. Bletchley wasn't heading inside.

Lumbering through the throng, tacking around groups, he made his way toward the far end of the courtyard. Flick lifted her gaze past the masses and looked out beyond the flares at the dark expanse of Angel Hill.

She knew that the long, sloping hill led up to the abbey, although she couldn't see it. The light from the flares ended abruptly just beyond the courtyard; Angel Hill was cloaked in the deep dark of a country night.

"Damn!" Flick relocated Bletchley, still struggling through the crowd. She searched for Gillies and found him; he'd seen Bletchley move, and was on his trail.

Flick sighed with relief-then froze. Someone had grabbed Gillies. He struggled to free himself, only to have more men range about him, smiling and laughing. She caught sight of Gillies's face-he was smiling and laughing, too. He also looked desperate.

One man slung his arm about Gillies's shoulders; another grasped his coat in friendly fashion and started talking nonstop. Flick saw Gillies cast a quick look around-saw him try to turn, but his friends wouldn't let him.

"Oh, no!" Aghast, Flick glanced to where Bletchley was nearing the far end of the courtyard, bounded by a few scraggly bushes, then she looked at Gillies, trapped and helpless in the middle of the crowd.

From where Gillies was, he couldn't see Bletchley's direction. He also didn't know where she was-that she could, if he looked her way, direct him. Gillies had lost Bletchley, and there was no way she could set him right-she could hardly fling up the window and shout down.

Lifting her gaze, Flick saw Bletchley reach the courtyard's far boundary. He didn't halt; he didn't look around. Pushing through the low bushes, he stepped out purposefully, into the dark. Heading straight up Angel Hill.

To meet with his masters-she just knew it!

Smothering a scream, she whirled and grabbed her cloak. Her veil went flying, disappearing over the edge of the bed; the pins clattered on the floor.

She didn't have time to stop. Dragging the cloak about her, she hauled the deep hood over and down so her face was heavily shadowed. Fingers flicking frantically, she cinched the cloak's laces at her throat, checked to make sure that the cloak was fully about her, then threw the bolt on the door and slipped out, pausing only to lock the door behind her.

Hurrying down the dimly lit corridor, she dredged her memory for all knowledge of the inn. She was on the first floor; the long corridor that crossed hers ended in a side stair leading down to a door just around the corner from the courtyard. Reaching the intersection, she turned and hurried on. Most of the inn's patrons were downstairs; there was no one about. All but running down the narrow carpet, Flick prayed her luck would hold.

She reached the narrow side stair; clinging to the shadows, she descended. The small hall before the side door was empty. She stepped out to cross it-

A door in the wall to her left crashed open. Two maids hurried through, carrying trays of used pots and jugs. They glanced at Flick, plastered back against the wall, but they didn't stop-they rushed on, down the corridor.

Flick dragged in a breath, steadied her pounding heart, and determinedly stepped to the door. It opened easily.

It gave onto a narrow cobbled area around the corner from the courtyard. From her left, noise rolled out and away, into the dark; the flickering flares made little impact on the night beyond.

Closing the door behind her, Flick faced Angel Hill.

Unfortunately, the cobbled area was used to house crates and barrels; it had been extended away from the inn, encroaching on the flank of the hill, where it ended in a high retaining wall. The only way she could gain the hillside and follow Bletchley was to skirt around to her left, cutting through the area dimly lit by the flares.

And risking someone-some man in the courtyard-seeing her.

Flick hesitated. Her back to the wall, safe in her dark cloak in the shadows, she thought of Demon, and Dillon, and the unknown syndicate.

Then she thought of the General.

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened and stepped away from the wall.

She didn't look back-didn't risk the light gleaming on her face or hands. She walked quickly and silently across, skirting the low bushes edging the courtyard and onto the lowest slope of Angel Hill.

Without pause, she walked on, even after the light of the flares had died behind her. Only when the night had swallowed her up and the noise of the courtyard was fading did she stop, draw a deep, reviving breath, and exhale with relief. Then, lifting her skirts, sending fervent thanks to her guardian angel, she hurried on. In Bletchley's wake.

After arranging stabling for Ivan with The Angel's harassed grooms, Demon strolled under the arch separating the courtyard from the stable yard. He stopped and scanned the scene just as Flick appeared briefly in the weak light of the flares on the rising ground on the far side of the courtyard. If he hadn't been looking for her, if she hadn't taken complete possession of his mind, he would have seen nothing more than the outline of a swinging cloak, a shadow against the deeper shadows of the night.

As matters stood, that was enough-he knew it was Flick.

He didn't know where she was going, but that wasn't hard to guess. Swallowing his curses-saving them for later-he stepped into the crowd.

And immediately, inwardly, cursed some more.

He couldn't race after her.

He had more than a few friends there-he'd known of the fight, and would probably have attended if he hadn't been so busy with Flick and her syndicate. His friends, of course, thought he'd come to join them.

"Demon!"

"You took your time. Where're you staying?"

"So-who've you got your money on?"

Adopting an expression of fashionable boredom on his face, Demon answered at random.

If his friends saw him striding into the night, they might follow out of idle curiosity. There was, however, an even greater danger. Many of the young bloods, bucks and blades considered him a man to emulate. If they saw him racing off up Angel Hill, they might send up a hue and cry, and then Flick would find herself enacting the role of fox pursued by a pack of slavering hounds.

Wonderful. This time, Demon vowed, he would strangle her.

After he rescued her from whatever danger she was so determinedly marching into.

Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled and joked; gradually, he made his way to the far side of the courtyard. Only by telling one friend that he was going to join another did he manage to progress at all.

He caught sight of Gillies in the throng; it was instantly apparent his henchman had problems of his own. Demon considered, but detaching Gillies from his mates without attracting attention would prove difficult, and he didn't have the time. Flick had long since disappeared.

Finally reaching the bushes bordering the cobbles, Demon paused to scan the throng. He shifted his weight, first this way, then that, then frowned, turned, surveyed the bushes, then stepped through them. Hopefully, anyone who'd seen him would imagine he was merely caught short and looking to relieve himself.

He walked, definitely but with no panic, out of the circle of the flares.

Then he strode out.

He stopped once the dark had closed around him. He looked back, but could detect no sign of pursuit or interest. Satisfied, he turned back to Angel Hill and the slumbering abbey on the ridge. Somewhere ahead of him Flick was climbing, and, he assumed, ahead of her was Bletchley.

And ahead of Bletchley…

Lips thinning, Demon set his jaw and climbed faster.

Higher up the slope, Flick had run out of curses. Which was just as well, because she needed to save her breath. She'd climbed Angel Hill numerous times through her childhood, but she'd never climbed it in the dark. What was in full light an easily conquered slope, at night took on the guise of an obstacle course. The overall slope was even, but the terrain was not-there were dips and ridges, foot-sized holes and sudden ledges, all of which seemed to appear beneath her stumbling feet at the moment she least expected them.

And, to top it all, there was the mist.

Before leaving the inn she'd noticed the night was dark-only when she'd left the comforting flares far behind did she realize that it was, in fact, pitch black. Heavy clouds blanketed the moon; there was not even starlight to light her way. Her only landmark was the abbey and the cathedral tower, denser silhouettes on the crown of the hill, outlined against the ink black sky.

Unfortunately, as she left the town and The Angel behind, she ran into more ribbons of mist wreathing the shoulders of the hill. The higher she went, the thicker the mist became, causing her to lose sight of her landmark. Luckily, the cloud cover was not absolute-the moon occasionally shone through, giving her a chance to get her bearings.

During one such fitful illumination, she saw Bletchley laboring up the slope at least two hundred yards ahead of her. Flick thanked her stars she hadn't lost him. She battled on, slogged on, slowing when the moon again disappeared. Another wide band of mist slowed her even more.

Again the moon sailed free; Flick frantically searched the slope ahead, breathing again only when she sighted Bletchley's lumbering form.

He was much higher now, approaching the abbey. Luckily, the mists thinned toward the crest; she could see him clearly. It rapidly became apparent his goal was not the abbey but a thick stand of bushes surounding three trees a little way below and to the west of the abbey wall.

Flick's urgency eased. Bletchley's meeting with his masters would take more than a few moments. There was no need to scramble and risk alerting them to her presence. Far better to take her time and approach silently.

The clouds cooperated enough for her to see Bletchley round the stand of bushes and disappear from sight. In the time before the clouds caught the moon again, she didn't see him reemerge. In the same interval, she scanned the slope all about the bushes, but saw no one else.

Telling herself that Bletchley would definitely be on the other side of the bushes, she forced herself to climb with care, then slipped silently into the bushes' shadow.

Ears straining, she listened. She heard a gruff word, then nothing more. The moon broke free of the clouds and shone down, lighting up the area. Flick took that as a sign. Metaphorically girding her loins-she'd come too far to retreat-she edged to where she would be able to see around the bushes, exercising supreme care to avoid stepping on twigs, or leaves, or doing anything to warn Bletchley and whoever he was meeting of her presence.

She was successful-Bletchley and his companion remained totally unaware of her.

Then again, they would probably have remained oblivious of anything short of a charge of Hussars.

They were decidedly engrossed.

From the corner of the stand of bushes, Flick looked down on the meeting in progress, first in stunned surprise, then with increasing distaste.

The female Bletchley had come to meet lay flat on her back, her skirts rucked up to her waist, exposing chubby, dimpled white thighs, currently clasped about Bletchley's equally chubby, equally dimpled bare buttocks. Said buttocks were rising and falling in a staccato rhythm, quivering and tensing and shaking like jelly as Bletchley strained up and down, plunging himself into the woman's body.

Despite her carnal innocence, Flick knew what they were about. She knew how animals mated, but she'd never seen humans perform the same act. For one long instant, the sight transfixed her-in horrified fascination.

The sounds that reached her were not words about racing, or horses-certainly not the names she wanted to know. Grunts, gasps, pants and moans were the extent of the conversation.

Disgusted yet inhibited from even muttering an oath, she curled her lip, gritted her teeth on her temper, and swung away. Eyes on the ground, she strode back for the inn, heading downhill, directly away from the bushes.

After all her work-all the risks she'd taken! She had half a mind to scream with vexation and hope the sound gave Bletchley a turn. At precisely the wrong moment.

Men!

She strode into the first swath of mist-and ran right into one.

Her nose stubbed against his chest, burying itself in a soft cravat. She sucked in a breath to scream-and recognized his scent. His arms had locked, iron shackles about her, but as her instinctive rigidity eased, he relaxed his hold. She looked up at him.

He glared down at her. "Where-"

"Shssh!" Wriggling free, she tossed her head, indicating the bushes behind her. "Bletchley's back there."

Demon studied her face. "He is?"

Without meeting his eyes, Flick nodded, stepped about him and continued toward the inn. "He's with a woman."

Demon looked toward the bushes, then back at Flick, who was stalking down the slope. "Ah." His lips twitched, but only momentarily. The next instant, he caught up with her. "Actually," he drawled, steel rippling beneath his words, "I didn't come here to discover what Bletchley was about."

She didn't immediately reply, but just strode on. "I followed him here. You were in London. You weren't coming back until tomorrow."

"I changed my mind-a lucky circumstance. If I'd returned tomorrow, God only knows what trouble you might by then have succeeded in bringing down on your head." His clipped accents and the underlying force behind his words held a dire, not-at-all-subtle warning.

Unrepentant, Flick sniffed and gestured back at the bushes. "Obviously, as Bletchley isn't here to meet with the syndicate, I won't be getting into any difficulty."

"It's not Bletchley you need worry about." Demon's voice lowered to a dangerous purr. "He was never destined to be the source of your trouble."

A very odd shiver slid down Flick's spine. Demon's fingers closed about her elbow. She considered twisting free, only to feel his fingers tighten into steel shackles. Deciding her wisest course was to ignore him and his hold on her, she haughtily elevated her chin-and allowed him to escort her down the hill.

They covered the distance in silence, a silence that grew increasingly tense as they neared the courtyard. The tone of the gathering had degenerated to raucous, rough and ribald; many of the crowd were weaving on their feet. It was no place for a gently reared lady.

Demon halted beyond the area lit by the flares. "How did you get out?"

"The side door." Flick pointed.

He tugged her hood down to her chin. "Keep your head down." His arm slid around her waist, and he whisked her across the danger zone, into the shadows by the door.

She barely had time to look up before he bundled her through the door and up the stairs. He followed on her heels. On the first-floor landing, he hissed, "Where's your room?"

Flick gestured along the corridor. "Above the main door."

She led the way, but his arm snaked about her waist and yanked her back, anchoring her to his side.

Flick decided not to argue. Or wriggle. The glimpse she'd had of his face as they'd gone through the door had done very strange things to her nerves. His face was always hard, but it presently appeared fashioned from rock. Uncompromising was the term that leapt to mind.

Sounds of revelry gusted up the stairwell. The corridor leading to the front rooms began just before the stairhead.

Then Demon tensed. Flick looked ahead and saw four gentlemen come staggering unsteadily up the stairs. They were well away, rowdy and boisterous; instinctively, she shrank against Demon. He slowed, stopped, then started to turn toward her, shielding her-

Clapping each other on the back and guffawing, the four lurched off down the corridor in the opposite direction. Without, apparently, seeing them.

More voices drifted up the stairs.

With a barely muffled curse, Demon tightened his arm about her and hurried her on, forcing her to half run.

Flick pressed her lips tightly shut and held back her protest. She knew that if she even murmured, he'd throw her over his shoulder and stride on.

Then her door loomed before them. With a silent sigh of relief, she fumbled in her pocket and drew out the key.

Demon filched it from her fingers; he had it in the lock, turned, and the door swinging wide before she could blink.

Brusquely, he shepherded her over the threshold.

Shutting her mouth, Flick narrowed her eyes, elevated her chin, and swept on into the room. She walked straight to the fireplace, then regally swung about. Clasping her hands before her, spine stiff, head erect, she fixed her self-styled protector with a challenging glare.

He'd followed her in and closed the door, but he'd paused with his hand on the latch. His blue gaze raked her-from her head to her toes-then returned, sharp and penetrating, to her face.

She showed no hint of maidenly distress-Demon verified that fact with some relief. Whatever she'd seen of Bletchley's endeavors behind the bushes, she wasn't seriously upset. Indeed, her attention appeared to be fixed on him-which was undoubtedly wise. He was presently a far greater threat to her serenity than Bletchley would ever be. He captured her gaze. "Stay here-I'll go and check that Bletchley doesn't go from the arms of his companion to some other meeting." Even to his own ears, his tone sounded lethally flat. "And," he added, "I'll need to speak with Gillies."

A hint of color rose to her cheeks, and her chin rose another notch. Her eyes flashed with what could only be defiance. "The notion to come here was mine-Gillies was good enough to come with me."

"I know it was your idea." Demon heard his words and wondered at their evenness; inside him, ungoverned fury raged. "Gillies would never be such a sapskull as to even suggest bringing you here-into the middle of a prizefight crowd." His anger broke through; ruthlessly, he reined it in. "Gillies has only obeyed my orders to stay with you at all times. I'm not about to upbraid him." He held her gaze and quietly stated, "It's not Gillies I'm furious with."

He held her wide eyes for an instant longer, then turned to the door. "I'll be back shortly."

Opening the door, he stepped out, shut it-and locked it.

Flick heard the bolt click home. Lips parting, arms falling to her sides, she stared at the closed door.

Her temper soared.

Just like that! Put into her room and locked in, while he-!

Clenching her fists, she closed her eyes and gave vent to a frustrated scream.

Demon returned to the dim first-floor corridor at the front of the inn two hours later.

To find two young sprigs, decidedly the worse for the inn's ale, serenading outside Flick's door. His footfalls muffled by the corridor runner, he was upon them before they realized, materializing menacingly beside them.

They jumped like scalded cats.

"Ooh!"

"Aaah!"

Then they blinked and grinned inanely.

"There's a delightful widow behind the door."

"We're attempting to entice her to come out and play, don't y'know."

The first blinked again and stared myopically up at him. "Have you come to join us?"

With satisfying abruptness, Demon disabused them of that notion. He sent them fleeing, stumbling on their way, their egos shredded, their ears burning, their rears bruised courtesy of his rather large shoes. He saw them back to the stairs before returning to Flick's door. In the dimness, it took a few tries to get the key in the lock-eventually, he managed it. Straightening, he turned the key, lifted the latch and stepped inside.

Only lightning-quick reflexes allowed him to catch and hold back the heavy earthenware jug that came swinging down from his left.

Stretched on her toes, her hands clamped about the jug, Flick met his gaze. Darkly.

"Oh. It's you."

Leaving the jug in his hands, she swung away and stalked back across the room. She stopped before the fireplace, before the cheery flames, and swung to face him as she folded her arms.

Demon took in her belligerent stance and mutinous expression, then shut the door. She held her fire while he locked it and set the jug down on a nearby side table.

Then she let loose.

"You locked me in here and left me at the mercy of those!…" she gestured eloquently. Her eyes flashed. "I've had to endure two hours of nonstop caterwauling-no, no-I mustn't forget the poems. How could I forget the poems?" She flung her arms to the skies. "They were hideous! They didn't even rhyme."

She was unrestrainedly furious. Demon considered the sight.

"Anyway." Abruptly deserting fury, she fixed him with a narrow gaze. "Where did Bletchley go?"

Despite her ordeal with badly phrased poems, she was obviously all right.

"The tap, then to his room." Dropping his gloves on the side table, he pointed upward. "In the attics." Shrugging out of his greatcoat, he dropped it on a chair, noting as he did the large number of lighted candles set about the room. Flick had obviously felt in need of light-and reassurance.

She refolded her arms and frowned at him. "He didn't speak to anyone?"

Glancing around, Demon noted that the chamber was large and commodious, and well-appointed with decent furniture. The bed was long and wide, and made up with pristine linen. "No one of the ilk we're looking for. He didn't speak to anyone beyond the usual taproom chat."

"Hmm." Frowning, Flick watched him as he strolled unhurriedly toward her. "Maybe he did just come here for the prizefight."

"So it appears." His gaze returning to her face, he stopped directly in front of her, trapping her before the hearth. She frowned at him-more with her eyes than her expression. He considered her.

After a moment, she asked, "What are you thinking?"

How much I'd like to undress you, lay you on the bed and… "I was wondering," he said, "what it will take to instill into your stubborn head that it is not acceptable for you to go hying off about the countryside chasing villains. Regardless of where I, or anyone else, might or might not be."

She humphed and tilted her chin at him. Lifting one hand, Demon closed his fingers firmly about her tapering jaw.

Her eyes widened, then spat sparks. "There's nothing you can say or do that will convince me I don't have as much right as you to go hying after villains."

He raised one brow; his gaze fell to her lips. "Is that so?"

"Yes!"

His lips curved-not with humor but with satisfaction at her challenge-a challenge he was only too willing to meet. Tipping her chin up a fraction more, he lowered his head. "Perhaps we should put that to the test."

He murmured the words against her lips, hesitated for a heartbeat to let his warm breath bring her lips alive-then covered them with his.

She held tight for an instant, then surrendered. Her stiffness eased; her lips softened under his. Although still new to this-to kissing, to giving her lips, her mouth, to him-she was eager; her responses flowed instinctively. She had none of the guile of a more experienced woman-she had a fresh enthusiasm, an innocent ardency that delighted him, enthralled him.

He knew precisely what he was doing-distracting her from villains, from Bletchley and the syndicate, by giving her something else to think about. Something more exciting, more intriguing. He would bring her to life, and pique her curiosity so that she spent her time thinking about him, and this, rather than any villain. Sliding one arm about her waist, he drew her against him.

And deliberately deepened the kiss.

She responded sweetly, tipping her head back, parting her lips, welcoming him in. When his arm tightened in response, locking her to him, she eased against him readily, pert breasts pressing tight to his chest, hips sinking against his thighs. He caught his mental breath, locked an iron fist about his demons' reins, and parted her lips further, so he could artfully, skillfully ravish her soft mouth and take what she offered so freely.

The heady taste of her-so light and fresh, so teasingly alluring-went straight to his head, wreathed his senses, and set his demons straining. Wielding expertise like a whip, he held them back and set himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of her even more.

It wasn't anger that drove him, not even the wish to exercise his will over her and insist she stay out of danger. The compulsion steadily rising in his blood was simple desire-nothing more.

During the hours he'd spent watching Bletchley, speaking with Gillies, his anger had dissipated; his inchoate rage over the risks she'd taken had faded. His knowledge was wide, his imagination consequently well-informed; the visions that, even now, formed too readily were guaranteed to set his teeth on edge. But he'd had time to appreciate her thinking, to realize that, from her point of view, innocent of prizefights, coming here had been not only the obvious step but one she'd felt compelled to take.

He could understand. He still didn't approve, but that was another matter, a different aspect of the day's emotions. His anger had died, but the underlying tension hadn't. The anger had been only a symptom of that deeper emotion-one that felt uncomfortably like fear.

Fear was an emotion no Cynster male handled well. He'd had little experience of it-and he definitely didn't like what he was experiencing now. That his fear was centered on Flick was obvious; why it should be so was another of those somethings he preferred not to examine.

If he'd known that deciding to bite the bullet and marry would bring all this down on his head, he would have thought twice. Three times. Unfortunately, it was now too late-the notion of giving up Flick, of retreating from marrying her, was unthinkable.

How unthinkable was borne in on him as he briefly released her lips to drag in a breath. Her scent came with it-appleblossom and lavender-a fragrance so innocent it touched his soul, so simple it drove through his defenses, caught and effortlessly focused his desire.

To live without this-without her, without the intense satisfaction experience told him could be his with her-that was the definition of unthinkable.

Releasing her jaw, he slid his fingers into her curls and held back a shudder at the sensation of pure silk sliding over the back of his hand. His lips firmed on hers; he angled his head, fingers sliding until he cradled her head, holding her steady so he could do as he wished-and take their kiss still deeper. Into realms she'd never experienced, along paths she'd never trod.

He, however, was supposed to be in control.

Shocked, he sensed the reins sliding from his grasp, felt his hunger well. Stunned, he pulled back-forced himself to break the all-too-evocative melding of their lips.

Long enough to drag in a much-needed breath. He couldn't remember when last his head had spun. "Umm…" He blinked. "We'll stay until two o'clock. Then we'll leave. I'll take you home."

He'd worked it all out while watching Bletchley.

Lifting her lids only high enough to locate his lips, Flick nodded, reached up, framed his face, and drew his head back to hers. She knew perfectly well why he was kissing her-he wanted to control her, to render her all weak and limp and acquiescent. She might, indeed, go weak and limp-she might even be a bit distracted-but acquiescent? Just because her body and her wits lost all resolution the instant he had her against him, the second his lips found hers, did not mean her will went the same way.

Which meant that as far as she was concerned, he could kiss her as long as he liked. If he'd decided they had until two o'clock the next morning, she saw no reason to waste any precious minutes.

Being kissed by him was exceedingly nice, exceptionally pleasant. The touch of his lips was enticing, the much bolder caress of his tongue brazenly exciting. It made her feel wild, a touch reckless-oddly restless. That last was due to what lay beyond-all the rest she did not know. His experience was there, in his lips, in the arms that held her so easily, tantalizing, beckoning-simply intriguing.

She offered her lips and he took them again, and her mouth as well. And yet he held back. There was a restraint he placed on his actions, on his hunger, or rather, on letting her see it. She sensed it nevertheless, in his ruthlessly locked muscles, in the tension that held him. But that restraint stood firm, a barrier between her and his greater knowledge. A barrier she could not resist prodding. She was, after all, hardly a chit out of the schoolroom, no matter what he might think.

Brazenly, she leaned into him and wantonly kissed him back-trying this, then that, to see what might best weaken him. Closing her lips about his tongue and sucking was her first success-his attention abruptly focused; his resistance weakened accordingly. Sliding her hands around his neck, locking her fingers at his nape and stretching, sliding, upward against him, worked, too, but-

Abruptly he lifted his head and dragged in a huge breath. He blinked down at her. "Did the innkeeper see your face?" His voice was not entirely steady; he looked a little dazed.

"No." She sank deeper into his arms, sliding her fingertips into his hair. "I was hidden behind my veil the whole time."

"Hmm." He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. "I'll go down and pay your shot later. When all's quiet, and there's no one about to hear. There'll be someone at the desk all night tonight. Then we'll leave."

She didn't bother nodding. Her hands fell to his shoulders as he recaptured her lips, and she met his tongue with hers. She could, she decided, happily spend all night kissing him. Pressing herself to him. The thought prompted the deed, but she couldn't get any closer-she was already locked tight, breast to chest, hips to thighs. But…

He hesitated, then his lips shifted on hers. The whirlpool of their kiss dragged her deeper, into a vortex of heady sensations-all beckoning, enticing.

The need to get closer welled, swelled-

His resistance irked. If she wanted to marry him-if he wanted to marry her-then she wanted to know more. Deliberately, she stretched upward, flagrantly inciting, kissing him urgently, as evocatively as she knew how-

His arms shifted, then his hands were on her back-large and strong, they slid down, smoothly sweeping down to her waist, to her hips, then down, over the swells of her bottom. He cupped her, held her tight, her curves filling his hands, then he lifted her.

Up and against him-molding her to him so her soft belly cradled the hard ridge of his erection. She would have gasped-not with shock, but delight, a delight wholly new to her-but with lips suddenly ruthless and a demand she felt to her toes, he ravaged her mouth, took all she offered and searched for more.

There was suddenly hunger enough for two, swirling hotly about them.

Flick sank her fingers into his shoulders and hung on-thrilled to her bones as hot became hotter and hard that much harder. Need, want and desire swam through her-passion swept in in their wake. And caught her.

Excitement-even better than the rush of a winning ride-and an anticipation so keen it hurt flooded her, buoyed her-

Tap! Rat-a-tat-tat!

The sharp tattoo startled them both, ending their kiss. Breathing shallowly, they both stared at the door.

Demon straightened, softly cursing. Whoever it was, he would have to find out. It might be about Bletchley. Sliding Flick down until her feet touched the floor, he reluctantly released her luscious bottom and closed his hands about her waist. He seriously doubted she could stand unsupported.

Glancing around, his gaze fell on the solid dressing table against the wall between the mantelpiece and the bed. He glanced at the door, then steered Flick back so she could lean against the dressing table. "Stay there-don't move."

Placed as she was, she couldn't be seen from the door.

She blinked blankly at him, then looked dazedly across the room.

Demon released her; turning, he strode toward the door. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside the door, he swallowed another curse and slowed, tugging his waistcoat down, resettling his coat and cuffs, then raking his fingers through his hair before reaching for the latch.

He assumed it was Gillies, or one of the inn staff. Whoever it was, he intended getting rid of them fast. Turning the key, he opened the door.

The elegant gentleman who stood on the threshold, an urbane smile rapidly fading, was not a member of the inn's staff. Unfortunately, he was familiar.

Inwardly, Demon cursed, wishing he'd snuffed some of the candles Flick had scattered about the room. At least she was out of sight. Holding the door less than half open, he raised an arrogantly weary brow. "Evening, Selbourne."

"Cynster." Disappointment rang in Lord Selbourne's tone; disgruntlement filled his eyes. His expression, however, remained urbane. "I-" Abruptly, Selbourne's gaze shifted, going past Demon's shoulder. His lordship's eyes widened.

Demon stiffened, his jaw clenching so hard that he thought it would crack. He didn't, however, turn around.

Lord Selbourne's brows rose, coolly, appraisingly, then he glanced consideringly at Demon. And smiled. "-see."

The single word carried a wealth of meaning; Demon comprehended its portent only too well. Face set, he nodded curtly. "Precisely. I fear you'll need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight."

Selbourne sighed. "To the victor, the spoils." With an arch glance directed once again beyond Demon, he turned away. "I'll leave you, dear boy, to get what rest you may."

Biting back an oath-an exceedingly virulent one-Demon managed to shut the door without slamming it. Hands rising to his hips, he stared at the wooden panels; after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. Shifted. He blinked, then slowly reached out and turned the key.

The sound of the lock falling home echoed gently-a single knell marking an irrevocable step. Demon turned.

And confirmed that Flick had indeed been unable to resist shifting to the other side of the hearth, to peer about him to see who was at the door.

Selbourne had had a perfect view of her-with her hair ruffled, her gown suggestively crumpled, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. Most importantly, she hadn't been wearing hood or veil. Demon stared at her.

She stared back. "Who was that?"

He considered her, then turned back to the door and removed the key. "Fate. Disguised as Lord Selbourne."