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“I hear you’re the best climber on Dearnrigg.” His voice was coarse with salt.
She gave a little groan of protest. She knew what came next.
He kissed her temple. “But I’m the best climber on Selchskerrie. I’ll beat you to the window.”
She looked at him, then up at the window, then back at him. Her smile was only half a smile, too exhausted to do more than tip at one corner.
“Not a chance,” she said, and climbed.
7
Tib awoke when the door opened. She bolted up then remembered she was naked.
James stood in the doorway, holding a laden tea tray, teapot and cups, cakes and assorted meats. The sight was so incongruous she gawked, motionless, for a long moment before jerking the sheet to her chin.
It took him another moment before his gaze traveled up.
“I should have knocked,” he said. His wicked smile made his lack of regret for the oversight abundantly clear.
“It’s your room.” She shrugged a bare shoulder and blushed as his eyes tracked the movement. She swept her gaze up to the chandelier. “And very grand, your lordship.”
In truth, she’d scarcely taken its measure. She did so now. The room was grand. Darkly paneled walls, carved with the Pemberton coat of arms. Coffered ceiling. Ornate carpets. It smelled expensive, like beeswax and leather and polish, but it smelled musty too. It hadn’t been aired. The furniture was shrouded. Nonetheless, the formality and grandeur of the chamber was enough to make her squirm.
She leaned back against the headboard. The bed was grand too, far bigger than necessary. It could sleep a whole family. The drapes were dark green and gold. Pemberton colors.
She met his eyes. “It doesn’t seem like you.”
He approached the bed and set the rattling tea tray down upon the nearest table.
“I’m not grand?”
She frowned as he grinned. He’d dressed in a snow-white muslin shirt, brown brocade waist coat, and fawn-colored breeches—each item plucked carelessly from the wardrobe where they’d hung, disused and forgotten, for years.
His least would be any other man’s best.
“You’re grand,” she confirmed, with asperity. “I prefer your other qualities.”
“Most people care for my consequence and stop there.” His hair had dried in artless waves. As he bent to pour out the tea, a lock flopped over his eyes.
She twisted her fingers in the sheet to prevent herself from stroking it back. Then she had to struggle to free her right hand to accept her cup of tea.
He was regarding her with amusement. “Which of my qualities do you prefer?”
She lowered her face over the teacup to inhale the steam. “The ones that coincide with mine. For example, I am charmed by your pig-headed stubbornness. If I can like it in you, perhaps I don’t have to reproach myself.”
“You prefer my faults to my attributes so you can indulge yours,” he murmured.
“Our faults are well-matched at least.” She gave him a close-lipped smile, and he laughed.
“Truer words.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “We’re also well-matched in understanding. You’re right about the room. I didn’t pick it for my own or furnish it to my taste. It’s the heir’s bedchamber, not mine per se. My lodging in Edinburgh, on the other hand—I let it myself. It gives rather too much insight into my character.” His eyes glinted. “As much as your cottage did your character.”
She scowled. “I’m sure no one would ever accuse you of living like a mule.”
He didn’t bother to dissemble chagrin.
“No, indeed.” He wore that look, superior and ironic, one eyebrow arched high. “Perhaps like an untidy, irascible old printer. Papers everywhere. Fewer of them pertaining to agriculture than my father would approve. I collect too many philosophical tracts and radical pamphlets, and correspond with too many inventors, engineers, ballooning enthusiasts, and heretics. I’ve managed to splash ink on the curtains, don’t ask how. And did I mention I have cats? Two. Buckles and Puff.”
She hid her smile in her teacup. She was imagining him at a desk, spectacles perched on his nose, a cat in his lap. The image melted her, left her totally undefended. She required a stern reminder.
