Page 37
Just like that, her body was aflame, toes curling. She wished she were wearing a shift and a petticoat. Undergarments might somehow muffle her reaction to his voice, his glances, the physical fact of his proximity.
“I told Dierdre Pinkie flew away.” She pulled the sheet up to her neck. “I don’t think she believed me, but for years, we’d pretend to see him, in the trees, on the moon. She’d ask for Pinkie stories at night. I had to come up with dozens.”
“The adventures of Pinkie the flying chicken.” He grinned. “Is that why you want to voyage to the moon, to seek out his lunar roost?”
“No.” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe.” She laughed. “They were just stories.”
His thumb stroked along her forearm, raising shivery little bumps. “You should write them down. I could present a collection to publishers, in Edinburgh. I’m friendly with half a dozen.”
She forgot to breathe. “You think I should publish my stories? Have them put in a book?”
“I do. They’d bring joy to many.”
“I love books.” She swallowed.
“I know.”
She watched his thumb’s progress. “You caught me reading that time, in the Robber’s Wood.”
“You were reading a psalter. Stolen from church. Is that why you call it the Robber’s Wood?”
“Certainly not.” Her heart pounded. All the fine hairs on her arm were prickling. “That’s a different story. Based on Robin Hood.”
“Write that one down too,” he advised. “Readers adore a rogue.”
“I returned the psalter.” She raised her eyes. “I never meant to keep it. I wanted something to read. There weren’t any other books I could get my hands on. Not back then.” That was over ten years ago. Things had changed.
“James.” She hesitated. “How did you know that Reverend Breckenridge’s library includes volumes of Smollett?”
He pulled back, expression cornered. “Don’t all men of the cloth love a good novel?”
“No, they love extremely dull theological texts with titles like Twelve Sermons Preached on Several Occasions.”
“Right. Well, then.” He was too sun-bronzed for blushes. And that dark stubble shadowed his jaw. But weren’t the crests of his cheekbones tinging ever so slightly with dusky rose?
“I may,” he said, “have arranged to supply the reverend with more interesting material.”
“But.” She moistened her lips. “You must have been supplying him for years.” She cast her mind back. When did the minister’s library become so interesting? It had happened slowly, and it had begun not so long after that meeting in the Robber’s Wood.
She was looking at James, with confusion and wonder. “What possessed you to do such a thing?”
“You’re plaguing me now, woman. Isn’t it obvious?” His stare accused her, and when she only blinked at him, he groaned. “Smollett was bound to please you better than a psalter. But I couldn’t send books to you openly. You hated me.” He lifted a shoulder in a resigned half-shrug. “I made sure the reverend was well-stocked with novels and amenable to lending them.”
“You hated me, too.” She could only whisper. She’d been so certain, for so long. And yet . . .
“I never hated you.” He searched her face. “Maybe I wanted to once, but I failed at that more spectacularly than I ever failed at anything. If hating each other was the contest, you won.”
Her voice returned, stronger. “What an odious contest.”
“Can you think of a better one?” He purred, all insinuation, eyes suddenly gleaming, and so many thoughts came into her mind at once, she couldn’t think where to begin.
After a moment, he shook his head. “I suppose this confrontation with my father is another spectacular failure. Thus far it has involved two near-fatal accidents. And now that I’m not headed to Spain . . .” He made a fist and pressed it to his lips. “I do believe I shall challenge him to a duel.”
“You can’t challenge your own father to a duel!” She was so aghast she let the sheet drop and had to snatch it up again.
“Hmm?” James was watching the sheet’s movements with the keenest interest.
“A duel,” she snapped. “It’s absurd.”
