14

H ad Stephen thought he no longer hungered for human contact? That was because it wasn't people he needed. His hunger was for one specific person. The strawberry-flavored, sword-wielding berserker in his arms.

It had been hard not to turn into a berserker himself, the moment Miss Wynchester had grabbed and kissed him. He burned to hold her, squeeze her, devour her. Rend her garments asunder. Toss the table aside. Make love in the middle of the floor.

He liked her strength and adored her decisiveness. There was no wondering whether a kiss would be welcomed. A kiss was demanded. Five kisses, ten, a hundred. She did nothing by half measures. Not when knocking on a door, and certainly not when letting her desires be known.

Stephen had thought he could conceal his own desire. Had tried to hide. He'd spent a lifetime crafting a shell around himself, so deep and so safe that he'd believed no one would ever penetrate his defenses without his invitation.

Miss Wynchester had come swashbuckling in, and she was anything but safe. Everything about this kiss was dangerous. Their bodies were powder kegs, and each stroke of their tongues another spark of flint.

He cupped her face, then slid his fingers into her hair. Her skin was soft and her blond curls silken, but that was not why he did so. He was desperate to keep his hands in somewhat safe territory. A kiss was not permission to explore her curves as he yearned to.

But even her ringlets were not safe. His fingers twisted in the soft curls, his palms holding her head in place as though to prevent even a single kiss from escaping. As though each brush of her mouth was precious as rubies and ephemeral as bubbles rising to the surface of the sea to disappear into the sky overhead.

A passing fancy, he told himself firmly. Of course he wanted to kiss her—who wouldn't want to kiss her?—but that was all this was. Just lips against lips, tongue against tongue. Pieces and parts that would not amount to emotions he need fear.

Miss Wynchester had not penetrated his defenses at all. His heart was still tucked safely behind its shield. He'd merely taken a step outside into the light to breathe in the fresh air.

That he was happier in this moment than he'd felt in ages was not to be examined. Of course she made him feel more alive. She was unabashedly, overwhelmingly, gloriously alive. Kissing her was like wrapping his arms around the molten sun. He melted more with every touch.

Like the sun, radiant Miss Wynchester was a fiery ball of energy Stephen should not allow himself too close to. He was Icarus, with wings made of wax. He could only hope the shell around his heart was made of sterner stuff. If he allowed feelings to become involved, later, when Miss Wynchester eventually left, the shields protecting him would be as chipped and scarred as the castle's front door.

Then again, if he kept his wings fully intact… if he reinforced them, grew them, strengthened them, flew far away… then he would not be able to experience kisses like this one. He would not know the taste of her mouth, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin. The terrifying euphoria of soaring far too high.

It was the landing he feared. The knowledge that what flew up… inevitably came crashing back down to earth.

With regret, Stephen forced himself to break the kiss before he fell too far.

The next morning before dawn, Stephen successfully avoided the threat of romance by busying himself managing his cousin's affairs, rather than risk being present in the dining room the same time Miss Wynchester descended to break her fast.

It wasn't that he didn't wish to kiss her again. It was that he did .

He was not proud to admit that when he'd finally lifted his lips from hers, he'd fled into the safety of his murderous machines rather than risk another moment in the charming company of Elizabeth Wynchester. Returning her to his arms was the last thing he needed and the only thing he wanted.

The memory of how her mouth had felt, and the thought of tasting it again, had kept him tossing and turning all night without his imagination allowing a single respite. At dawn, he'd thrown himself into his press-ups and other vigorous exercises in the hopes of burning off the residual tension.

What he needed was to concentrate on something else, anything else, besides the tantalizing prospect of kissing Miss Wynchester anew. They were puzzle-solving treasure hunters, not fated lovers. Embraces would lead nowhere. He had no interest in changing his ways. Any hope of romance was doomed before it began. Therefore it was much more logical to turn his brain to tasks upon which the future really did depend.

Bells tinkled overhead, startling him from thoughts about Elizabeth Wynchester. He hurried up to his turret, where telescopes faced in every direction. It didn't take long to find the source of the alarm.

Reddington's men were down below, crawling around the exterior of the castle like ants.

Today, the soldiers weren't in their usual red uniforms but dressed in browns and grays. Whether they thought this would fool Stephen or help them to blend into the early morning light, he couldn't say. Their efforts at disguise were wasted. He could clearly see each of their faces through his magnifying lens.

This must be some sort of scouting mission. The front door was devoid of a knocker—or a handle—making it a poor choice of entry, so the soldiers were understandably searching for an alternative way in.

They wouldn't find one.

Stephen watched in amusement as they surrounded the castle, feeling the cold gray walls and tapping softly on ancient stones. The only other entrance was through the exterior trapdoor in the rear of the property above the dungeon.

Several of Reddington's men were standing on the precise patch of moveable grass right now, though they did not realize it. Lucky for them. The hinges could only be unlocked from inside the castle, when triggered via a lever Stephen had installed up here in the turret.

As diverting as it would be to surprise them with a twelve-foot fall, he did not wish to give away his secrets so easily. To be honest, Stephen was hoping to avoid a physical confrontation altogether. He had no doubt he could handle Reddington in a bout of one-on-one fisticuffs, but only a fool would pit himself against an entire army.

Especially when it wasn't even him they were after. Whenever the real earl deigned to return, Stephen wasn't sure whether he would hug him in relief or throttle him for putting Stephen in this position to begin with. Possibly both, in that order.

Far below, Reddington's men were making their third round about the perimeter of the castle. The sun began to rise. They shot each other startled glances, then scurried off into the woods like fleeing vermin.

Before disappearing into the trees that separated the two properties, Reddington sent a smug look over his shoulder at Castle Harbrook, confident that he'd pulled one over on the Earl of Densmore. Trespassing without anyone in the castle ever being the wiser.

Stephen set down the telescope. Reddington wasn't nearly the infallible war general he believed himself to be—a fact that did not make him any less dangerous. Men like Reddington would kill to keep their beliefs intact and their high status unchallenged.

Stephen left the turret and made his way down to the study to return to the tasks of running the estate. After almost four months in Stephen's hands, the earldom had more than emerged from the muck and bloomed into profit. But with great success came added responsibilities. There was farmland to maintain, properties to buy, stocks to sell, and business ventures to manage.

Columns of stark black figures on a crisp white page were exactly what Stephen needed to corral his focus. Whenever he concentrated on mathematics or tinkering, the world around him disappeared. He did not notice his hunger or the passage of time. An entire herd of horses could thunder right past him, and he would not be distracted. Stephen wouldn't even notice if—

A soft footfall sounded in the corridor. His head jerked up from his accounts so fast he got a crick in his neck. It was Miss Wynchester. Or the butler. Or a ghost.

But possibly Miss Wynchester.

He ran a hand over his hair, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders before he recalled that it was six-thirty in the morning. Young ladies from London tended to keep town hours, meaning breakfast came shortly before noon. Even those who attempted country hours tended to break their fasts between nine and ten of the clock.

The sound Stephen had heard was nothing more than a gust of wind in a creaky old castle. There was an infinitesimal 0.0001 probability that an ordinary town miss would be awake at this hour, much less dressed and heading toward Densmore's study. Toward Stephen.

Er, make that an absolute certainty.

There she was. Lounging against the doorway with a buttery soft periwinkle morning dress clinging to her curves and a dashing sword stick in one hand.

Stephen could not quite credit his eyes. For as long as he could remember, he had always been up hours before any of his peers. He was an unfashionably early riser who had lived through thousands of lonely mornings, even when housed in a crowded building bursting with other students.

But Miss Wynchester was bright-eyed, armed, and dangerous, before the sun had even properly risen.

"Good morning, Mr. Lenox." She swung the tip of her sword stick to and fro above the stone floor. "I trust you slept well?"

"Like a hibernating bear," Stephen lied.

Her blond brows lifted. "Did you know that hibernating bears do not sleep the entire winter? They exit their caves for any number of reasons. And may not even hibernate inside of a cave to begin with."

"I… did not know that. Why do you know that?"

"I'm Jacob Wynchester's sister." She shrugged as if this were a full and cogent explanation.

Because of her position leaning against the side of the doorway, only half of her body was visible. He wished he could see all of it. He wished he could run his hands over all of it.

"I'm very busy," he said instead.

"Busy plotting your next tender assault on my petal-pink lips?"

Yes. "No."

She looked skeptical. "Not even constructing a few plans for a minor, brief bout of ravishing?"

Now he certainly was.

"I'm afraid I haven't the time to engage in frivolous deviations to my schedule. I've accounts to balance, a delivery to prepare for, a series of mechanical and pneumatic devices whose gears and levers shan't calibrate themselves—"

"Balderdash."

He blinked. "You've seen my contraptions. They're everywhere. At this very moment, I'm seated at a desk piled high with—"

"—someone else's responsibilities," she finished. "You are a bear, and this castle your cave. You think you can hibernate behind a big warm den of mathematics and miscellaneous earl duties that aren't even yours—"

"What makes you think—"

"Because I have mastered that maneuver. I'm the bear when winter is over and spring comes. When it's not safe anymore and I must venture outside, I hide behind a sharp tongue, and sharp claws, and a sharp sword."

"Please don't tell me bears have swords," he murmured.

"Be a bear if you want to be a bear," she replied. "But be honest with yourself about your motives, and be honest with me, too."

"I—"

"Those kisses last night felt honest. Can you truthfully say you're not tempted to have another?"

"Tempted?" he burst out. "I am the bear in summertime. Hot and sweaty and grumpy and ravenous. I wish I could say that you are the tasty little morsel that wandered into my cave by accident, but no. You're the dangerous huntsman. If I don't watch my step, I'll be the bear carcass decorating your parlor."

She shook her head. "My brother would murder me if I harmed a bear."

"This is a metaphor," he reminded her. "Not real life."

"It's very real," she said. "I am a huntress by nature. And I would very much like to lie with you on the floor in my parlor. But is that any reason to hide yourself away—"

"Literally every animal does their best not to get caught by hunters. It's natural. It's logical . Protecting oneself from hurt is a mathematically sound practice that has ensured the survival of species for centuries."

"I was never really going to stab you." She paused. "Unless you deserved it."

"I can survive a flesh wound. But there's no sense in inviting injury unnecessarily. You and I may be experiencing a temporary overlap of proximity, but as soon as we find the testament and the deed… We'll both be gone. Disappear from each other's lives." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

She didn't look impressed. "Is that a valid reason not to spend what little time we do have together, kissing?"

"It's every reason," he said firmly. "Besides, aren't you on a mission?"

"You would apparently be very surprised to learn the sorts of extracurricular activities that can take place when one is on a mission. My family increases in size every year due to unexpected distractions whilst undertaking professional missions."

"Well, I neither have nor want a family, so what yours does is irrelevant. I have my machines to consider, and a den of solitude to return to."

"Bor-ing," she sang under her breath.

"To you. Not to me. I spent all night puzzling the matter, and shan't be budged. Maintaining physical and emotional distance from you is the only logical solution."

She sniffed. "I thought you spent all night sleeping like a hibernating bear."

"Hibernating bears don't sleep the whole time," he muttered. "They can leave their possibly-not-caves for any number of reasons. Learn some science."

They glared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"All right," she said. "Have it your way."

Was that it? He'd conveyed his reasons for hesitation, and she'd accepted them? Could communication really be that easy?

"Why do you keep leaning against the wall like that?" he asked. "Are you hiding half of your body from view on purpose?"

"Yes." She stepped into the center of the doorframe. Her free hand held a plate piled with breads and fruits and cheese. "I brought you breakfast. You don't deserve it."

"Bring it here anyway." He made room atop the desk. "I'll share it with you."

She set the plate on the table, hooked her cane over the side of an armchair, and settled onto the cushion. "The marmalade is for me. And the bread rolls. And the apple slices."

"I thought this was my breakfast."

"You lost ten percent of it every time you annoyed me," she informed him.

"I'm surprised I still have a right to any of it," he admitted.

"You don't. I am being incredibly generous just by allowing you to see and smell this delicious repast whilst I consume it right in front of you."

"You are all that is kindhearted and benevolent," he murmured.

"Oh, go on then, Mr. Logical Lenox. I'll allow you to share my spoils just this once."

"Stephen," he corrected her. "Anyone fearless enough to upbraid me for failure to ravish her shall earn the right to call me by my given name."

"Elizabeth," she answered, then waggled her brows. "What other liberties have I earned?"

"Half of the marmalade," he responded. "And only half. I'm watching you."

She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the marmalade with exaggerated daintiness. The twinkle in her eye indicated the next time he looked away, the rest might disappear altogether.

"If only the countess had left her clues somewhere obvious," she said with a wistful expression. "Like a bright yellow box, helpfully painted with big black letters: WILL AND TESTAMENT INSIDE ."

"That would certainly have been more convenient," he agreed. "Then again, deuced little about this experience has been particularly convenient, from the hidden will to the missing deed. A miracle would be nice, but one cannot summon documents out of thin air."

She lowered her apple slice. "Maybe we can."

He raised his brows. "You're a soldier… and a sorcerer?"

"My sister Marjorie essentially is. A sorcerer, I mean. She and her husband, Adrian, can forge anything under the sun. They can create copies of wills and deeds in their sleep. Documents indistinguishable from the originals."

"I'm sure they would be, if we had originals to copy. We don't know what other items might have been mentioned in that will. Are you willing to inadvertently cut other persons out of their legal inheritance?"

She sighed. "No, of course not. Ugh. We must find the real will."

He piled cheese on bread and added a dollop of marmalade. "Can your sister really forge anything?"

Elizabeth smiled fondly. "Anything and everything. Books, portraits, sovereigns… She met Adrian when he was under the thumb of a corrupt moneylender. Adrian is an artist, too. His specialties are sculpture and pottery, whereas Marjorie's specialties are pen and paint."

"Have they considered producing original works?" he asked politely.

"They produce loads of original work," she protested. "They are both respected and established artists in their own right. They have a studio where they tutor students and regularly host art exhibitions in their public salon. In certain circles, Marjorie is more famous for her paintings than she is infamous for being a Wynchester."

"Fame and infamy." He leaned back in his chair, impressed. "Is there anything the Wynchesters cannot do?"

"Individually? Quite a bit," she answered honestly. "But together, as a team? We're unstoppable."

The words were positive and uplifting, but her lively expression had turned somber.

He put down his cheese. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She dipped her bread in marmalade and sighed. "Oh, all right, it's this mission. The Wynchesters are undefeatable as a team. But they're not here. I am."

"Where are the rest of your siblings?"

"Handling other cases. Our notoriety has increased over the past few years, and we now have more clients than we can attend to as a group."

"So, you're not the only one who's tackling missions alone. The others might have the same worries you do."

Elizabeth looked startled. "I suppose that's true. It hadn't occurred to me. I'm so used to thinking of the others as bold and unconquerable."

"I would be surprised if anyone doubted that you embody those very same qualities yourself."

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "And to think, so far you've only seen me at my least swashbuckling."

"Good God." He gave an exaggerated shiver. "I shudder to imagine the carnage."

"Stay in my good graces," she advised. "You'll lose fewer appendages that way."

"So noted. Might I inquire which finishing school you attended, that instructed docile misses in the fine art of violent combat?"

"The school of Bean. Not him directly; there was a tutor. A series of tutors. I was precocious."

"Does that mean you kept stabbing them?"

"It doesn't not mean that."

A throat cleared in the corridor. "Er… Forgive me, my lord."

Stephen glanced up to see one of the footmen. "Yes, Forester?"

"Your delivery is in progress."

"Marvelous." Stephen rose to his feet. "Elizabeth, do come with me, if you like. Or please forgive my momentary absence if you prefer to stay behind."

She tossed what was left of her bread onto the plate and snatched up her sword stick. "I never prefer to be left behind."