Her attention, of its own volition, shifted to the pair of green-glazed, round-bellied vases flanking the mantelshelf clock. They were easily overlooked at first glance, unremarkable in their earthy simplicity, like the poor relation in an opulent ballroom. And yet … her eyes narrowed at the relief on the nearer vase. A keen sensation prickled down her neck—she was looking at something extraordinary indeed. Still, she shouldn’t touch it. She really should not. She tugged the glove off her left hand, stuffed it into her cloak pocket, and skimmed her index finger over the pattern on the vase’s rim. With some luck, there was a mark to confirm her suspicions—if she dared to check for it.
Her deliberation was brief.
She took the vase in both hands, handling it with the anxious care she would afford a raw egg, and turned it bottom up. There was a mark. All the fine hairs on her arms stood erect. This unassuming piece was almost certainly a Han vase. If it was authentic, it was near two thousand years old. Her palms turned hot and damp.
“I’d rather you not touch that,” came a gravelly male voice.
She jumped and shrieked, pressing the vase to her breast.
What she saw in the mirror made her freeze.
The pirate had returned to his cave.
She had seen and heard nothing while engrossed. He must have been watching her awhile, with one shoulder against the doorjamb of the side-chamber door and his arms folded across his broad chest. She turned slowly, her stomach hollowing. Of course he wasn’t a pirate, but he wasn’t decent: he wore no jacket, no cravat, and his sleeves were rolled up to expose muscular forearms. His unruly coal-black hair was too long, and his strong jawline was shadowed with stubble. But the most uncivilized part of him was his eyes—they were trained on her with a singular intensity that curled her toes in her wet stockings.
“I just …” Her voice faltered.
He closed the door. Her grip on the vase tightened. Obviously, he had been sent to fetch her, but her nerves shrilled, urging her to retreat. He moved in on her smoothly, too smoothly, rattling precisely nothing during his prowl through the delicate artifacts. She was motionless like a stunned rabbit until he was right in front of her.
He was arresting. His contrasts in coloring drew all attention to his eyes: hard and gray like slate, with inky brows and lashes, set in a pale face. His features were decidedly masculine, their well-done symmetry vaguely disturbed by a once-broken nose. He had the ageless look of a man who had lived too much, too soon.
He held her in his gaze while he slid two fingers of his right hand into the mouth of the vase. Which she was still clutching like a thief caught in the act.
“Why don’t you give this to me,” he said.
Her skin pulsed red-hot with embarrassment as she released the precious ceramic. She had brothers and she studied alongside men, and she was never tongue-tied in their presence—she was never tongue-tied. But as the man placed the vase back onto the mantelshelf, she breathed in his scent, an attractive blend of pine soap and starch—incongruently clean with his piratical appearance—and she didn’t know where to look. She was altogether too aware of this man being a man. He stood just above average height, but his soft cotton sleeves clung snugly to the balls of his shoulders, hinting at swells and ridges of muscle no gentleman would possess. She glanced back up at his face just as he inclined his head, and their eyes met in another mutual inspection. A thin scar bisected the left side of his upper lip. Her mouth turned dry. It was a trick of the light, but his irises had darkened by a shade or two.
“I had not meant to touch it,” she said primly.
A faintly ironic expression passed over his face. It failed to soften the hard set of his mouth. “And with whom do I have the pleasure, Mrs …. ?”
“Miss. My name is Miss Jones.” It came out in an unnatural pitch.
His eyes flashed as he registered the lie. “What’s the purpose of your visit, Miss Jones?”
He was a Scotsman. His r’s were emerging as softly rolling growls. It explained the fair skin and Celtic-dark locks …. More interestingly, the heat emanating from his body was warmer than the embers on the grate. She knew because he stood too close. His right hand was still braced on the mantelshelf near her shoulder, his arm cutting off any escape route to the left.
She licked her lips nervously. The purpose of her visit? “The full tour?”
A subtle tension tightened his shoulders. “And are you certain of that?”
“Of course, and I would be much obliged if you could—”
He raised a hand to her face and his fingertip lightly touched her cheekbone.
The man was touching her. A man was touching her.
The world slowed to a halt. She should scream. Slap him. Her body did not obey; it stood immobile while the air between them crackled with a premonition that she was on the cusp of something vast.
The gray of his eyes was as soft and menacing as smoke. “Aye,” he murmured. “Then I’ll give you the tour, Miss Jones.”
His fingers curved around her nape, and then his mouth was on hers.
Chapter 2
His lips are soft. The alien pressure of a soft, warm mouth against her own was all she registered in her frozen stupor. Bristle abrading her chin. The slick touch of a … tongue against her lips, demanding entry …. Her head jerked back as her hand flew up, and the crack of her bare palm hitting his cheek was sharp like a gunshot. She screamed, belatedly, because she had just slapped a man forcefully enough to turn his head to the side.
He gave a little shake, his expression incredulous for a beat, then his gaze narrowed at her. “Madam isn’t here for that type of tour, I gather,” he said darkly.
She scurried backward out of his reach, her heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”
Her skirt met an obstacle; something scraped across parquet and something crashed. Her left heel slipped, and bright, hot pain seared through her ankle as it turned, making her cry out.
The man muttered a profanity and came after her.
“Stay away from me!”
He approached, his brawny shoulders looming. A hasty glance said she was halfway to the door. Help—would there be anyone to help her in this vast, empty house?
Another crash.
“Miss—”
She blindly grabbed something off a table and pointed it like a foil.
“Stay where you are, or I shall stick you with this.”
Now he heard her. His eyes fixing upon her makeshift weapon, he came to a halt and slowly raised his hands, palms forward as if attempting to soothe a spooked horse—as though she were the unhinged person in the room!
“Very well,” he said. “But put that down.”
She realized she was holding the tiptoed dancer she had nearly toppled earlier.
“It’s a unique piece,” the man added.
“I’m aware,” she snapped. “Meissen, and a limited edition from 1714.”
Surprise sparked in his eyes, there and gone in the split of a second.
“So you agree it shouldn’t be destroyed in the wake of needless theatrics,” he said.
“Theatrics?” Outrage made her squeak. “You, sir, just forced yourself on me.”
“A regrettable misunderstanding,” he said, not sounding particularly regretful.