A Bride by Moonlight by Liz Carlyle Page B

let your father’s fine reputation rest easy in the grave.”
    He felt every muscle in his body tighten. “By God,” he whispered, “I ought to arrest you for murder— and for unladylike language.”
    She had the audacity to push her face into his. “Have at it,” she answered, “and see how far it gets you.”
    Blinded by frustration and something like lust, Napier tightened his grip. She backed up against the bookcase, rattling a vase of white gladioli perched upon the mantelpiece.
    Her eyes widened as he thrust one leg between hers, effectively pinning her. “You once offered me something, Miss Ashton, for my cooperation,” he whispered, his hot gaze drifting over her face. “Tell me, does that offer still stand? Are you still so bold?”
    She pushed back, setting the heels of her hands to his shoulders. “I’m bold enough to do what I must,” she answered. “I’m a survivor, Mr. Napier. And no, I’m not a fool. I know what you are. I see behind your gentlemanly façade—and yes, Lazonby’s, too. Now I ask you again: What do you want of me?”
    “I want you in jail,” he gritted. “I want you, by God, where I can keep an eye on you.”
    And with that, he speared his fingers into her hair. On a small cry, her eyes widened, and she turned her face as if to thwart his kiss, the heels of her hands ramming hard into his shoulders.
    But Napier did not kiss her—though the desire, and a good deal more, was thrumming through his loins. Instead, he viciously ripped off her elaborate arrangement of chestnut curls. It came away in a scatter of pins, one of them pinging off the chimneypiece mirror.
    Miss Ashton shuddered in his grasp, refusing to turn her face to his.
    “Oh, I thought remembered those wild, flaming locks,” he said, hurling the chestnut wig aside, “though you haven’t much of it left. Still, I never forget a face, Miss Ashton. I never forget height. Eyes. The scent of a woman. Or her true hair color .”
    “Let me go, you cad,” she whispered.
    Instead he leaned nearer, his rough breath dragging in her fragrance as he watched her lashes flutter shut like dark, feathery fans over alabaster skin. And all of it designed, he did not doubt, to madden a man. To leave him unable to think straight.
    He did not succumb. Not quite . “Oh, that dull wig, drab gown, and the stone you’ve gained may have made me question things in Sir Wilfred’s garden,” he said gruffly, “but I’ve sensed all along something about you was not quite right.”
    She opened her eyes, and for his own sanity, Napier pushed her a little away.
    She had regained herself, it seemed.
    “Why, how you do flatter a lady, Assistant Commissioner,” she said mockingly. “I did not realize I had captured your imagination so thoroughly. But whatever it is you are imagining just now”—here, the little vixen let her gaze drift to his thickening crotch—“just be aware I’ve servants about.”
    Disgusted with himself, Napier released his grip on her slender shoulders, and spun away. But her scent, heady and floral, followed him. Good God, this was madness. With this woman he was playing with fire—almost literally.
    And the thoughts she stirred up in his head . . .
    As he stood there, angry with himself and grappling for control, he heard the rustle of her silk skirts behind him, and the soft sound of leather sliding across the table.
    Miss Ashton appeared before him, her cap of bright red curls springing from their pins to fall almost angelically around her face.
    “I wondered,” he muttered almost to himself, “just how on earth you tamed that wild mess of hair.”
    She smiled with feigned sweetness. “I’m told many gentlemen use Macassar oil,” she said, dangling his valise from one fingertip, “though I really wouldn’t know. Now, on your way out, Mr. Napier, don’t forget your bag.”
    Her confidence caused something in him to snap—his good judgment, apparently—as he sneered down at her. “Oh, I am