A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley

too exhausted for a willing woman, and I assure you, our nun is not at all willing. I have the scratches to prove it. She’s not even awake. I do prefer my lovers awake….” He had sense enough to stop babbling and simply climb into the coach. Realizing he was in stocking feet, he peeled the muddy things off and dropped them outside. His boots were out there, too, somewhere, where he’d left them when he’d first settled to sleep….
    His mind was wandering again.
    The dim lights outside hardly reached inside, but Mère Goulart’s lantern meant that Robin could make out Petra curled on her side facing him, covered by the silk tapestry he’d dug out hours ago to serve as cover. Hours that felt like days.
    She was in the middle of the space. He sat on the edge of the makeshift bed, pulled the door closed, and then slid under the tapestry, staying as far from Petra as he could. He wouldn’t take advantage of a sleeping nun, especially one who’d saved his life.
    He couldn’t help but touch her warm body.
    She stirred and rolled, but only onto her back.
    How could he be aroused and exhausted at the same time? He couldn’t not look, not sense each breath, not detect her warm scent. Sweat intensified an essence that would remain after the longest bath and hum beneath the most expensive perfume.
    That snug cap. It must be uncomfortable, tied so firmly beneath her chin.
    Ladies often wear nightcaps tied exactly like that, his conscience protested.
    But not such tightly made ones, down on the brow, close over the ears.
    He was skilled at arguing with his conscience. And winning. He found the string tie and tugged. As he’d hoped, the bow slid undone with only slight resistance. In moments, he had it loose, and even the brush of his fingers against the skin beneath her chin didn’t make her stir. Though it certainly stirred him.
    He hesitated. He didn’t need more scratches.
    Not tonight, at least.
    He couldn’t resist. Breath held, he slid his hand beneath her head, enjoying the feel of her neat skull cradled there. She stirred and mumbled something with those soft, pink, kissable lips, but then settled again. He raised her head just enough to slip off the cap. As he slowly slid his fingers free, enjoying every second, she gasped.
    He froze, but she simply turned away from him and settled again, muttering angrily. It sounded fearful as well as angry.
    Who pursues you, Petronilla Maria d’Averio?
    He lay down, eyes closing, sleep creeping over him.
    Fear not. I won’t let anyone harm you. But I’ll have your secrets, all of them, before we part.

Chapter 9
    P etra was awoken by a cock’s crow.
    Where was she?
    What was this hard uncomfortable bed…?
    She shot upright.
    Who was she sleeping with?
    She was in Cock Robin’s chaise. With Cock Robin. The wretched, wretched rake! She quickly felt her clothes, but everything seemed to be in order—except for her cap.
    Her alarmed hands ran over her exposed hair.
    How dare he!
    She was tempted to scratch him again, but then she made herself calm. In fact, this was good. He’d discovered what she’d promised—short hair—so now he should believe her story. And it did seem that he considered a nun inviolable.
    Where was her cap?
    She felt around the bed and found it disconcertingly clenched in his right hand. She stared at that, disabled by a tangle of emotions. She tugged at it, and after a moment he let it go. She put it on, tucking away hair, tucking away perilous reactions at the same time. He was a rake, but he was also mischievous. He’d probably taken off her cap simply in hope of an angry reaction when there were more important things to think about.
    She looked across him, out at the Goulart farmyard. How ordinary it looked in daylight. There really were chickens pecking in the mud, and a cock lording it over them. This wasn’t a farm, however; it was a brothel, and the whores had tried to murder them.
    She looked back down at Robin, thinking how close it had