Kate Moore by To Kiss a Thief Page A

shouting orders unrestrainedly in Portuguese. Maids came running with a rustle of skirts and soft murmurings. Margaret could hardly look about her. She could not believe that she was about to impose on this unsuspecting man.
    From above them as they ascended a large central stair came the excited chattering of distinctly young voices. Senhor Fregata stopped mid-sentence, clapped his hands sharply, and barked some order. Margaret was so startled at the sudden change in his tone that she looked up to see who could have earned a rebuke from so apparently amiable a man. All that she saw, however, was a flash of white skirts through the dark railings. She could not help but turn to her host who was looking most shamefaced. Her own expression must have betrayed something of her curiosity and surprise, for he confessed, “My daughters.”
    Margaret was still wondering at his embarrassment over his children when they reached a room of comfortable proportions and cheerful furnishings. Senhor Fregata himself pointed out the room’s features and inquired anxiously if it would suit them, as if, finding the room lacking in the elegance to which they were accustomed, they would prefer to depart in a thunderstorm rather than stay another minute under his roof. Margaret had to admire her thief for his ability to reassure the older man and to express how grateful they were for this hospitality. But she could not wait to take him to task for his latest dishonesty.
    She stood at the window, tugging at her gloves and watching the rain wash over vineyards and forest until the last of the servants left the room. In the ensuing silence the rain whispered against the distant trees, drummed on the roof, clattered down some drainpipe, and splashed against the broad-leaved plants below. Behind her, the fire set when they entered popped loudly. She turned to find her companion leaning against the mantel, regarding her thoughtfully. They had shared many rooms now, but his claiming her as his bride awakened that consciousness of him that, strive as she might, Margaret could not entirely overcome.
    “This is very bad of you,” she began.
    “I know,” he said, but his gaze did not waver.
    “It was wrong to steal the earl’s papers and worse to attempt to sell them to the French, though you have not yet done so,” she continued, cataloging his crimes but determined to be just. “And it was wrong to deceive Croisset and knock him out and steal his purse though he is perhaps a worse villain than you are, and . . .”
    “And it was most wrong to abduct you,” he added, straightening and facing her directly. His willingness to accept her rebuke made her forget momentarily what she meant to say next.
    “I do not blame you for that.” she managed, her self-knowledge making her look away from the blue eyes gazing so intently into hers. “For I . . . I should have resisted you more from the start. But surely it is not necessary to take this pretense of ours so far that we must impose on Senhor Fregata. After all, to signal the Viper you have only to give the appearance of looking for green wine.”
    “Do you wish to leave?” he asked. “It is certainly possible, even now, though, I confess, I do not wish to get a soaking nor do I wish to disappoint the senhor , who seems so pleased to have our company.” She had thought that too, that their host seemed extraordinarily pleased to welcome them.
    “But it is a violation of everything decent to accept the comforts due a guest under such false pretenses. Could we not stay in some village or town nearby as we have before?”
    “Undoubtedly,” he replied, “but I hardly think a baron’s daughter would prefer such accommodations as are available in this region.”
    “I would rather put up with some discomfort than lie to good people.”
    “You are willing, however, to lie to bad people?”
    “No,” she protested, “I only meant that I have been cold and wet and hungry before.” Her