They had only recently parted after being closeted together far too long, and Hero shivered at the memory of his skin beneath her fingers. Smooth and so very warm…
She heard his quiet footsteps as he neared her, and her heart began hammering at his approach. What was he about? He should be searching his own shelves, not looking over her shoulder. Yet that’s just what he was doing. In fact, he was leaning against her, his breath hot against her cheek—and reeking of wine.
With a start, Hero turned around to face, not KitMarchant, but a stranger dressed in green, a great plume dangling from his cap. He was reaching for her, and Hero evaded his touch by stomping down hard upon his foot.
“Ow!” the man muttered. He seemed no more than a drunken guest, but Hero moved away quickly. Had he seen through her disguise, or was he indiscriminate in his tastes? Hero did not know, but she did not care to find out.
“I beg your pardon. I did not think anyone was here,” Hero said in her deepest voice. She glanced toward the closed door and wondered where Kit was even as she cursed herself for relying upon him. Didn’t she know better? She had become careless and witless and must face the consequences of her own inattention.
That meant dealing with this interloper so she could get back to searching. Hero glanced at the door, but she didn’t want to leave the room, for fear she would not be able to return. Looking back at the man, she attempted to gauge the threat. He wasn’t tall, but he was sturdily built. Just how drunk was he?
“Here now, Master Scarlet,” he drawled. “What kind of greeting is that?”
He must have been referring to her bloodred mask, or perhaps he thought her someone else, for he was dressed as a fellow of the greenwood. “You must be mistaken,” Hero said. “I know you not, sir.”
“Well, let us remedy that, by God,” he said, lurching forward. An elegant rosewood couch stood between them, but it provided little protection. Hero did not intend to participate in some French farce, butneither did she care to resort to her pistol. The success of her venture depended upon secrecy, and she did not want to cause any outcry.
Hero edged around the couch, but her companion was not deterred. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game, grinning behind his half-mask and feathered cap. The green hose he wore beneath his short tunic left little to the imagination, and Hero was alarmed by what she saw.
“You are confusing me with another, sir,” Hero said, backing toward the door. “I am not Will Scarlet. Now be off with you before I crack a cudgel upon your skull.”
Hero heard the door open behind her and felt her heart constrict. If someone was blocking her escape, she was well and truly trapped. But instead of welcoming the newcomer, her companion warned them away.
“We are occupied here,” he shouted.
“We are not!” Hero called out. Turning her head slightly, she glanced toward the entrance and felt a mixture of relief and joy at the sight of Kit Marchant.
As usual, he was completely unruffled by the scene before him. “Excuse me, but this is my assignation, Sir Robin, arranged earlier this evening,” he said.
For a moment, Hero thought the interloper would argue. Kit must have, too, because he stepped forward, sweeping his cape out of the way, as though prepared to draw a sword, even though Hero knew he didn’t have one.
What he did have was an extremely close-fitting costume, and Hero drew in a sharp breath at the sight. The shiny material with its garish red, yellow and bluediamonds seemed to hug every well-formed inch of Kit’s body, revealing each sleek muscle, especially in the area of his groin, where a strategically positioned piece of red cloth called attention to that part of his anatomy.
Hero felt an answering rush of color flood her cheeks. Although she knew little of such things, her assailant’s hose appeared ill filled by comparison. Indeed, as if echoing her thoughts,
She heard his quiet footsteps as he neared her, and her heart began hammering at his approach. What was he about? He should be searching his own shelves, not looking over her shoulder. Yet that’s just what he was doing. In fact, he was leaning against her, his breath hot against her cheek—and reeking of wine.
With a start, Hero turned around to face, not KitMarchant, but a stranger dressed in green, a great plume dangling from his cap. He was reaching for her, and Hero evaded his touch by stomping down hard upon his foot.
“Ow!” the man muttered. He seemed no more than a drunken guest, but Hero moved away quickly. Had he seen through her disguise, or was he indiscriminate in his tastes? Hero did not know, but she did not care to find out.
“I beg your pardon. I did not think anyone was here,” Hero said in her deepest voice. She glanced toward the closed door and wondered where Kit was even as she cursed herself for relying upon him. Didn’t she know better? She had become careless and witless and must face the consequences of her own inattention.
That meant dealing with this interloper so she could get back to searching. Hero glanced at the door, but she didn’t want to leave the room, for fear she would not be able to return. Looking back at the man, she attempted to gauge the threat. He wasn’t tall, but he was sturdily built. Just how drunk was he?
“Here now, Master Scarlet,” he drawled. “What kind of greeting is that?”
He must have been referring to her bloodred mask, or perhaps he thought her someone else, for he was dressed as a fellow of the greenwood. “You must be mistaken,” Hero said. “I know you not, sir.”
“Well, let us remedy that, by God,” he said, lurching forward. An elegant rosewood couch stood between them, but it provided little protection. Hero did not intend to participate in some French farce, butneither did she care to resort to her pistol. The success of her venture depended upon secrecy, and she did not want to cause any outcry.
Hero edged around the couch, but her companion was not deterred. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game, grinning behind his half-mask and feathered cap. The green hose he wore beneath his short tunic left little to the imagination, and Hero was alarmed by what she saw.
“You are confusing me with another, sir,” Hero said, backing toward the door. “I am not Will Scarlet. Now be off with you before I crack a cudgel upon your skull.”
Hero heard the door open behind her and felt her heart constrict. If someone was blocking her escape, she was well and truly trapped. But instead of welcoming the newcomer, her companion warned them away.
“We are occupied here,” he shouted.
“We are not!” Hero called out. Turning her head slightly, she glanced toward the entrance and felt a mixture of relief and joy at the sight of Kit Marchant.
As usual, he was completely unruffled by the scene before him. “Excuse me, but this is my assignation, Sir Robin, arranged earlier this evening,” he said.
For a moment, Hero thought the interloper would argue. Kit must have, too, because he stepped forward, sweeping his cape out of the way, as though prepared to draw a sword, even though Hero knew he didn’t have one.
What he did have was an extremely close-fitting costume, and Hero drew in a sharp breath at the sight. The shiny material with its garish red, yellow and bluediamonds seemed to hug every well-formed inch of Kit’s body, revealing each sleek muscle, especially in the area of his groin, where a strategically positioned piece of red cloth called attention to that part of his anatomy.
Hero felt an answering rush of color flood her cheeks. Although she knew little of such things, her assailant’s hose appeared ill filled by comparison. Indeed, as if echoing her thoughts,
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