the man erupted in a loud harrumph and staggered toward the door.
“Well, I can see why you are wearing that, my friend,” he said with a nod. “And I concede to my better.”
When Robin Hood had quit the room, Kit turned toward her once more. “At least some good has come of this damned constricting costume,” he said.
Then he looked down at himself for the first time, and despite herself, Hero found her gaze following his own. For a heart-stopping instant, her wits fled, and all she knew was the hot swell of what she could only guess was desire.
“Is it my imagination or is there a star on my—?” Kit began to ask, but he must have heard Hero’s choked sound of dismay because he didn’t finish. Instead, he lifted his head to slant her a glance, and in his dark eyes Hero saw a glint of seductive promise that robbed her of breath.
That look alone was far more dangerous than anything in Sir Robin’s arsenal, and Hero had to struggle to keep a tenuous hold on her rioting senses. She tried to remember where she was, what she must do and, most of all, who she was, as her fingers clung, trembling, to the back of the couch.
A loud thump and raucous laughter from outside the room saved her from herself, for it seemed to call Kit to attention. Striding across the thick carpet, he easily lifted a heavy chair and put it in front of the door, so that they would have some privacy and warning, at least, of interruption.
Flushing, Hero ignored the giddy thrill that seemed to produce and turned her back upon the compelling figure of Kit Marchant. But he was not so easily put from her mind, and even as she scanned the shelves, searching for the Mallory, Hero was aware of his presence, both a comfort and a danger far more perilous than a host of drunken masqueraders.
Kit kept an eye on the hands of the ormolu clock, for he did not know how long the ball would continue. Usually, such events dragged through to the wee hours, but he had no wish to be found here after the other guests had left or sought their beds.
Already, he was weary of an activity that seemed pointless. And the sooner he got out of his costume, the better; he was beginning to feel as though blood was being cut off from necessary parts, parts that he might some day want in working condition…
Kit pushed aside that thought and all that came with it to concentrate on getting Hero out of Cheswick safely.
“The Mallory at Oakfield had been slipped between another cover to conceal it, which is why it remained hidden all those years,” he said, hoping to put an end to the search.
As usual, Hero was undeterred. “We have no evidence that Martin Cheswick did the same.”
Perhaps because half the instructions he received were missing , Kit thought, though he said no more. Even if the book was here, which he doubted, they would need to pull out each volume and examine it in order to find what they were seeking. And that sort of task was not going to be accomplished in one evening.
Still, Kit ran his fingers over the spines, looking for anything unusual, while the clock ticked, the only sound besides the crackle of the fire. When it came, the noise of something else was startling in the stillness, and Kit looked to the door, where the chair held fast despite being rattled.
Hero was already glancing his way, but she was crouched before another bookcase on the opposite side of the room. It was hardly the pose of two lovers, and Kit hurried toward the rosewood couch, motioning for her to join him.
Without hesitation, Kit pulled her down against the round pillow and leaned over her, all the while staring at the door. But after the initial rattling, it fell silent. In the quiet that followed, he waited, yet heard nothing else. Perhaps some other guests, seeking an assignation, had realized the library was occupied and moved on.
Kit loosed a low sigh at the respite and turned his head toward Hero. She had removed her mask, and had he seen his relief reflected
“Well, I can see why you are wearing that, my friend,” he said with a nod. “And I concede to my better.”
When Robin Hood had quit the room, Kit turned toward her once more. “At least some good has come of this damned constricting costume,” he said.
Then he looked down at himself for the first time, and despite herself, Hero found her gaze following his own. For a heart-stopping instant, her wits fled, and all she knew was the hot swell of what she could only guess was desire.
“Is it my imagination or is there a star on my—?” Kit began to ask, but he must have heard Hero’s choked sound of dismay because he didn’t finish. Instead, he lifted his head to slant her a glance, and in his dark eyes Hero saw a glint of seductive promise that robbed her of breath.
That look alone was far more dangerous than anything in Sir Robin’s arsenal, and Hero had to struggle to keep a tenuous hold on her rioting senses. She tried to remember where she was, what she must do and, most of all, who she was, as her fingers clung, trembling, to the back of the couch.
A loud thump and raucous laughter from outside the room saved her from herself, for it seemed to call Kit to attention. Striding across the thick carpet, he easily lifted a heavy chair and put it in front of the door, so that they would have some privacy and warning, at least, of interruption.
Flushing, Hero ignored the giddy thrill that seemed to produce and turned her back upon the compelling figure of Kit Marchant. But he was not so easily put from her mind, and even as she scanned the shelves, searching for the Mallory, Hero was aware of his presence, both a comfort and a danger far more perilous than a host of drunken masqueraders.
Kit kept an eye on the hands of the ormolu clock, for he did not know how long the ball would continue. Usually, such events dragged through to the wee hours, but he had no wish to be found here after the other guests had left or sought their beds.
Already, he was weary of an activity that seemed pointless. And the sooner he got out of his costume, the better; he was beginning to feel as though blood was being cut off from necessary parts, parts that he might some day want in working condition…
Kit pushed aside that thought and all that came with it to concentrate on getting Hero out of Cheswick safely.
“The Mallory at Oakfield had been slipped between another cover to conceal it, which is why it remained hidden all those years,” he said, hoping to put an end to the search.
As usual, Hero was undeterred. “We have no evidence that Martin Cheswick did the same.”
Perhaps because half the instructions he received were missing , Kit thought, though he said no more. Even if the book was here, which he doubted, they would need to pull out each volume and examine it in order to find what they were seeking. And that sort of task was not going to be accomplished in one evening.
Still, Kit ran his fingers over the spines, looking for anything unusual, while the clock ticked, the only sound besides the crackle of the fire. When it came, the noise of something else was startling in the stillness, and Kit looked to the door, where the chair held fast despite being rattled.
Hero was already glancing his way, but she was crouched before another bookcase on the opposite side of the room. It was hardly the pose of two lovers, and Kit hurried toward the rosewood couch, motioning for her to join him.
Without hesitation, Kit pulled her down against the round pillow and leaned over her, all the while staring at the door. But after the initial rattling, it fell silent. In the quiet that followed, he waited, yet heard nothing else. Perhaps some other guests, seeking an assignation, had realized the library was occupied and moved on.
Kit loosed a low sigh at the respite and turned his head toward Hero. She had removed her mask, and had he seen his relief reflected
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