crates from falling onto her.
She seemed startled to see him standing so near her in the small well created by the labyrinth, his arms filled with an iron trunk like Atlas holding up the world.
"Thank you, sir. But I've already opened that one." The exasperating woman gave him a placating smile, then turned away and leaned forward across the top of a chest, apparently trying to read the label on the far side. Her perfectly rounded, wriggling bottom was shaped in spectacular detail beneath the pull of her skirts, which lacked the fashionable, copious crinolines.
No wonder she wore plain, practical clothes and no stays; she was an acrobat. Jack shouldered the trunk onto another, thankful for a place to put his hands. They wanted to be up her skirts.
"Just more
Prerogative Court
records," she said, righting herself so quickly that she would have bounced off Jack's chest if he hadn't caught her around her waist—a two-hand span of warm, curvaceous flesh, hinting at the soft cushion of her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips.
"Have a care, madam." As he must, else he'd soon be ravishing her here in the
Wakefield
Tower
.
"It's very good to have you with me, my lord."
"You're welcome." Jack did his best to seem indifferent, but in the next moment she used his shoulder for a hand support and hoisted herself to the top of the nearby crate, putting him eye-level with her backside. She rose on her toes, reaching toward a box on top of a locked cabinet, and teetered off center.
He had no other choice, and no better grip, than either side of her hips to steady her.
Jack expected a well-placed kick in the chest for his impropriety, but the woman not only accepted his aid with a "thank you" but used him to reach even higher, until her skirts fell away from her pale- stockinged calf.
A hot bolt of desire surged through him and lodged itself in his groin.
"Got it!" she said, dragging the box toward her and handing it down to him. The lock popped easily, and she laughed when she opened the lid.
"Quills," she said, shutting it again. She was cobwebbed and dusty, and glowing pink with exertion.
Jack could only sweat.
She continued her search, undeterred by dust and dampness and lack of light, accepting his aid when he was near enough to help, and forging on alone when the passages grew cramped and excluded him.
He had accompanied Miss Faelyn to observe her methods, fully expecting to find flaws and inefficiencies, fully prepared to institute changes for the sake of the project. But for the moment she seemed to know far more about this business than he did. It was an inscrutable maze, and all he could do was stand and hold the string while Miss Faelyn looked for the way to freedom.
He wouldn't always be around to escort her. He would make random forays with her, but the job was really hers. Though she spun silk-webbed stories as tightly as a spider in springtime, he had to trust her research—though he would keep guard against her equivocating.
As he would keep guard against the meadowy scent of her skin and the tempting display of her legs.
Jack spent the next three hours bridling his passion for the eccentric woman, unlocking chests for her and unscrewing parchment presses, while his agile partner passed judgment on the contents. She touched him often in her enthusiasm, unconscious of its effects on him. It was only when they reached the end of a corridor of chests stacked nearly to the ceiling that they found a stash of barrels, and finally the one they had been seeking.
"Henrietta!" she shouted.
Queen Henrietta Maria of France . The label was burned unceremoniously into the side of the barrel.
"Success, madam."
"Oh! You can't know how much, Rushford." Tears again, huge and streaming. And then a great wracking sob that she clutched against her chest.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap himself around her, to fill his arms with the funny sobs that he felt so responsible for. She was much smaller
She seemed startled to see him standing so near her in the small well created by the labyrinth, his arms filled with an iron trunk like Atlas holding up the world.
"Thank you, sir. But I've already opened that one." The exasperating woman gave him a placating smile, then turned away and leaned forward across the top of a chest, apparently trying to read the label on the far side. Her perfectly rounded, wriggling bottom was shaped in spectacular detail beneath the pull of her skirts, which lacked the fashionable, copious crinolines.
No wonder she wore plain, practical clothes and no stays; she was an acrobat. Jack shouldered the trunk onto another, thankful for a place to put his hands. They wanted to be up her skirts.
"Just more
Prerogative Court
records," she said, righting herself so quickly that she would have bounced off Jack's chest if he hadn't caught her around her waist—a two-hand span of warm, curvaceous flesh, hinting at the soft cushion of her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips.
"Have a care, madam." As he must, else he'd soon be ravishing her here in the
Wakefield
Tower
.
"It's very good to have you with me, my lord."
"You're welcome." Jack did his best to seem indifferent, but in the next moment she used his shoulder for a hand support and hoisted herself to the top of the nearby crate, putting him eye-level with her backside. She rose on her toes, reaching toward a box on top of a locked cabinet, and teetered off center.
He had no other choice, and no better grip, than either side of her hips to steady her.
Jack expected a well-placed kick in the chest for his impropriety, but the woman not only accepted his aid with a "thank you" but used him to reach even higher, until her skirts fell away from her pale- stockinged calf.
A hot bolt of desire surged through him and lodged itself in his groin.
"Got it!" she said, dragging the box toward her and handing it down to him. The lock popped easily, and she laughed when she opened the lid.
"Quills," she said, shutting it again. She was cobwebbed and dusty, and glowing pink with exertion.
Jack could only sweat.
She continued her search, undeterred by dust and dampness and lack of light, accepting his aid when he was near enough to help, and forging on alone when the passages grew cramped and excluded him.
He had accompanied Miss Faelyn to observe her methods, fully expecting to find flaws and inefficiencies, fully prepared to institute changes for the sake of the project. But for the moment she seemed to know far more about this business than he did. It was an inscrutable maze, and all he could do was stand and hold the string while Miss Faelyn looked for the way to freedom.
He wouldn't always be around to escort her. He would make random forays with her, but the job was really hers. Though she spun silk-webbed stories as tightly as a spider in springtime, he had to trust her research—though he would keep guard against her equivocating.
As he would keep guard against the meadowy scent of her skin and the tempting display of her legs.
Jack spent the next three hours bridling his passion for the eccentric woman, unlocking chests for her and unscrewing parchment presses, while his agile partner passed judgment on the contents. She touched him often in her enthusiasm, unconscious of its effects on him. It was only when they reached the end of a corridor of chests stacked nearly to the ceiling that they found a stash of barrels, and finally the one they had been seeking.
"Henrietta!" she shouted.
Queen Henrietta Maria of France . The label was burned unceremoniously into the side of the barrel.
"Success, madam."
"Oh! You can't know how much, Rushford." Tears again, huge and streaming. And then a great wracking sob that she clutched against her chest.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap himself around her, to fill his arms with the funny sobs that he felt so responsible for. She was much smaller
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