“Brilliant idea!” Bridget’s brow furrowed before her expression cleared. “Anywhere on the first floor is permitted, but you may notgo outside or upstairs.” She winked at her husband. “Unless you plan on staying lost for some time.”
Violet’s attention shot to Callum to find him watching her. One of his dark brows lifted and heat rushed to her cheeks as she turned away. Could he see the vestiges of her dream on her face, noticed how shifted and rubbed her thighs together to soothe the ache between them?
No, she wasn’t ready for this. Whatever boldness she’d felt when discussing her ruination as a hypothetical had fled when faced with the potential reality. She needed more time to think before she actually went through with it, more time—
“Valebrook, you hunt first,” Bridget called over the rising thrum of conversation.
The earl dropped his head back with a bellow, then smirked at his wife. “I’ll count to one hundred before I track you down. Go!”
The guests fled the room, giggling and whispering about their hiding places as they went. Violet hurried through the threshold farthest from where Callum stood, then cut down a side hallway. Her knowledge of the building would be to her advantage; she darted around a corner into the original portion of the abbey, coming to a halt in front of an ancient wooden door. Her sister Fern had loved this room as a girl, as it held all the ledgers from the estate managers going back to the earliest days of the property. Men in York and London managed the modern accounts, so the earl had allowed Fern to pass the time studying patterns in the antiquated numbers while Violet and Rose played with dolls under the desk.
The rows of bookshelves and heavy furniture would provide a secluded location for her to hide and wait out her inopportune arousal, so she threw open the door—
And froze. She stepped back, checking to make sure she was in the right place. She was, but the room looked nothing like it had when she was a girl. The gothic desk and stacks of ledgers were gone, and in their place was a spindly harpsichord and settee. A window she’d never noticed in her youth overlooked the kitchen gardens and was framed by heavy velvet draperies.
Footsteps echoing down the hallways spurred her into action. She pushed the door closed behind her and turned in a circle next to the harpsichord as she searched for a place to hide. The footsteps came closer, pausing just outside the door, and she scampered between the settee and wall, and then dropped to the floor.
The door creaked open, and she hugged her knees to her chest, as though being smaller might help her evade detection in the world’s least-effective hiding space.
She watched the black boots pace across the Axminster carpet and come to a stop inches from where she hid.
“Really, Violet, I thought ye’d be better at this.” She glared as Callum’s face peered over the back of the settee. “Why were ye running away?”
“I panicked,” she whisper-hissed as she rose awkwardly to her feet. “How did you find me?”
“I followed ye. I ken we didnae plan this, but if someone found ustogether—”
Another set of footsteps, lighter this time, was pattering down the hall and coming closer. In two steps, he was around the settee, taking her arm and tugging her behind the curtain.
“What are you doing?”
He tugged the ties loose and let the heavy fabric swing open to shield them. “I cannae compromise ye behind a bloody chair.”
“It’s a settee.”
His brow lifted, but she waved off his question as the footsteps entered the room. Their owner, most likely a woman based on the tapping of the heels, circled the space for a moment, then they heard the creak of the settee as she sat.
Callum’s grip on her forearms flexed.She’s not leaving!Violet mouthed to him.
His eyes widened, then he leaned over, his breath feathering over her ear as he whispered. “Should we draw their attention?”
She stepped closer, edging onto her toes to whisper back. “Not until we know who it is. It could be a housemaid.”
He nodded his agreement but didn’t step away, instead stroking one hand down her arm. Tension radiated from his body and he shifted on his feet. “I ken ye said—can I touch ye? We’re too close…”
Heat rushed through her at the rumble, the rasp in his low voice, but she nodded. The hand caressing her arm continued over the lace edge of her sleeve to her palm. He cradled it, then pressed it against his chest, and repeated the movement with her other hand. His touch was gentle but focused, intentional, as she would expect a man with his mind to approach intimacy with a woman.
But this wasn’treallyintimacy. It was a charade, and she wondered what Callum would be like as a bed partner. Would he be tender and attentive as he was now, or demanding and rough?
Was she a hoyden for wishing she might have both?
Now his hands were at her hips, guiding her across the sparse distance between them, and his breath was hot at her temple. “Make it believable, aye?”
Her eyes dropped closed as his fingers flexed, pushing into the soft flesh at the dip of her waist before one palm dragged slowly up her spine to cup her neck. Barely stifling the groan that pushed at her throat, she wrapped her fingers around the lapels of his jacket. Her breasts brushed his broad chest, and a hiss escaped his lips. An answering pull tugged low in her belly and her breathing hitched. His head bent until his nose nudged her temple, paused, inhaled.
Make this believable? Callum must have missed his calling on the stage, because she believed every message his body was telling hers, from the tremor in his hand as it guided her hips closer, to the shuddering rise and fall of his chest, the slight pull of his fingers in the loose curls on her nape. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be in the arms of a man, how she could feel small and delicate, vulnerable while completely at ease.
Her shoulders stiffened at the thought. The last time she’d been comfortable with a man, Gregory had nearly destroyed her. Was she setting herself up for heartbreak again? Was she—
