Oh, when he was finished, she’d be interested, all right. He’d make sure she’d leave his bed unable to ever forget him.
“I accept her terms.”
“I applaud your choice.”
“Not that I had much of a choice.”
Bessie ignored him, rose, and then made her way out. Looking back one, last time, she said, “I will have Hermia bring the Blackbird to you. Be ready. And remember—be gentle.”
He frowned at the closing door.
He’d known the Black Widow a long time.
If she hadn’t told him outright that she’d played no intentional part in bringing this woman to the Lyon’s Den, the smile in her voice just then would have increased his alreadysimmering suspicion that there was more to this “mistake” than he currently grasped.
However, though Bessie rarely told the whole truth, she did not, in his experience, lie.
He bent down and wrestled off his shoes. Bracing his hand on the bedpost, he unbuttoned his falls. Then, leg by leg, he tugged off his trousers. Lastly, he removed his shirt before tossing it all over the arm of the chair, completing the collection of discarded attire he’d begun when he’d first entered the room.
Since he never wore drawers, when he slipped between the bed sheets, he was, but for a blindfold, as bare as the day he’d been born.
He hoped to disconcert her, and she could not say she hadn’t been warned. After all, he’d already told the Blackbird his custom was to disrobe.
He arranged a sheet around his person as best he could without being able to see. Low light would be enough to obscure the raw patches on his thighs, but the sheet provided added protection.
In this onslaught, he intended to keep any weakness well hidden.
The bedlinens, as usual, were soft. The mattress well-ticked and comfortable. But the tisane had laid the thickest layer between himself and his torment. Even if he hadn’t already felt fuzzy and warm, he suspected his heightened anticipation would have kept his discomfort at bay.
He folded his arms behind his head and sank back into the pillow.
The Blackbird had known him. Recognized him. She thought his wearing blindfold would protect her, but she was wrong. He would test for weaknesses. He would keep her off guard. And even if it took him more than one meeting to learn her name, tonight, he would sear her soul.
Perhaps—his heart whispered—he might find in her, everything he hadn’t known he’d been seeking—strength, passion, resilience.
His heart was not to be trusted. The rational side of him, on the other hand, had solid motives.
After tonight, he’d know exactly how to touch her in a way that would make her blush. Perhaps even stammer. If she threatened to use their association against him, all he needed to do approach her in such a way in a public forum. Her own reaction would betray herself, and she would learn she’d crossed the wrong man, all without him ever having to say a word.
A light knock on the door interrupted his reverie.
“You may enter,” he called.
The lock clicked and the door slid across the carpet.
“Are you blindfolded?” The woman who’d asked the question was not the Blackbird, but Hermia.
“I am,” Adrian answered.
Two women—Hermia and, he assumed, the Blackbird—conversed too quietly for Adrian to discern their words. Fabric rustled. Pins tinged. Finally, one of the two crossed the room. Again, the door opened and closed. Then, silence reigned.
He and the Blackbird were alone.
Her feet shuffled progressively across the floor. By his estimation, she was now standing very close to the side of the bed. A delicious sense of anticipation tingled everywhere from his fingertips to his toes.
“Are all your clothes over the chair?”
Her voice had a unique, lyrical quality. Precise vowels. Polished consonants. Being admonished by the Blackbird was almost like being scolded by a chaste governess.
