“Ah.” He compressed his lips and blew, causing them to bubble as if he were forcibly holding back a retort. Then, he nodded. “Ahhh.”
He couldn’t bethinking, could he? Not just thinking, but considering her criticism?
“Now I see how bestowing a name on you without your consent might have seemed…” Finally, he chose his word. “Patronizing.”
She scowled. He wasn’t supposed to think. To consider her words. To change. He was supposed to be the object of her vengeance and a means for her to acquire knowledge.
She preferred him to be contrary.
A conciliatory Redver both bruised her conscience and became a curiosity. She couldn’t afford to be curious. He was simply too compelling a mark—and, far, far too dangerous.
“In my defense,” he continued, “Bessie has always chosen bird names for the women who agree to share my bed.”
Bessie? Was that the widow’s Christian name? “Birds for the ladybirds?”
“What a terribly scathing tone. Deserved? Possibly… I never even considered whether the women themselves agreed or approved. My intent was to discourage unintended attachment.” He inclined his head. “I apologize if I offended you. Would you prefer I use your Christian name?”
Ha!“Not a chance.”
Her refusal elicited a smile that matched her own. Not that he could see hers, blindfolded as he was. She felt another tug of affinity. Of care.
“The Blackbird will do. Apology, however, accepted. I hadn’t expected you to grasp my implied censure.”
“No? I shudder to think of the impression I’ve made.”
“Twaddle and bilgewater.” Her smile widened. “You don’t care a fig for my opinion.”
His brow crinkled as if he were considering. “I suppose the shuddering part could be considered twaddle. But for my statement to be stagnant and fetid as bilgewater”—he grinned again—“I’d have to have flat out lied. My words stand. And why wouldn’t I wish for your good opinion?”
“Because I’m but a distraction to you.”
“Brought that one on myself, I suppose.” His mouth flattened. “Very well, point conceded. I’ve unintentionally belittled my lovers. Call me Terrier if you like and I will meekly suffer the wound to my pride.”
His slightly protruding lower lip made her heart skip. Was he trying to draw her in? Or was he being sincere?
“Rogue may be more apt than Terrier,” she said.
He hummed in a beckoning way. “Climb into bed and I will show you just how much of a rogue I can be.”
Heavens, what a voice he had. Rumbling. Low. The kind of voice that demanded obedience without words. She leaned over the mattress, testing his ability to see by waving her hand in front of his blindfold.
“I can’t see you”—he held out his hand—“but I feel you.”
Eyeing him as if he were a cat about to pounce, she allowed him to help her up onto the mattress.
He released her, angling his body so that they faced one another. However, they were far from touching…unless you counted the place where her leg had fallen into the indent occupied by his knee.
“You’ll find the pillows quite comfortable. And you don’t want to miss the intriguingly carved canopy.”
As she glanced upward, her shoulder slipped into his. A shock of heat flared through her body. She ignored the flare and focused her gaze above. The tester, like the one above the bed she and Cassandra occupied in their godmother’s home, was decorated with clouds and winged, angelic creatures.
However, these creatures, though winged, were not angels.
She frowned. “I’m not sure what they are doing is possible while in flight.”
“Difficult, certainly,” he agreed with a laugh.
She turned back to him. Oh, by all the naughty, frolicking angels, why did he have to keep smiling?
