Page 6 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

He had a square jaw with just a hint of a cleft. His nose was generously proportioned, his forehead high, his dark brows slashed above startlingly blue eyes, their color that of a deep lake. He possessed a wide mouth, framed by a day’s stubble. At some point, he’d lost his hat, and the waves of his chestnut-brown hair were held back in a queue that had begun to come undone to curl over his broad shoulders.

Clara was small of stature, and he positively loomed over her by at least a foot. She skimmed her eyes from his face down his long, rangy body, clad in a deep gray coat. He wore a matching waistcoat, and brown breeches tucked into tall, scuffed boots. A leather baldric was slung across his chest, holding not one but two pistols, and a sheathed knife was tucked into an olive-green sash around his waist.

One of his large hands held a candlestick, and its light flickered over him adoringly.

He was handsome, yes, that was undeniable, but he emanated vitality and potency and an unchecked masculine energy that filled all available space. The entire house couldn’t contain him, and it was very likely that the rickety structure would simply collapse from having him within its walls.

She gulped. Opening the attic door had been a very bad idea.

For several moments, they simply stared at each other. There was a crease between his brows, as if something confounded him. Likely he was somewhat disappointed over her appearance. Many were. He was probably hoping for someone with at least a few distinguishing features. But she’d been told numerous times how rather unimpressive her face was.

When Arthur’s mother had felt especially generous, she’d called Clara quietly pretty, but Clara knew that was merely a euphemism for plain. Her hair wasn’t rich enough in hue to be considered a true blond, and her eyes were a very ordinary shade of brown. At one and thirty, she’d never had a time in her life where she’d experienced the beauty of youth, nor the dignified handsomeness of age.

She waited for his expression to shutter. She was, after all, merely a means to an end. The owner of a house he needed so that his fellow thief could recover from his injury.

She’d been a means to an end for Arthur, too.

Slowly, slowly, Desmond Marsh’s lips curved into a smile. Warm and generous and…genuine?

“Mrs. Ballantine.” Desmond bowed.

“Mr. Marsh.” She resisted the urge to curtsy.

“I…” His voice trailed off, and he simply looked at her. In a way that no one, not even her own husband, ever had. As though he saw all the way into the depths of her, finding the hidden corners and secret places that she kept concealed from everyone—including herself.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She always blushed hectically, not in the elegant way of ladies, but a carnal flush that revealed far too much and turned her a deep, deep red that wasn’t just confined to her face. It rushed down her neck and spread across her chest.

A chest that wasn’t well-covered by the dipping neckline of her nightgown. Her very, very old nightgown that had been washed so many times, the linen was thin as tissue. Her nightrail wasn’t much better, simply another layer of horrifically thin fabric that did little to disguise the shape of her body beneath.

Desmond’s gaze flicked from her face to her neck, and finally to her breasts, their small forms plainly evident under the linen. His pupils widened, darkening his eyes.

She tugged the nightrail closer around her. Though her breasts were still quite visible, at least the color of her nipples couldn’t be seen.

“I need to get my father’s medical tools,” she said in the stilted silence. “I’ll need to clean them, as well.”

“Of course.” But before he took a step, he set the candlestick on the ground.

She frowned as he shrugged out of his greatcoat, which he set aside, then he pulled off his coat. He stood in his shirtsleeves, the fabric pulling across his shoulders and hanging in drapes from the taut forms of his muscles.

“What—?” She didn’t finish her question before he stepped behind her and she stiffened. His nearness was all around her, and it wouldn’t take much, a simple movement, one grasp of his broad hand on her neck or his body pressing hers into the wall, and she would be completely overwhelmed. The difference between their sizes hadn’t seemed so extreme before. But his chest brushed her back, and she started at the contact.

He sucked in a breath.

She held still, unsure of what he intended to do, or what she would do if he tried to force himself on her.

And then…he draped his coat over her shoulders. Slipped her arms through the sleeves. The garment was enormous on her, the cuffs hanging well past her hands, the hem brushing her knees, the shoulders much, much wider than her own so that they sagged. The wool held the heat of his body and the scent of sweat, leather, and gunpowder.

His voice came low at her ear, his breath fanning across her skin.

“Thought you might want to cover up a little,” he murmured, “around strange men.”

“Thank you.” Her words were a shaky exhalation. She held up her hands, and the sleeves slid to pool around her elbows. “These might prove an impediment as I work.”

He moved with sleek grace to stand in front of her. Carefully, he folded the sleeves of his coat so that the cuffs no longer covered her hands.

“Will that do?” he asked lowly.

“It should.” How on earth did she manage to speak even a few words? She couldn’t catch her breath.