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His hand moved reflexively to the pistol tucked into the back waistband of his breeches.
Not necessary.The man was too slender to pose a threat.
“Did that man say anything to you?” he asked the porter.
“Mr. Pomeroy? He said Sir Malcolm asked him to retrieve a volume on Viking mythology.”
“Did he now.”
“Is there a problem, Your Grace?”
“Not at all. I was sent on a similar errand. Back to your post.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Raven entered the large library noiselessly. Lamps burned on the tables, casting half-moons of light over broken columns, statuary, and piles of books and scrolls.
Pomeroy was examining a large shadowy object, mounted on a wooden frame, with a magnifying glass. He held a scrap of paper in one hand and was comparing it to the markings on the...
Rosetta Stone.
“Looking for something, Mr. Pomeroy?” Raven asked. “If that’s truly your name.”
The man spun around and his spectacles slipped down his nose, revealing eyes of a peculiar light purple color.
A color Raven would know anywhere.
He should. He dreamed of those eyes every night.
“Indy?” he exploded on an exhale, as though someone had punched him in the gut. “What in the name of Aphrodite’s perfect tits are you doing here?”
Chapter 2
“I thought you were drunk,” said Indy, because it was the first thought that leapt to mind. The thoughts she managed to keep to herself went something like this:Shite. Balls! Damn his topaz eyes. Why, why,why?
She removed her spectacles and slipped them into her pocket.
“Your moustache is crooked,” Ravenwood observed.
Her hand flew to her moustache. Blast, he was right. She held the sorry thing in place with one finger, keeping the map behind her back with her other hand.
There’s hope yet that he won’t report you. Keep him talking. Treat it as a lark. Above all, don’t let him goad you into losing your temper. Don’t let him under your skin.
“Why aren’t you drunk anymore?” she asked.
“Because the sight of you wearing whiskers is immediately and irreparably sobering. It’s not a good look.”
“It’s a very good look. Girls were flirting with me on the street I’ll have you know.”
He quirked one eyebrow at her.
How did he even do that? She’d tried it in the mirror before setting out today with no luck. It would have, as he’d put it earlier, lent an air of veracity to her disguise. All rogues seemed to know how to raise one sardonic eyebrow.
“Those trousers, though,” he said in a low growl. “They leave little to the imagination. I approve.”
The fabric of her trousers became a second skin as his smoldering gaze caressed her thighs. His nearness hit her where it always did—below the navel, in the most erogenous of areas—and higher, speeding her heart and dimming her mind.
She eyed the taut stretch of his breeches over his muscular thighs. “That makes two of us, then. Did your valet have to help you wriggle into those breeches? They appear to be painted on. Borders on the indecent, really.”
