“Yes.” He might have said more, but the fingers began to briskly unbutton his waistcoat as if the pause in her movements had never happened.
“What was it like? Fighting, marching—doing something worthwhile?”
“Cold and hungry,” Wulf said flatly. “But I wasn’t a soldier for long. I was a spy.”
“WELL, THAT IS NEWS.” Bea efficiently continued to unfasten the buttons, though her fingertips seemed to tingle now that she was so close to him.
His words were not a surprise. She had not suspected it before, but hearing him say it aloud seemed natural. She might have guessed the truth had her mind thought to consider the possibility.
The way his eyes saw right through a person, his sense of honor, the even temperament—and his easy acceptance of a highwayman as a makeshift surgeon. Wulf’s adaptability would have proven useful as a spy.
“Such an appointment would suit you,” she concluded. “I did not know you were assigned to espionage.”
“I do not often speak of it. Few English drawing rooms are concerned with clandestine meetings in dank rooms in the French countryside. Not every cottage is as well-appointed as this one.” He winced as she drew the waistcoat over his wounded arm. “But it is in the past. Unlike your secrets, mine are now of little interest.”
“I suppose that is true.” Bea dropped the waistcoat beside his other garments, studied the cravat he still wore. She wondered just what lay beneath that fine cloth and starched linen. Such broad shoulders filled the fabric, so able to bear the heavy burden of the dukedom. “Do you intend to expose me?”
Her hands were heavy as she lifted them to his cravat, but only because a strange anticipation filled them. She began to slowly unwind and loosen the starched fabric. With each movement, the space between them seemed to swell with something powerful, even mesmerizing. Bea looked into his lean, handsome face and caught the roguish gleam in his eyes.
She could not breathe.
“That remains to be seen.” Wulf purred the words as the last loop of the cravat lifted away, revealing a squared jaw shadowed by stubble and the strong column of this throat.
Everything in her went warm and needy as he stared straight at her with heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze skipped hotly over her body, lingering here and there. The irises appeared black in the dim cabin, though she knew their color.
There was power in that gaze. Power and lust that sent licks of heat moving over her skin.
“I must maintain my reputation.” Pulse quickening, she released the cravat and let it drop to the floor. “Such as it is.”
She wanted to touch him. To skim her hand over that sharp jaw, feel the rasp of thick hair. Even lean down and set her lips to his.
“What may I call you, aside from the Honorable Highwayman?” The question rumbled from his chest, a low sound that skimmed over her senses. “You are undressing me, after all. Surely I might have your name?”
CHAPTER 4
SHE COULD NOT GIVE him a name.
‘Lady Beatrice Falk’ would reveal everything, though Wulf would not likely remember the girl nine years his junior who dreamed of riding to the hunt and going to battle. He would not remember the woman careful to hide from her brother’s drunken guests—for more than one reason.
But he would know the Falk name.
“That is a very long pause.” Amusement twined through Wulf’s deep voice. “I assume you are planning to lie?”
“I did intend to lie, but I cannot think of a proper one.” It was the truth, which was no less dangerous than lies. “Nor will I give you my name—for obvious reasons.”
“An honest highwayman, but not a foolhardy one.” Callused fingers took her hand, brought it to his lips. Pressing a firm, sculpted mouth against her knuckles, he murmured, “In any case, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Her breath drew in. Pushed out. Flames crackled beside them, the howling wind fighting to penetrate the walls. Wulf kept her hand in his, watching her as if nothing else existed just then. It was an intoxicating sensation.
Bea drew back. His mouth was too full and sensual, his scent too strong. Everything about him made her want. And Bea knew the dangers of wanting and excess and lust. It did not matter if it was lust for drink, or pleasure, or dice, or silk.
Or making love.
Wulf would be a dangerous man to toy with. It would be too easy to fall under his spell and forget herself.
“Your wound still requires tending.” Perhaps her body would cease this heady need if she focused on the practical. “If would be so kind as to remove your shirt, it will be easier.”
Bea did not wait for him to consent. She strode to the shelves lining the north wall and retrieved one of the iron kettles stacked there. Without bothering to don her greatcoat or scarf, she threw open the cottage door and stepped into the storm.
Wind whipped up a crystalline tempest to pelt her face. Ignoring the fury, she scooped snow into the pot. Icy cold stung her skin and made her fingers burn as she filled the kettle nearly to the brim. Then she wrestled the door closed and turned once more into the warmth.
Into Wulf.
He’d come up behind her, tall and half-naked as she’d commanded—and just there. His lips were close, and the thought of pressing her mouth to his filled her with need. She wanted to brush her fingers over the broad expanse of his chest and the blond hair sprinkled there.
“I thought it might be heavy.” Wulf’s voice was rough, his eyes dark with desire as he carefully removed the kettle from her hands.
He felt it as well, then, this tug between them.
“Perhaps it is the hit to my head that makes me take leave of my senses, but I believe this evening will be very—” he paused, pinning her with those deep blue eyes. “Engaging.”
“Oh, do you?” Bea knew precisely what Wulf was thinking just then, and sent him a slow, knowing smile. “Clearly, you are not in your right mind.”
“Oh, yes. I am in my right mind,” he said softly.
His gaze was so hot, so dark, it set her body alight.
Dangerous, indeed.
“If you would bring the pot?” She moved around him, striding toward the fire and the chair. Giving herself to the Duke of Highrow would be foolish. She would risk too much, in too many ways.
Yet Wulf would make any woman cross the line.
CHAPTER 5
“I’VE no convenient petticoat to bind your arm with.” Bea stared into the melting water. Little remained of the snow now, just a few swirls of white. Testing the surface with a fingertip, she judged it warm, but not hot.
She had begun to breathe properly again as she tended the water. Still, her body was tight, her mood edgy. Bea did not want to be cautious, but pleasure must always be approached with attention.
“We might as well use my shirt as a bandage,” Wulf suggested. “’Tis a loss in any case.”
The sound of rending fabric rose into the air as she removed the iron pot. She swirled the kettle once to even the water temperature, then turned to see him tearing strips from the bottom edge of his lawn shirt. He ripped again, firelight burnishing the shifting muscles in his shoulders.
She was no stranger to the male body, but Wulf’s body was more. Masculine and virile and strong. And so very tempting.
Caution, she reminded herself.
Settling once more into the crude chair, he laid the strips of his ruined shirt over his thigh. White against the deep black. She strode forward, trying not to slosh the warmed water—but thinking of where that trail of blond hair led.