Anthony swung himself into the branches of the magnolia and climbed swiftly. In a few minutes he was sitting on the window ledge of Olivia’s chamber. The room was faintly lit by the moon, and the curtains around the bed were drawn back to allow the cool night air to reach the sleeper. Even so, Olivia had kicked aside the covers. She lay with her back to the window; her nightgown was twisted and caught up around her waist, leaving her lower body naked in the moonlight.
Anthony’s smile deepened. He took the book from his pocket and withdrew the map. The reverse side of the paper was blank. He dug into his other pocket for the lead pencil he always carried and looked again at the bed. Frowning slightly, he sketched the sleeping girl; a few sharply drawn lines committed the image to paper. The flow of her hair, the curve of her spine, the turned flank and the flare of her backside, the long, entwined legs, her slender feet with their rosy heels.
He examined his work with a critical air, comparing it with its subject, then folded the drawing. Taking the book from the window ledge beside him, he tucked the sketch between its leaves.
He took off his boots as he sat on the window ledge, then slipped into the chamber, his stockinged feet making no sound as he went to the door and turned the key.
A small table stood in the middle of the room, with a book open upon it beside a sheaf of papers. Olivia had been translating a passage from Ovid before she’d gone to bed. Curious, he read the translation. There was nothing of the amateur about it. Every word was carefully and cleverly chosen to reflect the meaning of the original. Olivia Granville was a formidable scholar.
Soundlessly Anthony approached the bed. He placed the book with the sketch on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. Olivia stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Lightly he caressed her bare skin, little flickering brushes of his fingertips. She wriggled as if irritated by a bothersome fly. He smiled and continued to touch her.
Olivia stirred, straightened her legs, turned onto her back. Then she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide, sightless, her mouth opened on a scream.
Swiftly Anthony placed his hand over her mouth. “Hush, my flower. It’s me.”
She fought him, pushing him from her, her body twisting in terror as she struggled to escape the loathsome secret touches that had invaded her sleep.
“No, no, no,” Anthony said into her hair, holding her tightly the more she fought him, holding her face buried against his chest, afraid that she would scream and bring the house upon them. “Forgive me, I didn’t know I would frighten you so much. Hush, love, hush.”
And slowly his words penetrated the fog of nightmare. Slowly Olivia realized that this was Anthony, not Brian. The touches had been loving, sensuous, gentle. They bore no relation to the rough, contemptuous cruelty of the past.
The terror died slowly from her eyes, and her body stilled in his arms. Anthony loosened his grip, feeling her surrender, and smiled ruefully into her bewildered countenance.
Olivia simply looked at him, her eyes still wide, a lingering terror remaining in their dark depths.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you so,” he said, reaching to brush a lock of hair from her brow. “You must have been so deeply asleep. I wished only to bring you pleasure.”
Instinctively Olivia grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her waist. She crossed her arms over her breast, shivering slightly. “I thought… I thought…”
“What did you think?” He caressed the curve of her cheek.
She shook her head. “It was just a nightmare. But it seemed to be really happening.”
Gently he took her hands, drawing them away from her body. “How mortifying to be the subject of someone’s nightmare.” He was still smiling ruefully, but there was a question in his eyes.
Olivia averted her gaze. There was an instant’s silence, then she said, “What on earth are you doing here? My father’s in the house.”
“He’s not going to know I’m here.” Anthony caught her chin, turning her to face him. “Kiss me and then you’ll know I’m no figment of a nightmare.”
“No!” Olivia jerked her chin free of his hold. “You c-can’t just c-come in here… come through my window like… like Romeo… and expect me to turn into Juliet.”
“I thought Romeo didn’t get further than the balcony,” Anthony observed. But he sat back from her now, his hands resting easily on his knees.
“You certainly don’t look like Romeo,” Olivia said. “Why are you dressed like that? Is that paint on your face?”
“I had business to do. I didn’t have time to take it off.”
“Just what are you?” she demanded.
“A pirate… a smuggler…” He laughed slightly.
“And a man who frequents the king’s presence chamber pretending to be a dandified half-wit. And now look at you…” She flung out a hand at him. “What are you supposed to be now?”
“A fisherman.”
“A fisherman?” Olivia stared at him, momentarily defeated. “How many people are you, Anthony… or is it Edward?”
“Hard as it may seem to believe, just the one,” he said simply. “And Anthony will do for you. Right now, though, I’ve a mind to play physician.” He reached forward and twitched aside the covers. “Turn over and let me have a look at your thigh.”
“It’s all healed up,” she said, grabbing for the sheet again. “Phoebe looked at it.”
“Nevertheless, I prefer to judge the progress of my handiwork myself.” His eyes darkened and he placed his hands, cool and strong, over hers as they clutched the sheet. “Why would you be so shy with me now, Olivia, after all that we shared?”
She didn’t answer him, repeating instead softly, “Why did you c-come?”
“To look at your wound and to return this.” He took his hands from hers and there was no disguising the disappointment, the flash of frustration in his eyes. He reached to the bedside table and gave her the book he had brought.
“You left your Aeschylus behind on the ship.”
“Oh.” It was the book she had been reading when she’d fallen off the cliff. She opened it and the folded sheet fell to the covers, the map uppermost. “Who drew this?”
“Mike. I wanted to be sure I found the right window.”
Idly Olivia turned the map over in her hands. She stared at the sketch. “This is me! You drew me, while I was asleep! How c-could you!”
“Because it was irresistible,” he said. “And you know my passion for anatomy.”
“You are despicable!” Olivia declared. “Spying and c-creeping up on people. Despicable!”
Anthony contented himself with a raised eyebrow. He rose from the bed and began to wander around the chamber, whistling softly between his teeth. Head on one side, he examined the pictures on the walls; he ran a finger over the spines of the books in the shelf; he picked up her ivory-backed brushes and the little pearl-studded hand mirror.
“Good God, I’d forgotten for a minute I was still covered in paint. You don’t mind if I use your washcloth?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but proceeded to make free with soap, washcloth, and water, scrubbing the rouge from his cheeks. “There, much more presentable, don’t you think?” He laid the mirror down and turned back to her with a smile that demanded approval.
Olivia told herself she would not laugh. She had been watching his careless peregrinations in an incredulous silence, wondering why it was so impossible to shame him. And now he was looking at her like a hopeful wolfhound.
Anthony grinned, reading her mind as he had so often before. His eye fell on the chessboard on its inlaid table beside the empty hearth.
“Shall we play chess?” he asked casually.
“Shall we do what?”
“Chess,” he said. “An unexceptionable activity, I would have thought, since we will be safely separated by a board.” He picked a black pawn and a white one from the table and came over to the bed, holding them behind his back. “Choose.” He extended his closed fists to her.