Page 5 of Meet A Rogue At Midnight
His mouth opened over hers…the lusty shock of it. She gripped his coat, fisting the wool. Her lips parted for Jonas, and the world was unsteady.
Plumtree’s rebel son tasted of sharp cider and sweet, sensual promises. He teased her, his tongue skimming her lower lip before slipping into her mouth. Her body swayed into him. Their kiss deepened, and her tongue touched him back. Tremors rocked her from head to foot from the long, intimate kiss. Wet heat shot anew between her legs, but the strongest ache banged inside her heart.
Kissing Jonas was a sampling of life as it was meant to be. Vibrant. Complete. Perfect.
His mouth on hers was an invitation.
And she was ready to say yes.
Chapter Two
“Rose petal jamsets the soul right.” The Captain passed off the basket to Mrs. Addington.
The lank-limbed housekeeper hugged the basket brimming with shiny jars, her ancient stare severe under her mobcap. “You will not be putting this in my Christmas box, sir. Mind you, I enjoy Mrs. Halsey’s jams, but I prefer you send me off with a juicy roast goose tomorrow.”
Jonas’s ears pricked at the mention of Livvy’s mother. He’d spent the last hour staring out the back-parlor window at the Halsey Tower in the distance. From time to time, a silhouette passed by the tower’s window, and smoke puffed from twin chimneys. In years past, Mr. Halsey would toil for hours in the stone turret, restoring artifacts. Roman pieces were his favorite. He’d written tomes about Rome’s rule over England, all from studying ancient relics he and other antiquarians had dug up from the earth.
“Your request is duly noted, Mrs. Addington.” The Captain tapped his cane twice on the floor before settling into his leather wingback chair to face Mr. Goodspeak.
The housekeeper shuffled off to the kitchen, leaving the men to their entertainments. The Captain and Mr. Goodspeak waged a battle over their chessboard, their fourth today. Mr. Meakin and Mr. Littlewood, both sat nose deep in broadsheets while Mr. Bristow snored on the rust-colored settee. The men, a mix of widowers and lifelong bachelors, had served with the Captain in the Royal Navy and were permanent fixtures in the brown and beige parlor.
Jonas leaned a shoulder against the window frame, keeping an eye on the tower window. The structure was all that remained of a centuries old castle that once sat on Halsey land. The two-story Halsey tower reminded him of Mr. Bristow on the settee—round, squat, and slumping to one side.
In the distance, two arms flung wide the tower windows and a head poked through the opening. It was near twilight, but there was no mistaking the long copper braid dangling over the windowsill. Livvy. She checked the heavens before ducking out of sight and popping up again to toss a rope out the window.
A rope?
He squinted to be sure. Yes. A rope. The thing danced like a snake as Livvy fed it hand over hand out the window.
What secrets did his midnight visitor hide in her tower?
Jonas pushed off his post. “Captain, did you say Mrs. Halsey came to call?”
“Goodness no. Her charwoman delivered the basket.” The Captain nudged his rook two spaces forward. “Mrs. Halsey rarely makes social calls these days. On account of Mr. Halsey.”
“Mr. Halsey?”
The Captain studied the board, his brows beetling. Mr. Goodspeak fiddled with the edge of his moustache, mulling his next move. The hearth crackled nicely and the room smelled of yesterday’s pine boughs and last night’s whiskey-imbued revelry. The Captain and his cronies had been slow to rise this morning, their bloodshot eyes and sluggish steps a sign of last night’s fun.
“Sir?” Jonas prompted. “You were telling me about Mr. Halsey.”
“Yes. Quite. All very hushed family business, I’m afraid. A matter of privacy and all that, but people talk.”
“And what, pray tell, do people say?”
The Captain’s age-scarred hand batted the air. “Some folderol about Mr. Halsey not being well in mind or body. It’s nonsense. I saw him out for a ramble with Mrs. Halsey last summer. He walked with a cane, but so do I. And I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“But not of sound mind,” Mr. Goodspeak said, chortling at his own jest. “My bishop takes your rook.”
The Captain frowned at Mr. Goodspeak waggling the chess piece and plucked his pipe off the mantel. “As you can see,” he went on. “Light shines from his tower where he labors day and night alongside his daughter. The younger, unmarried one.”
“Liv—” Jonas began before correcting himself. “You speak of Miss Olivia Halsey.”
“The very same.” The Captain tapped ash remnants from his pipe into the hearth and began packing it with tobacco he kept in a box on the mantel. “Strange child. Always spouting facts about aqueducts and Roman generals as I recall.”
“Methinks your boy is restless,” Mr. Goodspeak said. “Needs an afternoon at Plumtree’s public house with more lively companionship than the lot of us.”
“Here, here.” Mr. Littlewood peered over the broadsheet, his bloodshot eyes owlish behind his spectacles. “Perhaps a pint and a pretty tavern maid would do.” Knees cracking, his enthusiastic bulk edged forward on his seat cushion. “I’ll accompany you, m’boy. Could do with a bit of conversation with a lively skirt.”
