Page 39 of Some Like It Wild
But when his vision cleared and he saw her cornflower blue eyes and lush Cupid’s bow of a mouth, he felt as if he had been struck not only blind, but deaf and mute as well.
Her impertinent little nose and the golden curls peeping out from beneath her mobcap also gave him a peculiar start of recognition. “Do I know you?”
“I should think not. I’m Pamela’s s-s-servant. I’m her maid. Her maidservant. Yes, that’s what I am. Her maidservant.”
“Pamela?” It took a dazed minute for his mental faculties to reassert themselves. “Ah, yes—my cousin’s fiancée—the ever so charming Miss Darby. Yet you address her by her Christian name. Tell me—does your mistress encourage such familiarity?”
“Does yours?”
At her cheeky retort, Crispin quickly discovered that it hurt to smile. But he still couldn’t stop himself. “My mistress encourages all manner of familiarity. That’s why she’s my mistress.”
The girl’s mouth curved into a reluctant little half smile. “You’re bleeding,” she announced.
“I am?” He reached toward his face but her hand was already there, dabbing at his cheekbone with the corner of a sheet. Her touch was far gentler than her voice.
He welcomed her assistance, grateful for the opportunity to study the creamy curve of her cheek and the beguiling sweep of her honey-colored lashes at such an intimate range. He frowned, his bewilderment deepening. “Are you certain we haven’t met before? It’s not like me to forget a face as lovely as yours.”
“I’m sure you’ve forgotten more lovely faces than you’ve remembered.” She slanted him a provocative look from beneath those lashes, her parted lips only a tantalizing breath away from his.
He leaned forward, suffering a pang of regret when she quickly retreated. She began to gather up the scattered linens, her motions once again brisk with purpose. He scrambled to his feet to assist her, piling the sheets so high in her slender arms she could barely see over the top of them.
“Thank you for being such a gentleman,” she said primly.
He chuckled. “I’ve been accused of many things in my day, but rarely that.”
He stood back, allowing her to brush past him on the narrow stairwell. He watched her go, bemused by the proud tilt of her head and the saucy sway of her round little rump. He hadn’t been so tempted to dally with a maidservant since his fifteenth summer when he’d lost his innocence to a buxom young chambermaid who had crept into his bedchamber each night after the candles had been extinguished.
“Wait!” he called after her as she reached the foot of the stairs. “Do you have a name?”
“Yes,” she replied without slowing her steps. “I most certainly do.”
Then she was gone, leaving him to sag against the wall and wonder why the ringing in his ears suddenly sounded like cathedral bells.
That night Pamela once again found herself tossing and turning as if the mattress of her cozy half-tester had been stuffed with stones instead of feathers. She was still haunted by the genuine horror she had glimpsed in Crispin’s eyes while she sat bleeding at his feet. Perhaps he was simply dismayed that his plan to kill Connor had gone awry. But what if losing thefleuretfrom the tip of his epee reallyhadbeen an accident? What if they were no closer to finding her mother’s killer than they had been yesterday?
She rolled to her back, gazing up at the half-tester’s canopy. The sooner they exposed her mother’s killer, the sooner she and Connor could put an end to their travesty of a betrothal. She would be free to break off their engagement and disappear with her sister and the reward and he would be free to court a more suitable bride—some earl’s pampered daughter or the haughty niece of a marquess, perhaps.
She flopped to her side, wincing at the sting of the scratch on her forearm. The sash window was safely secured, misty beams of moonlight the only intruder on this restless night.
The room suddenly felt unbearably stuffy. Pamela kicked away the blankets. After lying there for a few more interminable minutes, she rolled out of the bed, marched over to the window and threw up the sash. A cool night breeze poured into the room, caressing her fevered brow. She leaned out the window and searched the shadows below but detected no hint of movement.
Sighing, she returned to the bed. Folding her hands beneath her cheek, she lay gazing at the open window. Perhaps in the most secret corner of her heart, she had hoped Connor might come to collect his prize. If she drifted off to sleep now, would she awaken to find his shadow looming over her in the moonlight? And if she did, would she have the strength to send him away or would she open her arms to welcome him into her bed?
Groaning, Pamela scrambled back to her feet. She snatched up her faded dressing gown from the back of a nearby chair and shrugged it on over her nightdress. If they were going to trap her mother’s killer, then she and Connor had much to discuss, did they not? And it was nearly impossible to do so beneath the watchful eyes of the duke, his suspicious sister and their nosy army of servants.
She eased open the door and peered both ways down the deserted corridor. Perhaps it was time to show Connor Kincaid he wasn’t the only one who could sneak into someone’s bedchamber in the dead of night.
As Pamela slipped into Connor’s bedchamber, she had to resist the urge to let out a low admiring whistle. The bedchamber was so vast it made her own generous suite look like servants’ quarters. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the masculine scents of leather and fine wood.
As she drifted across the gleaming cherry floor, she realized the mischievous moon had followed her from her room. It was peeping through one of the tall sash windows on the far wall, bathing the bed in a wash of silver.
The towering four-poster with its turned bedposts and ornately carved headboard crowned the center of the room. It wasn’t the spectacularly overwrought bed that engaged her fascination, but the man who lay on his back with his long limbs sprawled among its rumpled bedclothes.
Pamela crept closer, swallowing a knot of trepidation.
Too late it occurred to her that Connor hardly seemed the sort to don a long nightshirt and tasseled nightcap. Instead, he reclined on his back with a mere ribbon of bedsheet draped carelessly over his hips.
Her mouth went dry. If she had any moral fortitude whatsoever, she would beat a hasty retreat straight back to her own bedchamber, her own lonely bed. But curiosity was already overcoming her caution, tempting her to draw within touching distance of Connor’s sleeping form.
