Page 59 of The Moonstone Pirate
“Yes, in fact, you do.” His clothes were not fashionable, which was no surprise, since he had spent much of the day in those caves working on that escape tunnel, and whatever else he had going on that he was not telling her. He had clearly been engaged in physical labor again today, because his skin had a delicious sheen of sweat across it.
His shirt was damp in spots and clinging tightly to his muscled torso. She noted the spray of dark hair across his chest as the shirt fell open. His dark breeches hugged his powerful thighs, and were clearly of a fine, sturdy quality.
She cleared her throat. “If you will excuse me, I’ll go see what is delaying Deandra.”
To her surprise, he suddenly held her back.
“What?” she asked in a huff. “You asked me to go. You were quite clear you did not want me around. So I am going. Why are you holding on to me?”
“Imogen, I know things have appeared quiet in this investigation, but they are not. Why is this so hard for you to understand?”
“I am trying, but what am I to think when you tell me nothing? I hate that, Draco. I truly do. You make me feel so inconsequential, like a silly goose who cannot be trusted for anything.” She bit her lip the moment the words slipped out. Why had she mentioned her feelings? It would only give him more reason to scoff at her.
Still keeping hold of her hand, he reached behind her and grabbed her sketchbook. “These are going to get you into trouble. You have to stop traipsing about my property making sketches of everything you see. I know you love your art, but put it on hold for a little while. Take up embroidery instead.”
“I am going to punch you if you utter another word about my drawings. And I do nottraipse.” She tried to snatch the sketchbook back, but he simply raised it over his head. “I wasn’t…” She jumped up and down, trying to grab the book. “I wasn’t…” Again, she tried to grab the book.
“Stop hopping up and down like a frog. I will give you back your sketchbook once I am done with it. I need to see what you have drawn.”
She frowned. “They are just harmless sketches of the pirate caves and… Well, never mind. They’re not very good. Nothing to interest you. I like to draw rocks and water.”
“And me,” he said with a growl as he thumbed through her latest works. “Bloody hell, Imogen. What were you thinking? I am confiscating these.”
She gasped. “What? Why?”
“Because you have drawn me.Me.With a shovel in hand coming out of one of those caves. What are you thinking? Do you know what will happen if the wrong party sees these?”
She shrugged out of his grasp and crossed her arms over her chest. “Who is going to see them? These are my private sketches. I show them only to my closest friends and family, and only if they ask to see them, which nobody ever does.”
“You carry a pad with you everywhere you go,” he said, hot embers in his gaze. “What if you set it aside a moment while in town? How dense can you be? Anyone can get their hands on it. Don’t you realize those drawings will get me killed if the wrong people see them?”
“How are they any danger to you?” Imogen stared at his long, slender fingers as he turned each page. “They are just drawings of you, mostly studies of your face.”
He growled low in his throat. “You’ve drawn the copse where the exit to the tunnel leads.”
“Amid a dozen other sketches of rocks and trees. So what? I haven’t drawn the actual tunnel. I was careful about that.”
“Gather the rest of your things. I am taking you back to the house now. You and Deandra can have your tea, then I am going to escort you home. Do not come to Woodley Lodge again untilIinvite you.”
She wanted to toss back an irreverent retort, but her heart was hurting too badly to form the words. He was banishing her from Woodley Lodge and his life. It did not matter that her Uncle Cormac had suggested the very same thing or that she had readily agreed. Nor did it matter that her stomach was still in a knot that had tightened throughout the day.
“Blast it, Imogen. Are you going to cry?”
“No. I will never cry over you,” she insisted as a tear rolled onto her cheek. Ignoring him as best as she could, she gathered her supplies.
“Youarecrying,” he said, his voice raspy with concern.
She sniffled and attempted in vain to hold back a sob. “I’ll take the easel in later. Or is this not good enough for you? I only ask because I cannot seem to do anything right in your opinion. You must think I am the most hapless, helpless—”
“Come here, Butterfly.” He drew her into his arms when she burst into tears.
She allowed herself only a moment of indulgence before pulling away.
He sighed and gently ran his thumb along her cheeks to wipe away her tears. He then took the bundle of art supplies out of her hands in order to carry them into the house himself. “It is best you don’t cry over me, Imogen.”
“A little too late for that,” she shot back, then sniffled, and her chin wobbled because she was about to cry some more. “Believe me, I don’t want to like you.”
He drew her back into his arms. “I know. I wish the same. You are so achingly soft. The last thing I ever want to do is break that lovely heart of yours.”
