Page 61 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
He’d stood staring at her closed door for those moments; no matter he hadn’t asked, he was wondering what she was thinking.
As to that, she wasn’t sure herself.
Moving into the room, she reached for the pins anchoring her hair. A maid had lit the lamp on the dressing table. In the low light, she got ready for bed, going through the motions absentmindedly, her mind absorbed with the critical question: So, what now?
Now she knew of his direction, what should she do? Was the next move hers, or his?
By the time she turned down the lamp and climbed between the sheets, she’d achieved some degree of clarity on that point.
Because everything hinged on “claiming”—on reciprocal, mutual claiming.
She’d always known that, between them, “claiming” was the operative word. That in order to have the life they were supposed to live, he had to claim her and she had to claim him.
But claiming was an active decision—no one could be made to claim something they didn’t wish to. Claiming was the same as a declaration, open and clear and unequivocal. A deliberate decision, one everyone could see.
She couldn’t force him to that decision. Not even the Lady could. The decision to accept what she was offering, the decision to claim the position by her side, had to be made of his own free will.
The most she could do was persuade, and in the circumstances, given his view of his future, it seemed clear that whatever opportunity presented, she would be wise to seize it and use it to that end.
She couldn’t afford to simply sit back and let him barrel ahead. He was stubborn, even more stubborn than she. She was going to have to use every wile, every weapon she possessed and that fate sent to her hand, to open his eyes and show him the truth.
Whether she would succeed or not, she didn’t know—couldn’t tell—but she had no choice.
Turning on her side, she tugged the covers up over her shoulder. “At least we’ve both acknowledged the existence of ‘what’s between us.’”
Closing her eyes, she followed that point further.
And smiled. She’d never had the chance to play the siren before.
While she considered the prospect, sleep drew her down.
* * *
She woke in the dead of night with no notion of what had disturbed her.
She’d left the window beside the head of the bed uncurtained. Faint moonlight streamed in, casting everything in grays and shadow.
Then she heard a stealthy sound, the quiet placing of a shoe on carpet.
She pushed back the covers, raised her head, and looked.
And saw a man in a cowled cloak, a cushion held between his hands, mere steps away.
Creeping closer.
She screamed and flung up her hands, ready to keep the cushion from her face.
To keep him from smothering her.
That was clearly his intention.
His head lifted. For a split second, he paused, then he cursed, flung the cushion aside, and charged for the open door.
He swung into the corridor. She heard his thudding steps pounding down the corridor runner, fading away.
A door crashed against a wall, and Thomas appeared in her open doorway. He’d thrown a loose robe over his nightclothes, although he didn’t appear to be wearing a shirt. Gripping the doorframe, he stared across the room at her, then he looked in the direction the man had fled.
He cursed, too.
