But it was too late. The thief had seen his movements and emitted a small gasp before turning back for the window.
Stephen was on his feet, candlestick raised, a growling Maharajah held by the scruff of his neck. “Stop. Do not move, or I’ll loose my dog on you.”
Maharajah gave a bark of warning, but the thief seemed to debate—escape or attack? Decision made, the thief was moving, both hands on the window ledge, one foot outside the casement. Stephen gave Maharajah a sharp command to stay and lunged for the window. He caught the thief by the collar of his coat and pulled him back inside.
The child was really no threat. He was so light that Stephen easily dragged him halfway across the floor. Feeling sorry for the boy, Stephen released him, but as soon as the would-be thief was free, he was on his feet again, running for the window. With a muffled curse, Stephen caught him around the waist.
The child struck back, kicking Stephen so viciously that he almost let go. He held on, ducking some of the fiercer blows.
Determined little bastard.
Stephen lifted him off the floor easily, but the youth continued to kick and claw and bite.
“Bloody hell. Stop fighting or I’ll hurt you.” Maharajah growled and Stephen barked, “Stay!”
The child seemed undeterred. He elbowed Stephen in the jaw.
“Bastard,” Stephen said as his head was knocked back. The metallic taste of blood washed over his tongue. He adjusted his grip, trying to hold on, but lost his balance and stumbled. They went down. He and the thief were on the floor, rolling, both fighting for the top position. With a final burst of strength, Stephen won, rolling on top of the child, straddling him, and catching his arms. He pinned them to the ground, and for a long moment there was nothing except the sound of panting.
Then the thief said, “Well, this is one way to make an introduction.”
It was a woman.
Stephen jumped off her as though he’d been burned. His foot caught on the rug, and he went tumbling down again. He scrambled backward until he felt the lion’s foot of his desk. Maharajah was right beside him, in the way, but somehow Stephen managed to find his feet. A moment later, he was squinting from the burst of the lamp’s flame. He shook the temporary blindness off, and peered at the thief, still sprawled on his floor.
Bloody hell. It was indeed a woman, though one wouldn’t have known it from her dress. She wore trousers and a loose white shirt under a large coat. But her low cap had tumbled off in their struggle, exposing her face and hair, and though she wore her hair cropped, there was no mistaking the delicate bones and lines of that face. This was a woman. A beautiful woman.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. Maharajah barked as if emphasizing the question.
She sat and blinked at the dog and then him, her dark green eyes huge and mischievous in her pixie face. “Well, that’s not much of a welcome.”
He touched his tongue to his lip. At least the tender flesh had stopped bleeding. “Perhaps because I don’t recall inviting you.”
“You didn’t.” Climbing to her feet, she brushed her trousers off. “Rather rude of you, too.”
“Rude? Madam, you just broke into my library.”
She frowned at him, but the look did not fit her face. She had a small, delicate face, high cheekbones, and a pert, straight nose. Her forehead was high and her eyebrows swept across the bottom of it like wings. Her eyes were what truly struck him. They were almond shaped, dark green, and positively sparkled. She was one of those women whose expressions—her playful smiles, her teasing laughter, her impish looks—made her beautiful. She was tall and thin, not much shorter than he, now that she’d risen to her full height. She put her hands on her hips in a challenge.
“Well, I would not have had to break into your library had you sent me an invitation. As it was, I was curious.”
“Curious?” Stephen shook his head, certain he was not hearing the chit correctly. This was turning into one of the most frustrating conversations he’d ever attempted—even more frustrating than trying to communicate with the Indians in his limited Punjabi. “I’m supposed to believe you broke into my house because you were curious,” Stephen said. He would get answers out of her if it took all night. “Madam, I suggest you tell me why you are really here. Now.”
Her hands slipped from her hips, and she looked almost saddened by his words. Inexplicably, Stephen found himself feeling guilty for having hurt her feelings. Bloody hell. The woman was some kind of fairy with powers of enchantment.
“I told you why I was really here,” she said, her big green eyes filled with sorrow. “I wanted to visit you. After all, that is the neighborly thing to do, is it not?”
And once again, Stephen felt the conversation jump out from under him. Now what was the chit going on about? She couldn’t possibly mean . . .
But as he stared at her, the slopes and lines of her face became clearer, rearranging themselves into someone familiar, someone—
“Miss Hale.”
She beamed at him and clapped her hands together. “Lord Westman! You remember me!”
“Remember you? Madam, we have not been formally introduced.”
She shrugged and smiled. “We have certainly been introduced now.” She looked about his library, her shining eyes lighting on the books, then the desk, then the worn furniture near the dark hearth. “What a lovely room you have here.”
