He’d come so far. He would not give up pursuit now. He sat gently on the side of the bed and dared to lift his knuckles to her cheek.
She stiffened then melted with a sigh into the gentle embrace. “Who are you?” Her inquiry a whispered punch to his gut.
Did she truly not know him? Could a single domino and costume fool her so when he knew the very arch of her neck and bend of her wrist, the slim scar on her jawline, and the way her hair curled oddly over her right ear, looking like a devil’s horn. She always tugged at it, attempted to hide it behind her ear, her brows pulled low in disapproval. It always popped back up, and if she could, she’d tame that curl, dominate it, slice it from her head. He remained glad she could not, too vain to butcher a lock so close to her face. Loved that rogue bit of hair, he did.
Right now, he wanted to tweak her nose, though. Rip his mask from his face and ask her if knowing his identity changed her reaction to their kiss.
Fear howled through his every limb.
No. He’d keep the mask in place, remain Lord Mischief for a time. He’d thought she’d known who she kissed in the garden, so he’d clutched her to his heart, thanking God she was finally his.
And she’d not even known whose lips she’d pressed her own to.
Disappointment stabbed, offered a poor replacement for the heaven of her in his arms.
“Shall I tell you who I am?” he asked, dropping his hand to the bed between them, the air thick with their mingled breath.
She swallowed, turning her profile away from him so all he could see was her slender shoulders, the pale column of her neck, and that gold hair, strands of moonlight shaking it into life.
“Should I tell you?” he said again, his voice deeper, though, desperate with a tremor of fear.
“No.”
Anger rippled like angry ocean waves across his skin. “Coward.”
She stiffened. “I merely cannot be bothered. It is immaterial.”
He leaned close, hissed into her ear. “It is everything, Mistress Midnight.”
He wanted her to know. He suspected she already did yet toyed with him. How could she have not known? Each kiss she’d layered upon kiss in the garden had tasted of desire born of intimacy, ofknowinga person. And each press of her hands upon his body had felt as urgent as years of wanting and finally having.
So why did she play games with him?
Very well, then. He could play games, too.
He inched closer to her on the bed, pleased when she did not scoot away. “Who we are during daylight hours does not matter. Let us be other people tonight. Impulse you say? Let us give in to it, then, love.”
Love. Yes. He’d felt it for her now going on years. Perhaps since he’d first seen her wet and shivering on his uncle’s ship, a stowaway on their expedition to India. He’d brought her a blanket, and she’d shrugged it away, refusing his help. Prickly from day one was Miss Gwendolyn Smith. And from day one, he’d wished to bare her of her thorns and reveal the soft petals of her deep below the surface. He knew she had them. She showed them readily enough for their employer, famed explorer Baron Eaden. Uncle Henry to Jackson. My lord, always, to Gwendolyn, ever grateful that the older man had scooped her up and handed her a position as his secretary.
They’d traveled together for years, the three of them, all across the world, till homesickness and common sense carried Uncle Henry home and saw him married and dedicated to the London season and finding his daughters husbands.
Gwendolyn looked to him as a father. Jackson knew that.
But how did she look toward Jackson? He had glimpsed insight, fleeting signs of softness.
But she wore her thorned armor well this night. Except, of course, for in the garden. He’d caught her rose-scent then, her petal-softness, and held it. And by God, he’d have it again.
She inhaled, turning air to a knife’s edge, and held it between her teeth. She stood and staccato stepped toward the room’s single, narrow window. “I… I…” She turned in a whirl of midnight skirts. “All right. A night of impulse, of being someone else. I agree.”
“Excellent.”
In the past, they’d played one another over chessboards and card tables, in the hull of ships or desert tents. Tonight, they would play with one another on the wide expanse of a century’s old bed and leave their pasts behind.
* * *
Gwendolyn had known better than to run up the stairs to the single room in the nearly abandoned tower. Trapped herself, she had.
She must have wanted it that way. Fleeing to the tower had allowed her to do what she always did—run—but it had also allowed her to be caught.
