“Gweny?” Jackson looked up from his hunched-over position at a small writing desk in the room’s far corner.
“You’re awake. I had not expected that.”
“Why areyouawake?” He stood and ambled toward her. Shirtless, his buckskins slung low on his hips, and the candlelight limning the grooves of his every muscle. A trim, well-toned scholar who could handle his body as well as his mind, who used both relentlessly in pursuit of truth.
And, quite often, of her.
He sauntered toward her, the single candle illuminating the gray dark behind him, casting his face in shadow. Then he pinned her against the door, forearms bracing his body on either side of her head.
Trapped by lithe muscle and sinew, trapped by the paper-and-ink smell of him, trapped by the golden glint in his eyes, and trapped by the curls she always itched to touch. Trapped by his caring, his patience, his loyalty.
She kissed him. He was her strength, her muscle and bone. She kissed him only with lips, fisting her hands in the thin fabric of her wrapper and chemise. She slipped her tongue into his mouth and tasted Turkish coffee and a bit of sugar. He was her courage and her smile.
She let her hands join in the delight, walking her fingers up his strong torso, over the planes of muscle at his chest, over shoulders that could hold her up, and around a neck she wanted to bite.
So she did, a gentle nip that made him gasp and treat her in kind. But only once before pulling away. “Is this why you came to my room this morning?” Each word a breath. Each breath a pant.
Yes, if she were being truthful with herself. But not entirely.
“I could not sleep,” she said. “Our earlier conversation—from the castle—plagues me.”
“Ah. Shall we continue it?” His voice smooth and silky as moonlight.
She nodded.
He straightened with a groan, and she missed the prison of his body pressing her against the door.
“Let’s sit,” he said, dropping to a huddle of golden maleness on the rug before the desk, before the single dancing flame.
She joined him with a shiver, pulling her wrapper tighter. “Why do you have no fire?” Just glowing, dying embers.
“It died an hour or so ago, and I did not bother with it.”
“You’re shirtless. It’s cold. Must I take care of your fireplaces, too, as I do your glasses and notes, to ensure you’re warm?”
His eyes blazed. What need had they of fire? “Care to warm me yourself?”
Very much so. Later. She glared. “Focus, Mr. Cavendish.”
He shrugged. “Cold sometimes helps me think.”
“Your mind must be a muddle during summer.”
“I have to do all my work in ice houses.”
She rolled her eyes and hid a grin. She rather liked this odd habit. She liked learning something new about him, liked knowing it was possible to know someone for six years and still stumble upon mysterious corners of them.
They sat facing one another, legs crossed before them, knees kissing, a position both intimate and distant.
“Should I continue the conversation, or will you begin?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck.
She nodded, more than a little distracted by how the tiny act of lifting his arm had sent his muscles rippling.
“Gwendolyn? A nod does not illuminate things.”
“Oh, yes. Quite. I was thinking, perhaps, if you have any questions… connected to that previous conversation… you might ask them. I fear I’ve not been precisely direct.”
“Mystery upon mystery you are.” He yawned. “I love a good challenge, though.”
