“No.”Penelope raised her head and frowned. “He most certainly shouldn’t have any hot drinks—and certainly not alcohol. Not wine or brandy. Which shows how much you know.” With every evidence of disgust, she waved him away. “I’ll sit and watch over him, and keep a cold compress on his injury. When he wakes, I’ll ring for you.”
“But—” Wide-eyed, Mostyn looked from her to his comatose master.
Penelope sighed, dropped the cloth in the basin, then advanced determinedly on Mostyn—who naturally backed away. “I have no time for this discussion—I need to tend to your master.”
She continued to march forward until Mostyn’s back hit the door. Halting, planting her hands on her hips, she glared, and lowered her voice to an acid whisper. “All this noise is no doubt hurting his poor head. Now begone!”
Dramatically she pointed to the door.
Mostyn goggled at her, swallowed, cast a last glance at the figure on the bed, then turned, opened the door, and slid through.
He closed it softly behind him.
Disinclined to take chances, Penelope stepped closer and pressed her ear to the panels. She waited until she heard Mostyn’s footsteps descending the stairs, then she slid the bolt on the door.
On a huge sigh, she closed her eyes for an instant and leaned her forehead against the panels.
The sound of rustling reached her.
Opening her eyes, turning, she saw Barnaby propped up against the pillows. There was no sign of vagueness in the blue eyes that pinned her.
“What,” he asked, “is this all about?”
His diction was precise—no slurring. The relief that swamped her was disconcertingly intense. A spontaneous, delighted smile curving her lips, she started back to the bed. “Good! You aren’t really hurt.”
He snorted. “After that little tap on the head?”
She grinned even more. “I should have known your skull would be too thick for me to seriously dent it.”
“Perhaps, but what—” Barnaby didn’t get a chance to finish his question before she answered it.
She’d bounced up to the bed; as he spoke, she bounced onto the coverlet, flung herself into his arms, and kissed him.
Which was all very nice, but he was excruciatingly aware that they were in his bedroom, on his bed—and she’d locked the door. Compounding the problem, it was the middle of the night, and from all he’d witnessed, salvation in the form of Mostyn was unlikely to eventuate anytime soon.
Certainly not soon enough.
Shifting in his arms, she pressed closer, wordlessly inviting. Unable to deny her, he kissed her back; closing his hands about her shoulders, he slid into the warm cavern of her offered mouth and feasted, feeding his senses and hers, letting the pleasure unfold.
She was wearing dark green silk, a conservative, severe gown with black buttons marching from the raised waist to her throat, her long slender arms tightly encased, with even tinier black buttons at her wrists. The semifull skirts thoroughly camouflaged her lower limbs.
With her hair looped back tightly in a sleek chignon, her spectacles perched on her nose, she should have looked forbidding.
Instead, as ever, she looked like forbidden fruit.
The dark silk made her skin glow, porcelain fine, pearlescent pale. His hands moved over her back, consciously possessive; the silk rustled dryly, a sensual sound, one suggesting surrender.
His or hers—he suddenly wasn’t sure.
It took effort to draw back from the kiss—in which she’d somehow managed to ensnare him. “Penelope…”
Hugely satisfied, she drew back enough to smile beatifically at him, simultaneously relaxing against him, snuggling her breasts against his chest. “I came to inform you that I’ve made a decision.”
“I see.” Looking into her dark eyes, aglow with an enthusiasm—an energy—the like of which he hadn’t before seen, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, yet felt forced to ask, “What decision?”
She held his gaze, her ripe, luscious lips gently smiling. “The last time we spoke on personal matters, you made an offer—do you recall?”
“I recall very well.” His voice sounded gravelly even to his ears.
