poignant parts of her letter. Sorcha was mistaken in her estimation that a Lycan was her destiny. Thank God. He hated to think about one of those mangy beasts drooling on her soft, white skin.
But Sorcha was deucedly stubborn. Cait was right about that. Look what Sorcha had done this very evening. And an alliance with a Lycan would be disastrous for the little wood sprite. He didn’t even want to know what Cait meant by that.
He didn’t have a choice now, did he? There was no one else around to keep Sorcha out of trouble. But how was he supposed to keep her out of trouble when he couldn’t even trust himself around her?
Chapter Eight
Sorcha snuck into the Hythes’ orangery, hoping the flowers and plants would bring a little peace to her soul. She could use a little peace. She’d slept very little the previous evening because memories of Alec’s kiss had kept her awake more than half the night. Then like a fool, she’d rushed to the breakfast room and remained there all morning, hoping he would make an appearance, before she realized vampyres didn’t need to eat breakfast. Well, they might have breakfast, but it wouldn’t include capers or baked eggs.
Still it had been disappointing. She hoped he wasn’t avoiding her after what had happened the night before. Or perhaps he’d stayed abed with a headache like the ones Lord Blodswell had suffered from before he became human.
It was a foolish thought, she well knew. Alec was still entirely devoted to Cait. He wasn’t going to become human after sharing one kiss with Sorcha. Or was he? After all, she’d been completely set on a Lycan of her own until she had shared one kiss with him. That kiss could have affected him as much as it had her, couldn’t it? But if so, wouldn’t he have sought her out this morning?
She shook her head. The kiss probably meant nothing to him at all. In fact, she’d wager that he had kissed lots of lasses the same way. After all, he was very good at it. A most delectable shiver crawled up her spine as she remembered how his lips had taken hers and how he’d masterfully made her want to surrender more than just her mouth to him. That had to come from practice, didn’t it? The very thought of Alec kissing someone else brought her even lower.
Sorcha noticed a sad little daffodil on a worktable. Poor thing. Her ill mood had probably made the flower droop.
Sorcha took a few steps toward the flower, which was wilting before her eyes. A happy thought would help. She caressed the yellow petals and closed her eyes; Alec’s face appeared in her mind. His black-as-night eyes were filled with desire, as they had been the previous evening.
A very male voice came from behind her. “Maddie said you have a green thumb.”
Sorcha’s eyes flew open, and she leapt backward right into something very hard. She gasped and spun around, surprised to find Lord Bexley’s green eyes twinkling down at her. “Oh!” He’d almost caught her using magic. That would have been disastrous.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Ferguson.” The earl grinned roguishly.
Sorcha stepped away from him and touched a hand to her heart. “I was only startled a bit.” She affectionately stroked a leaf on the drooping little plant. She’d come back to it later.
“My apologies, my dear.” He gestured to a small set of chairs by a wall of windows overlooking the garden. “Since I’ve already interrupted your solitude, care to join me?”
“I havena seen ye in the orangery before, my lord,” she said as she took his outstretched arm.
“I confess I don’t come to the orangery often. But I’d heard of the miracles you were working here. When I didn’t see you above stairs, I was hoping you had paid Grandmother’s plants a visit this morning.”
Had he come here to search her out? “Ye wanted ta speak with me?”
Lord Bexley held out one of the wooden chairs for Sorcha. “I do enjoy your delightful company, Miss Ferguson.”
“Ye’re very kind.”
“What a horrible thing to say.” He chuckled as he took the spot across from her.
Horrible? What had she said? “Are ye sayin’ ye’re no’ kind?” Sorcha frowned at him.
“I’ve never been accused of it before.” Then he shook his head. “No, Miss Ferguson. I am opportunistic, if anything.”
“Opportunistic?” She must sound like a mockingbird, repeating everything he said the way she was. But she didn’t have a clue