sides like soldiers in formation. The second story was open to the first and mirrored it with perfect symmetry, cresting with a Moorish arch ceiling, tiled in golden glass. The library was always cool and quiet. A refuge. Today, however, Poppy restlessly toyed with her quill pen and ended up getting ink on the tips of her fingers for her efforts.
They were at a dead end. Miss Evernight could not direct them to anyone else who might know Moira Darling, and Jack Talent was in a bad way, unable to divulge who or what took him. Poppy swallowed thickly. Talent’s torture had shaken them all. Ranulf House was in an uproar, with Ian demanding blood. But whose? Isley’s? Winston doggedly maintained that they were missing the whole picture. His solution? Investigative research.
Poppy could not fault his methods, but while Win was a man of planning and precision, she was a woman of action. Like two parts of the same weapon, she thought bemusedly. He was the cutting edge of the blade and she the thrust behind it. Suppressing a sigh, she shifted in her chair, easing the tension in her lower back. Research was all very well and good, but after going through about two hundred old newspapers, she had nothing to show for her efforts. Not one bloody mention of Moira Darling, or Isley, for that matter.
Tossing her pen aside, Poppy watched Winston while he read. Really, she ought to be reading as well. Only he did the job so much more thoroughly. The whole of his concentration went into the task of discovery. And he sat, spine straight yet shoulders hunched over the desk, his gaze firmly upon the book in his hands. With his attention diverted, she could study the clean lines of his profile and the way his lashes swept down in a thick, gold-tipped fan. It wasn’t fair, really, that a man should have thick, curling lashes while she was cursed with ones that were straight and red. Indeed, his lashes ought to make him appear feminine. Yet paired with the square arc of his jaw and the determined slash of his mouth, those thick lashes tempered him somehow, giving him a bit of vulnerability among all that masculine hardness.
He smelled of wool, books, and man. An intoxicating concoction that made her want to lean closer and inhale. Warmth radiated from his lean body. Delicious warmth that she, who always ran slightly cold, craved with every breath. His lips parted a touch as he read on, and a flush of heat rose up her breast. How many times had they sat just so? With him reading as she’d torment him, bringing her body against his, knowing he would feel the press of her breasts on his upper arm. He’d remain unmoved, a smile working about his lips as if daring her to try harder. And she would. First by threading her fingers through his hair the way he liked, gentle touches that made him relax. And then, when that smile grew, she’d lean in, lick that sensitive corner of his mouth, and wait for his breath to catch. There were days when he’d be stronger, when he’d keep himself utterly still until she had mounted his lap and tossed his papers aside, then she would shriek when he’d catch her up and—
“Find anything?”
She sucked in a breath at his sudden query and glanced down at the papers in front of her. “Ah… no.”
He was too silent. The heat of his body too unnerving. She risked a look. Blue-grey eyes stared back with steady focus. There was a question in them, as well as recognition. He’d noticed her attention. And remembered. The warmth in her skin flared white-hot. Surely her face was scarlet. His gaze flicked to her cheeks, and his color grew as well. Yes, she was assuredly red. His lids lowered a fraction, his attention settling on her lips, and his own lips quirked.
On a breath, he was closer. Or perhaps she was. The hard swell of his biceps pushed against her breast, and she tensed. Damn it, but she was tired of this separation. She wanted him. So much she couldn’t breathe.
“Win…” The silk of his hair slid over her fingers. When had she moved?
His nostrils flared as his attention intensified. “Boadicea.”
Carefully, she cupped the rough terrain of his ravaged cheek. He swallowed audibly yet offered no resistance as she turned him toward her, closer, and her back arched with the almost decadent