force, in any event. He had no doubt he could break her if he cared to do so, but his mind passed over the possibility with distaste. Unsentimental he had to be, but only the extremity of life or death would bring him to apply that kind of pressure.
He glanced back into the dim room, unwilling to return to the suggestive depths of the great bed. With a soft grunt, he swung himself into the padded window seat, settling his back against the stone wall. The curtain fell into place, enclosing him in a cool space between the fabric and the glass.
He tilted his head back, contemplating the irony of the situation. The most eligible widower in His Majesty's domain: rich, titled, powerful, and more than passably attractive, if his female admirers were to be believed—flatly refused, on account of a broken kite.
It should have been amusing. Ransom tried to summon a laugh, but it came out more of a snarl. The bishop had regaled her with the wages of sin and social stigma, Thaddeus had called her a bird-witted fool, and Ransom had used every appeal from sweet whispered compliments to one highly salacious kiss, which made him groan and shift restlessly just to remember. And she had taken it all with that bewildered slow blink of hers, and that fingertip resting on her full lower lip until he thought he would burn to cinders if he could not take advantage of the soft invitation.
All for naught. She'd listened, and then turned to Ransom and asked why he'd broken her kite.
He'd made the fatal mistake, then, and still he did not know what it was. He'd apologized for the kite: he was sorry, he'd been afraid for her, it had just been a moment of clumsiness, and it was only a kite, after all, was it not? He would give her a hundred better ones.
"It was an experiment,” she'd said gravely.
"A kite?” Perhaps he'd allowed just a hint of skepticism to creep into his voice.
"Yes,” she said. “Now I know how to fly."
Humoring her, he'd judged it best to say nothing to that. And after a moment, giving him a long, deep look from those mist-colored eyes, which seemed unexpectedly to penetrate to the very heart of him, she'd said, “I cannot marry you."
Ransom clenched his jaw and leaned forward, burying his face in his arm. It was the failure that galled him. He did not like to fail, and the state of his physical passions made this debacle a particular torture. He'd not felt so hurt, so angry and ill-used, since he'd been falsely accused of stealing Latin noun declensions from his younger brother's phrasebook.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Lord, but he was tired and frustrated, to become as sensitive as a schoolboy over the befuddled Miss Merlin Lambourne. He tried to relax, to clear his mind, but the moment he drifted toward sleep he began to dream of Latin grammar, and of kites that tangled on the ground and would not fly.
He wrenched his eyes open on a low moan. The room was quiet. Outside, the moon had set. The fog had risen, blotting out the night sky. He nodded off again, this time to a nightmare of flying, on a kite that took him ever higher, horrifyingly high, so high that he could not even imagine the ground, until suddenly the kite dissolved and he began to fall—his worst fear, his personal terror—and he had no breath to scream, no hope—
He came awake in a shivering sweat. The diamond-shaped windowpanes were cool and hard against his face. He lay against the glass and metal network, holding his breath while his heart thudded in his ears. At first the other noise seemed part of that, only a distant echo of the sound of his own night fear. He exhaled slowly.
As he took his first conscious breath, his mind and body snapped to full awareness. He froze. The pounding of his blood rang in his head, but it could not conceal the sound he heard.
Footsteps.
There was someone else in the room, and the still air was laden with the smell of ether.
Chapter 4
It was the sickening-sweet smell that penetrated Merlin's
He glanced back into the dim room, unwilling to return to the suggestive depths of the great bed. With a soft grunt, he swung himself into the padded window seat, settling his back against the stone wall. The curtain fell into place, enclosing him in a cool space between the fabric and the glass.
He tilted his head back, contemplating the irony of the situation. The most eligible widower in His Majesty's domain: rich, titled, powerful, and more than passably attractive, if his female admirers were to be believed—flatly refused, on account of a broken kite.
It should have been amusing. Ransom tried to summon a laugh, but it came out more of a snarl. The bishop had regaled her with the wages of sin and social stigma, Thaddeus had called her a bird-witted fool, and Ransom had used every appeal from sweet whispered compliments to one highly salacious kiss, which made him groan and shift restlessly just to remember. And she had taken it all with that bewildered slow blink of hers, and that fingertip resting on her full lower lip until he thought he would burn to cinders if he could not take advantage of the soft invitation.
All for naught. She'd listened, and then turned to Ransom and asked why he'd broken her kite.
He'd made the fatal mistake, then, and still he did not know what it was. He'd apologized for the kite: he was sorry, he'd been afraid for her, it had just been a moment of clumsiness, and it was only a kite, after all, was it not? He would give her a hundred better ones.
"It was an experiment,” she'd said gravely.
"A kite?” Perhaps he'd allowed just a hint of skepticism to creep into his voice.
"Yes,” she said. “Now I know how to fly."
Humoring her, he'd judged it best to say nothing to that. And after a moment, giving him a long, deep look from those mist-colored eyes, which seemed unexpectedly to penetrate to the very heart of him, she'd said, “I cannot marry you."
Ransom clenched his jaw and leaned forward, burying his face in his arm. It was the failure that galled him. He did not like to fail, and the state of his physical passions made this debacle a particular torture. He'd not felt so hurt, so angry and ill-used, since he'd been falsely accused of stealing Latin noun declensions from his younger brother's phrasebook.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Lord, but he was tired and frustrated, to become as sensitive as a schoolboy over the befuddled Miss Merlin Lambourne. He tried to relax, to clear his mind, but the moment he drifted toward sleep he began to dream of Latin grammar, and of kites that tangled on the ground and would not fly.
He wrenched his eyes open on a low moan. The room was quiet. Outside, the moon had set. The fog had risen, blotting out the night sky. He nodded off again, this time to a nightmare of flying, on a kite that took him ever higher, horrifyingly high, so high that he could not even imagine the ground, until suddenly the kite dissolved and he began to fall—his worst fear, his personal terror—and he had no breath to scream, no hope—
He came awake in a shivering sweat. The diamond-shaped windowpanes were cool and hard against his face. He lay against the glass and metal network, holding his breath while his heart thudded in his ears. At first the other noise seemed part of that, only a distant echo of the sound of his own night fear. He exhaled slowly.
As he took his first conscious breath, his mind and body snapped to full awareness. He froze. The pounding of his blood rang in his head, but it could not conceal the sound he heard.
Footsteps.
There was someone else in the room, and the still air was laden with the smell of ether.
Chapter 4
It was the sickening-sweet smell that penetrated Merlin's
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