Part 24 (2/2)

The third door on the left was ajar a few inches.

She looked back at Mademoiselle Lilette, who shrugged.

”Mrs. More?” Olivia said tentatively.

There was no reply.

Now she was concerned. Mrs. More was an elderly woman, and she perhaps had nodded off, or worse, expired, or perhaps she'd fallen, and was injured.

”We best look inside,” she whispered to Mademoiselle Lilette, who simply nodded.

Olivia gave the door a little push to open it farther.

The small dim room seemed comprised of a leaping fire and heat and not much else. A rocking chair, empty and still, was positioned in front of the fire. A bureau was in the corner, and a narrow bed was against the wall.

Mrs. More was nowhere in sight.

Mademoiselle Lilette hovered in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter.

Olivia took another step into the room.

And then another.

She gave a start. Then froze, clapped her hand over her heart.

The short hair on the back of her neck began to p.r.i.c.kle, uneasily.

For a man was standing in the corner, so motionless she might have mistaken him for furniture. The firelight reflected off the gleaming toes of his boots gave him away.

Those were the toes of a gentleman of significant fortune. She would have wagered everything on it.

She whirled around.

But Mademoiselle Lilette was standing fully in the doorway.

For all the world as if she was blocking it now.

Olivia swiveled around again.

The man remained perfectly still. But something about the shape of him . . . Her scalp tingled. It was a very primal thing, and she felt it at the base of her spine. It did interesting things to her breathing.

She cleared her throat.

”I beg your pardon . . . I'm so sorry to intrude . . . I was told I should wait for Mrs. More in this . . . in this room. Perhaps I've the wrong room . . .”

Her words trailed like vapor when the man slowly straightened to his full height and took a slow step forward.

Into the firelight.

Realization penetrated. Rather like an arrow.

She stopped breathing.

Her lips parted.

And finally a tiny, arid sound emerged. Part raw pain, part shock.

”Liv.”

Quiet. Gruff.

His voice.

Nothing.

Nothing could have prepared her to hear her name, in his voice, again.

She couldn't move.

Her mouth parted again. But absorbing the impact of him had required all of her capacities. She couldn't say a word.

Instead she began to tremble.

He stepped toward her swiftly. And it was so very him, that instinct to protect and to shelter her, that her knees nearly buckled.

But he stopped himself and remained about four feet away from her.

As if she was flammable, or might be holding a broadsword.

She remained precisely where she was, too.

And neither of them said a word.

But now he was lit only by leaping firelight. His face was all amber and shadows, the hollows, the angles, hard clean line of his jaw, the rise of cheekbones. The same. The beloved, beautiful face was the same. It hurt, it hurt, and it was glorious to see it.

And yet.

And yet there was an air of both implacability and impatience about him, as palpable as the heat from the fire. He'd always been arrogant, but this was different. This was authority. As if the experiences he'd had since he'd left were layered down like rock strata and he was now immovable.

The set of his shoulders-broader now, a distinct horizontal shelf tapering down into his lean torso-called to mind something feral. A wolf, perhaps.

That sizzle along her nerve endings at the mere sight of him reminded her of how little she'd felt anything at all since he'd gone.

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