Chapter 5.

What type of sorcery did you employ this time? I won't have it, and your denials mean nothing, just like you.

The Marquess of Penderdale to Christian, age fifteen H er bottom hit the door, and it closed with a clack. She jumped at the sound, and her hand rose to her chest to still her racing heart.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"I'm taking off my trousers."

"I see that," she snapped, heat licking her cheeks. "Why are you removing your trousers?"

"They restrict me when I'm sleeping." He moved his fingers over a button and quirked a brow.

"You aren't sleeping!"

"Not at the moment."

She rubbed her suddenly moist hands against the rough cotton weave of her breeches and said a bit desperately, "B-but, you can't sleep here."

"Tsk, tsk, Kate. You're stuttering, and I thought we'd already been through this." He shook his head in mock resignation.

"We have. Multiple times, if you will recall."

"Buck up, Kate. I'll toast up the bed for you. No need to fear I'll leave you cold." He smiled devilishly and undid the last fastening.

She examined the knotty floorboards with interest, waiting for the thud of heavy cloth striking wood.

As the silence stretched on, she risked a glance upward to see him still standing motionless before her, bare-chested, with his thumbs hooked into the top of his trousers, buttons redone. If Daisy were here she would surely be in euphoria by now. Kate had just overheard Daisy talking to Bess, the cook, about chests and big hands.

She peered at Christian. He did have large hands, capable, although more graceful than utilitarian. What had Daisy said about chests? That she loved it when men had large, capable hands to handle a well-developed chest. Well, Christian certainly had capable hands.

Heat licked her skin again as her thoughts caught up to her. She noticed his predatory smile and realized she'd been staring like a starving woman.

She lifted her chin and marched to the bed, snatched the counterpane, and dragged it to the rickety pine chair in the corner. She pulled the spread around her shoulders and cocooned herself in it, then plopped onto the hard, uncomfortable chair.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

"Don't call me honey. My name is Kate Simon. Mr. Kaden to you."

He sighed. "Kate, get into the bed."

"No. I'm not sleeping with you."

"I'm not going to steal your virtue. Not when I could relieve you of it so easily," he drawled.

She gasped in outrage. "You are a blackguard."

He shrugged, an easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Not much fun to be anything else."

"What's wrong with being a gentleman?"

"Dull, dull, dull."

"I'll have you know that gentlemen deserve the utmost respect. And they treat ladies in kind."

"Never knew a lady who dressed like a lad." His voice grew sly.

Angry heat stole into her cheeks, and she wondered if it would be a permanent condition for the night. "And I never knew a gentleman who would say such a thing."

He leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his bare forearms. He was an artist's delight-a tall, lean, muscular Adonis. Blast him, why couldn't he just put on his shirt?

"And how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not a gentleman." He shuddered. "Dead boring. Now get into this bed."

He unfolded his arms and reached for a plain white shirt, the muscles in his stomach stretching beneath the golden light of the lamp as he did so.

Kate swallowed, and it took her a moment to remember what they were arguing about.

"You just claimed you weren't a gentleman. Why would I climb into bed with you?"

He smoothed the shirt down over his chest, and she swore she could still make out the definition beneath. "Because all the ladies like to bow and curtsy and trade staid witticisms with gentlemen, but none of them want one in their bed."

"Of all th-"

"It's true." He leaned his head back against the post, peering at her lazily from under half-closed eyelids. "Ask the widow downstairs. Or ask her companion. Even the dour Mrs. Wicket could probably tell you that Mr. Wicket is a jolly underachiever between the sheets."

"This conversation is finished."

"Are you a prude, Kate? How depressing."

"I'm not a prude, I'm just not a...not a trollop." She jerked the counterpane higher.

"You don't have to be a trollop to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, Kate. You merely have to have the passion and fire to revel in it."

The word all but dripped from his tongue. If her face and body were going to remain this heated, perhaps she wouldn't require the coverlet after all. "Well, there will be no reveling tonight."

"It's a damn shame, that."

"Good night, Mr. Black."

He sighed. "Kate, get into the bed."

"No."

"I'll carry you over here and deposit you myself."

"You wouldn't dare."

He lifted a brow.

All right, so perhaps challenging him hadn't been the smartest rejoinder.

"I wish to sleep in this chair."

"No you don't."

"I don't wish to sleep with you, Mr. Black, no matter what charms you think you possess."

Or what her body thought otherwise.

"I have no use for unwilling or contrary females, Kate. Until you choose to revel, you are quite safe."

"Hardly reassuring."

"You will freeze in that chair."

"Quite possibly."

He tapped a rhythm against the post with his finger. "Looks quite uncomfortable. You'll end up in the bed sooner or later."

"I highly doubt that. Now leave me be."

"Fine. But you're going to get a stiff neck and Lord knows what else. When you relent, feel free to crawl right in." He motioned to the bed magnanimously and then pointed to her bare feet. "I'll even let you warm your pinkies on me."

Kate tucked the traitorous digits into the coverlet. "Lovely. I assure you I'd as soon be knocked dead as to warm my feet on you."

"Interesting. And here I thought-"

Whatever he thought was cut short by a shout of rage coming from the room behind Kate. A shuffling knock from the wall behind Christian indicated that Freewater had heard the shout as well and was likely pressing his ear to the boards.

"Do you know who is occupying that room?" Christian's voice was low as he pointed toward the wall behind her.

She matched his whispering tone. "Lawrence Lake, I believe."

"The man who started the fight in the taproom?"

Kate nodded. "He and Janson have more between them than just an unfriendly cricket rivalry."

"That much seems obvious."

Another bellow of rage echoed through the walls, followed by the tinkling of glass shattering against the floorboards.

Heavy footsteps pounded across the floor above. A small section of the innkeeper's room was directly above theirs, the rest of it located above Mr. Freewater's room.

Sure enough, footsteps treaded heavily on the stairs and someone pounded on the door next to theirs moments later.

They heard the door creak open and a voice boomed, "Mr. Lake, I warned you earlier."

"How can you stand it, Mrs. Wicket? Janson must be stopped. He's an animal unfit for society."

"Mr. Lake! Do not speak about Mr. Janson that way. It is no business of yours."

"Deep inside everyone must know what kind of man he is."

"Mr. Janson is a passionate man. Headstrong and competitive. And furthermore, he is a guest here at the inn, as are you, although how much longer you remain is yet to be determined. I expect you to clean up that glass; I won't be sending Sally to sweep up this mess as she has other tasks occupying her."

There was a pause. "Sorry, ma'am," Lake said in a voice that could only be described as defeated.

Mrs. Wicket's voice dropped and Kate had to strain to hear. "No more of this, do you hear me, Mr. Lake? I thought we had straightened this out earlier. You remember what we discussed?"

"Yes." Lake's voice was subdued.

"Very well. Good night, Mr. Lake."

"Good night, Mrs. Wicket."

The door shut and footsteps treaded back upstairs.

Christian gazed at the wall thoughtfully, before looking back toward the Freewater wall. The room seemed to chill momentarily.

"Good night, Kate."

Kate blinked, unsure what had occurred to change his mind. He wasn't going to argue anymore? She really didn't want to sleep in a chair, but the alternative was...unacceptable. Much too dangerous. Sharing a room with a man who was obviously of a rakish stamp was a danger by itself. Sharing a bed? She'd be lucky to leave without an extra mouth to feed nine months down the road.

"Good night, Mr. Black."

Kate watched him slip under the bedcovers and scoot up against the wall, his body facing Freewater's room. She didn't know why he wanted to listen to Freewater, who seemed dull in the extreme. Other than the occasional swearing, the only things to be heard were shuffled papers, slammed books, and squeaky bedsprings. If Freewater didn't keep making little noises every few minutes, she would forget him completely.

Kate watched Christian settle in. His dark locks contrasted sharply with the white embroidered pillowcase, like a demon who had taken advantage of an angel's fluffy cloud.

She blew out the candle on the small table between her chair and the bed, then buried her head into the surprisingly soft counterpane and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.

Kate woke at the one o'clock chime and again at two. She automatically looked to the shadows and didn't see the lump she had expected. Where had her roommate gone? A loud snore came from Freewater's room, and she could hear the steady beat of Lake's leg as he bounced it up and down on the floor.

The door opened and Christian was silhouetted in the low light of the hall. He looked weary.

"Where have you been?" she asked tiredly.

He shut the door and walked toward the bed. "Nowhere interesting. Pretty curious for someone who is not sharing my bed. You ready to give up your chair?"

She was more than ready to give up the chair.

"No."

"You are going to be cramped by morning."