Despite orders to the contrary, Nick was waiting up when Ismal returned near daybreak.
"Herriard's back," Nick said as he took his master's hat and coat. "He—What the devil have you done to your neckcloth?" He scowled at the linen dangling limply from Ismal's neck. "I hope to heaven no one saw you like that. And where are your other things? You didn't leave them there, did you?"
Ismal remembered Leila in his silk robe, the sash draped about her head like a turban, the trousers clinging to her lush hips and long, slender legs. "They were stolen," he said. "How did you learn about Herriard? I thought he planned to be away until the first of April."
"Lady Brentmor came looking for you not ten minutes after you left. Bursting with news for you. Only you weren't here and she had to collect Mrs. Beaumont from Lady Carroll's and take her to a card party."
Ismal headed up the stairs. "I trust her news can wait until morning."
"It is morning, in case you haven't noticed," Nick said, trailing after him.
"Tell me after I sleep, then. I am rather weary."
"Well, so am I. Only I had to stay up, didn't I, because you won't let me write things down, and if I fell asleep I might forget some important detail."
Ismal ambled into his bedroom and, pulling off his cravat, sat on the edge of the mattress. "Tell me then." He began to tug off his boots.
"Evidently, the old lady got some reports from her informants late in the afternoon," Nick said. "Item one: Late in December, the Duke of Langford paid two thousand quid for shares of a company that doesn't exist."
"Ah." Ismal set his right boot down. "This makes sense. Lord Avory is kept on a relatively modest allowance. It was more profitable for Beaumont to bleed the father. Also, much more dangerous."
"Suicidal, I'd say. Because—and this is item two—the Duke of Langford has some interesting friends in the demimonde. Some burly fellows you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. And a talented courtesan by the name of Helena Martin. He's her landlord."
"This is very interesting." Ismal placed the left boot beside its mate. "According to Quentin, Helena in her youth had a brief but very successful career as a thief." He had not considered it unusual or significant. Hundreds of children in London's slums stole and whored to survive. Helena Martin was one of the very rare cases of upward mobility. A skilled—and discreet—thief could prove very useful at times. Certainly Beaumont had employed such in Paris.
"That's item three," Nick said. "But I told her you already knew. Item four is a reminder that Quentin's men didn't find a single document in Beaumont's house that could be used to blackmail anybody."
Ismal nodded. "Either none were left or someone stole them." He looked up at Nick. "So it is possible Helena stole them—for Langford."
"An experienced thief would know where to look, wouldn't she? Not to mention it’s possible Helena had been in the house before. Beaumont did take tarts home when his wife was away."
"The trouble is, once the papers were stolen, it was unnecessary to kill the blackmailer." Ismal pulled off his shirt and tossed it to Nick.
"Maybe Helena had reasons of her own—or Langford felt it was safer to be rid of Beaumont once and for all."
"An interesting theory. But no more than that. We need something more substantial than speculations."
Nick was frowning down at the wrinkled shirt. It took him a moment to respond. "Yes. Well. Speculations."
"Is that all? May I rest now?"
Nick shook his head. "Item five."
"No wonder you were afraid to sleep. The old witch came with a very long list, it seems."
"The old witch has been busy," said Nick. "Unlike some people I could mention."
"It is a tiresome case." Ismal yawned. "I prefer to let you and her do all the boring work. Perhaps you would be so kind as to proceed more concisely with the rest of your items, and keep the editorial comments to yourself."
Nick's jaw clenched. "Very well. Sir. Item five: Lady Brentmor—by means she doesn't choose to explain—has obtained information regarding Mrs. Beaumont's finances. Thanks to the financial acumen of her man of business, Mr. Andrew Herriard—"
"I know his name," said Ismal.
"The dowager says every last ha'penny is accounted for. Mrs. Beaumont has an ample income, thanks to a series of sound but canny investments. A few risks that paid off very well. No oddities or discrepancies. No skirting the bounds of ethics."
"Just as we already knew."
"Indeed, all was in order. Except for one thing."
Ismal waited through the obligatory dramatic pause.
"Mrs. Beaumont started out with only a thousand pounds," said Nick.
"That is not so surprising." Ismal's stomach was a bit queasy, though he was certain the dowager would not have breathed a word to Nick about the secrets of a decade ago. "It was my understanding that her father was bankrupt."
"Apparently, Lady Brentmor thinks there should have been a lot more money, not less. I'm to inform you—this is item six—that she intends to contact sources at a bank in Paris. She seems to think Beaumont got his hands on the money before Herriard turned up to take charge."
"I do not see what Her Ladyship hopes to accomplish," Ismal said with a trace of irritation. "It was ten years ago—and stealing from an orphaned girl would fit Beaumont's character. It would be but one in a long list of injuries he did her. However, since she did not kill him, it is irrelevant to the inquiry."
"I did point that out to Lady Brentmor. She told-me it wasn't my business to think, but to listen. Item seven," Nick began.
"Heaven grant me patience!" Ismal fell back on the pillows and shut his eyes. "When will you be done with your accursed items? I shall be an old man before you finish, I think."
"Next time, I'll make the old lady wait," said Nick. "I'd like to see you make her stifle editorial comments. I haven't told you the half of what she—"
"Item seven," Ismal coldly reminded.
"Christ. Item seven," Nick grated out. "News from abroad. From Turkey."
Ismal's eyes flew open.
"Jason Brentmor left Constantinople three months ago," Nick said. "He's on his way home. She thought you'd want to know." He left, slamming the door behind him.
Leila was acutely conscious of the fine thread of moisture stealing down between her breasts. Fortunately, several layers of clothing concealed this fact from nearby onlookers.
At Lady Seales' soiree at present, only two onlookers stood nearby, discussing the political situation in France. One was Andrew Herriard, the picture of quiet gentlemanly elegance as he hovered protectively at her shoulder. The other, unquietly stunning in a midnight blue coat and blinding white linen, was the cause of Andrew's reversion to guardian role: the so-called Comte d'Esmond.
Her former guardian's behavior was making Leila wonder whether the spurious count was also Andrew's reason for returning to London two weeks ahead of schedule. Earlier in the day, when he'd called, Andrew had in his mild way given her to understand that he was concerned. Oh, he had approved of Gaspard and Eloise. After all, they were quiet, well-mannered, and obviously diligent—as the terrifyingly clean house practically screamed. Even in her studio, not a trace of the previous night's profligacy remained—no forgotten bit of clothing, no spilled cognac, not a strand of hair clinging to carpet or sofa pillows, not a speck of dust, a piece of lint. Just as though nothing had happened.
Only it had, and Leila had been burningly conscious of the fact throughout her previous conversation with Andrew. Her stomach had knotted with guilt, just as it had when she was a girl, listening to one of his gentle lectures. He hadn't precisely lectured today. But even while applauding her choice of staff, he had managed to drop more than one subtle hint about her finding a live-in companion. She had met those mild hints with evasive incomprehension. Luckily for her, he hadn't pressed.
Today, evasion, she thought. Tomorrow, black falsehoods, no doubt. She had failed Andrew and fallen, but she was wicked at heart and didn't care. All she cared about—like any hardened sinner—was not getting caught. She was Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter, truly.
Ismal—Esmond, she reminded herself—was not helping. He remained talking to Andrew as though the man were his dearest friend. He was cultivating Andrew, which the latter, being nobody's fool, must surely comprehend. Meanwhile, Leila sweated with the strain of driving away simmering recollections of the previous night.
"King Charles could do with a better advisor," Andrew was saying.
"I agree. It is not wise to antagonize the bourgeoisie. It was they who bore the costs of the Law of Indemnity. Then he alienated them further with the Law of Sacrilege. Then he dissolved the national guard. And to appoint Martignac as minister was most incautious." Esmond shook his head. "The world has changed. Even the King of France cannot turn back time to the old days. He cannot restore the ancien regime."
"Still, one can't altogether blame the French nobility for wanting to be restored," Andrew said. "Your family, for instance, lost a great deal. The Delavennes were believed decimated during the Terror, I understand."
Sympathetically as he'd uttered the words, Leila perceived the probe. Beyond doubt, Esmond did, too.
"To all intents and purposes, they were wiped out," he answered smoothly. "It is as though the Delavenne family was a great tree struck by lightning. Only one obscure shoot survived—like one of the sucker shoots the wise arborist normally prunes and discards. I am certain that if the king had not been so desperate to rebuild the ranks of the nobility, I should have remained in deserved obscurity."
"You couldn't have believed you deserved obscurity," said Andrew. "You did assume the title."
"I had little choice, monsieur. More than one monarch told me in no uncertain terms that it was my duty to be the Comte d'Esmond."
He was, truly, a marvelous liar, Leila reflected. Or rather, a genius at arranging truth to suit his purposes. He had not, for instance, claimed to be that "sucker shoot" of the Delavenne tree, merely arranged his sentences to make it seem so.
Aloud she said, "Naturally, you could not disregard Royal commands."
He sighed. "Perhaps I am a great coward, but in truth, Tsar Nicholas in particular is exceedingly difficult to disregard. As both Wellington and the Sultan have discovered."
Very neat, the way he shifted the subject, Leila silently observed.
"Certainly the tsar has placed England between the rock and the hard place," said Andrew. "Because of the atrocities against the Greeks, the British public wants an end to Turkish power. The politicians, on the other hand, aren't eager to see Russia controlling access to eastern ports. If one is coldly practical, one must prefer the weaker power in control," he explained to Leila.
"Oh, I understand," she said. "Lady Brentmor has explained the Turkish business to me. Her son, Jason, has been in Constantinople this last year, playing the thankless role of go-between—and greatly discouraged, according to his last letter, she says. According to her, the problem boils down to man's innate inability to keep his hands off what his intellect is unequipped to manage."
"I daresay she has the proper solution," said Esmond.
Leila shook her head. "Her Ladyship says there is no hope of solving anything so long as a man is involved."
Andrew smiled. "Her Ladyship is known to entertain an exceedingly low opinion of our gender."
"But she is correct," Esmond said. "Men are the inferior sex. Adam was made first, and the first effort is always the simpler and cruder one, non? With the second, one refines." His blue glance flickered ever so briefly to Leila—one sizzling instant's reminder—then back, all limpid innocence, to Andrew.
"An intriguing theory," said Andrew. "I collect you can account for the serpent in the Garden, then?"
"But of course. Temptation. To make life interesting, n'est-ce pas?"
"Of course, we must keep in mind that the story of Creation was written down by men," Leila put in.
"That sounds like more of Lady Brentmor," Andrew said. "A most extraordinary woman. But then, the entire family is. Fascinating character studies, Leila."
"As painting subjects, you mean."
"Yes—if you can get any of them to sit still long enough. The Brentmors, that is. Edenmont is another matter. He's always struck me as the serene island in the midst of a seething sea. Are you acquainted with him, monsieur?"
"We have met." Esmond's gaze strayed past Andrew. "Ah, Lady Brentmor comes—to scold us, no doubt, for monopolizing her charge."
Leila had an instant to wonder why the lines at Esmond's eyes had tightened. Then the dowager was upon them.
She cast a baleful glance over the trio. "I was beginning to wonder if you was putting down roots."
"Actually, we were having a fascinating discussion about islands," Leila said smoothly. "Andrew views Lord Edenmont as a serene one."
"He's lazy enough, if that’s what you mean."
"With all due respect, my lady," said Andrew, "he is most diligent in his Parliamentary duties. I daresay we shall see him back in London soon. I realize Lady Edenmont may not be up to the Season's exertions at present, but London is within reasonable riding distance for His Lordship."
"Far as I can see, it won't be any time soon. Mebbe not this century," the dowager grumbled, half to herself.
The lines at Esmond's eyes grew tauter. "Sometimes, the duties to the estate and family must come first. That is our loss. I am sure they will be much missed. I hope you will convey my good wishes, my lady. Maintenant, I must excuse myself. I shall be late for an engagement."
He took Leila's hand and barely touched his lips to her knuckles. An erratic current skittered through her nerve endings. "Enchante, Madame," he murmured. With a courtly bow for Lady Brentmor and a friendly nod to Andrew, he walked away.
"To be sure, he's a pretty enough rascal," the dowager said, watching him go. "You could do worse, Leila."
Leila hastily collected her composure and manufactured an indulgent smile. "Lady Brentmor can be shocking at times," she told Andrew. "She provides a detailed assessment of every man who looks my way."
"Don't see what's so shocking about it. Beaumont's dead. You ain't, as Esmond can see plain enough. And the man wouldn't back off for all Herriard's clucking over you like a hen with a new-hatched chick. Am I right or ain't I, Herriard?" the dowager demanded.
Andrew colored a bit, but managed a smile. "I had hoped I wasn't so obvious as that."
"Well, you was, and you ought to know better. People see you making such a fuss, they're bound to talk."
Leila wished she knew what the old lady was about. "Andrew was not fussing," she said. "He and the count were discussing politics, and it was most interesting."
He patted her shoulder. "No, my dear, Lady Brentmor has the right of it. I was fussing and it was very bad of me. Your position is delicate enough—"
"It ain't," the dowager declared. "If mine ain't, hers ain't."
"I do beg your pardon," Andrew said. "I did not mean to insult you, my lady. It's just that Leila is—well, she was my ward, once, and old habits are hard to break."
In other words, he doubted her ability to resist Esmond—the personification of Temptation. But it was too late for Andrew to help her. She didn't want to be protected from herself or Esmond and, in any case, Andrew's hovering about her would prove inconvenient to the inquiry. That must be what Lady Brentmor had decided. One could only hope she'd chosen the right tactics. Nonetheless, it was very difficult for Leila to stifle a nagging sense of guilt.
"It's your generous habit to be kind," she told Andrew. "You're both very kind to me. I'm exceedingly fortunate in my friends."
"You'd be more fortunate if they'd keep to what they know best," the dowager retorted. "See here, Herriard. This is just the sort of thing where a man's bound to do harm for all he means to do good. You leave her beaux to me, my lad, and you tend to her business affairs."
"I beg you will not give Andrew the notion that I'm collecting beaux, Lady Brentmor."
"I don't need to give him notions. He gets 'em all by himself." The dowager fastened her shrewd gaze upon Andrew. "I collect you checked on him in Paris."
"In light of certain rumors, I believed it my duty," he said stiffly.
"Oh, Andrew—"
"Well, it was, wasn't it?" said the dowager. "To make sure Esmond wasn't out at pocket or had a wife tucked away somewhere."
Leila stiffened. "I suppose it's no use reminding either of you that you're putting the cart before the horse—and I've been widowed only two months—"
"My dear, no one is accusing you of behaving improperly," Andrew said soothingly. "It's simply that the count showed a marked interest in you in Paris, and he did admit—to a jury, no less—that he'd sought you out—and he does linger in London. While I cannot be certain he remains solely on your account, I felt it was best to err on the side of caution. I do regret, however, that this night I behaved, apparently, with far less discretion than Esmond. Lady Brentmor was correct to set me down, and I am much obliged." He quirked a smile at the dowager. "If a trifle abashed."
Her ladyship nodded. "There, I knew you was a reasonable fellow, Herriard. And you may be sure that when it comes to the marriage settlements, I'll leave the field to you." She and Andrew exchanged conspiratorial smiles.
Swallowing an oath, Leila looked from one to the other in disbelief. "You are shocking, both of you," she said.
They laughed at her.
Ismal was waiting at the top of the stairs when Leila returned. She scowled up at him when she reached the landing.
He leaned on the banister. "No, do not tell me. I can guess. After I left, the party became insupportable, and you died of loneliness and boredom."
"I died of mortification," she said.
"Then you must punish me. It cannot be helped."
Slowly she ascended the stairs, dangling her bonnet by the strings. The soft hall light glimmered in her hair, picking out threads of copper, bronze, and gold. Straightening, he moved to meet her. He took the bonnet and tossed it aside, then folded her in his arms.
"I missed you very much," he whispered against her hair. "All the time I stood before you and could not touch you and all the time I waited for you to come home."
"You shouldn't have gone to the soiree," she muttered. "You made it very difficult for me. You're an expert at deception. I'm not."
He drew back and looked at her. "But you did very well. You did not tear off my clothes and throw me to the floor and ravish me."
"Ismal."
"You did not make me scream and beg for mercy."
"Ismal."
"How terrible it was to wait, trembling with fear. Any moment, I thought. Any moment, the fire will blaze in her eyes and she will leap upon me and plunder and despoil my innocent body. I was aquake with…anticipation."
"You evil man. You found it all exciting, didn't you?"
"Yes. Also very frustrating." He took her hand. "Come to bed."
"We need to talk," she said.
He kissed her nose. "Later. After I have calmed down."
He tugged her along, on up the next flight of stairs and into her bedroom. By the time he closed the door, his heart was drumming with impatience.
"Calm me down," he said.
"You've ruined me," she said. "You've decimated my morals."
"Aye, they are gone. Forget them."
"Or maybe I only imagined I had them." With a small sigh, she reached up and loosened his neckcloth. Then, slowly, she drew it away. "Tear off your clothes, indeed," she said as she let the linen drop from her hand. "Wishful thinking."
She began to unfasten her bodice. "I'm not that desperate."
"I am." He watched while, one by one, the jet buttons sprang from their moorings, slowly baring an expanse of creamy flesh and embroidered black cambric.
A dark snake of heat coiled in his loins. He wanted to reach for her. He curled his fingers tightly into his palms.
She stepped behind him and eased him out of his coat as smoothly as the most practiced of valets. "Throw you to the floor, will I?" she said. "You're living in a dream world."
"A beautiful dream."
She unfastened her skirt in the same unhurried way. The black dress rustled to the floor, revealing a black demi corset and short petticoat.
She relieved him of his waistcoat, his shirt.
She surveyed his rigid torso. When he saw her gaze settle on the ugly scar in his side, he tensed, but she didn't touch it. "Guess what you're going to explain later," she said.
"Never." He managed a smile.
"We'll see." She untied the petticoat, and he watched it slither down over black silk drawers to pool at her feet.
He sucked in his breath.
"You're going to explain a lot of things," she said.
He shook his head.
Sitting down on the bed, she untied her kid slippers and lazily removed them. "Come here." She patted the mattress.
He sat. She knelt, and took off his evening slippers. Then she rose and, while the blood thundered in his ears, methodically unlaced her corset. It fell to the floor. Then the chemise. Then the silken drawers. Then the stockings.
No trace of black remained. There was only creamy, supple flesh...the tawny rose peaks of her lush breasts..the triangle of dark gold between her long legs.
"I like you very much," he said hoarsely.
"I know."
She found his trouser buttons. Clutching at the bedclothes, his eyes shut, he let her strip away the last of his garments.
"You said something about begging for mercy," she whispered. "About screaming."
He shuddered as her fingers stroked his thickened manhood. He didn't have to open his eyes to know where she was. Kneeling, between his legs. The awareness made him delirious. No. Yes. No.
Her tongue flicked over the hot flesh and searing pleasure tore through him. Yes.
He clamped an iron will upon his maddened body, and only a small groan escaped him.
And he endured, while she put him on a rack of erotic torture, toying with him, tantalizing, caressing with her ripe, wicked mouth.
He held himself in check, denying his body the release it screamed for until at last the iron bands of his will began to give way.
"Enough," he gasped. He pulled her away and up onto his lap to straddle him. "Mediant." He quickly found the center of her heat—slick, ready for him.
"I'm wicked. All day long I wanted you." Her voice was thick, dazed, her eyes dark with desire.
She gave a low moan as he smoothly eased into her. "Wicked," she repeated, wrapping her legs about his waist.
He crushed her softness to him, and she clung, her body answering the urgent rhythm of his possession. She was his. He had waited all this long day and half the night for the door to close on the outside world and shut him in with her. He had waited all these endless hours to hold her, be with her, part of her. No woman in all of creation loved as she did.
"Love me, Leila," he groaned against her mouth.
"I love you."
He took her love in a deep, searing kiss, and carried her with him to the last pleasure...and sweet release.
Wearing nothing but the silk robe Leila had laid claim to the night before—and wearing it only at her insistence—Ismal had crept down to the kitchen. He returned bearing a tray that held a small decanter of wine, wineglasses, and plates heaped with bread, cheese, and olives.
Sitting tailor fashion opposite each other amid the tumbled bedclothes, they ate and drank. She told him about Andrew's Parisian investigations, and how the dowager had handled the hapless solicitor, and he told her what the dowager had learned about the Duke of Langford.
Leila did feel that as a murder suspect, His Grace was vastly preferable to David or Fiona. On the other hand, she wasn't pleased by certain implications of the theory.
"I assume this means you'll be cultivating Helena Martin next," she said.
"You overestimate my stamina," he said. "Or perhaps you taunt. For you must be well aware that after you are done with me, there is nothing left for another woman."
"Oh, certainly I believe that," she said. "I also believe in gnomes, pixies, and goblins. How did you get that scar?"
"I thought we were speaking of Helena Martin."
There they were, the tight lines at his eyes.
"I'm tired of Helena Martin," she said. "Was it a bullet or a knife?"
"A bullet."
She winced inwardly.
He looked down at the scar and wrinkled his nose. "I am sorry it offends you."
"Not a fraction so much as it offends you, I collect. Who did it, then? One of your jealous wives? Or someone's outraged husband?"
"I have no wives," he said.
"At present, you mean. Nearby."
Sighing, he picked up an olive. "None. I never wed. Now what shall I tease you with instead, I wonder?" He popped the olive into his mouth.
No wives. The beast. She eyed him balefully. "Don't you think it was a trifle unkind to let me think you were married?"
"You were not obliged to think it."
"I wish Eloise had not pitted those olives," she said. "I wish there were a stone and you choked on it."
He grinned. "No, you do not. You love me very much."
"Really, you are so gullible," she said. "I always say that when I'm heated. Cats howl. I say, I love you.'"
"You howl also. You make strange little cries."
She leaned toward him. "You make some strange ones yourself." Drawing back, she added, "Are you going to tell me the story behind that scar or do I have to figure it out on my own, as usual? I've already got an intriguing theory, you know."
"You also had the intriguing idea that I had a hundred wives." He set the tray upon the nightstand. "Me, I have some intriguing thoughts regarding dessert." He stroked her knee.
"Why were you so upset when Andrew mentioned Lord Edenmont?" she asked.
"I must find some way to get even for what you did to me before," he murmured, trailing his fingers along the inside of her thigh.
She caught his teasing hand and brought it to her mouth. Lightly she bit the knuckle of his index finger. "Jason Brentmor spent more than two decades in Albania," she said gently. "That's common knowledge. He married an Albanian woman and produced one daughter, Esme. Edenmont married her in Corfu ten years ago. Fiona once mentioned that Lord Lackliffe told a romantic—and probably highly imaginative—story about it. He and Sellowby had been in Greece at the time. Lackliffe was at the soiree tonight."
She was aware of the muscles tensing in Ismal's hand. "It's very easy to get him to talk about his adventure ten years ago," she went on. "About taking Edenmont and his new bride back to England in a mad race across the Mediterranean. Apparently, it was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to Lackliffe. He said he has a poem written by a Greek about the two handsome princes who fought for the hand of the Red Lion's daughter. One prince was a black-haired Englishman. The other was a golden-haired Albanian whose name was Ismal."
She released the stiff hand to touch the scar. "It's an old scar," she said. "Is it ten years old?"
He had turned away while she spoke. He was gazing steadily at the window, the telltale lines at his eyes deeper than she'd ever seen them.
"The sun will rise in less than two hours," he said. "We have so little time. We could be making love, my heart."
The words made her ache. "I just want to know where I stand," she said. "I know ours is just an affair. I know what I've got myself into. But I can't help being a woman, and I can't help wanting to know if you love her still—if that's why you never wed."
"Oh, Leila." He moved closer and brushed her hair back from her face. "You have no rivals, ma belle. I was two and twenty, and I can scarcely remember what I felt. A youthful infatuation, and like other youths, I was arrogant and rash."
"Then it's true. I guessed aright." She let out a sigh. "I wish you wouldn't make me guess and drag things out of you. I wish you'd just tell me something on your own once in a while. Like about youthful infatuations. Not but what I'll probably want to scratch her eyes out if she so much as blinks at you," she added irritably. "Lud, I am so jealous."
"And I am truly frightened." He tilted her chin up to study her eyes. "How in the name of heaven did you connect my scar with Edenmont?"
"Woman's intuition."
"You said I was upset about him," he persisted, still holding her gaze. "How did you know? You must tell me, Leila. If I betray myself to you, I might to another. You do not wish me to endanger myself unwittingly, I hope."
The words chilled her, reminding her that his life depended upon deceit, concealment. The scar was old, its cause in the past. But it was vivid testimony that he was human...that she could lose him.
She didn't have to look at the scar, because the image of the gnarled flesh was vivid in her mind. She'd noticed it last night—and how he winced when she touched it. The scar had given her nightmares after he left. A huge brute leaping out at him from a shadowy hallway...a blade gleaming in flickering candlelight...a small, wiry man with feral eyes who dripped poison into the gash the knife had made.
She had bolted up from her pillows in a cold sweat, and remained trembling in her lonely bed a long while after, despite the reassuring sunlight of morning. She shuddered now, recalling.
"Your eyes," she said, touching her finger to the tiny network of lines. "When you're at ease, the lines are indiscernible. When you're upset, they become tight, sharp. I think of them as little arrows pointing out sore spots. My intuition must have connected the sore spots."
He muttered in what she guessed was his native tongue—a series of curses, judging by the tone. Then he was off the bed and across the room to peer into the cheval glass. "Come, show me," he said. "Bring the other lamp. I cannot see by this one."
She could see well enough: a stunning view of about six feet of leanly muscled, gleaming, naked male. They had so little time left this night, and they might be making love. Instead, they would spend the precious moments examining his eyes.
By gad, she was a hopeless case. Utterly depraved. She dragged herself from the bed, took up the lamp, and joined him at the mirror.