Emmy twisted around in horror as Harland calmly set a flame to the wick of an oil lamp and turned it up so a warm glow filled the space between them. The door to the bedroom behind him was open—how long had he been watching her from the shadows?
A million permutations of what might happen next flashed through her brain. Words sprang to her lips: I can explain! It’s not what it looks like!
Except she couldn’t explain. Not without dragging Luc and Camille down too. Better to hold her tongue.
The look Harland sent her pierced her to the core. It was filled with such accusation, such knowledge. He wasn’t surprised, damn him. He’d known all along that she’d come. God, she was so stupid! He’d laid a trap, and she’d walked right into it.
He was wearing a shirt—barely. It was open at the neck and the untucked front extended to midthigh. He still wore breeches, thank God, but his feet were bare. Had he been lying in wait for her? Emmy could barely draw in a breath.
It was he who broke the agonizing silence. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms casually over his chest.
“You know, Bonaparte once said ‘Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake,’ but in this case I felt compelled to intervene. We can’t have you stealing that ruby now, can we, Miss Danvers?”
His voice was a deep growl, scratchy with sleep. He sounded pleasant enough, amused even, but beneath this outward show of courtesy, he was furious, Emmy was sure.
“Do you know what I hate, Miss Danvers?” he continued softly. “I hate being blind.”
Emmy drew her brows together. “I thought you’d only lost—”
He waved that away. “No. I mean that I have been blinded by you. But no longer. The real Emmeline Danvers stands before me.”
His mocking gaze made a slow, thorough inventory of her outfit, from the V of her dark shirt to the way her breeches clung to her legs. Her skin heated. He gestured toward the chair that was stationed in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”
Emmy stepped sideways and dropped into the chair as her legs gave way beneath her.
Oh, God, what would happen to her? Would she hang? Be transported? Sentenced to hard labor?
Harland prowled forward and took the comfortable armchair opposite her, lounging back in it like a king as he regarded her with cynical interest. Emmy dug her nails into her palms. He tilted his head, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You’re so small,” he mused aloud. “Do dressmakers charge you less because of how little fabric it takes to make your outfits?”
She blinked at the unusual topic. She’d assumed the interrogation would begin immediately: Tell me where the jewels are hidden. Tell me why you did it. Tell me how you did it.
She wouldn’t tell him a thing.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Not that I don’t approve. You in breeches is quite possibly the finest thing I’ve seen all year.” His eyes clashed with hers. “A brand-new fantasy to add to my collection.”
Emmy was sure her heart stopped beating. She sucked in a breath. The interrogation had begun; he meant to scandalize her into submission.
“I have scores of them,” he said darkly. “Of you and me together.” His gaze lasted five whole beats of her heart before he looked away.
Good God.
Something dark and dangerous shivered in the air between them, a mutual awareness. Hunter and hunted. Predator and prey. Emmy’s heart raced, but mixed in with the fear was a sharp, unwelcome stab of desire. She must be mad.
He was watching her with a smile that was hard to define. She regarded him warily, as she would an unpredictable wild animal, uncertain of his mood.
He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Can I just take this opportunity to say what a pleasure it’s been having you as an opponent? Truly.”
The way he said “pleasure,” slightly drawn out, with his perfect lips pressing together and his tongue rolling around his mouth, sent a shiver of heat through her.
Ugh. She was a twit. A brainless twit with sawdust for brains.
“For weeks you’ve led, and I’ve followed. But now you’ve had a rather delightful comeuppance. No more running, Emmy Danvers. You’ve been caught.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, ankles crossed. “This is where you profess your innocence.”
The cynicism in his tone made her flinch. Gone was the passionate lover from the ambassador’s conservatory. Here was the hard lawman, the Runner who’d cornered his prey and was about to go in for the kill.
“Aren’t you going to beg me to release you?” he taunted mildly.
Emmy almost snorted. As if that would do any good. There was no softness in him, no forgiveness. Nothing she could say would change his mind.
He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and stroked his lips thoughtfully. A wicked gleam entered his eyes. “It might be interesting to see how far you’ll go.” His pleasant tone held a vibrating undercurrent of anger. “Some females, when faced with the death penalty, plead their bellies.”
Emmy frowned in confusion.
“Women who are pregnant at the time they’re sentenced have their punishment delayed until after the baby is born,” he explained. “In theory, the sentence is then supposed to be carried out, but in practice, there’s so much sympathy for the newborn child that the mother is often pardoned.”
His gaze flicked down her body, and Emmy sucked in a breath as she grasped his implication. Her skin heated with anger and embarrassment. “I wouldn’t sleep with a man just to save my neck!”
He seemed amused by her outrage. “No? You won’t offer me your body in exchange for your release?”
Heat rose at the thought of them together in that way. If he’d been desperate and dishonorable, easily swayed from his goal, she might have stood a chance with a tactic like that, but Harland was irritatingly upright. Getting him horizontal and trying to persuade him to free her would have no effect whatsoever. He was immune.
Emmy sent him her haughtiest glare. “If you think for one moment, Lord Melton, that I would stoop to such a level, then you are gravely mistaken. And besides,” she added for good measure, “even if I were the sort of woman who would do that, I know perfectly well that nothing could sway you.”
His low laugh made her stomach coil even tighter. “Are you sure? Why not try it anyway? What have you got to lose?”
What did she have to lose, indeed? Only her virginity. Only her pride, her honor, her personal integrity. Everything she had left.
“You never know,” he said softly, and his voice was a wicked serpent tightening its coils around her heart. “Maybe I’ll buckle under the onslaught of your ardor.” His gaze bored into hers. “Convince me, Emmy.”
“No!”
He raised his brows. “Why not? It worked last night, did it not? I congratulate you. If that was feigned passion, it was extremely convincing. You certainly had my body persuaded, if not my mind.”
Her eyes widened at his unexpected admission. He smiled.
“Let’s try something new, shall we? I call it ‘honesty.’ It’s where you say things that are true. I’ll start, if you like. I’m hard as a rock for you right now.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He casually lowered his hand to his lap and readjusted the bulge that had appeared in the front of his breeches. It reached almost to his waistband. He made no effort to hide it; he simply looked down and laughed.
Emmy couldn’t drag her eyes away. A terrifying wave of desire sizzled through her. He wasn’t lying. He wanted her. And she wanted him too. Not because she thought she could persuade him to release her, but because for the very first time in her life, here was a man who knew the truth—the complete truth about her—and he still wanted her. Wanted her despite it. Maybe even because of it.
Her senses reeled. That, paradoxically, was freedom.
He stood abruptly, and she did the same, instantly alert. He prowled around the desk and she sidestepped the opposite way, retreating until her bottom bumped the table that held the lamp. He sent her a mocking, triumphant look that said, Where do you think you’re going? He was blocking the path to the door and the only other choice was his bedroom.
Not an option.
She leaned back as he stopped in front of her and closed the distance until they were almost nose to nose. His breath warmed the skin of her cheek and something dangerous and ungovernable crackled in the air between them.
“Here’s another truth,” he growled, and this time she had no trouble reading the anger in his glare. His nostrils flared and his eyes grew impossibly dark. “You’re mine now, Emmy Danvers. I will never release you. Not even if you begged me on your knees. Not even if you fucked me all night.”
The coarse declaration dropped between them like an incendiary device. His storm-dark eyes dropped to her throat, to the dip of her clavicle exposed by her shirt, then travelled back up to her mouth. They were both breathing hard, as if there wasn’t enough air in the room, and Emmy couldn’t remember when she’d been so aroused. Every cell in her body burned.
“Damn you,” he murmured.
Emmy licked her lips. There were times when stealing something wasn’t so bad. Stealing a kiss, for example. “I—”
“Shut up,” he groaned. “I can’t trust a single word that comes out of your mouth.”