Always a Temptress Read Online Free PDF Page B

reflection of the soul within. His memories had been a lie.
    Could he truly mourn what he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes? He could. He did. Because that summer they’d shared, he’d thought her eyes reflected everything that was good and bright and possible in the world. That summer he’d still believed in all those things. He’d believed in her.
    He’d been such an innocent.
    Well, Kate had taken care of that. Kate and the battlefields of Europe. The only thing Harry believed in now was the beauty of a well-laid foundation. The sweep of a simple staircase, the comfort of a well-placed window and a sturdy roof. The elegant geometry of architecture.
    He gave a sour smile. Well. He obviously believed in lust. Hadn’t he just had an unmistakable example of it? And he hadn’t been the only one. He would swear Kate had been just as aroused as he. He’d felt it; her body bowing toward his, metal to irresistible magnet. No matter what had happened before, what would happen next, in that moment she had wanted him just as much as he wanted her. That, at least, hadn’t changed.
    Fat lot of good it did him.
    Sighing, he straightened. He needed to be more careful than ever now. More disciplined. He didn’t want to be the one to let the Lions slip through his fingers.
    He was just so tired. And Kate was still Kate. It was going to be a long few days.
    “Wouldn’t you like a bit of a lie-down, Major?” he heard nearby.
    He looked up in surprise to find his batman standing not four feet away in the doorway to the library, a lit candle in his hand. “Thank you, no, Mudge. I’m afraid there isn’t the time right now.”
    “I’ll watch down here for you, sir,” the boy insisted.
    Once, on the Continent, Harry had seen a painting of angels by Botticelli. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that one now stood before him: young, lithe, beautiful, with curly brown hair and big, liquid brown eyes that looked as innocent as a child’s. Definitely too beautiful to have been thrown into a troop of riflemen without protection.
    Straightening as best he could, Harry walked into the room his staff had dubbed HQ. “We have a lot to do, Mudge. Let’s get on with it.”
    “Please, sir,” Mudge said, following. “Tell me we’re not supposed to stay here.”
    Mudge had obviously already been in the room. The shutters were thrown open to allow weak moonlight to wash through. Sadly, it did nothing to dispel the squalor.
    “Sorry, Mudge,” Harry told the inexplicably named angel as he unbuckled the saddlebags that sat on the misused oak desk. “This is our bivouac for a bit. Mr. Hilliard assured me that it’s been out of use so long, no one would think to look for us here.”
    Mudge cast his huge eyes around the room as if he were a Christian martyr assessing the Colosseum. “I’m sure that’s all well and good, sir…”
    Harry really couldn’t blame the boy. The library was just as grim as the rest of the house. What had once been an oak-paneled room, embellished with coffered ceilings and ogived windows, had been reduced to a bookless, water-stained wreck, paint-peeling, musty, and dark. Harry still couldn’t believe that Diccan’s uncle had lived here until four years ago. It must have taken decades to reduce this place to such sorry shape.
    He’d only glimpsed the outside briefly, and it had been no more promising: a collection of mismatched wings badly grafted onto a medieval abbey. Honey-colored Cotswold stone clashed with red brick and, inexplicably, gray flint, all cobbled together like a beggar’s coat. Even so, it had good bones. Harry hated that it had been left to rot.
    Perhaps if he had some spare time in the morning, he’d take his sketchbook and do a tour of the place, just for himself. It might never be beautiful, but with a little help, Harry thought it could at least be reclaimed. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have something other than his prisoner to focus on.
    He thought of the termagant up