himself with anything he could think of. In the end he gave in. He sent his valet out with instructions, poured an ewer of cold water over his head, and went to his bedroom.
She was locked in, of course. He didnât bother with Marcelloâthere were other ways. There was a narrow balcony overlooking the canal that ran along the side of the palazzo, one in front of each of the main rooms, with a few feet between them. He simply jumped across to the one in front of his bedroom.
Heâd done it before, dead drunk. Sober, it was admittedly easier, and he landed lightly, then pushed open the windows.
She was a small lump in the middle of his bed. She hadnât done anything with her hairâit spread around her, and he wanted to wrap himself in it. She was still asleep. The fire had died, but the room was still warm, and he pushed the windows closed behind him, moving toward the bed.
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Kathleen heard him come into the room, and she didnât move. Sheâd already realized that this was, indeed, his private bedroom. Perhaps heâd just come in search of something and would leave the way heâd come.
And perhaps pigs could fly and Venice had roads. She knew why he was here, and sheâd been unconsciously waiting for him. Wondering what kept him so long.
Sheâd even been able to sleep, which astonished her. But when she slept she dreamed of Alistair, and not the sweet, innocent hero of her childhood. She dreamed of the beautiful, dissolute rake, his hands on her breasts, between her legs, his body naked against her skin. She dreamed of heat and sweat and sex without even knowing what she was dreaming of, and when she awoke he was looking down at her.
âYouâre not doing it,â he said. âMarblethorpe will have to find somebody else.â
âI have to,â she said wearily, as if to a recalcitrant child who wasnât paying attention. âI have no other options.â
âIâm taking you back to England. My valet has secured passage for us on a packet ship that leaves tomorrow morning.â
She wasnât sure whether she felt despair or elation. âSo I get to be your whore instead of a virgin sacrifice? How is that any better? With the other, I only have to put up with it one time.â
âWretch,â he said in his lazy voice. âMove over.â
âNow?â Her eyes widened.
âNo,â he said patiently. âYou donât have to put up with anything you donât want. I told Simpson to book two rooms. If you donât want to share mine then Simpson can.â
âYouâre telling me youâll save me even if I donât become your mistress?â
He sat down on the bed, next to her hip, and she scuttled over, afraid to touch him. âIâm telling youâ¦â he began, then stopped, staring down at her. âWhy do you look so familiar? Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to take care of you whenever I look at you, when frankly I donât feel the slightest bit of responsibility for anyone else? Which makes life very difficult, because I also want to fuck you, and the two donât go together.â
She flinched at the ugly word. What would he say if she told him the truth? Would he remember? After all these years?
And if he did, what would happen? He probably had enough decency left in him that he would leap from the bed in horror that heâd talked that way to Jack Lunning-Strongâs little sister.
It would be revenge. It would be rescue. It would be despair.
Sheâd come this far. She lay in his bed, practically naked, and even the touch of his eyes made her skin warm. If she told him the truth sheâd get home safely, her virginity intact, and sheâd die that way.
âMake up your mind,â she said, looking into his dark amber eyes. âWhat is it you want to do?â
He stretched out beside her, and his hand slid down her throat, brushing across the top of her
Janwillem van de Wetering