“Understatements. I know that, too.”
There he went again, finishing her sentences. Oh, he was in fighting form now. But this time, Clio wouldn’t back down. There was more to her than he believed. More than anyone suspected.
“Most of all,” he said, “I know what it’s like to be the dark horse. To have everyone betting against you, counting you out. And I know the vindication you’ll feel when you finally win. When you walk down the aisle in your big flouncy gown, on the arm of one of England’s great men, and all those gossips’ wagging tongues turn to ash. Believe me . . .” His big hands squeezed her shoulders. “Triumph is sweet. It’s so damned sweet.”
His green eyes were nearly black, and his voice was so earnest. And a deep, lonely part of her wanted to believe him.
“This was a mistake,” she said, backing away. “I don’t know why I try to explain anything to you.”
“I know. I’m a stupid, uneducated brute. Next time, speak slowly and use smaller words.”
“That’s not what I meant. You are far too clever, and I’ve always known it. I just wish you’d give me the same credit.”
“Me? I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“You must. You think a pretty gown and a big party will be enough to change my mind about something so important as marriage. How can that not be insulting to my intelligence?”
“Now, Clio . . .”
“Don’t ‘Now, Clio’ me.” She turned and started up the winding steps. Thanks to the downpour, she couldn’t flounce and leave the tower. This was the next best thing. “Maybe I am a fool. You arrived unannounced, with all your lists.”
He mounted the stairs behind her. “There was only one list.”
“ . . . and your ridiculous ‘esquire’ of a friend . . .”
“I can explain him.”
“ . . . and your dog . . .”
“He’s not my dog.”
“ . . . and I was fool enough to let you stay. I welcomed you into my home because I hoped you’d see that Twill Castle is just that. My home. But you’re so stubborn.” She trod hard on the steps as she spiraled toward the top. “You’re just like Piers, caring only for your career and nothing for me. I wish I’d shown you the door.”
As she took the next step, her ankle twisted. Her slipper skidded on the damp stone.
Rafe’s hand shot out to steady her.
“I have you.” He flexed his arm, pulling her flush with his chest. “I have you.”
Clio clutched his shirtfront. She would have caught herself, even without his help. But for this one fleeting moment, she would let him play the hero.
She was growing dangerously used to this. The way it felt to be held in his arms. Protected. Valued, to whatever small degree.
“Still wishing you’d shown me the door?” He cocked his head at the unforgiving stone floor, some twenty feet below. “It’s a long way down. We could have landed there in a heap of broken bones, waiting days for someone to find us.”
“Hah.” She released him, turned, and resumed climbing. “If we were found here together, we would be better off dead. You can well imagine what people would conclude.”
“What would they conclude?”
“That we were lovers, of course.”
Chapter Six
Lovers?” Rafe asked.
The round, echoing walls threw the word back at him, like a teasing chant.
Lovers . . . Lovers . . . Lovers. . .
He cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a quiet, commanding timbre. “Why would anyone think that?”
“It’s all around us,” she said, climbing the remaining few steps to the second floor. “Just look.”
What with the rain and the paucity of windows, it was difficult to make out anything at first. But as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Rafe began to understand what she meant. The stone walls surrounding them were carved and etched with letters. Letters in pairs. Some of them enclosed in hearts.
The initials of lovers.
This must have been the local trysting place for decades now. Perhaps for centuries.
“It’s rather charming, isn’t it?” She traced a heart with her fingertip. “So many couples over the years. I wonder who they all were.”
Rafe decided this was a welcome development. Anything that churned up thoughts of romance and couples in her imagination had to aid his cause.
“What about you?” She turned to him. “Are your initials carved in a wall somewhere in Somerset? Or . . . many somewheres?”
“Me?” He shook his head. “No. When it comes to women, I don’t car—
“You don’t carve anything in stone.” She shook her head. “Of course not.”
He looked at her, annoyed.
“What? Fighters aren’t the only ones who can concentrate, anticipate, react.” She held up weak little fists and mimed boxing his shoulder. “If you don’t like me finishing your sentences, try being less predictable.”
He chuckled to himself. Damn. She was clever, this one. And perhaps not quite so innocent as her looks would suggest. Still, she could never predict what kind of thoughts were churning in his mind right now.
During her almost fall, she’d dropped the overcoat he’d lent her. The cursed thing was probably to blame for pulling her off-balance in the first place.
But now she was left in just her thin, wet, nearly transparent muslin frock—and shivering, either from cold or from the lingering fear of falling.