Free Surrender by Brenda Joyce Page B

tinderbox from his waistcoat, knelt and started a fire. The kindling quickly took. He poked the logs with the iron poker until the wood was burning. Standing, he closed the grate.
    Evelyn stepped beside him, holding his coat up in front of the warm fire. He glanced down at her. As they were standing so closely now, she saw a somewhat intent gleam in his eyes. It seemed suggestive and it felt seductive—like a raw male appraisal.
    “Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked, softly. “I so dislike drinking alone. That Bordeaux is excellent. And I hope you do not mind, I helped myself.”
    His tone had become soft, raising goose bumps on her skin. “Of course I do not mind. It is the least I can offer you. But, no, thank you. I cannot imbibe on an empty stomach,” she said truthfully.
    He turned and moved one of the salon’s two chairs to the front of the fire. Then he took the coat from her and hung it on the back of the chair. “I remain curious about your desire to speak with me. I have not been able to imagine what the Countess D’Orsay wishes of me.” His stride unhurried, he walked to the bar cart and retrieved his glass of wine.
    She watched him, knowing she must not be distracted by his tone, his proximity, not when she had to make her case. “I have a proposition, Mr. Greystone.”
    He stared over the rim of his glass. “A proposition… I am even more intrigued.”
    Had he just looked through her robe and nightgown? Evelyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, still unnerved. She reminded herself that the cotton was far too tightly woven for him to be able to look through it, but she felt as if he had just taken a quick glance at her naked body.
    “Countess?”
    “It has come to my attention, Mr. Greystone, that you are probably the best free trader in Cornwall.”
    His dark brows lifted. “Actually, I am the best smuggler in all of Great Britain—and I have the accounts to prove it.”
    She smiled a little; she found his arrogance attractive, his confidence reassuring. “Some might be put off by your bravado, Mr. Greystone, but bravado is exactly what I require now.”
    “I am now entirely intrigued,” he said.
    She met his probing gray gaze and wondered if he was intrigued with her, as a woman. “I wish to hire a smuggler, and not just any smuggler, but someone who is skilled and courageous, to retrieve family heirlooms from my husband’s château in France.”
    He set his glass down and said slowly, “Did I just hear you correctly?”
    “My husband died recently, and those heirlooms are terribly important to me and my daughter.”
    “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, without seeming to mean it. Then, he said, “That is quite the task.”
    “Yes, I imagine it is, but that is why I have been seeking to locate you, Mr. Greystone, as surely you are the man capable of accomplishing such a mission.”
    He stared for a long time, and she was becoming accustomed to being unable to discern even a hint of his thoughts or emotions. “Crossing the Channel is dangerous. Traveling within France now is madness, as it remains in the midst of a bloody revolution, Countess. You are asking me to risk my life for your family heirlooms.”
    “Those heirlooms were left to me and my daughter by my recently deceased husband, and it was his greatest wish that I retrieve them,” she said firmly. When his expression did not change, she added, “I must recover them, and your reputation is outstanding!”
    “I am certain they are important to you. I am certain your husband wished for you to have them. However, my services are quite expensive.”
    She wasn’t sure what his stare meant—but he had said the exact same thing to her four years ago. Intending to offer him a share of the gold once it was in her possession, she said carefully, “The heirlooms are valuable, sir.” She did not think it wise to tell him that Henri had left her a chest of gold.
    “Of course they are.... This isn’t about