Free Kate Moore by To Kiss a Thief Page A

her resolve to study him faltered, for his presence seemed to fill the room, and though she had backed to the window, she felt him too near.
    “Come, Meg,” he said, shutting the door behind him, “you must enjoy your adventure. See what I’ve brought you.” He threw off his greatcoat and began emptying his pockets on the bed. There were combs and brushes and tooth powder, a man’s shaving implements, and a serviceable black wool gown. “And most important,” he said, reaching into his pocket again, “your book.” He offered her a small leather-bound volume.
    “A book?” she asked, drawing closer in spite of herself to see what it was. It was hard not to smile at him.
    “It is not Horace, but surely your taste allows our English poets a place,” he teased.
    She was still staring, puzzled at his gift, when a single perfunctory rap sounded upon the door. The shaggy man entered and carried off the copper tub, sloshing its now-cold contents on the floor, the land-lady scolding after him, her voice shrill in the hall. The sound had scarcely died away when the pair returned, the shaggy man again setting down the tub and filling it with a second bath. Already Drew had shrugged out of his jacket and was sitting in the room’s only chair, tugging at his boots. The shaggy man leered at Margaret.
    “You don’t mean to bathe,” protested Margaret upon the exit of the two servants.
    “Oh, but I do,” he replied. He took her by the shoulders and propelled her to the bed, compelling her to sit up against the pillows. “This was to be my adventure,” he continued, “and because I have been so good as to share it with you, does not mean I must forgo all my comforts. Read, Meg.”
    “It would serve you right, if I did not,” she said, nevertheless holding the book before her face. For some minutes she turned the pages idly, pretending not to be at all disconcerted. The trouble was, her ears betrayed her. She heard his boots drop one by one and the clink of his watch and fobs on the table, the rustle of his garments, and at last the slosh of the water against the copper sides of the tub. Her face burned more than it had the first night in the cottage, and she didn’t see a word on the page before her. She rolled onto her stomach and propped the book against the pillows, recalling suddenly the Latin poems she had attempted to read while Drew had changed that night and the piles of books on the floor of Humphrey’s cottage.
    “Humphrey was your tutor, wasn’t he?” she asked. His silence assured her that she had hit on a truth of his past. He had had a gentleman’s education whatever his career had been.
    “Read to me, Meg,” he ordered, his voice startling her with its low intensity.
    “What do you like?” she asked.
    “The ‘Rape’ if it’s there,” he answered.
    “‘Of the Lock,’ of course,” she said, refusing to be further embarrassed. She thumbed through the pages for Pope’s masterpiece. “‘What dire offence from amorous causes springs,’” she read. “‘What mighty contests rise from trivial things . . . Say what motive . . . could compel a well-bred Lord t’assault a gentle Belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?’” At first the phrases served only to remind her of her awkward situation, but soon she lost herself in the fair Belinda’s world where the myriad sylphs tried in vain to guard the precious lock. Her awareness of the naked man in her room faded, so that she was surprised when he next stood beside her, dressed.
    They dined in a small, dark room on indistinguishable dishes with exotic names and strong sauces of onions, garlic, and tomatoes. It was an occasion for much laughter as he played the proud lord with their hostess and the tease with Margaret when they were alone. Her fork was at her lips when he inquired how she liked tripe. She could not be sure of anything after that, but the dish he identified as bacalhau