Page 19 of Dark Embrace

She wanted to laugh. She was in a position of risk more often than not. “Unacceptabletowhom?”

“To me.” His voice, low and rough wovethroughher.

“You have no right to feel that way,” she whispered, hoping that her tone did not betray her, that he did not discern that part of her wanted him to have that right, the right of a friend…orlover.

“No, I do not.” He looked away. “Why did youdefendme?”

“I defended no one. I merely pointed out possible explanations for what had occurred and since no one came forth with any other, it appears my suggestion was given full merit.” She paused. “Though I suspect this is not the end of the inquiry, nor the end of supposition andaccusation.”

His lips curved in a ghost of a smile, and she found herself staring at his mouth, the hard line of it, the slightly squared, full lower lip, so incredibly appealing. She could not seem tolookaway.

He had not shaved. His grooming was otherwise impeccable, but he eschewed the razor quite often. She wondered if there was a particular reason for that, or merely that he found it abother.

There was no question that she liked it. Liked the look of his lean, squared jaw with the faintest hint of a cleft at the front of his chin. Of its own volition, her hand half rose, and she stopped the movement with a tiny gasp, wondering what she thought she had meant to do. Touch him? Lay her fingers against his jaw and feel the golden hairs beneath her fingers? She wondered if they would be soft or scratchy, and she could not suppress a smallshiver.

“No, I suspect it is not the end of the inquiry,” he agreed. He seemed not at all distressed by theobservation.

Suddenly reckless, she dared ask, “Were you there this morning? Before I arrived? Was it you that I saw leaving Mr. Scully’sbedside?”

His fine humor dropped away, and his expression turned cool andblank.

“What precisely did you see?” A harshdemand.

“I—” She backed up a step, put off by the sharp change in his tone, but the shelves were at her back and there was nowhere else for hertogo.

He prowled a step closer. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs and she stared at him, afraid and appalled and tantalized allatonce.

“Whom did you see, Miss Lowell?” He moderated his tone now, made it gentle and smooth. But he did not step back. He held his place, close enough that she had to tip her head far back to look intohiseyes.

She liked it, liked his nearness, the scent of his skin, his size…and she thought that perhaps she oughtn’t to like it. “Do you crowd me onpurpose,sir?”

His teeth flashed white in a brief smile, and despite her words and tone, he made no move to step away. “And ifIdo?”

“Then I would ask you to explain such action. Do you intend it as athreat?”

He frowned. “No. Most assuredly not.” He sounded appalled. “It seems I have forgotten the rules…” He took a step back, leaving a more decorous spacebetweenthem.

“Rules?”

“Of polite discourse. Of flirta—” He broke off and scrubbed his palm over his jaw. “I am long out ofpractice.”

“Polite discourse? We are in a supply closet talking about a dead man.” Holding his gaze, she took a deliberate step forward, closing the gap. “Explainyourself.”

He made noreply.

“You could have spoken with me in the ward or the corridor, yet you chose to follow me and engage in conversation here where we are alone. Why?” The words were a challenge, a demand, and she knew such confrontation was neither polite nor expected. But she was not one to act coy and cajole answers. She was only the person her father had raised her to be, the person she was inside, and she would not—could not—beother.

So she waited, arms crossed, headtipped.

“I like being close to you,” he said with a rueful twist of his lips, his words warming her blood and leaving her dizzy. Dipping his head until his cheek brushed against her hair, he inhaled deeply. She stood very still, her pulse racing, her breath locked in her throat and all manner of strange and bright emotions cascading through her like abrook.

Only when he eased back did she dare to breathe, and even then, it was a short, huffing gasp. “You areinappropriate,sir.”

He sighed. “I am.” He took three steps back until he was at the far edge of the alcove. She regretted the loss of his proximity. His expression suggested he regretted the loss of hers. “Your hair smells like flowers,”hesaid.

He left her breathless and warm and so aware of his assertion that it hummed in her blood. Her hairdidsmell like flowers. She bathed as often as possible using the scented soap that was her one excess, her baths her sole luxury, one she worked hard for, heating water and dragging it up the stairs to the hip bath she set up in her chamber. Mrs. Cowden and her fellow lodgers in Coptic Street thoughthermad.

But this moment, with Killian Thayne noticing her in a way much the same as she noticed him, made her think that hours spent heating water and lugging buckets had been worth theeffort.