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boots. Unlike his gentleman’s attire, these clothes seemed tailor fit.

Which begged the question: Where did a highwayman find a tailor?

She was about to ask but, as he crossed the room to stoke the embers and stack a few logs in the grate, she couldn’t help

but notice that his snug breeches molded to his form so well that she could see the bunch and shift of his thighs and taut

buttocks. Her mouth went dry. And when he moved to stack a few logs onto the grate, his shirt stretched over his back, revealing

the delineation of broad muscles tapering down to his waist. A peculiar warmth curled in her belly.

Thea swallowed and surveyed the room for a glass of water. Her gaze went from St. James, to the table and chair, to the bed.

Hmm... there seemed to be something missing. And it wasn’t the water.

As he stood, her attention drifted back to the bed. “Where do you plan to sleep?”

“In that bed.”

Her brow furrowed as she slid a glance to him. “And where will I sleep?”

“With me, of course.” His matter-of-fact delivery did nothing to quell the sudden jump of her pulse as he casually untied his cravat.

“I can hardly trust you alone. But fear not, there will be no improper advances. You will be beneath the coverlet. I will be on top of it with a bolster pillow wedged between us. I presume that would be preferable to being tied to that chair?”

“ Tied to the —” Her mouth snapped shut as she stared at the length of black silk he absently tossed onto the table. If she needed further

proof that he found her conversation utterly boring and saw her as little more than a nuisance, she certainly had it. “How

magnanimous of you.”

Though, as she looked from the chair to the narrow bed, then to his large form, she wondered how they would even fit themselves,

let alone a bolster.

Thea was no longer concerned about impropriety. And, strangely enough, she trusted him.

She had no idea why. Their acquaintance had been of a much shorter duration than hers with Kellum. Then again, she would never

have trusted Kellum in this situation. He may have called her a child on a number of occasions, but it was only after he’d

attempted to instruct her on the ways of the world.

But she didn’t want to think about that.

“You look troubled. Because of me,” St. James concluded, raking a hand through his hair. “Because I’m being an arse.”

“I won’t disagree.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “Contrary to the impression I’ve made, I don’t wish to cause you any disquiet. So I’ll...

sleep in front of the door. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to run off and injure yourself, or charm the

horses into harnessing themselves to the carriage and driving you all the way back. You’re not going to try to climb out the

window, are you?”

Thea shook her head. As she looked at him, she no longer saw the blackmailing kidnapper. He was, once again, the bashful man who’d come into the parlor and handed her a bouquet that he’d labored over with his own hands.

Something warm seemed to glow from the empty husk of her heart.

“I don’t mind sharing,” she said before she lost her nerve. “Besides, you’ll get no sleep on the floor.”

“But you were frowning just now, and your eyes were”—he made an offhand gesture—“distant.”

She wasn’t about to mention Kellum. So she tapped a finger to her temple. “Just making paper flowers.”

“Mmm,” he grumbled in disbelief. Then jerked his chin toward the bed. “Go on with you, then.”

Only in that moment did a flush creep to her cheeks. She’d been in her nightclothes in front of this man for an hour and yet

she hadn’t been truly embarrassed until the moment she folded back the coverlet.

Staring down at the worn but clean linens, her knees wobbled. She was climbing into bed with a man. It didn’t matter that

he was going to lie atop the coverlet. She was getting into bed. With. A. Man.

As she slipped inside and scooted over toward the wall, all she could think about was the trembling Lady Content. And when

St. James leaned over to pull the bedclothes up to her chin, tucking her in tightly, she kept her gaze on anything other than

him.

Then he lay down, the bed ropes creaking beneath his weight. Gravity immediately took hold, rolling her toward him. He shoved

the bolster between them, pinioning her in place until she was snug as a sausage.

Linking his hands behind his head, he blew out a breath. “The sooner we sleep, the faster the night will pass. Then you’ll

be rid of me for good.”

Rid of him. For good...

She frowned at the thought. Doubtless, it would be for the best. He certainly wanted it. After he’d ruined three of her gowns, and just admitted that he thought of her as nothing more than a bother, she should want the same. And yet...

Her experience with Kellum had not only hollowed her out, but left her with a lingering sense of fear about asserting herself

and acknowledging her own desires. And the only way to conquer that fear and sense of unworthiness seemed to be asking for

what she wanted.

Because what she wanted—what she needed—was to write. And, no matter how inconvenient it was for either of them, St. James

was the key.

Her head crunched into the straw-filled pillow as she situated herself on her back as well. “What if... I don’t want to

be rid of you?”

“We already discussed that.”

“And by your clipped tone, I gather that you abhor repeating yourself,” she muttered and he grunted in affirmation. “But,

for the sake of argument, what if we did meet on occasion... perhaps in secret?”

“That wouldn’t be wise. Now go to sleep.”

She turned her head and watched his profile in the firelight as he stared at the ceiling. “What if there is a reason that

I need to see you?”

“You have scores of men at your beck and call. I’m sure any number of them would be willing to jump through fiery hoops at

your whim.”

“Well, they won’t do,” she said, her irritation mounting at his flippant reply and the smirk at the corner of his mouth. “In

fact, there is something only you are able to do for me.”

As her words sank in, the smirk faded and his throat worked on a swallow. “And what might that be?”

That was an excellent question. How did one engage with one’s muse? What method of contact inspired the most pages? Would

it always need to be a waltz? Should he kidnap her at least once a week? Hmm...

“The answer is unclear at the moment,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better if I explained that for the last year, I hadn’t been able to write. All the words just... vanished when I tried to put them on the page. It felt like there was nothing inside me any longer.”

“What happened a year ago?” He rolled his head to look at her.

It was her turn to stare at the ceiling. “Someone I admired might have mentioned that I was too countrified, unworldly”— not worthy of a footnote —“and that I lacked the talent, skills and just about everything required to become the playwright I’ve always wanted to be.”

He raised up on one elbow. Peering down at her, his heavy brows drew together in an intimidating scowl. “Who said these things

to you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Besides, I’d asked for his advice.”

“Of course it matters. If this blackguard used his influence to attack and undermine, not only you but your dreams, then he

is the vilest of villains. Tell me, who is this despicable cretin?”

She shook her head, adamant. “I’m not sharing that part of the story. You have your reasons for pretending you’re someone

else, and I have my reason for not being able to write.”

“I can hazard a guess,” he grumbled under his breath as he flopped down onto his back once more.

“The point I’m making,” she said, “is that the night I fell out of Abernathy’s carriage and you caught me, I wrote again.”

“If you are asking me to play the highwayman for you in order to conjure inspiration, then the answer is—”

“No. I’m not,” she interrupted. Overhead, the shadows from the firelight danced and weaved, much like the apprehension over

what she was about to admit seemed to sway back and forth with her need to take the risk, even though she knew very well that

he could laugh at her.

She took a deep breath. “It happened again when we danced. I wrote ten pages this evening before all this”—she flitted her ink-stained fingers—“transpired.”

“I’m not certain I understand. What exactly happened?”

“Well, I believe that I have... found my muse.”

He paused and she could hear the scrunch of his pillow as he turned his head. “Surely you’re not suggesting that I am your muse?”

Feeling even more vulnerable and exposed than when she’d slipped beneath the coverlet, she pressed her lips together. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Because you were able to write? That could have happened for a number of reasons.”

“No. I know for a fact that it’s you. Because of the tingles.”

“The tingles,” he parroted.

“Ever since I was little and knew I had something worth writing, I’d feel a rush of tingles tightening my scalp. They’d gone

absent this past year. But when I’m with you— only when I’m with you—I feel them again, stronger than ever,” she confessed, barely able to breathe because she was afraid of

hearing him laugh at her.

Would he think she was gauche, like Kellum had? An ignorant country girl who knew nothing about life?

A minute passed in silence. Then another. And when St. James didn’t respond, she felt the shameful prickle of tears behind

her eyes.

She swallowed and surreptitiously knuckled a droplet away from the corner of her eye.

Then she felt the bed shift. She turned her head and suddenly he was there, looking at her, their faces only a breath apart.

“I’m going to regret asking this, but... what are the tingles like?” His voice was different, deeper and scratchy as if

the words were dragged over rocks.

Thea was suddenly aware of the heat rolling off his body in waves. Her body seemed caught up in the current, rippling low in her belly as her breasts swelled beneath the tight casing of the bedclothes.

She licked her lips, tasting the spice of his exhale on her tongue. “They cascade down my spine and over my skin. They make

my fingertips itch with the need to—”

Their noses touched. Bumped really. She wasn’t even certain which one of them had moved. But they both went still, their breaths

caught in the sliver of space between them.

In that moment, she noticed that his pupils eclipsed his irises and wondered again if she was only imagining that he might

be attracted to her.

He searched her gaze. “Then what happens?”

“Then it feels like the whole world just”—her breath hitched when he reached up and his fingertips dragged softly against

her cheek, tucking an errant tendril behind her ear—“opens up, and I feel...”

His nose slid along hers and he closed his eyes as if the sensation needed to be savored. But still there was something tentative

in the way he touched her, the barest tremor in his hand as if he was struggling with some internal debate.

“What do you feel?” he prodded, his voice rougher now, hoarse.

“Alive.” Her lips brushed his as she spoke. “Every part of me feels a—”

St. James didn’t let her finish.

Sliding a strong hand to her nape, he captured her mouth with his.