“You’re dripping on my hearthrug,” she said.
He took off his mask, moving rather slowly. “You need new locks.”
She raised her eyebrows and closed her book. “My locks aren’t that old.”
“Yes, but”—he drew off the silk mask as well and let it drop to the hearthrug—“they’re more ornamental than useful.”
She watched as he doffed his hat. “Does that explain how you got in?”
“Partially.” He unbuckled his sword belt and carefully laid it on the tiles before the fireplace. “I would’ve gotten in anyway, no matter how good your locks, but I shouldn’t have gotten in quite so easily.”
He began unbuttoning his tunic.
“Perhaps I don’t have anything worth locking away,” she said a bit distractedly.
He shot her a sparkling glance from underneath lowered brows. “You have yourself.”
Gratifying. Why did his plain words mean so much more than any number of flowery flatteries she’d received in the past?
Isabel bit her lip. “What are you doing here?”
He removed his tunic but didn’t bother looking up as he sat to take off his boots. “I want you to show me.”
“Show you what?”
He did look up at that, one boot in his hands, and his eyes bored straight into her woman’s soul. “Everything.”
She swallowed, for she’d clenched internally at his single word. “What makes you think I’m interested in teaching you?”
He stilled and his sudden and complete lack of movement made her heart beat faster, as if he were a predator readying to pounce. “Do I presume?”
She licked dry lips. “No.”
“Don’t tease, Isabel.” He bent to the other boot.
She watched for a minute as he stripped the boot from his foot and then unbuttoned his shirt. “Why do you do it?”
He shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head, revealing again that wonderfully muscled chest. “No one misses them.”
“Who?”
“The poor, the children of St. Giles.” He paused, his hands on the fall of his breeches, and glanced at her. She saw that there was an angry fire in his eyes. “They send soldiers in for the death of one aristocrat, yet dozens of children die every month and they care not.”
She cocked her head to the side, realizing that she must speak cautiously. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was a good man.”
He nodded. “And had he beat his servants, seduced maidens, and neglected his elderly parents, his murderer would still be hunted just as ferociously.”
“True.” His anger was more fresh tonight. Something had happened after he’d left her carriage. “What would you have society do, exactly?”
“Care.” He ripped open his breeches and stepped from them, standing only in his smallclothes. His erection strained at the thin material. “I want them to care just as much about a poor child as they do a gentleman. I want them to make sure every child is fed and clothed and housed. I want them to see that London cannot continue this way with people dying in the gutter.”
“You talk revolution,” she murmured.
“And if I do?” His hands clenched into fists. “Perhaps we need another revolution—one of necessity instead of religion this time. I’m tired of rescuing orphaned and abandoned children. I want to never nurse a child through the night and see him die before daybreak, never have to bury another baby, never have to search for abandoned children only to find…” He choked suddenly, looking away from her.
Ah, they were drawing closer to what made him so edgy. She wanted to wrap her arms around him but was afraid he would rebuff such compassion. “What happened tonight?”
His mouth twisted. “I’ve been hunting for a workshop run by child kidnappers who make the children labor with no money and little food. I thought I’d found the place tonight—finally, after days of searching—only to discover the shop empty. The children are missing again, either removed to another place or perhaps even killed to leave no evidence.”
He looked at her, and she caught her breath at the anguish in his eyes. “Surely you alone cannot expect to bear this burden? Isn’t that a sin of pride, Mr. Makepeace?”
Any other man would’ve scoffed. He closed his eyes instead. “Perhaps. Perhaps I have too much pride.” His eyes flashed open. “But that does not excuse the fact that I was too late. I failed those children.”
She bowed her head. How could she help him, this man who felt too intensely, who bore all the problems of St. Giles on his shoulders? What could she offer him except what she’d already given him—her body?
She carefully put her book down on the table by her candle. Then she picked up the candlestick and crossed to the fireplace. The coals were already laid. She knelt and put fire to them.
“What are you doing?” he asked behind her.
She straightened and turned to face him. “I thought we might need some warmth for what you want.”
Then she let her wrap drop to the floor. Underneath was her night rail, a frivolous thing of lace and silk. She drew it off over her head and kicked the slippers from her feet. That left her naked and standing before him like some aging Venus. She threw her shoulders back, smiling at him defiantly.
Except his gaze wasn’t at all disappointed. In fact, he looked a little awestruck.
She wet her lips, noting that they trembled slightly, and walked toward him. “Now, what exactly do you want me to show you?”
“Everything,” he repeated.
A daunting word, for with another man it might be hyperbole. With Winter Makepeace it was not.
“Then touch me,” she said huskily.
His hand was broad and fit almost exactly over her left breast. He laid it there, hot and strong, then lifted to stroke around her areola delicately.
“Like this?” His words were rumbled, his gaze intent on what his hand touched.
“Yes, that’s nice,” she said.
His eyes flicked to hers. “Nice.”
She smiled. “Pinch my nipple.”
He squeezed gently—too gently.
“Harder.”
He frowned. “I will not hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she whispered.
The pinch this time went straight to her feminine valley. He cupped both hands over her breasts, fondling and pinching until her breath became heavy.
Then he stepped back.
“What are you doing?” she asked, a bit sharply, for simply standing there receiving his ministrations had been oddly arousing.