A Lily Among Thorns(26)

He’d let so many things pass in his life, told himself they didn’t matter, that it was useless to fight, and she treated everything as if it was a pitched battle—one she could win. She fought her father and Sacreval and still managed to find energy for Lord Smollett and a customer who pinched a waitress. He’d wanted to kiss her so badly, and when she’d backed away he’d thought, Of course you’re fighting this, too, and something in him had refused to give up this time.

And he’d won—he’d felt like he’d won, anyway, felt such a thrill of victory and joy and wanted to make her feel it, too. He had made her feel it. He remembered how she’d kissed him back, how she’d let him hold her, and the little disbelieving yearning sound she’d made. She had sounded so surprised that she could feel good, and he’d felt such a startling, aching tenderness—he’d never felt anything like that before. Then she’d stiffened as if caught in a shameful weakness, and somehow that had only made the tenderness worse.

That was the problem, though. She fought her own pleasure just as she fought everything else; she didn’t seem to know how to stop fighting. And then the fire had frightened her, and she’d panicked, and now it was too late for her to retreat from her ultimatum.

If he was going to talk her out of it, he was going to have to be very, very careful. He narrowed his eyes, thinking. A show of compliance would probably help. Kicking the remains of his coat out of the way, he headed down the stairs to ask Antoine to save him some crates to pack his belongings in.

He was awakened by muffled cries of pain from the room next door. He lay there for a moment, disoriented, and then Serena said, very distinctly, “No!”

He was at the door in seconds, uselessly rattling the knob. Locked. He dashed to his worktable. In too much of a hurry for finesse, he grabbed the beaker of hydrochloric acid and tipped a healthy amount down the keyhole, covering his nose and mouth with one hand to avoid breathing in noxious fumes. The lock mechanism and most of the face of the keyhole sizzled and dissolved. Hastily capping the beaker and setting it back on the table, he turned the now unresisting doorknob and burst through the door.





Chapter 6


To Solomon’s surprise, the only occupant of the room was Serena—fast asleep. Her fists were clenched and her face was set in lines of determination and fear as she threw herself from side to side, straining against invisible bonds. “No! No, damn you!”

Solomon took hold of her shoulders and shook her. “Serena, wake up!” he said as loudly as he dared. “Wake up, you’re all right!”

Serena jolted awake. It hadn’t just been a dream, then—someone was holding her shoulders, restraining her. She bolted upright and punched him squarely in the stomach. “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” she hissed, and went for the pistol in her bedside drawer.

Solomon held up the hand that wasn’t clutching his stomach and shook his head frantically. Oh. She was awake. That had been a dream. Right. She took a deep breath and abandoned the drawer. “Solomon? What the devil are you doing here?”

He pointed to his throat.

“Did I wind you? My humblest apologies. I imagine you have some perfectly innocent reason for having broken into my room in the dead of night?”

“You were yelling,” he croaked. “I was worried.”

Damn. “I’m fine. It was just a dream.”

He sat down on the edge of her bed, massaging his stomach. “You don’t look fine.” Abruptly his eyes widened, riveted on her breasts, all too exposed in her thin cotton shift.

Serena shivered nervously under his gaze, then wished she hadn’t. “It’s chilly in here,” she said shortly, although the room was very warm. “Hand me my robe.” Ordinarily she would have died rather than let Solomon see her robe (an orange silk fringed thing covered in a riot of embroidered chrysanthemums, peacock feathers, pomegranates, and other bright designs), but right now she just wanted another layer between him and her breasts. She crossed her arms over her chest.

Solomon reddened and jerked his eyes away. “Er. Sorry.”

When he handed her the robe, she shoved her arms into the fringed sleeves, wrapped the orange silk tight across her chest, and hugged herself. Solomon sighed, and said the last thing she would have expected. “Come on, I’ll make you a cup of chocolate.”

“You have chocolate in your room?”

“What kind of bachelor would I be if I didn’t?”