A Masquerade in the Moonlight(64)
“Two like spirits,” he continued just as if she hadn’t spoken, still advancing toward her, “delighting in the foibles of our fellowman and daring enough to defy any rule in order to get what we want.”
“I know what I want, Donovan, and it isn’t you.”
He went on, undaunted. “Two hearts, two minds, two bodies that fit together like a hand slipping into a custom-designed glove—”
She glanced behind her, measuring the space between herself and the shrubbery. “Stop this, Donovan. I swear to you, if you don’t stop I’ll do you an injury.”
“Naturally. We’d fight, Marguerite,” he pushed on, “bite and scratch at each other like cats in a sack, but our loving would make it all worthwhile. Think about it, aingeal. Think about it. God knows, I have. Think about the loving—the chance of love.”
She held her hands out in front of her, as if warding him off, warding off his words. “I have no time for this, Donovan!” she protested, shaking her head as she continued to back toward the shrubbery and the safety of her grandfather’s mansion. “I have no time for you. Don’t you understand?”
Thomas went very still, his ears attuned to a movement some twenty yards away, at the end of the drive that led to the street, his every sense—formerly directed toward Marguerite—now alerted to the threat of discovery. Without a word, he motioned for Marguerite to be silent, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to pierce the darkness for the revealing outline of a body.
“What is it?” Marguerite whispered, laying a hand on his arm. “What did you hear?”
And there it was, the human shape he had been looking for. Pressing a hand over Marguerite’s mouth, he grabbed her at the waist and all but dragged her completely into the shrubbery, out of sight, then pushed her onto her knees beside him. “Be quiet. I think it’s Harewood.”
Marguerite stilled in her struggle to be free of his embrace but obviously took umbrage with the placement of his hand over her mouth. Thomas didn’t sense this through any intuitive knowledge of the young woman, but because of the way her sharp teeth pinched his palm, forcing him to release her.
“Ralph?” she questioned him in a whisper, her head pressed close to his as he shook his stinging hand. “Are you sure? You’re not just saying that to have me clinging to you in fear, like some flea-witted female? That would be cheating, Donovan, and I’d never forgive you.”
Thomas silently congratulated himself on his assessment of Marguerite’s courage. She wasn’t going to faint or scream or do anything else vaguely resembling usual feminine reactions to being discovered in the dark with a man. “He followed me back from Richmond earlier, but I thought I’d lost him. Tenacious little bastard, isn’t he?”
“Followed you? And you led him here? My God, it’s not a charade—your brain really is to let.” She leaned past him, to peek through a gap in the shrubbery. “Do you think he’s been here long? Oh, Lord—do you think he heard us?” She sat back on her haunches, glaring at Thomas. “Damn you, Donovan, I knew you were trouble. If he heard us—”
“He didn’t, and he won’t, if you keep silent. I doubt he’ll come any closer.”
“I’m not about to start singing at the top of my lungs,” she fairly hissed, her eyes wide. She looked right and left, then behind her, as if at last realizing they were safely hidden by the trees and shrubs. “This is above everything stupid. I can’t believe I’ve allowed you to get me into such a ridiculous fix. How long do you think we’ll have to hide here before he gives up and goes away?”
Thomas shrugged, inching closer to her, as he was never one to miss an opportunity when it landed so close to his lap. “I don’t know, sweetings—an hour? No? You know the man better than I do.”
Marguerite dropped her head forward into her hands. “This wouldn’t have been his idea. Ralph likes the comfort of his own home much too much to spend the night skulking around in alleyways.” She raised her head and grinned at Thomas. “I feel silly, Donovan. I haven’t played hide-and-seek since I was a child.”
He tenderly lifted a stray spring green leaf from her curls. “I’ll wager you always found the best hiding places.”
“Not really. I always went first to the pantry, hoping Cook had baked that day, then hid myself away in a nearby cupboard with tarts piled in my lap. I was fairly roly-poly as a young child, I’m embarrassed to say. Papa said he could always find me by following the trail of crumbs. One moment I’d be sitting in the dark, delighted with my brilliance, and the next the door would open and Papa would see me, strawberry jam dribbling from my chin.”