Sleepless at Midnight Read online

  He approached the desk and she held her breath, praying that he didn’t intend to sit down and compose a lengthy missive.

  Her prayers were answered. Instead of sitting at the desk, he swiftly turned and yanked back the curtain.

  Before she could so much as gasp, a muscular forearm rammed against her chest, pinning her to the wall. The air whooshed from her lungs and the impact knocked her spectacles askew. She caught a blurry glimpse of a silver blade an instant before cool metal pressed against her neck.

  Too shocked to move, she stared at him through eyes that felt as if they were going to pop from their sockets, whether from shock or from the pressure of his arm or the realization that he held a knife to her throat, she wasn’t certain. Unmistakable surprise flickered in his eyes, then his gaze narrowed.

  “ Moorehouse,” he said in a chilly voice that was at complete odds with the heat emanating from his body. “May I inquire as to what you are doing skulking behind my curtain?”

  A spurt of anger shot through Sarah, nudging aside some of her shock and fear, and she glared right back at him. “May I inquire as to why you have a knife pressed to my throat?”

  “I fear it is the way intruders are dealt with. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the feeling if you plan to continue to break into other people’s rooms.”

  “I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to both unhand me and remove that knife.”

  Instead of freeing her, his gaze raked her face. “You’ve been spying on me.”

  A guilty flush seared upward from her toes, and she knew that within seconds her skin would resemble a blotchy mess. “I wasn’t spying. I was…watching for my opportunity to leave your chamber.” Which was true. Still, she couldn’t deny his accusation wasn’t without a tiny sliver of merit. But really, if the man didn’t want women looking at him, he shouldn’t remove his clothes—ever. Rather, he should take some pains to ugly himself up a bit. Perhaps allow himself to go to fat. Or wear a hideous mask.

  “Are you armed?” he asked.

  “Armed? Certainly not.”

  He stepped closer, until mere inches separated them. She drew in a sharp breath as the warmth of his body surrounded her, inundating her senses with his clean scent. A drop of water dripped from his wet hair, landing on her collarbone, where it meandered downward, tickling her skin before being absorbed by her gown.

  His gaze flicked down, then again met hers. “You’re holding something.”

  She was? She flexed her fingers and realized they were still wrapped around the soft linen of his shirt. Ah, yes, his shirt—or as she would refer to it from now on, Her Nemesis. “It’s merely a shirt.”

  He cocked a single brow. “What sort of shirt?

  Dear God, it was nearly impossible to breathe, to think, with him so close—an affliction that somehow had little to do with his arm pressing against her and the cool blade touching her neck and everything to do with the fact that no more than a thin robe stood between his nakedness and her hands.

  She swallowed, moistened her lips, then said in the strongest voice she could muster, “I’ll tell you what sort of shirt after you unhand me and put down the knife.”

  He hesitated for several more seconds, and she forced herself to meet his penetrating gaze—no easy feat with her spectacles hanging precariously from the end of her nose. Even with only a foot separating their faces, he was still a bit blurry around the edges. Yet even so, it was clear from his expression that he was highly suspicious of her appearance in his bedchamber.

  Without taking his gaze from her, he slowly lowered his arm, and she sucked in a quick breath. He then reached out to set the knife on the edge of his desk, within easy reach should he require it, she noticed. She raised her hand to her neck and pressed her fingers against the skin where the cool blade had rested. A shudder ran through her, followed by another shot of anger.

  “You could have slit my throat.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate that I did not.”

  “What sort of man threatens his guests in such a manner?”

  “What sort of woman hides behind curtains and spies on men while they bathe?”

  Damnation, he had a point. Not that she had any intention of admitting that to him. Especially since her need to hide behind the curtain was entirely his fault. Lifting her chin, she said in her haughtiest tone, “Surely you don’t believe I pose any sort of physical threat to you, my lord.”

  “I’m not certain what to believe, Moorehouse. Nor does it escape my notice that you’ve avoided my question as to what sort of woman hides behind curtains and spies on men while they bathe.”

  “As you avoided mine as to what sort of man threatens his guests with a knife.”

  Satisfaction edged through her at his displeased expression. Well, fine. She was far from pleased herself. He took one step back, crossed his arms over his chest and fixed an icy glare upon her. “I await your explanation.”

  She pushed up her spectacles and drew a bracing breath, but his clean scent filled her head, evoking an image of him, naked and wet and pushing back his hair, and her powers of speech escaped her.

  When she remained silent, he prompted, “Your explanation regarding the shirt…? Did you wish to give me the garment? Or…” He moved—so quickly, so unexpectedly, she found herself frozen in place—and planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. “Or did you sneak into my room to watch me bathe?”

  Annoyance shook her from her stupor. “That is a most improper suggestion, my lord. And the shirt is not a gift.” She lifted the garment and waggled it beneath his nose. “It is, in fact, your shirt.”

  “Indeed? Well, then I find it very interesting that you are spouting what is proper—you who have sneaked into my room, spied upon me as I bathed, and attempted to steal my clothing.”

  “Not your clothing. Just your shirt.”

  “Ah. You seem to possess a talent for splitting hairs, Moorehouse.”

  “Only because you seem to have a talent for making inaccurate statements—another of which is your accusation that I was stealing your shirt when in fact I was merely borrowing it.”

  “For what possible reason?

  “A…scavenger hunt. An amusement the other ladies and I devised. Just a bit of harmless fun.”

  “I see. So you planned to return my shirt?”

  “Of course.”

  “When? During my next bath?”

  Only if I’m the luckiest woman on earth. She again blinked away the image of him naked. Or at least she tried to. And was spectacularly unsuccessful. “Certainly not. I’d planned to return it at a time when you were not in your bedchamber. As you were not supposed to be now. I’ll have you know that if you’d remained in the drawing room where you were supposed to be, this debacle never would have come to pass.”

  “It sounds as if you’re saying the fact that you’re hiding behind my curtain and spying on me is my fault.”

  “That is precisely what I’m saying.”

  Matthew studied her for several long seconds, completely nonplussed. Yet his bewilderment wasn’t solely the result of her outrageous logic. No, it was more because he couldn’t figure out why he found this exchange so exhilarating. And because he didn’t know why he continued to stand so close to her, caging her in. Why the urge to move even closer was gripping him in a stranglehold. And why she hadn’t demanded that he step away from her.

  He wished to God she would. Wished to God he could make himself move back. Wished he wasn’t consumed by this insane desire to touch her.

  And insanity it was. With her prim exterior, plain clothing, thick spectacles, and outspoken nature, she was not at all the sort of woman to whom he’d ever been attracted. Yet here he stood, heart pounding simply by virtue of her nearness. And there was no point in lying to himself—while he’d sat in his bath, before he discovered her behind his curtain, he’d been thinking of her. Of those honey-colored eyes that so thor
oughly fascinated him. Froze him. Heated him. Had imagined her coming to him, touching him. Kissing him. And now, here she was.

  But why was she here? Was her story of a scavenger hunt true? Or was she, as he’d already considered, more than she seemed? Unless she was an accomplished actress, she didn’t possess the least air of coyness, yet he knew she had secrets. She looked innocent, but she drew anatomically detailed sketches of naked men. Would she add drawings of him to her sketch pad? He found the idea utterly arousing. Irritatingly so.

  He breathed in and caught a slight whiff of flowers—a teasing hint that made him want to lean closer to better catch the elusive scent, a fact that further irritated him.

  His gaze took in her rumpled hair and his fingers twitched with the urge to slip out every pin and watch those untamable curls she clearly tried so hard to coax into submission cascade over her shoulders. Then he studied her face, touching upon each mismatched feature that so inexplicably grabbed him and refused to let go. Her lips…those full lips that were more suited to a courtesan than a spinster. Those lips that seemed to beckon him like a siren’s call. And those huge eyes, magnified behind her spectacles, which gleamed with what appeared to be a hint of challenge. Indeed, Moorehouse seemed exceptionally, annoyingly, calm, while he felt decidedly, annoyingly, the exact opposite of calm.

  He clenched his jaw. Bloody hell, this wouldn’t do at all. Common sense demanded that it was time to get this vexing woman out of his bedchamber.

  Unfortunately, it seemed that common sense was not in charge because instead of sending her on her way, he leaned a bit closer. And inwardly smiled when apprehension flickered in her eyes. Ah. Excellent. She wasn’t quite as composed as she’d have him believe.

  “Saying that your spying on me is my fault…I certainly must give you points for sheer boldness, Moorehouse. However, allow me to offer you a bit of advice: the next time you decide to steal something, you should make an effort to keep the floorboards from squeaking.”

  The annoyance that flashed in her eyes pleased him greatly. “I was not stealing, my lord. For you to insist I was is very nude.” Her eyes widened with clear dismay. “Rude. I meant rude.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, speaking of nude—”

  “I wasn’t speaking of nude!”

  “—you’ve seen quite a lot of me.”

  He suspected she was blushing, and wished the room were brighter so he could see if color suffused her cheeks. She pressed her lips together and he could almost see her gathering her courage. She hiked up her chin then jerked her head in a nod. “Rather unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

  “Most young, unmarried women would swoon at such a sight.”

  “I’m hardly fresh from the schoolroom, my lord, nor am I prone to the vapors.”

  “And it isn’t as if you saw anything you hadn’t already seen.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your friend Franklin. Based on your sketch I saw, you’ve seen him naked.” An unpleasant sensation rushed through him as he said those words, a sensation that felt precisely like jealousy.

  “Oh. Um, yes.”

  “Were those circumstances similar to these?”

  “Cir…circumstances?”

  “When you saw Franklin naked…were you attempting to steal—forgive me—borrow his shirt as well? Or was the occasion between you of a more…personal nature?”

  When she remained silent, he moved closer to her, until less than two feet separated their bodies. Her chest rose and fell with her shallow breaths and she clutched his shirt against her midsection. The sight of his clothing pressed against her struck him as oddly intimate. And incredibly arousing. Bloody hell, he found her incredibly arousing. In a way he neither liked nor understood. But in a way he could not deny. Just as he could no longer deny the inexplicable yet gnawing need to touch her. Nor ignore the irrational, unreasonable desire to erase all thoughts of this Franklin from her mind.

  Based on the sketch, she and Franklin were more than simply friends, yet she projected an innocence that strongly contradicted the intimate nature of that sketch. It was a puzzle that fascinated him. And was one he intended to solve.

  “I suspect your mother wouldn’t approve of your scavenger hunt,” he said in a silky voice.

  Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, a distracting flick of pink that he found himself wishing she’d repeat. “I assure you she wouldn’t care one way or the other,” she said softly. “My mother wouldn’t notice if I ran naked through the kitchen.”

  An image of her, naked in a kitchen—his kitchen—and him feasting on her—flashed through his mind, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He had to clear his throat to locate his voice. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Forgive me, my lord. Sometimes I forget myself and am too outspoken. And say inappropriate words like ‘naked.’ I apologize for offending your tender sensibilities.”

  A frown pulled down his brows. “I assure you, my sensibilities are not tender. You, however, seem to be preoccupied with things of a ‘naked’ nature.”

  “That’s not true…”

  Her words tapered off into a soft gasp when he lifted one hand from the wall and captured a loose tendril of her hair between his fingers. She went perfectly still, and unable to resist, he moved his other hand and slowly slipped the pins from her hair, letting them fall to the floor, where they landed with soft pings. She made no move to stop him, just gazed at him through wide eyes that reflected a combination of wonder and shock and puzzlement—as if she couldn’t believe he was touching her nor understand why he would.

  He felt her tremble, heard the quickening of her breath, and grim satisfaction filled him at the realization that this…whatever it was that had him in its grasp, also held her.

  With each pin he removed, more curls spiraled downward over her shoulders, ending at her waist. The delicate scent of flowers rose from the freed strands, and he breathed deeply. When he finished, he ran his fingers slowly down the shiny, wildly curly tresses. Touching the edge of her glasses, he murmured, “May I?” Then, without giving her time to refuse, he slipped off her spectacles. And stared.

  “You look like a Botticelli painting,” he whispered.

  A sound of disbelief passed her lips and she shook her head, setting her curls in motion. “Hardly. He painted Venus.”

  “Yes. And if you were naked, you’d put Venus herself to shame.”

  “You require spectacles.”

  “I assure you, I don’t.”

  “It is now you who are preoccupied with things of a ‘naked’ nature.”

  His gaze ran slowly down her length, imagining the generous breasts and long legs her modest gown hinted at. “It seems so,” he agreed softly. Reaching out, he trailed a single fingertip over her smooth cheek. Her skin felt like warm velvet. “Venus’s natural state was nude, you know.”

  Her lips parted and a soft gasp escaped her—a sort of breathless, pleasure-filled sound that urged him to discover what other sort of erotic sounds she might make.

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. I also know that she is associated with love and beauty. While I know a fair amount about love, beauty does not, in any way, apply to me.”

  He captured a handful of curls and slowly sifted his fingers through the satiny spirals. “I must disagree. Your hair is beautiful.”

  Instead of appearing complimented, she looked at him as if he belonged in Bedlam. “You truly do need spectacles.”

  He shook his head and gently wrapped a length of curls around his fist. Lifting his hair-wrapped hand to his face, he breathed deeply. “You smell beautiful as well. Like a garden in the sunshine. And your eyes…” He looked into her golden brown depths and again wished there was more light.

  “Are the color of mud,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Are the color of honey, surrounded by rich chocolate,” he corrected. “Has no one ever told you how lovely your eyes are?”

  “Never,” she said without hesitation.

  “Not
even your friend Franklin?”

  She hesitated, then said, “No.”

  Matthew decided then and there that the man was an idiot. “Consider yourself told.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “And then there are your lips. They’re…striking.”

  She said nothing for several long seconds, just stared at him with an unreadable expression. Then her bottom lip trembled slightly and a combination of weary resignation, disappointment, and something else that looked like hurt filled her eyes. Although she raised her chin, he sensed that some of the courage she’d previously displayed had seeped from her.

  “Please cease these games, my lord,” she said quietly. “I apologize for intruding and disturbing your privacy. It was not my intention to do so. And now, if you’ll excuse me…” She held out his shirt.

  He felt dismissed. Just as he had in the garden. Yet that flash of hurt in her eyes filled his chest with a hollow sensation he couldn’t name. Clearly she believed he was making sport of her, and while part of him wished that were the case, nothing could have been further from the truth.

  “You can have the shirt, Moorehouse. I wouldn’t want to cause you to be disqualified from your scavenger hunt.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see that it’s returned.” She squinted pointedly toward his hand, which still held her spectacles. “If you’ll give me back my glasses, I’ll be on my way.”

  Which is precisely what his common sense was screaming at him to do. But everything else inside him was insisting that she stay. And that he find out if she felt as soft as she appeared. Tasted as delicious as she looked. Just one touch, one taste…to satisfy this gnawing curiosity.

  Without taking his gaze from her, he reached out and placed her spectacles on the desk, next to his knife. Surprise flickered in her eyes. “Did you just set my glasses aside?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot be without them, my lord. Even at this short of a distance…” She indicated the two foot space between them with a waggle of her hand. “…you are blurry.”