“Yes, well,” she said, her heightened color letting him know she was aware of his regard, “the next time you decide to clamber up a tree and into a woman’s room, you might want to make more noise.”

“Noise?”

“Yes. Whistle or something. I could have mistaken you for a reiver, come to steal my jewels. ’Tis a wonder I didn’t call for one of the lads.”

“I don’t whistle. Not well anyway.”

“Then sing. That would work, I suppose.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I am not going to sing, not even for you. I respect my fellow man too much to put them through such a parody of talent.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“I made that decision after being forced to listen to I know not how many musicale performances by anxious mamas who think men admire women who can warble a song.”

Her lips twitched. “Poor you, having to endure such.”

He tried not to stare too long at her soft, full mouth. “I never heed the match making mamas. But they have made me more aware of the fact that just because we think we’re talented, does not make it so.”

“A wise lesson.”

An awkward silence then fell, as if they’d used all their stored-up banter and were now completely wordless. Kat glanced nervously around, then cleared her throat no fewer than three times.

Devon finally took pity on her. “I believe I was supposed to occupy a chair. Shall we sit?” Now that he was there, he had all the time in the world.

“Sit?” She glanced at the bed, then at the chairs, as if dragging her mind from one to the other. “Oh yes! Of course we may sit.” She led the way to the chairs, her gown revealing the tantalizing outline of her thighs as she moved.

Devon had to force himself to breathe. God, but she was beautiful. He eyed the long red-gold braid that hung down her back and wondered what her hair would look like splayed over a mound of white pillows. His blood heated.

She took her seat, sitting on the very edge of the chair, her hands clasped on the arms of the chair. The second he took his place across from her, she said, “Why are you here?”

“I was just riding by and thought to see what you were doing.”

“At midnight?”

“It’s twenty after,” he pointed out politely.

Her gaze narrowed.

He shook his head sadly. “Oh ye of little faith.”

“I have faith. Just not in men who knock on my window in the middle of the night.”

“I should have used the front door, but I was bored and this seemed an adventure.” He could tell from the quiver in her voice that she was nervous and fearful and just the tiniest bit excited. He smiled a little, knowing exactly how she felt. In his own way, he felt the same.