But it had cost him. Until this moment he had not known how much. He carried always a slow simmer of lust—that was as much a part of his life as breathing. The loneliness he dealt with. He thought he did. He could just see a coppery glint, an outline of her hair riding down in a lovely curve to the shape of her hips, and suddenly it was as if every time he had denied himself was compounded and concentrated, years of turning away, of sleeping alone, all coalesced into this one warm girl in his bed.

He held himself still, staring into the dark toward her, trying to bring sense and distance to the hot physical f lood that engulfed him. If this was an offer, it was an unexpected one. She should have been at the Green Dragon for the night—he was sure he'd explained that clearly to her. Callie had always been careful to attend to every detail of her role in their adventures—she was too nervous of making a mistake to do otherwise.

He didn't think she'd misunderstood him. And Lilly wasn't here to provide propriety. But then, Lilly belonged to Lady Callista, not to Madame Malempré. And he'd said he wouldn't be back until morning. He was having difficulty thinking rationally with the feel of her hair drifting over his bare arm, the soft shape of her body pressing down the feather bed. He ached with a longing that was lust and something beyond lust, almost a sickness of desire. He tried to reason it, to tell himself that whatever the circumstance or error, he'd best get up and leave the bed, but his mind wasn't making much headway against his body.

He turned abruptly onto his back and lay staring upward, listening to her soft breath. He should sleep in the sitting room. He could close the door and ring for coffee—roust the poor boots off his cot again and annoy the kitchen staff. Or just dress and go down stairs to the parlor.

He ran his hand over his face and then thrust it through the curtains, testing the freezing air outside. He drew back quickly. The bed was thoroughly warmed where she lay, an invitation drawing him near. He moved a little closer to her, pulling the counterpane over her bare arm where her skin had cooled in the open air. She stirred but did not waken. He tucked it around her, trying to be protective, or something like it. He didn't want her to be cold.

He laughed silently at his own excuses, turning fully toward her and putting his arm across her shoulders. She felt indescribably soft, moving a little, settling into him. There was a thin slip of silk between them, some low-cut confection that pressed tight across her breasts. He could feel them, their tips taut against the inside of his arm.