“Y-you.” Cold rather than fear lent a tremble to Myrtle’s voice, and she rubbed her palms vigorously together. “It is cold out here.”

He grasped that offering she’d held out. “Precisely.” Val took her lightly by the arm and proceeded to steer her back.

Or attempted to, anyway.

Attempted and failed.

Myrtle slipped her slender arm from his grasp and folded her hands in front of her. “I will g-get into that carriage—”

“Good,” he said, reaching for her again, but she took a step back.

“Uh-uh, I did not finish. What I was going to say before you interrupted me was, I will get into that carriage”—she brought a finger up, accentuating that which she clearly felt was the most important part about whatever this was—“if”—she wagged that long gloved digit at him—“you join me.”

His mind went completely blank; the matter of his brain went to black in that moment, as what she suggested, what she asked, stole all ability to think.

Which was preferable, because at least in this way he wasn’t recalling an unreal-for-now image of him climbing inside that conveyance and joining her while she sang, and then him wanting—needing—to silence her by dragging her onto his lap and kissing the song from her lips and—

Val stilled . . . aware of Myrtle’s voice moving in and out, some of her words slipping into focus.

“You are a stubborn man, and I know . . .”

He’d not imagined her dying in this moment.

Nay, in this moment, the memories had twisted, taking another path, a different one, one that included him alone with Myrtle, making love with her.

“Respectable and honorable . . .” Whatever soliloquy she gave on his honor and respectability, his improper thoughts now made the greatest mockery of as he remained unable to shake the tempting images that had taken root.

Ones that hadn’t involved her winding up dead and him hunched over her, and there was a giddy relief that his mind hadn’t gone to the darkest of dark places.

It was because of her. This woman.

On the heel of that came the realization, one which hit him square in the chest . . . that this deviation in his thinking was dangerous in its own right.

“Val. Vaaal.” Her query, his name, came with a slightly greater emphasis, bringing him back to the moment with a whirring whoosh in his ears.

“Hmm?” he said.

She slipped her gloved fingers through his, twining their hands, and giving them a squeeze. “I said, I do not fear being alone with you, Val,” she said softly, her voice a near whisper that still carried clearly to his ears. “In fact”—she drifted closer—“I would . . . welcome the company. Horace and I both would.”

His black snout buried in the snow, Val’s dog picked his head up, and barked his agreement.