She stilled, waiting for his touch, her breath gone shallow and uneven in her chest.

  “What was it you said downstairs?” he asked, low and deep. “It’s warm in here?”

  The words were a code downstairs. Adelaide had a feeling they were a code here, as well. But a different code. One she did not understand.

  “That much is true,” he continued. “You are flushed.” His fingers touched her cheek, setting fire to her skin. “Here.” He ran them along her jaw, down the line of her throat, to the gold chain that hung, always, around her neck, then low—lower, until it disappeared beneath the fabric of her dress. He lingered there, and she wondered if he would lift the chain, pull the pendant from where it lay like a secret against her skin.

  When his touch moved again, tracing the chain once more, back to the base of her neck, she closed her eyes, keenly aware of the way her heart raced.

  “This . . .” He painted a little circle on her skin there, where her pulse throbbed, betraying her. “This is the most truthful you’ve been.”

  Her eyes flew open, meeting his, already watching. Waiting for her to look at him. Glittering with knowledge of what he did to her. Dammit.

  He lifted his hand, removing his touch. Dammit. Dammit.

  “The box does not have a key,” he said softly. “If you force it, it will lock. There will be no way of accessing the information within. But you sensed that already.”

  She nodded, barely listening. Wondering what he would do if she grabbed his hand and returned it to her skin. “You could break it open,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice, gone breathless. “A hammer would do the job.”

  “You could,” he replied. Was he closer now? At her ear? The words a caress? “But then it would be destroyed. And that is unacceptable.”

  Adelaide shuddered at the word, spoken with firm certainty and a thread of darkness, as though he would not allow such a thing.

  They hovered in silence, Clayborn finally breaking it as he took a step back and looked away, to the food. “Apologies. I should not have . . .”

  When he trailed off, Adelaide said, “It was not—”

  She did not have to find the words to finish her own sentence, because he cut in. “It was unacceptable.”

  How could one word spoken twice in mere seconds carry such different meanings?

  “I should not have touched you tonight.”

  But she’d wanted it.

  “I should certainly not have kissed you yesterday.”

  She clenched her teeth and slid away, putting distance between them, hating the apology. She made a show of inspecting the contents of her carpetbag. “There is no reason to apologize for yesterday.”

  He gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “That’s the most severe of my infractions.”

  “I don’t know why,” she said. “You did not kiss me.”

  “What?” He could not keep his surprise hidden. She liked that.

  “You did not kiss me.”

  “I did.” Insistence.

  “You did not.”

  “Miss Frampton—” She hated that he called her that. “I assure you I did. I was there.”

  She looked to him then, and at another time, she might have enjoyed his surprise. Not then, though. “No. I kissed you. That’s quite a different thing altogether. Therefore, you needn’t apologize.”

  He let out a harsh sound. “You—”

  “You needn’t dwell on your mistake, is my point, Your Grace.” She cut him off, waving at the bed, and continued, quickly and with a practiced lack of emotion. “Now. I am tired, and tomorrow will be a long day catching your brother and Lady Helene. Would you prefer to sleep in the bed or the chair?”

  Another sound, this one as though he was being strangled.

  She looked to him again, brows raised in question.

  “The chair,” he said.

  Of course he chose the chair. Such a gentleman, apologizing for being kissed and for touching her and being generally difficult to tolerate. “Then if you do not mind, would you exit the room so I might . . .” She waved a hand at the bed.

  He immediately spun to face the door, putting his back to her. “Of course. Excuse me. Yes. Of course.” He took a few steps toward the door and then stopped, as though a hound reaching the end of a lead. He looked back. “Only, if I leave . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not safe here.”

  Adelaide could not help her little laugh.

  He scowled. “You think that amusing?”

  “I think it amusing that you think me unable to keep myself safe.” As though she hadn’t learned early to be her own savior.

  His brow furrowed. Without a reply, he left, closing the door. Adelaide turned to the washbasin in the corner, telling herself it was all for the best. The apology. The way he’d clearly been horrified by the kiss on the docks. By touching her. He was a duke, after all, and she a thief born on the wrong side of the river.

  Everything else was disguise.

  She fetched soap and tooth powder from her bag, removed her spectacles and made quick work of her ablutions before stripping to her chemise. Crossing the room, she fetched the dossier from where it lay, but left a candle burning on the table, shadows dancing across the smooth surface of the puzzle box.

  Returning the file to her bag, she told herself he could have his secrets. She wasn’t in the market for them.

  It was a lie, of course. Every moment she spent with the Duke of Clayborn, she wished to know more of him. Which was dangerous, indeed, because knowing made for liking. And liking made for wanting.

  And the Duke of Clayborn was not for Adelaide Frampton.

  She woke in the morning to find the oak cube remained on the table, next to the snuffed candle. Across the room, the Duke of Clayborn slept in the chair . . . which he’d moved to block the door.

  They shall have to come through me.

  Adelaide ignored the tightness in her chest at the memory and the image of him, relaxed, in shirtsleeves, a wedge of somehow sun-kissed skin beneath a woolen blanket he’d found somewhere. She dressed silently—years of practice making it possible—marveling that he’d left his secrets on the table. That he’d trusted her.

  A mistake. A thief was born to steal, was she not?

  She was gone before he woke, his treasure in hand.

  Chapter Seven

  The Duke of Clayborn was in a foul mood.

  He hunched his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, pulled the brim of his hat low over his brow, tightened his grip on the reins, and cursed into the biting wind that felt more like December than October should.

  It was not the weather that had put him in his mood, however.

  Nor was it the backbreaking ride in the carriage, bouncing and rocking, wheels groaning as the road grew less and less smooth and the afternoon sun began to set.

  No, he’d been in this mood—cursing the weather and roads and vehicles and an overhanging oak branch that had nearly removed his head and a broken wheel that had set him back a full hour while he replaced it—since he’d woken that morning, gnarled into the most uncomfortable position a body could find in sleep, in a hard chair, in a cold room, at the Hawk and Hedgehog.

  Truthfully, his mood might have survived the crick in his neck.

  Except, Adelaide had disappeared.

  It was impossible, or at least he’d thought it had been when he’d set the chair to the door as she’d slept. By the time he’d entered the room, she’d been in bed, all but a single candle extinguished, lighting his way as he made himself as comfortable as one could with a small blanket, a waning fire, and an uncomfortable chair.

  When he’d extinguished the light and tried to sleep himself, it had been nearly impossible, knowing that he should not be sharing a room with an unmarried lady.

  In the darkness, he told himself it was all in service to their race. Adelaide not being able to leave without waking him had been an added bonus. He’d keep pace with her from the start on their second day’s journey—having eyes on her from daybreak would ensure he would not lose her again.

  It was only half true. There was another reason to share her room. To station himself like a sentry by the door. He wished to keep her safe.

  He’d chased sleep for hours, doing his best to remain gentlemanly. To avoid thinking of her, warm and soft in the room’s only bed. To avoid wondering whether she’d removed her dress before climbing into bed. Whether she’d taken down her red hair. Whether it spread across the sheets as he’d imagined before, when he absolutely shouldn’t have.

  He’d made a list of all the things he shouldn’t wonder, and the activity had done nothing to deliver rest. The clock in the hallway outside had marked eleven. Then midnight.

  When one chimed, he gave in, finally allowing himself to listen to the smooth, even rhythm of her slumber. To count those breaths like sheep, sure he’d wake before her.

  Instead, he’d woken without her.

  He hadn’t liked it.

  He cursed again, leaning into the ride, pushing the horses farther up the road, grateful that there’d been a fast, strong set waiting for him when he’d stopped to change the team—the only good thing that had happened that day, considering he was behind in his race to catch Adelaide, and he had no indication of how far she would push her own horses in her pursuit of his brother.

  Clayborn had done all he could to catch her, coming out of the chair in which he’d slept instantly. It hadn’t taken him long to discover two things—first, the room had a secret exit, a door perfectly hidden in the tapestry of elaborate wallpaper on one side of the bed, which led to a set of back stairs that exited directly to the stables. He should have expected it—Adelaide Frampton would never allow herself to be trapped, when she could be free.

  And second, she’d taken his box with her.

  He leaned forward and gave the horses an encouraging yah!, hoping they’d find themselves motivated to close the distance she’d left.

  She’d left.

  He’d trusted her with the box, telling himself as he sat in the darkness that he’d hear her if she came for it. No. That was nonsense. What he’d told himself was that she’d stay, and the box, in her hands or in his, would remain with him.

  But Adelaide Frampton was a thief first and everything else second . . . and she’d slipped away under cloak of night, just before dawn, according to the stable boy he’d terrified with ducal interrogation at half six in the morning.

  He wasn’t far behind, and a strong set of horses could make all the difference.

  But Clayborn knew better than to underestimate Adelaide, and as the sun set and the cold began to bite, and he was reminded that his horses would soon tire, Clayborn lost control of his thoughts—the ones he’d promised himself he would hold at bay.

  It started innocuously. A whisper of logic. Her horses would tire too, would they not?

  She, too, would have to stop.

  She, too, would be tempted by warm food. And a soft bed—

  That was his mistake, allowing himself to think of her in a soft bed. To remember the other bits of her that were soft. Her breath as she slept. The skin of her cheek when he’d touched her the night before. The flutter of her pulse when he’d found it, rapid and tempting. Her lips.

  And all the other bits that he had not yet explored. An onslaught of fantasy crashed over him, long limbs and flushed breasts and the skin at her back as she arched toward him. The sigh he teased from her. That flame red hair that he still hadn’t seen, but that he’d touched . . . soft as silk and pure temptation.

  Softness faded, replaced by thoughts of the firm grip of her hands in his hair, the bite of her teeth at his shoulder. The demands she might deliver.

  He groaned, cursing his frustration as he rounded a curve in the road, willing himself to think of anything but her—the pounding of hooves, the rattle of the brougham’s wheels, the creak of the springs in the cold.

  Finding the straightaway once more, his gaze narrowed into the distance, and he wondered if he’d summoned her with his thoughts. Because there, one hundred yards ahead, was a carriage, moving at a clip, to be sure. But slow enough that he could catch it.

  Catch her.

  And it was her. He knew it without question.

  As though she’d summoned him to her.

  Triumph came, hot and rewarding, and he gave his team full rein, spurring them forward with a single goal—to close the distance. The woman wanted a race? He’d give it to her. And when he won . . . he’d claim his prize.

  One hundred yards became fifty, then twenty-five. He pulled away, putting distance between them on the road as he prepared to come alongside her. He made to shout—to announce his presence so she was not unsettled by his arrival, but before he could, she turned and looked over her shoulder, unsurprised.

  She’d known he was there.

  Her brows rose and she shouted, “Come to give me the race I was promised, have you?”

  Pleasure thrummed through him at the words, at the taunt in them. The challenge. “I could have given it earlier if you hadn’t snuck off!”

  She flashed him a grin, lighter than any he’d seen from her before. Fresh and honest and beautiful enough to set his heart pounding. “I couldn’t bear wake you, Duke . . . you looked so comfortable!”

  He turned back to the road at the words, checking the path of the horses as he hid his own smile and shouted, “Tonight, I intend to win the available bed!”

  She tossed him a look. “A real race, then! To the next inn!”

  His gaze slid over her, the gleam in her eyes visible even behind her spectacles, the pink in her cheeks, her wide smile like a gift. Her gloved hands gripping taut reins, she wore a coat, but the wind from the ride had blown the skirt of it wide over her driving dress, a rich green the color of spring, fabric molded to her torso and legs.

  It occurred to him that he’d race her wherever she wished to go. Ignoring the thought, he called out to his team, urging them to go faster. Eager to win . . . not just for the prize, or the ability to boast of it, but to show her he could.

  To win the race . . . and her admiration.

  She was not going to give it to him easily. Good; he wanted the game. When was the last time he’d had one? Had he ever had one?

  She came forward on the box, leaned into the reins, her coat billowing out behind her, skirts molding to her strong thighs. He was nearly even with her now, unable to stop himself from checking on her in a constant back and forth—the road, her carriage, the road again.

  Ahead, a tree leaned into their path, a leafy branch particularly low on Adelaide’s side. They both saw it, and he shouted at her to watch herself.

  He didn’t need to. She sat back on the block, leaning over to duck, easily clearing it, and came up smiling, smooth as a Roman charioteer. She adjusted her eyeglasses and flashed him a smile, her arrogant pride clear and absolutely perfect.

  He could watch this woman race carriages forever.

  The thought had barely crossed his mind when a gust of wind blew across the road, cold and brisk and harsh enough to lift the hat from her head. She reached for it with an “Oh!” but it was already gone, whipped off into the brush at the side of the road, chased by her laugh, rich and beautiful.

  For a heartbeat, instinct took over, and he made to slow his horses—to stop and fetch it. To return it to her like a prize at a tourney. He meant to stop. Meant to be a gentleman.

  Except the hat wasn’t all the wind claimed.

  Her hair had come loose, a wild cloud of silk and fire.

  And he forgot everything, because he could not look away from it, finally free, billowing around her in a gravity-defying squall, long and lush and vibrant and so much more beautiful than he’d imagined.

  This woman, whom he’d noticed from the moment they met, was now impossible to ignore.

  Which was why he missed the dip in the road.

  “Clayborn!” she shouted, looking to him, concern behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. “The road!”

  It was too late. He hit the uneven patch—sunken from weather and wear—before he could do anything to stop it, even as he reacted, fast and capable, pulling hard on the reins, coming to his feet on the block, he knew it was too little and too late. The carriage tilted, the shift punctuated with a mighty crack. A stutter in the already wildly bouncing ride. And then the tilt went farther, more dangerous. He didn’t have a choice.

  Confirming Adelaide’s carriage was not in the path of whatever was to happen to his own, he released the reins and jumped.

  Following the momentum of the leap, he tucked and rolled and tried his damnedest not to break anything, but when he came to a stop in a ditch on the side of the fast-darkening road, the breath knocked from his lungs, he was fairly certain he was not in one piece.

  Nevertheless, the groan of metal, punctuated by the crash of wood and glass and the wild sounds of two rightfully terrified horses trying to drag an overturned carriage had him rolling immediately to his feet, testing legs and arms and finding himself luckier than he deserved.

  Somehow, however, there was little joy in the revelation. His carriage was wrecked, his horses panicked, and his body bruised.

  Not to mention his pride.

  “Clayborn!” He winced at the words when Adelaide appeared, having stopped her own carriage to check on him. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Approaching the wreck, he waved her back, not wanting to face her as he moved to calm the horses, unhitching the animals as quickly as possible and discovering, miraculously, that they were unharmed.

  “You’re not fine!” she said. “You could have been killed.”

  “I wasn’t, though,” he said, working for calm as he led the horses to a nearby tree before returning to crouch by the carriage and consider the tangled mess of the vehicle, turned on its side, halfway in a ditch on the side of the road.

  “When you jumped—” she went on, coming to stand near him, unaware of the way his jaw tightened at her words. Of the hot embarrassment that flooded him. “God, I thought you were—” She cut herself off, something caught in her throat.