closed behind him before she could recover enough to return his good-night.
Chapter Four
I T WAS TWO HOURS LATER when the earl of Harcourt set down his tankard of rum punch in the taproom and made his way back up the narrow staircase to the chamber above the washhouse. His carrying candle threw his greatly elongated shadow ahead of him on the half-timbered plastered walls. He stepped carefully over the stack of dirty supper dishes neatly piled outside the door. Miranda apparently had some inclination for housekeeping.
He lifted the latch and entered the chamber. It was dimly lit by the moon shining through the small unglazed window. He set down his candle and gazed around, his eyes somewhat unfocused. The landlord’s rum punch had been potent and the company in the taproom surprisingly convivial.
He blinked, frowning. The room appeared to be empty. Then his eye fell on the bed and a very small mound beneath the covers on the far side.
He picked up the candle again and approached the bed. The soft yellow light illuminated a slender white arm curved on the pillows, a pale turned shoulder, and two very bright eyes as the monkey, curled in the crook of Miranda’s neck, regarded the earl somewhat balefully.
Gareth stood looking down at Miranda and debated. She was naked, but that was only to be expected. No one slept in their clothes. He should have thoughtabout where she was to sleep but it hadn’t occurred to him. He glanced around the chamber. Apart from the floor and the narrow window seat, the bed was the only option.
It seemed his intention to have a bed to himself, a privilege for which he’d paid handsomely, was to be thwarted, he thought ruefully. Reaching over, he eased the pillow out from under her head.
Miranda was lost in the depths of a pleasant if ill-defined dream. Feather beds were a rare luxury in her life and the warmth and softness of this one had lulled her to sleep within minutes of clambering into it. But she was a light sleeper and her eyes flew open the minute Gareth leaned over her. Disoriented, she blinked in the yellow light of a candle held close above her, for a moment unable to place the face gazing down at her.
Then she remembered. She flung an arm over her eyes to shield them from the light. “Is something the matter, milord?”
“Only that I hadn’t expected to find you in my bed,” he replied, shaking out the pillow he’d removed from behind her head.
Miranda sat up, the covers falling to her waist, revealing a pair of small but perfectly formed breasts and an amazingly narrow rib cage. “There didn’t seem anywhere else and I don’t take up much room. Everyone I share a bed with says I sleep very still. I won’t disturb you.”
Gareth was not so sure about that. Naked women in his bed were inclined to disturb him.
“I’m sure you’re a very considerate bed partner,” he said, leaning over and thrusting the pillow beneath the quilt down the middle of the bed. “However, since Imay be a somewhat less tidy sleeper than you, we’ll create a little separation.”
“Let me help.” Miranda threw off the bedcovers, slid to her feet, and busily set about positioning the pillow, fluffing up the bolster, and straightening the sheet.
Gareth stepped away from the bed, aware that his heart was thudding. She was perfectly formed. A perfect miniature of a woman with dainty breasts, a tiny waist, and the merest hint of a curve to her hips. She carried not an ounce of spare flesh, but the muscles moved smoothly beneath the taut skin, reminding him of some superbly and purposefully constructed machine. She turned her narrow feet out like a dancer, and her belly was so flat it seemed to cleave to her backbone.
If asked for his ideal of womanhood Gareth would have produced a description of Charlotte: tall, deep-bosomed, well-hipped. A lush, sensual creature with rippling golden hair and a full red mouth and eyes that drew a man down and down into the seductive maelstrom of her
Chapter Four
I T WAS TWO HOURS LATER when the earl of Harcourt set down his tankard of rum punch in the taproom and made his way back up the narrow staircase to the chamber above the washhouse. His carrying candle threw his greatly elongated shadow ahead of him on the half-timbered plastered walls. He stepped carefully over the stack of dirty supper dishes neatly piled outside the door. Miranda apparently had some inclination for housekeeping.
He lifted the latch and entered the chamber. It was dimly lit by the moon shining through the small unglazed window. He set down his candle and gazed around, his eyes somewhat unfocused. The landlord’s rum punch had been potent and the company in the taproom surprisingly convivial.
He blinked, frowning. The room appeared to be empty. Then his eye fell on the bed and a very small mound beneath the covers on the far side.
He picked up the candle again and approached the bed. The soft yellow light illuminated a slender white arm curved on the pillows, a pale turned shoulder, and two very bright eyes as the monkey, curled in the crook of Miranda’s neck, regarded the earl somewhat balefully.
Gareth stood looking down at Miranda and debated. She was naked, but that was only to be expected. No one slept in their clothes. He should have thoughtabout where she was to sleep but it hadn’t occurred to him. He glanced around the chamber. Apart from the floor and the narrow window seat, the bed was the only option.
It seemed his intention to have a bed to himself, a privilege for which he’d paid handsomely, was to be thwarted, he thought ruefully. Reaching over, he eased the pillow out from under her head.
Miranda was lost in the depths of a pleasant if ill-defined dream. Feather beds were a rare luxury in her life and the warmth and softness of this one had lulled her to sleep within minutes of clambering into it. But she was a light sleeper and her eyes flew open the minute Gareth leaned over her. Disoriented, she blinked in the yellow light of a candle held close above her, for a moment unable to place the face gazing down at her.
Then she remembered. She flung an arm over her eyes to shield them from the light. “Is something the matter, milord?”
“Only that I hadn’t expected to find you in my bed,” he replied, shaking out the pillow he’d removed from behind her head.
Miranda sat up, the covers falling to her waist, revealing a pair of small but perfectly formed breasts and an amazingly narrow rib cage. “There didn’t seem anywhere else and I don’t take up much room. Everyone I share a bed with says I sleep very still. I won’t disturb you.”
Gareth was not so sure about that. Naked women in his bed were inclined to disturb him.
“I’m sure you’re a very considerate bed partner,” he said, leaning over and thrusting the pillow beneath the quilt down the middle of the bed. “However, since Imay be a somewhat less tidy sleeper than you, we’ll create a little separation.”
“Let me help.” Miranda threw off the bedcovers, slid to her feet, and busily set about positioning the pillow, fluffing up the bolster, and straightening the sheet.
Gareth stepped away from the bed, aware that his heart was thudding. She was perfectly formed. A perfect miniature of a woman with dainty breasts, a tiny waist, and the merest hint of a curve to her hips. She carried not an ounce of spare flesh, but the muscles moved smoothly beneath the taut skin, reminding him of some superbly and purposefully constructed machine. She turned her narrow feet out like a dancer, and her belly was so flat it seemed to cleave to her backbone.
If asked for his ideal of womanhood Gareth would have produced a description of Charlotte: tall, deep-bosomed, well-hipped. A lush, sensual creature with rippling golden hair and a full red mouth and eyes that drew a man down and down into the seductive maelstrom of her
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