This Perfect Kiss by Melody Thomas Page B

stopped in front of her. “Take heart,” he said. “I have only lost one ship.”
    â€œTruly!” She glared. “I can think of at least two more pleasant ways to perish than having one’s mortal remains consumed by starfish, crabs, and sharks at the bottom of the sea.”
    His blue-gray eyes were no longer disconcertingly direct. “Indeed.”
    â€œAye. Being flattened on the cobbles by a beer wagon for one.”
    The corners of his mouth twitched, dispelling some of his sternness. “And the second?”
    â€œTucked in bed . . . alone, surrounded by a warm feather tick and a roaring fire sharing my last moments with a good book.”
    He laughed. A small sound, certainly nothing to celebrate, but for one moment, she imagined him as he had been all those years ago when he had kissed her at the masquerade.
    Not the man beneath the aristocratic façade that shaped him now and who was about as approachable as a growling dog. She had a feeling he hadn’t laughed in a long time.
    She found him watching her. “Which book?” he asked.
    The question, like his nearness, startled her because she had not expected to feel anything and he had not allowed her to prepare a response. Then it occurred to her that he was a master tactician adept at war games that crushed enemies even if done delicately and without bloodshed. She might not have been an enemy, but he could crush her all the same.
    â€œI would want to be reading Madam d’Aulony’s folktales,” she said. “Far more appealing than . . .” She scoured her memory for books she disliked and remembered shelves and shelves of such guilty tomes in his own library at Blackthorn Castle. “ . . . the Histoire et mémoires, a collection of French language commentary and criticism on Greek and Latin classics. Give me the classics without the critique.”
    â€œAnd here I thought my grandfather had the only book in existence. You speak French, do you?”
    â€œOui, monsieur le comte. I noticed you have many books locked behind glass and filigree. Do you perhaps have a key . . . that is, unless they are not meant to be read?”
    â€œThe key is in the desk next to the gunpowder for the pistol. I believe you know where the drawer is.”
    He eased past her, hesitated, then stopped. His shoulder brushed hers as he turned and looked down at her, his expression bathed in amber from the light beside the door. Raising her chin, she felt her heart slip into a thunderous rhythm she did not recognize.
    â€œRed Harry said you asked to see me?”
    Yesterday , but she did not point that out to him.
    â€œI merely wanted to thank you for the clothes.”
    Lord Carrick slipped the hood of the slicker back over his head. “The garments belonged to Bentwell’s daughter. You may thank him.”
    â€œWill the weather remain this wretched all the way to Scotland?”
    â€œI am hoping it will not.”
    â€œPerhaps you should take hot tea. The cold cannot be good for you.”
    â€œNor my crew. I am fine, Christel.”
    â€œMy lord . . .” She squeezed past him, out of the room and into the companionway, then waited for him to shut the door, noting he was suddenly wary. “Perhaps when the weather is less demanding we could talk more. I would like to ask you about Saundra if it is not too painful.”
    She had a hundred questions, all of which began with who he believed had sent her that letter, culminating with Anna’s statements about her mother. “I know very little of how she died.”
    The temperature in the companionway seemed to drop colder than the air outside. His pale eyes reflected the change. She was now aware that something terrible must have happened to Saundra.
    Something that would make Lord Carrick want to leave Blackthorn Castle forever.
    He moved to step around her, but she planted her feet against more than the