“Why n—.” He paused. “Um, Meg?”
“Yes?”
“Why is she taking off her clothes?”
“It’s easier to climb that way,” she replied grimly.
“How do you—that is—she can’t mean to—Oh.”
The lady in question was down to her chemise and her stays and had already found her first handhold, determined to pull herself up along the uneven stone wall and the trellis and the thick ivy. She might even make it.
“She’s heading for my bedroom.” Dougal sounded bemused again.
Like hell.
Meg poked his arm. “She means to compromise you. You’re the treasure.”
“Don’t be daft.” He barked a laugh before he realized that she was serious.
“She’ll climb into your room in her underthings,” Meg explained. “And then make certain that she is discovered there. Loudly.”
“I take it I am meant to be asleep in my bed?”
“Yes.” She absolutely would not picture him sprawled in his bed. Naked.
Maybe a little bit.
“She might not be a treasure hunter, but she is definitely a fortune hunter.”
He looked towards the house, with the lady outlined by the moonlight, her white chemise all but glowing. He shifted awkwardly. “I suppose I should go stop her before she breaks her neck.”
“Or before I break it for her.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You are bloodthirsty.”
“You are not the first to say so,” she replied grimly. “You stay here, and I’ll go handle this.”
“I couldn’t…”
“Do you want to marry her?”
“No, thank you.”
She smiled briefly at his tone. “Then stay here. Don’t let her see you.”
“Why not call a footman to cart her away to the magistrate?”
“You are the magistrate.”
“I am?”
“More than likely.”
“Damn it.” He really was adorable. “The constable then.”
“You could. But it will raise the household, and they’ll wonder what we were doing alone out here. In the middle of the night.”
“Would that be so bad?” Dougal asked. But he asked it so softly she could pretend she hadn’t heard him, even as her heart did a funny little dance inside her birdcage. She’d paint it as a red bird, bursting out of a cage.