The barbed but oddly flirtatious conversation had calmed her immediate dread, but now fear surged anew. What in heaven’s name was she thinking, bandying words with this scoundrel? Almost as if she enjoyed herself, when if she despised anything in this world, it was a thief.
She caught her breath and began to struggle against him. “Let me go!”
His arms tightened like straps, controlling her with mortifying ease. Genevieve was a tall, strong girl, no frail lily, but the thief was taller and stronger. She’d never before had to measure her strength against a man’s. It rankled how easily he restrained her. “Hush, Miss Barrett. I give you my word I mean you no harm.”
“Then release me.” She was panting and her writhing had achieved nothing but the collapse of her never very secure coiffure.
“Not unless you put the gun down.”
She struggled to elbow him in the belly but the way he held her made it impossible. “Then I’ll be at your mercy,” she said breathlessly.
He gave a grunt of laughter. “There’s that to consider.”
His body was so close that his amusement vibrated through her. The sensation was uncomfortably intimate. A couple more of those blasted deft movements and she found herself without her weapon. He placed it out of reach on the desk.
“I’ll scream.”
“There’s nobody to hear you,” he said carelessly, and in that moment, she truly hated him.
“You’re despicable,” she hissed, trying and failing to free herself. Her heart galloped with fright and anger. With him, and with herself for being a stupid, weak female, victim to an overbearing male.
“Sticks and stones, dear lady.”
He drew her tighter into his body and took a sliding step backward. She was suddenly conscious not just of his size and strength—those had been obvious from the moment he caught her up against him—but also of his enveloping heat and the fact that he smelled pleasantly of something herbal. Fresh. Tangy.
This was clearly a ruffian who took the trouble to wash regularly.
He reversed another step and opened the library door with a rattle, holding her under one arm with humiliating ease. She wrenched against him and tried without success to sink her fingernails into his powerful forearm.
“No, you don’t,” he huffed, pressing her closer to his tall body.
“I’ll have your liver for this,” she hissed, even as his pleasant scent continued to alert her senses. What was that smell?
“You’ll have to catch me first,” he said, and she wished she didn’t notice how laughter warmed that deep, musical voice. Any angry response died in furious shock as he brushed his cheek softly against the wing of hair that covered the side of her face.
“Au revoir, Miss Barrett,” he whispered in her ear, his breath teasing nerves she didn’t know she possessed, then he shoved her hard away from him.
By the time she’d regained her footing, he’d slammed the door and locked it from the outside with the key he must have palmed when he fiddled with the latch.
“Don’t you dare ransack the house, you devil!” she shouted, rushing forward and pounding on the door. But the vicarage doors were of good solid English oak and hardly shook under her determined assault. “Don’t you dare!”
Panting, she stopped and pressed her ear to the door, desperate to work out what he was up to. She heard a distant slam as though someone left by the front door. Could her mere presence have daunted him into abandoning his plan to rob the vicarage? She couldn’t imagine why. He’d had the best of the conflict from the first.
Her hands closed into fists against the door as she recalled his barefaced cheek in holding her so… so improperly. “Improper” seemed too weak a word to describe the sensations he’d aroused when he’d captured her like a sheep ready for the shears. Like that sheep, she was about to be well and truly fleeced. She was in no position to stop the villain from taking what he wanted from the house. There was no hope of help until her father returned from the duke’s, and heaven knew when that would be. The Reverend Ezekiel Barrett adored hobnobbing with the quality. He’d be there until breakfast if Sedgemoor didn’t throw him out first.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes and she felt as jumpy as a cat on a stovetop. It was illogical, but she could feel the radiating heat of his body against hers. It was as if he still touched her. She wasn’t afraid anymore, at least not for her person. If the burglar had wanted to hurt her, he’d had plenty of opportunity. Her principal reaction now that fear and unwilling fascination ebbed was disgust at her behavior. She’d acted the complete ninnyhammer, the sort of jittery female she despised. She’d had a gun. She should have been able to force him out of the house. Blast him, even now she wouldn’t surrender so easily. She could climb out the way the knave had got in, using the old elm tree outside the window. Once she’d caught her breath, by heaven, she would.
The ominous silence extended. What was the blackguard up to? Would there be anything left by the time he was finished? She glanced over to the desk and thanked the Lord that the only genuinely valuable items in the house had escaped his notice. For a sneak thief, he wasn’t very observant, although he hadn’t struck her as a man deficient in intelligence. Or, she added with renewed outrage, impudence. Nevertheless, any professional would have immediately pocketed the gold objects scattered over the blotter, objects she’d been sketching for her article.
Something landed on the carpet near the open window. Curious, Genevieve grabbed the candle from the desk and lifted it high. Lying on the floor was the key to the door. She rushed to the window, but darkness and the elm’s thick foliage obstructed her view. In the distance someone started to whistle. A jaunty old tune. “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Appropriate for an absconding thief, she supposed. Not that he seemed in a panic to flee. Again, his confidence struck her as puzzling. The music gradually faded as the whistler wandered into the night.
With shaking hands, Genevieve scooped up the key and balanced it on her palm, her thoughts in turmoil. One completely unimportant fact threw every other consideration to the wind. She’d finally identified the smell that had tantalized her when he’d held her close.
Lemon verbena.