“Done while you were snacking.”

He blushed to think that she’d observed him at his meal. “I didna see you.”

“You were not meant to.”

“Are all the stories about you true, Lady Villentia?”

She frowned. “All the ones that matter, I suppose. Why? Are you curious about anything in particular? Like most ladies, I dearly love to talk about myself.”

It was an opening, and she so rarely gave one that Gavin was almost at a loss what to do with it. He shifted closer to her, but not so close as to be a threat. It was more that he wished to know if she were warm flesh or made of ice. “They say you’ve a poison you spread on your lips. That to kiss you would be deadly.”

“What rot – how could I keep from poisoning myself?”

“I would take the risk, even if it were true.”

She moved in against him then, fast and unexpected. As though she knew he would not try first.

* * *

He was wearing a banyan.

A banyan, for goodness’ sake.

Even Preshea’s father, notorious for his old-fashioned ideals, had given over such antiquated nightwear.

I will not think of my father now.

Preshea supposed the good captain had not realized it, but the darn thing was slipping. Had been slipping all along – slowly opening down the front as they padded about the house together. And why did I invite him to join me? Because I want him to see me as deadly? Because I want him to know and be proud of all my abilities, not simply the tricks I show polite society? Or because I want to see if a glimpse of truth will frighten him away?

The banyan was open enough to show all his neck and throat, thick and strong. It exposed his jugular, so vulnerable, and his collarbone, so fragile, even on a man of his size. She could see a sprinkling of chest hair.

“Are you wearing anything under that quaint old robe of yours?” she questioned idly, crowding into his warmth.

“Nay, lass, but I’m thinking…” He trailed off, for she had touched his neck – a feathering of fingertips at the suprasternal notch. His Adam’s apple, just above, bobbed as he swallowed.

“You’re not cold?” Her voice stayed calm.

His caught a little. “Nay.”

Preshea liked that she could make him nervous. He stood there, so big, and yet entirely at her mercy. More than he realized, for there was a tiny blade up her right sleeve. She could snap it out easily, with a flick of the wrist. She didn’t, but it felt good knowing he was defenseless under her touch – innocent.

“Leannan sìth, I’m at your mercy,” he breathed.

How had he known? She almost jerked away, but now it had become a test of her mettle. She increased the pressure of her fingers. “What does it mean, leannan sìth?”

“Fair Folk. Pale from living underground – beautiful, lethal. Occasionally, they send forth a lass so bonnie, she inspires mortal men to greatness or despair. I’m thinking you’re one of them.”

“Are they powerful?” Preshea stroked a single nail along his neck, as if it were the path of a blade.

“Verra. They drive most men mad.”

Preshea felt a funny pang at that statement, but she kept the banter light. She moved her hand then and tried to bracket his neck with it, as if to strangle him. She couldn’t, of course; her hand was too small (with neither the strength nor the span). In fact, it was a less deadly place for her hand to rest, as she could no longer flick out her knife. But to him it would feel more threatening.

She knew because she felt him swallow again, under her palm.

“I shall try to keep you sane, Captain Ruthven.”

“Will you be kissing me now?” he wondered.

“Should you like it if I did?”

“Verra much.”

She stood on her tiptoes and braced one hand on his shoulder, the other on his wide chest.

He bent down. He had to; even on her toes she wasn’t tall enough. He waited, though, for her to begin. How did he know how much she needed that patience? How important it was for him not to be just another man who wanted to consume her?

She kissed him. Softly, mouth closed. He kept his closed, too, lips relaxed. He held himself still, as if she were a skittish wild creature who might dash back underground to her fairy kingdom. Ridiculous man.

She pulled back.

He did not grab. He did not mash his mouth to hers in an excess of passion.

It was glorious.

“Weel, then.” He breathed out the words. His eyes gleamed as he examined her face. She could see it even in the dark, but it was not avarice. It was bubbles of joy, as in a glass of champagne. He was pleased. He liked what she had done.

Preshea felt oddly proud. An academic achievement, like the first time she had mixed the perfect dose of arsenic. She wanted to give him something as a reward for his restraint, for surprising her.

“It’s my first kiss, you see? Don’t look so disbelieving. I know what you think – four husbands. I should say instead that it is my first kiss freely given. Thank you for not demanding more.”

He tilted his head.

She noticed then that his hands were on her back. Not fierce or rough, simply there, keeping her balanced. Comforting.

“I shall kiss you again now. To ensure I have the way of it.” Preshea suited her actions to words, reckless with surprise at herself.

He let her, of course.

But the of course was not because he wanted her, although there was little doubt of that. She felt it against her stomach as she rested flush against him. No, the of course was because she was beginning to get the impression he would let her do most anything she liked to him. Not because he was frightened of her, but because it was his nature.