Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

“Damnation!” Alec bit back another oath. “Stop plaguing me with your ridiculous questions.”

“It’s not my questions you need to answer,” she replied stiffly. “But rather your own.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said through gritted teeth.

Isobel looked away with a sniff. “I would hope that my big brother is wise enough to figure it out on his own.”

Damn, Damn, Damn. The crunch of gravel echoed his testy mood. They walked the rest of the way to the meeting place without speaking, Isobel wrapped in a fugue of injured pique, while he…

He wasn’t quite sure how to order his emotions.

Having his innermost private wounds probed was horribly painful. Though old, they were still raw and unhealed, and even the gentlest touch hurt more than he cared to admit. But the first searing stab had quickly died down to a dull ache. Isobel meant well, and a part of him knew she was quite right. He should face the past.

But at heart, he was a coward.

Hiding deep within himself was far easier than facing the chance of being hurt again.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be,” murmured Isobel. “I have no right to intrude, but I only do so because I wish to see you happy, Alec.”

“That may be beyond the power of any mortal man to make happen.” Or woman.

“You don’t know that until you try.”

He didn’t argue. Youth was a time for fairy-tale dreams. The odds were that she would be disillusioned soon enough.

“Only look at Caro. She has the courage to pursue what she wants.”

Alec jerked his head around, hoping his cheeks weren’t as scarlet as they felt.

“She wishes to write poetry,” went on Isobel, “and she isn’t daunted by the challenges.”

His shoulders relaxed. “I wish her well in achieving her goals. But it won’t be easy.”

“Things that are worth having rarely are.”

A reluctant smile softened his scowl. “How did my baby sister become so sage?”

She answered with a smug grin. “By listening to my oh-so-wise older brother.”

“It seems I am skewered with my own petard,” quipped Alec. Spotting Caro and Andover waiting with the hampers, he added, “Thank God our friends are up ahead. Let us cry pax, if you don’t mind. I’ve been cut up enough for one afternoon.”

“Very well. But please think on what I said.”

Too restless to sleep, Caro threw back the bedcovers and, after tugging on her wrapper, went to stand by the window. Mist floated over the garden, ghostly swirls of vapor silvered by the pale moonlight. Somewhere in the bushes a lone nightingale sang a plaintive song. There was, perhaps, a poem hidden somewhere within the magic of the midnight hour.

But her musings—those maddeningly rebellious little meanderings of the mind—weren’t focused on the beauties of Nature. Instead they insisted on wrapping themselves around a tall, broad-shouldered Scot with a scowl that would put Satan to the blush.

The thought of “Satan” naturally stirred the thought of “sin.”

Ye gods, had she really thrown herself at Alec and done everything in her power to kiss him—and herself—witless?

A sigh fogged the windowpane, which was just as well, for surely if the glass were clear she would see the word “Jezebel” lettered in scarlet script across her forehead.

In indelible ink.

Though to be fair, Alec had actively participated in the embrace. Quite enthusiastically.