Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

Alec managed to slide under the bedcovers just as the main door to the suite banged open.

Darkness.

Caro clasped her knees to her chest and choked back a burble of panic. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably, and every inch of her skin was suddenly clammy with sweat.

Steady, steady, she told herself. Surely it was time to put childish terrors behind her.

She had been six years old, a precocious child, stubborn enough to disobey her nanny and sneak away to follow her older sisters into the caves around their campsite in Crete. It had seemed a great lark until a rock had shifted, trapping her in the confines of the cold stone and utter darkness.

Hour upon hour had passed before her father was able to find her, and even though she had been unharmed, the memory of the ordeal still stirred the occasional nightmare.

“Coward,” she whispered. “How can I hope to be a real adventurer if I am afraid of the dark?”

The only sound that rose in answer was the ragged rasp of her own breathing.

“Strathcona must think me an idiot.” Caro said it aloud, thinking perhaps the words would spark a show of spirit. But they seemed to have the opposite effect.

All the fight seemed leak out of her in a stifled sob. No matter how hard she tried, she seemed to make a mull of every attempt to win his regard.

I am too headstrong. Too outspoken. Too passionate.

His last exasperated snaps seemed to take on a louder echo in her ears. Your name will be blacker… Clearly he thought her an impossible hellion—and with good reason.

Ye gods, she had stood staring in shameless interest at his naked muscles, his naked manhood.

Wicked. Of course that had been wicked. So it served her right to be buried in a black hole.

Tears beaded on her lashes as she curled herself like a hedgehog into a tight little ball on the dusty blanket and tried to will herself into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

“Who the devil is making such a racket out there?” bellowed Alec from over the folds of the coverlet. “There had better be a damnably good reason for rousing me from sleep. I have a cursedly sore head from last night and am in no mood for levity.”

“Lord Strathcona?” The magistrate was no longer sounding quite so sure of himself.

“Who else do you expect to find sleeping in my bed—the Marquess of Carabas?”

Silence.

Clearly the man had not read Perrault’s famous fairy tales.

“Er, might I have a word with you, Lord Strathcona?” the magistrate finally asked.

“Come in if you must. I’m in no shape to rise.” Alec raised his head from the pillow and scowled at the magistrate as he entered.

Seeing his expression, the two men accompanying the fellow remained lingering in the doorway.

“I beg your pardon, milord, but a very serious charge has been lodged against you,” intoned the magistrate. “And I have no choice but to investigate the matter.”

Narrowing his eyes, Alec demanded, “What is the accusation?”

“Theft, milord.” The fellow shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Of an exceedingly valuable antiquity.”

He responded with an oath in Gaelic that needed no translation.

“Er, I understand your ire, sir. Nevertheless, I must ask that we be allowed to search your quarters. The information we received included a specific description of where we might find the object.”

Alec made a show of massaging his temples. “And where, pray tell, might that be?”

“Your desk, milord.”