She wrinkled her nose. “Continue.”
This time he did grin. It was boyish, appealing beyond measure. Damn it. “Not that you’ll have need of it, but next time, go low. Being shorter than your opponent gives you an advantage.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a lower center of gravity.”
“Show me.”
“As I’d prefer not to have my nose broken tonight, I’ll only say that if you smashed your head back into my face, it would hurt enormously. More, it would cause my eyes to water, my grip to loosen. At that moment, you go low. Wrap your hands around my knee and pull up with all your might. I would stumble, or outright fall, and then you could run.”
“After stomping on your throat.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ouch.”
“Precisely.” She sounded smug, especially for someone still trapped against the wall who had yet to move a single muscle. Embarrassing, really. Particularly when fear turned to an entirely different sort of heat. It sparked and hummed in her throat, in her fingertips, the back of her knees. She ought to feel anxiety, or at the very least mild consternation. She only felt excited, alive. Seen. “You haven’t let go.”
“No, I haven’t, have I?”
He didn’t seem inclined to. She smelled the bergamot of his soap, the night air still clinging to him, cool and green. There was an ivy leaf caught in the folds of his cravat. “You do have a thing about climbing through windows,” she said.
“We haven’t had an unchaperoned moment to ourselves in two days,” he grumbled. “Violin concertos notwithstanding. How else was I to see you?”
Pleasure followed the heat. He’d wanted to see her.
“We have much to discuss,” he added, releasing her abruptly.
Fool. Again.
She took the opportunity to get a hold of herself when he turned away to set the candlestick down. She was thinking about the breadth of his shoulder, the strength in his hands, the grey of his eyes and he was thinking about a traitor. Not only was he right to do so, but she was utterly idiotic in thinking someone like him might be interested in someone like her. A pretend betrothal was just that. Pretend. Honestly, she was embarrassing herself. And possibly all of womankind. She had a goal. And that goal was not kissing or being kissed by Conall Hunter, Earl of Northwyck.
“You’re pink,” he said, frowning lightly.
Botheration.
“I really am sorry to have frightened you. But you needn’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re safe. You won’t have to break anyone’s nose.” He paused, amused. “Not unless you want to.”
It would help immeasurably if he could stop being so charming. She could only repeat the truth to herself: he’s not for you.
“Thank you for the lesson,” she said, only sounding a tiny bit strangled. Why was it so hard to breathe? Where was the air? Why did he have to burn so bright? “I am a part of this too.”
“You shouldn’t be. Henry ought to be horse-whipped for putting you in danger.”
She narrowed her eyes, reminded that Conall had already contacted the British Museum behind her back. “He trusts me.”
“This isn’t a matter of trust.”
“It’s entirely a matter of trust,” she returned, nettled. “And anyway, as I am involved there is no sense in pretending otherwise.” He watched her steadily. She lifted her chin. “Regardless, I am more concerned for my grandmother.”
“She will be protected. There is a man at her door even now.”
“But won’t that be a little obvious?” she wondered. “Might the traitor not realize we are onto him if he notices burly footman at her beck and call?”
“You’re right.” Conall looked at her then and she wondered that her gown did not simply melt away. It was like he was touching her everywhere. “You are even more clever than I thought.”
She had to swallow. The appreciation in his gaze was tangible. She wanted to lean into it. “Thank you.”
“We’ll put it out that is feeling unwell, and you are merely being overly solicitous,” he said. He took her hand. “She will be well cared for, I promise.”