Meet a Rogue at Midnight Read online

  Watching him dress was personal, yet Jonas donned his clothes with a casual air. A twinge sunk in her stomach: Had he grown comfortable dressing in the company of a woman?

  “You’ll want to take that home.” Jonas tipped his head at the wheel lock, his fingers flying over pearled waistcoat buttons.

  She retrieved the weapon and held it up by the barrel. “I brought it in case I ran into one of the Captain’s friends…a woman’s precaution if you will.” She tucked the pistol into the back waistband of her breeches. “I am sorry I pointed it at you and for stomping your foot. I was fright­ened.…every­thing went fast.”

  He slipped on a well-traveled boot. “You’re forgiven.”

  Between his smile and the room’s muted light, her legs refused to budge. She’d watched him shave and bathe tonight. The image of him barefoot and shirtless in travel-worn breeches as he dragged his razor across his jaw had burned into her mind.

  “My friendship is true as it ever was. If you need something…” Jonas’s half-hearted words trailed off.

  His obligatory offer wasn’t enough. A man chasing down his next adventure couldn’t help her. She needed someone to stay. Plumtree’s gossip claimed Jonas would be gone when Twelfth Night ended. The still packed sea chest confirmed the news.

  She unlatched the window panel, and Christmas Eve bathed her face with cold air. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “We’ve shared worse scrapes,” he said, donning a red velvet coat.

  She held on to the window frame and hooked a leg over the ledge. “Red velvet. Dashing attire for a pirate.”

  “Don’t climb out yet. Let me get outside to see you safely off.”

  He disappeared from the room. She took one last breath of his lingering scent, a spicy, foreign aroma that clung to his sheets, the air. Plumtree’s quiet lad, her childhood friend, was all grown up. From downstairs, male voices overlapped with hoots of laughter through the open door. It was time to go. She swung her other leg out the second-story window. Grabbing a branch bare of leaves, she planted both feet on a lower limb and scooted toward the trunk. The climb down was easy, a matter of descending the tree’s convenient symmetry. Her feet landed on the ground not far from the parlor’s back window where light glowed on new fallen snow. Fiddle music whined as Jonas jogged around the corner, his breath puffing tiny clouds.

  He made an imposing silhouette, his heavy black coat spanning colossal shoulders. “You were supposed to wait.”

  “Why?” She shook out the cloak she’d left on a shrub.

  “So I could catch you if you fell.” His voice caressed each word, half-amused and a touch sensual.

  Her hands stilled. Eyes the shade of lapis lazuli glinted with messages she shouldn’t be receiving. As a woman of twenty-four years, she was acquainted with lust. Was this shift in Jonas because he’d glimpsed her bosom tonight? He’d courted her sister, not her. Confusion swirled inside her—glee at being the object of his fancy and disappointment that her friend held the better part of himself back.

  Jonas was a man after a kiss. Nothing more.

  What else could she expect? He was leaving Plumtree after all.

  “I’d better go.” She spun around and whipped on her cloak.

  Behind her, boots crunched snow and pebbles. Light snow had fallen on Plumtree, sprinkling the world clean and white. She fastened the first frog when a firm hand touched her shoulder.

  “Let me help you put that on,” he murmured in her ear though his voice said let me take that off.

  Flesh pebbled across her bottom. His baritone strummed delicate nerve endings along her inner thighs. There was something solid and poetic in his voice, a combination that made no sense, yet with Jonas, it did. Eyes closed, she willed composure.

  “Livvy,” he whispered and her knees weakened.

  Was it possible a woman could sink in a sea of lust with a childhood friend? They’d spent summers together hunting tadpoles for goodness’ sake.

  Big hands grasped her shoulders and turned her around. She opened her eyes and he filled her vision. Moonlight limned ink black hair not long enough to be tied in a queue. Jonas had to have shaved his head and was growing it again. And his gold earring…it winked at her.

  Yes, they both had their secrets.

  Inside the house, fiddle music ebbed. Silence curled as mysterious as the crisp winter air. The Captain and his friends rumbled a new song without the fiddle, their solemn voices blending for the first time.

  “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…”

  Jonas cracked a smile. “At least they don’t sound like howling cats.”

  Their bodies shook with gentle laughter. She could lose herself in him, the comfort and the thrill. Jonas dipped his head, his vivid blue gaze taking her breath away. Infinite stillness lit the depths of his eyes. Her lips parted to announce she was leaving, but Jonas slipped both hands into her unbound hair, urging her close.

  Her breath hitched at large, warm hands cradling her head. Gentle heat melted her. Her thighs brushed his. She wanted Jonas…his touch, his friendship…whatever morsel of happiness he could share during his short stay in Plumtree.

  Her lashes drooped. The world was his spicy soap, big hands riffling her hair, and baritone whispers of, “You’ve grown up, Livvy…beautiful, lively…”

  Carnal lips rubbed hers, softly coaxing her mouth open.

  Tender, poignant messages poured through her limbs, saying you were made for his kisses.

  His mouth opened over hers…the lusty shock of it. She gripped his coat, fisting the wool. Her lips parted for Jonas, and the world was unsteady.

  Plumtree’s rebel son tasted of sharp cider and sweet, sensual promises. He teased her, his tongue skimming her lower lip before slipping into her mouth. Her body swayed into him. Their kiss deepened, and her tongue touched him back. Tremors rocked her from head to foot from the long, intimate kiss. Wet heat shot anew between her legs, but the strongest ache banged inside her heart.

  Kissing Jonas was a sampling of life as it was meant to be. Vibrant. Complete. Perfect.

  His mouth on hers was an invitation.

  And she was ready to say yes.

  Chapter Two

  “Rose petal jam sets the soul right.” The Captain passed off the basket to Mrs. Addington.

  The lank-limbed housekeeper hugged the basket brimming with shiny jars, her ancient stare severe under her mobcap. “You will not be putting this in my Christmas box, sir. Mind you, I enjoy Mrs. Halsey’s jams, but I prefer you send me off with a juicy roast goose tomorrow.”

  Jonas’s ears pricked at the mention of Livvy’s mother. He’d spent the last hour staring out the back-parlor window at the Halsey Tower in the distance. From time to time, a silhouette passed by the tower’s window, and smoke puffed from twin chimneys. In years past, Mr. Halsey would toil for hours in the stone turret, restoring artifacts. Roman pieces were his favorite. He’d written tomes about Rome’s rule over England, all from studying ancient relics he and other antiquarians had dug up from the earth.

  “Your request is duly noted, Mrs. Addington.” The Captain tapped his cane twice on the floor before settling into his leather wingback chair to face Mr. Goodspeak.

  The housekeeper shuffled off to the kitchen, leaving the men to their entertainments. The Captain and Mr. Goodspeak waged a battle over their chessboard, their fourth today. Mr. Meakin and Mr. Littlewood, both sat nose deep in broadsheets while Mr. Bristow snored on the rust-colored settee. The men, a mix of widowers and lifelong bachelors, had served with the Captain in the Royal Navy and were permanent fixtures in the brown and beige parlor.

  Jonas leaned a shoulder against the window frame, keeping an eye on the tower window. The structure was all that remained of a centuries old castle that once sat on Halsey land. The two-story Halsey tower reminded him of Mr. Bristow on the settee—round, squat, and slumping to one side.

  In the distance, two arms flung wide the tower windows and a head poked through
the opening. It was near twilight, but there was no mistaking the long copper braid dangling over the windowsill. Livvy. She checked the heavens before ducking out of sight and popping up again to toss a rope out the window.

  A rope?

  He squinted to be sure. Yes. A rope. The thing danced like a snake as Livvy fed it hand over hand out the window.

  What secrets did his midnight visitor hide in her tower?

  Jonas pushed off his post. “Captain, did you say Mrs. Halsey came to call?”

  “Goodness no. Her charwoman delivered the basket.” The Captain nudged his rook two spaces forward. “Mrs. Halsey rarely makes social calls these days. On account of Mr. Halsey.”

  “Mr. Halsey?”

  The Captain studied the board, his brows beetling. Mr. Goodspeak fiddled with the edge of his moustache, mulling his next move. The hearth crackled nicely and the room smelled of yesterday’s pine boughs and last night’s whiskey-imbued revelry. The Captain and his cronies had been slow to rise this morning, their bloodshot eyes and sluggish steps a sign of last night’s fun.

  “Sir?” Jonas prompted. “You were telling me about Mr. Halsey.”

  “Yes. Quite. All very hushed family business, I’m afraid. A matter of privacy and all that, but people talk.”

  “And what, pray tell, do people say?”

  The Captain’s age-scarred hand batted the air. “Some folderol about Mr. Halsey not being well in mind or body. It’s nonsense. I saw him out for a ramble with Mrs. Halsey last summer. He walked with a cane, but so do I. And I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “But not of sound mind,” Mr. Goodspeak said, chortling at his own jest. “My bishop takes your rook.”

  The Captain frowned at Mr. Goodspeak waggling the chess piece and plucked his pipe off the mantel. “As you can see,” he went on. “Light shines from his tower where he labors day and night alongside his daughter. The younger, unmarried one.”

  “Liv—” Jonas began before correcting himself. “You speak of Miss Olivia Halsey.”

  “The very same.” The Captain tapped ash remnants from his pipe into the hearth and began packing it with tobacco he kept in a box on the mantel. “Strange child. Always spouting facts about aqueducts and Roman generals as I recall.”

  “Methinks your boy is restless,” Mr. Goodspeak said. “Needs an afternoon at Plumtree’s public house with more lively companionship than the lot of us.”

  “Here, here.” Mr. Littlewood peered over the broadsheet, his bloodshot eyes owlish behind his spectacles. “Perhaps a pint and a pretty tavern maid would do.” Knees cracking, his enthusiastic bulk edged forward on his seat cushion. “I’ll accompany you, m’boy. Could do with a bit of conversation with a lively skirt.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Littlewood, but I’d rather stroll the countryside.”

  “A walk. In all that cold?” Mr. Littlewood’s jowls shook from his distaste. “If you must. As long as our stroll takes us to the Sheep’s Head—”

  “Alone, if you please. I wish to walk some of my old childhood haunts.” A hand behind his back, Jonas tipped his head in deference. “I wouldn’t want to bore you, sir, or drag you away from all this warmth and cheer.”

  The Captain swiveled around in his leather chair. “Don’t take long. We’ve much to discuss, you and I.”

  Jonas fisted his hand at the small of his back. How to let his grandfather down as gently as possible? He wasn’t staying. The old man needed to let that dream go.

  “I won’t be long, sir. A walk through the plum orchard and along the canal, perhaps.”

  The Captain chewed his pipe, squinting at the back window, wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Have a good stretch of the legs then.”

  Jonas left the parlor to don coat, hat, and gloves. Images of a dancing rope and copper braid played in his head. He exited Braithwaite cottage, the ramshackle barn bearing a sign: Braithwaite Furniture and Sons.

  Except there were no sons. Only grandsons…and errant ones at that.

  Fixing his collar, he beat a hasty path to his grandfather’s plum orchard. Cold air dried his nostrils, and dormant grass dusted with last night’s snow crunched under his boots. Years he’d trod this way with his brother, leading the village boys from one scrape after another.

  The Braithwaites were Plumtree’s upstarts from the beginning. The Captain, a gruff widower, had won his humble plot of land in a London card game against Mr. George Hastings. The deed in hand, Captain Braithwaite had announced that very night to fellow sailors he was giving up the sea, ready to take a turn as a furniture maker. It was the trade of the Captain’s father and his father’s father. But, claiming a piece of Hastings land upset Plumtree’s balance of nature. A medieval king had bestowed the land on the revered Hastings family, and the Captain was a salt-tongued interloper.

  Not long afterward, the old man installed his unwed daughter and her rough and tumble twin sons, Jacob and Jonas, in the Braithwaite cottage. Everyone knew the boys were born on the wrong side of the blanket.

  It was years before the dust settled on that scandal.

  Jonas pushed through the winter bare orchard, following smaller boot prints in the snow. Had to be Livvy’s. She’d taken this path after sneaking out of his bedchamber last night. Livvy Halsey was a puzzle, wearing breeches and wielding a pistol. He grinned.

  She’d stolen something. From him or his grandfather.

  What a fine welcome home that was. Only their long childhood friendship had stopped him from sounding an alarm.

  Pushing past the trees, he spied her family’s tower ahead. Halsey Manor rose behind the tower, a grand garden wedged like a chessboard between the two structures. He hopped over an icy creek, his coat hem flaring around his legs. The single jump renewed him as if he stepped back in time to the agreeable parts of his youth. Of racing horses in green fields. Swimming in the River Trent. And calling on the Halsey girls to fritter away an afternoon of mischief.

  He charged up the meadow’s rise, his lungs bursting with rare good feeling since returning home. Livvy leaned outside the tower window, her copper braid swaying as she huffed in her struggle with the rope. A hulking wooden chair swung merrily at the end.

  Cupping his mouth, he called out, “Need some help?”

  Livvy’s head snapped up. “Jonas? Is that you?”

  He jogged to clear the ground between them, cold air biting his cheeks. Red-nosed and determined, she wrestled with rope and furniture.

  He grabbed the chair and looked up. “Have a care, or you’re going to fall.”

  A pair of lovely breasts jostled against her bodice. “I’ve done this many times.”

  “Of course you have. Doesn’t every Englishwoman hang out windows and haul furniture up by rope?”

  She stifled a giggle. “Don’t be impertinent. You can see I’m in the middle of something.”

  Tufts of snow landed on his face. He made an effort to speak to her eyes, not her cleavage. “What are you doing in your tower? Spinning chairs into gold?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, I am.” She grinned at him. “You’re in high spirits.”

  “It is Christmas Day.”

  “So it is.” She focused on the chair and adjusted her grip on the rope. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your celebrations.”

  She was giving him the brush-off?

  He chuckled quietly against his collar. “I’m brimming with good cheer. So much that I thought I’d bring it here.”

  Face reddening, Livvy yanked the rope. He held the chair in place.

  Her smile stuck in a stubborn line. “I don’t have time to dally.”

  “Even with an old friend?”

  He’d seen the same determination on her face years ago. She’d answered a village boy’s dare and waded far into the River Trent. With her skirts waterlogged, the current had dragged her girlish frame underwater. Livvy had bobbled up and down, gasping for air. He’d dashed in after her and dragged her sputtering to the shore. Scrambling up the bank, she’d glared at hi
m through sopping wet hair, announcing she didn’t need a Braithwaite boy to save her.

  Nor did she need one now.

  Livvy’s breath blew decisive clouds in chill air. Was her resistance about what she hid in the tower? Or him?

  “Last night, you asked a boon of me when I caught you in my bedchamber. I gladly gave it. Now I ask a favor of you. Let me come in and—” he jiggled the chair “—I’ll haul this up for you.”

  Snow thickened around his boots. Gusts swirled the flakes as if nature itself conspired to get him inside Livvy’s tower.

  A little give in her shoulders, a slow sigh, and, “Very well. Door’s unlocked.”

  He trotted around the medieval tower, passing an empty hand cart by the door. Iron rivets covered the oak door painted black. He pushed past it and, ducking his head at the low ceiling, took the stone steps two at a time up the narrow, winding passage, a passage too tight for the chair’s odd geometry.

  Blazing light and the pungent aroma of vinegar hit him on the top floor. Four plank tables squared off the middle of the round room: each table was covered with mosaics, pottery shards, open books, jars, brushes, rags, and aged metal pieces. Three tall iron stands burned a dozen tallow candles. Two fires snapped a cheery welcome in the hearths. And one skirt-covered bottom fidgeted at the arched window.

  Livvy’s head bobbed up. “Hurry. My arms are getting tired.”

  He stepped gingerly around glossy mosaic pieces resting on canvas stretched across the floor. Settling beside her, he reached through the opening and placed his gloved hands above and below her chafed hands on the rope.

  Big brown eyes fixed on him. “Have you got it?”

  Livvy’s side was flush with his and, despite his heavy coat, awareness of his childhood friend struck. Their faces were inches apart with her chin grazing his shoulder. Snow crowned her head and the seriousness in her eyes touched him, eyes that had matured to a mildly exotic tilt above a slender, fragile nose. She was the rare redhead free of freckles. With her prettiness and unaffected candor, Livvy would be the toast of the Marriage Mart, a breath of fresh air for London’s open-minded gentlemen—if she was there.