Dreams of Desire by Cheryl Holt Page A

sneaked in. He seemed to expect that she would stay and chat, but she wasn’t in the mood to spar.
    After their kiss on Bramwell’s ship, she’d studiously avoided him. She’d liked the intimate embrace much more than she should have—so much so, in fact, that she often caught herself daydreaming about it.
    She’d obsessed so frequently and in such detail that she wondered if Dubois’s potion hadn’t had a reverse effect, if it hadn’t caused her to grow infatuated rather than Penworth.
    “Why are you walking the halls?” he asked once his amusement had eased.
    “I . . . couldn’t sleep.”
    “Are the ghosts keeping you up?”
    She scoffed with false bravado, “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
    “Isn’t there?”
    “No.”
    “It’s a castle, Miss Lambert, with centuries of history. Ghosts abound. It’s what I love about the place. Just admit you’re terrified and be done with it.”
    “Well . . . now that you mention it . . . I might have witnessed a sight that was a bit . . . peculiar. It unnerved me.”
    “The initial encounter can be unsettling.”
    “I thought I heard groaning, too.”
    “Apparitions and groaning! On your first night! My goodness. You’re certainly receiving a warm welcome.”
    “I didn’t care for it.”
    “You’ll get used to it.”
    “I doubt it.”
    Her surly retort ignited another bout of hilarity, and as she stared at him, she couldn’t help noticing how mirth made him look younger, how it made him look handsome and charming and approachable.
    It occurred to her that she was viewing a side of him he rarely showed to others. If she’d been more brazen, she might have tarried, might have drawn him into a conversation and inquired about his mother’s surprising arrival.
    But it was late, they were alone, and he was imbibing. It was a recipe for disaster.
    She headed for the door. “I’d better get back to my room,” she said.
    “So soon? Aren’t you afraid the goblins might be waiting?”
    “I’ll survive.”
    “Won’t you feel safer by the fire?”
    She peered at him, at the fire, at the sofa. She glanced down at her nightgown and robe.
    “Actually, no.” She reached for the knob. “I’ll just be going.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Quick as lightning, he jumped up and spun the key in the lock. Then he laid it on top of the doorsill, where she couldn’t retrieve it unless she climbed on a chair.
    “Give me that key,” she fumed.
    “No.”
    “Give it to me!”
    “No,” he maddeningly repeated.
    “I can’t be in here with you.”
    “You already are.”
    He took a step toward her, and she took one back. He took another, and she did the same. They kept on, with him herding her across the floor as deftly as if they were waltzing at a fancy ball.
    There was a gleam in his eye she’d seen before, but it had strengthened to a worrisome degree. A few knocking ghosts didn’t seem quite so frightening. Not when she was confronted by a real-life knave who wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
    “Hold it right there, you bounder.” She extended her palm as if the paltry appendage could ward him off.
    “You must learn something about me, Miss Lambert.”
    “What is that?”
    “I never do as I’m told.”
    “Couldn’t you start? Just for me?”
    “What fun would that be?”
    He swooped in and scooped her off her feet. In an instant, she was on her back on the sofa. She’d intended to elude any advance, but he was on top of her so fast that she couldn’t. His entire body was stretched out the length of hers.
    For several delicious moments, she wallowed in the pleasure of feeling his weight pressing her down, but she swiftly recalled her moral underpinnings. She had to redirect his focus so she could distract him and race out.
    The key on the sill posed a problem, but she refused to ponder it. She would find a way to divert him and escape.
    “Why are you sitting in here drinking all by yourself?” she asked. “Is it a habit? Should I