The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Violet wasn’t so certain. Daniel did carry a certain weight of authority she noticed aristocrats had in any country, the knowledge that lesser beings would get out of the way for them. It wasn’t an arrogance with Daniel—he just knew.

Daniel took a last sip of coffee and set down his cup. “Now then, the night is cold, the villagers go to bed with the sun, and I’m beat. Why don’t you get into the bed and cover up while I slip into my sleeping togs? I’m not modest, but you might be.”

The thought of Daniel peeling off his clothes while she lay in bed made Violet nearly swallow her tongue. He would be too near as he slid off his waistcoat and the shirt she’d earlier seen dampened with sweat against his well-honed arms. He’d bare all his skin, which would likely be as liquid tanned as his face and arms.

Violet masked her sharp intake of breath by fumbling her way out of the chair and clattering down her coffee cup. She kept the blanket around her until she reached the bed, then she tossed it on top before climbing the steps to the high bed. She found the covers warmed with wrapped bricks that had been slid to the bottom of the bed.

“Where will you sleep?” Violet asked Daniel. She settled under the quilts, trying not to look his way. “There isn’t a sofa, and the floor looks hard. There aren’t many covers up here to spare either.”

Daniel laughed. “I’m sleeping in that bed with you, lass. I’m exhausted, and the floor, as you say, is far too hard. I’m an aristocrat, remember? I like things soft.”

Chapter 12

Violet peered over the top of the covers in alarm. Daniel was just settling the nightshirt across his broad shoulders, the garment too small for him. It bared his forearms and the flowing tattoo, then fell to just above his knees. His legs were as tight and strong as the rest of him, his bare toes pressing the board floor.

“That bed’s big enough to float a battleship,” he said, not bothering to hide his near nudity. “We’d never find each other if we wanted to.”

He didn’t give her time to argue. Daniel climbed up the other side of the bed and slid under the covers while Violet stared at him, the quilt clutched to her chest.

Daniel laughed at her as he lay down. “Go to sleep, Vi. You’ll need your rest for tomorrow.”

He punched the pillow into shape, then flopped the covers over him, a man settling down for a winter’s nap. The rushlight on the other side of the room, which hadn’t emitted much glow in the first place, burned out with a sharp smell. The only light now was from the fire, which was licking at fragrant wood to warm the small room.

Violet lay down again, remaining on her side, facing him. Daniel reposed on his back, one arm behind his head, the other holding the covers to his chest. He closed his eyes, the lines of his face brushed with firelight.

She watched him awhile longer but he never moved. Confusing. Daniel had brought her here, posed as her husband, and insisted they share the bed, but now drifted to sleep as though they were trusted friends. Casual, comfortable, in the same way he shortened her name. No drama, no fear. Just Daniel’s warmth between Violet and the rest of the world.

She liked it. Violet had never felt safe and protected, not since she’d learned the truth of life.

Up here in their aerie, in this bed of cozy warmth, Daniel belonged to her. For a little while, Violet could pretend she was Daniel’s, that he loved and cherished her, that today was only a small part of a long life of happiness. Tomorrow, they would return to reality, but for tonight, he was hers, and she his.

A fine dream. One Violet would hold tightly to herself against the hour she’d have to let it go.

If Daniel got through the night with his sanity intact, it would be an astonishing thing. To have the most beautiful woman on earth in his bed, three feet away from him, and not touch her, was going to kill him.

The courtesans at the very expensive houses Daniel visited to keep his needs at bay would laugh if they knew he kept an arm’s length between himself and Violet. He’d set up the tale that they were man and wife not only to keep the villagers from treating Violet poorly, but also so that no one in this house would think it odd if they heard him easing his passion with her.

But when he’d seen her look at him worriedly over the covers, he remembered her profound terror when she’d struck out at him in the London house. Daniel had scared her senseless. Not for anything he’d done, he’d come to understand, but because Violet had been hurt by someone else. She’d reacted to Daniel because he’d put her in mind of that incident.

Daniel wished he knew what had happened, and who’d dared to frighten and touch her. He’d coax the story out of her when she was ready, and then Daniel would visit that gentleman and explain a few things.

For now he lay quietly next to Violet, scenting her, feeling her warmth, and did nothing. His c**k was so hard he could lift the covers with it. He wanted to squeeze himself and relieve the pressure, but he knew that if Violet woke to Daniel stroking himself off beside her, she’d be as terrified as she’d been in London, and likely even more disgusted. Plenty of weapons for her to use on him in this room.

Besides, he didn’t want to hurt her. He liked the way Violet had looked at him today, as though everything he did pleased her. He wanted to spin that out as long as he could.

She’d been amazing up in the balloon. Violet had been afraid, but also excited. He remembered how she’d screamed and then laughed when the balloon did something unexpected, how she’d called him the most bloody incorrigible madman she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. But she’d followed Daniel’s orders to the letter, no arguing, no falling in a weeping fit, no demands that Daniel take her to safety immediately. She was no wilting violet, his Violet.