She exhaled, letting her patience stretch. And stretch. Until it expanded just enough to accommodate a teasing rake with a sieve-like memory. And stunningly well-defined shoulders.
“I’ll admit,” he said, “this is hardly the first time I’ve answered the door in the middle of night and found a woman waiting on the other side. But you’re certainly the least expected one yet.” He sent her lower half an assessing look. “And the most muddy.”
She ruefully surveyed her mud-caked boots and bedraggled hem. A midnight seductress she was not. “This isn’t that kind of visit.”
“Give me a moment to absorb the disappointment.”
“I’d rather give you a moment to dress.” Minerva crossed the round chamber of windowless stone and went straight for the hearth. She took her time tugging loose the velvet ties of her cloak, then draped it over the room’s only armchair.
Payne hadn’t wasted the entirety of his months here in Spindle Cove, it seemed. Someone had put a great deal of work into transforming this stone silo into a warm, almost comfortable home. The original stone hearth had been cleaned and restored to working order. In it blazed a fire large and fierce enough to do a Norman warrior proud. In addition to the upholstered armchair, the circular room contained a wooden table and stools. Simple, but well made.
No bed.
Strange. She swiveled her gaze. Didn’t an infamous rake need a bed?
Finally, she looked up. The answer hovered overhead. He’d fashioned a sort of sleeping loft, accessible by a ladder. Rich drapes concealed what she assumed to be his bed. Above that, the stone walls spiraled into black, cavernous nothingness.
Minerva decided she’d given him ample time to find a shirt and make himself presentable. She cleared her throat and slowly turned. “I’ve come to ask—”
He was still half naked.
He had not used the time to make himself presentable. He’d taken the chance to pour a drink. He stood in profile, making scrunched faces into a wineglass to assess its cleanliness.
“Wine?” he asked.
She shook her head. Thanks to his indecent display, a ferocious blush was already burning its way over her skin. Up her throat, over her cheeks, up to her hairline. She hardly needed to throw wine on the flames.
As he poured a glass for himself, she couldn’t help but stare at his leanly muscled torso, so helpfully limned by firelight. She’d been used to thinking him a devil, but he had the body of a god. A lesser one. His wasn’t the physique of a hulking, over-muscled Zeus or Poseidon, but rather a lean, athletic Apollo or Mercury. A body built not to bludgeon, but to hunt. Not to lumber, but to race. Not to overpower unsuspecting naiads where they bathed, but to . . .
Seduce.
He glanced up. She looked away.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said.
“You didn’t wake me.”
“Truly?” She frowned at him. “Then . . . for as long as it took you to answer the door, you might have put on some clothes.”
With a devilish grin, he indicated his trousers. “I did.”
Well. Now her cheeks all but caught fire. She dropped into the armchair, wishing she could disappear into its seams.
For God’s sake, Minerva, take hold of yourself. Diana’s future is at stake.
Setting the wine on the table, he moved to some wooden shelves that seemed to serve as his wardrobe. To the side, a row of hooks supported his outerwear. A red officer’s coat, for the local militia he led in the Earl of Rycliff’s absence. A few finely tailored, outrageously expensive-looking topcoats from Town. A greatcoat in charcoal-gray wool.
He passed over all these, grabbed a simple lawn shirt, and yanked it over his head. Once he’d thrust his arms through the sleeves, he held them out to either side for her appraisal. “Better?”
Not really. The gaping collar still displayed a wide view of his chest—only with a lascivious wink instead of a frank stare. If anything, he looked more indecent. Less of an untouchable, chiseled god and more of a raffish pirate king.
“Here.” He took the greatcoat from its hook and brought it to her. “It’s dry, at least.”
Once he’d settled the coat over her lap, he pressed the glass of wine into her hand. A signet ring flashed on his little finger, shooting gold through the glass’s stem.
“No arguments. You’re shivering so hard, I can hear your teeth chatter. The fire and coat help, but they can’t warm you inside.”
Minerva accepted the glass and took a careful sip. Her fingers did tremble, but not entirely from the cold.
He pulled up a stool, sat on it, and fixed her with an expectant look. “So.”
“So,” she echoed, stupidly.