Held her breath . . .
And turned it in the lock.
Click.
The door swung inward, soundless on its well-oiled hinges.
She waited in the doorway for a moment, giving her eyes time to adjust. A banked fire glowed in the hearth, coaxing her forward. Clio made her way into the room, then took a stub of beeswax candle from the mantelpiece and crouched to light it with the coals. The single flame painted the room with a weak yellow glow.
She could see the room better now.
She could see him better now.
And good heavens. Wasn’t he magnificent.
The bed in this chamber was a large one, but the ranging sprawl of his limbs made it look like a child’s bed. All the coverlets had been cast aside. The pillows, too—save one. He slept on his back, draped by a single linen bedsheet. Beneath it, his body was a landscape of sculpted ridges and shadowed glens. With every breath, his chest rose and fell.
She watched, transfixed, until she realized she was breathing in time with him.
Clio left the candle on the mantelpiece and crept toward the side of his bed. She eased herself onto the edge of the mattress, stretching out her legs so that she lay on her side, propped up on one elbow.
With her free hand, she gingerly plucked the edge of the bedsheet and—after waiting one, two, three breaths to make certain he didn’t wake—began to tease the linen downward. She worked slowly, carefully . . . knowing the answer she sought would lie beneath.
He stirred in his sleep. Eyes still closed, he rolled onto his side, throwing an arm toward her.
His hand landed on her thigh.
Clio sucked in her breath. She held still, squeezing all her muscles tight. Her heart, however, wouldn’t be so easily reined in. It hammered in her chest, so loud she was certain the pounding would wake him.
Oh drat. Oh Lord.
She’d left her room feeling secure in the brilliance of this idea. Suddenly the idea wasn’t just an idea, but a reality—an immense, sleeping, sensual giant of a reality—and she wasn’t secure at all.
His hand was on her thigh.
And moving.
Even this afternoon, he hadn’t dared to touch her so boldly. His fingers stretched and flexed. His caresses widened to shameless, possessive circles of her hip.
Was it possible she’d entered his dream now?
If so, she couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing in there.
His fingers flexed, squeezing her backside. “Clio,” he groaned.
Something good, it would seem.
With a low moan, he snaked his arm around her waist, and a small contraction of his muscles drew her close. “Clio.”
“Yes, Rafe?”
Green eyes snapped open. “Clio?”
In a heartbeat, he was on the far side of the bed—as close as he could get to the edge of the mattress without falling off.
Considering the violence of his reaction, Clio tried not to feel affronted. Surely she would have noticed if her face had broken out in leprous sores since dinnertime.
No, that was the look of a man caught out in his lie. Which meant she had him right where she wanted him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” He clutched the bedsheet, holding it level with his neck.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I hope not.”
“I’m here to see the lavender nightshirt.”
Oh, his face. Clio wished she were better at sketching, so she might have preserved that astonished look forever.
“The lavender nightshirt,” she repeated. “The embroidered one you told us about tonight. You had better be wearing it under that bedsheet. Because I know your story about Piers was pure fabrication, from beginning to end.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” He pushed the bedsheet down to his waist. “See? No lavender nightshirt.”
No, no lavender nightshirt.