His gaze was serious, and his hands tightened around her waist. The light played in his hair, revealing honey-colored strands mixed with the chestnut. For a mad moment, Fiona contemplated what it might feel like to slide his wavy locks between her fingers, and if they would feel as silky as they appeared. A dark shadow covered his cheeks and chin, and she pondered whether the texture would feel rough against her cheek, were he indeed to kiss her.
Cheers and clapping sounded in her ears, but they seemed as distant and irrelevant as the sound of owls hooting outside.
The world comprised of two things: Percival and her. And right now that world was changing as Percival's hand stroked her back and his lips moved toward her.
Her heart hammered.
She'd never been kissed before, not even as a debutante. Kisses were things girls with glossier hair and freckle-free complexions whispered about. They didn't apply to Fiona.
Except everything was changing, and warm lips pressed against her, sending a jolt of heat tumbling through every nerve, every inch, every part of her very soul.
For a brief, blissful second his tongue touched hers, and warmth cascaded through her.
And then he stepped away, and everything should have been normal, but she was sure it never could be again.
"I guess he's the kissing type," Mr. Potter muttered forlornly.
"Show us to the room," Percival told the barmaid.
Percival tilted his head at her, and his gaze assessed her. Her heartbeat seemed to compete with the sound of her steps pressing against the creaking floorboards as they followed the barmaid upstairs.
Goodness, if anyone found out. She would be ruined. Utterly ruined. Unmarried women weren't supposed to spend nights with any men, but spending the night with a man she'd just met would produce bafflement in addition to outrage.
And Percival and she had kissed, right there, before nearly two-dozen witnesses, as if she were one of the brightly dressed women who wore copious amounts of rouge and lacked sufficient material to cover their ample bosoms.
Except even those women hadn't been kissing anyone in public.
Fiona's legs trembled as the barmaid unlocked the door, and they positively shook when the barmaid descended the steps again, leaving Percival and her standing before the door.
"You can't stay here," she whispered.
"And have angry villagers after me again? After they've had more time to drink? Nonsense." He grabbed hold of her torch and brushed past her. His wooden leg clicked against the thick hardwood panes of the floor. He turned back to her. "Unless your plan is to tell them we're not married after all? And tell them you lied to all of them, forcing them into the cold for absolutely no reason?"
Her shoulders slumped.
"You're acting like some chit from the ton." Percival lit a tallow candle, and dim light flickered over his perfect features, twisted into a scowl because of her. "You have no morals. Don't pretend otherwise."
She stiffened.
"Enter," Percival growled.
Boisterous shouts came from downstairs, and the men broke into song. Fiona clenched her jaw and stepped into the room as if she were a brazen harlot.
Dim light flickered over worn furniture, and she started when the door slammed behind her.
"Hello, wife," Percival said, and Fiona knew she should be afraid.
She should not-absolutely should not-be thinking of the man's attractiveness. The idea was ridiculous. Though perhaps not so ridiculous, because there hadn't been a single occasion in her twenty-two years when she'd been alone with a man who wasn't her servant, not to speak of alone in a room intended for sleeping. And this man-dear Lord, this man was what dreams were made of.
A mattress sagged on a small frame, unembellished by even the most austere curtains. He settled into a chair. "I hope you can forgive my lack of gallantry."
"Of course! Take a seat," she chirped, her voice bright in an effort more to reassure herself than him. "I'm glad you were fine. You shouldn't have attempted to drive off like that. That mail coach wasn't going to make it to the next town. You don't know the region."
He raised his eyebrows, but that was fine. He might think her mad, but perhaps then they wouldn't discuss the kiss and perhaps she could forget the way his lips had felt against her own.
"Are you saying you saved me?"
She sucked in a deep breath of air, ignoring the dusty scent that pervaded the room. "It is good you survived."
"So you might steal from me?" His lips spread into something that resembled mirth. His eyes swept over hers. "I know nothing about you."
"I'm not a thief."
Percival rose and strode toward her in quick paces. The man's wooden leg might impede his balance, but it hadn't hampered the man's strength nor the length of his other leg. She was conscious of his size as his six feet, three inches of masculinity barreled toward her.
He strode toward her, narrowing the distance between them in quick efficient movements. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she struggled to remind herself that though the innkeeper had referred to him as her husband, he was not really one. He was nothing to her. And-Lord, from the look on his face, the man despised her.
"Don't come a step closer." The words felt ridiculous on her tongue. Telling him not to come closer was like telling the sun not to shine.
His eyebrows arched up. "You can't pretend to me that you have any virtue."
In the next moment Percival slammed the door and thrust her against it.
He stared into her eyes, and her legs trembled. Images of just what that might entail toppled into her head. He brushed a strand of hair under her ear, and he traced a finger over the line of her cheekbones.
His face neared hers, and his dark eyes, framed with heavy brows, bored into her. The scent of pine needles and cotton wafted over her, mingling with the faint fragrance of ale. The man's broad chest pushed against hers, and her skin prickled at the sudden contact. Her mouth dried, and the space between her legs dampened. She shut her eyes.
"Tell me who you are." His voice was firm and steady.
She inhaled sharply and fumbled for her knife. Her hands moved clumsily, but she managed to grip the hilt. "Please."
His hand swept over her mouth, and he forced her knife from her hand, sending it tumbling to the ground with a loud clatter.
She writhed against him until he loosened his grip. "Do you want me to scream?"
"I-"
"Should I alert all those men downstairs?" She frowned. "Or would you prefer to tie me up and make your escape? I think it would be easy to find you again."
Percival loosened his grip on her. "Forgive me if I'm not clear on the exact etiquette here. It's my first time being kidnapped."
Her heartbeat still raced, and she inhaled.
"You're a thief. And yet you act-" He halted, and a faint blush tinged his cheekbones.
"How do I act?" Her legs had that strange feeling again that they were not really standing on the ground. The world toppled and shifted as if she were floating on a boat, an infrequent experience for her that she took no pleasure in. A glance from him struck her with the power of a wave.
"Like someone I might like." He gave her a harsh laugh. "Forgive me. I just needed a reminder of your motivations."
He glanced at her hand, and her throat dried as she remembered the knife on the floor. She returned it hastily.
"I'm not a thief," she repeated, but she knew he didn't believe her.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated. "Fiona."
"We're on a first name basis?"
"That's all I knew about you."
He blinked and then averted his gaze. He settled down, his movements stiff yet determined.
"You're sleeping on the bed?" Her voice faltered and squeaked.
"I have no plan to sleep on the floor."
"But-"
He raised his eyebrows.
"I thought you would be a gentleman," she said, her voice softer.
He frowned. "There's a snowstorm outside and no fire inside. Now is not the time to be gallant."
She fixed her gaze on him.
The man was right, confound it. She didn't dare to speak of propriety to him. He'd just laugh.
He slid underneath the thick blankets.
It was no use protesting. They were spending the night together; everyone would assume it would be more. She slinked in after him, staying at the edge.
"By Zeus, you're trembling like a leaf." He chuckled.
"I-"
"You're not afraid I'm going to harm you?"
"Please d-don't."
He smirked. "I'm engaged to the prettiest woman in London. Practically, at least. You won't need to be in any fear."