8 LIFE IN THE FAST LANE—BARELY SPEAKING—THE PURSUERS ARE HOT—A CUNNING PLAN—CHARLOTTE IS CHANGED—INTO THE LIGHT—SLOW BURN—CHARLOTTE’S HEART DOES NOT STAY COOL—TWO HOUSES, BOTH ALIKE IN UNDIGNIFIED BEHAVIOR—DISASTER! As the pirate’s house flew toward Clacton-on-Sea, Alex and Charlotte had no conversation together. No intercourse (alas, in all definitions of the word) but what the commonest civility required. “Would you like a seat?” he asked. “Yes, please,” she replied. The armchair was restored to its normal position and Charlotte perched upon it, trying to balance between rest and making as little contact as possible with the stained surface. An uncomfortable silence passed, during which Alex steered the house and Charlotte amused herself with worry about what her mother would say when she did not arrive home by evening. She was at the point of imagining Mrs. Pettifer in most satisfying hysterics when Alex removed his coat and folded up the sleeves of his shirt. Charlotte found herself captivated by the sight, as she’d never before seen a man’s naked forearms and was surprised to discover them more interesting than thoughts of her mother. Dark hair shadowed the tanned skin; sleek muscles shifted with easy masculine power as he moved the wheel. Charlotte remembered that arm around her waist and imagined it there once again, but unclothed now as it gripped her firmly, hauling her toward what was not a closet but a bed . . . “Ahem! Ahem!” She cleared her throat with a vigor necessitated by—by—the effects of altitude, or—yes!—all the dust in the room. So terribly dusty! “Would you like some tea?” Alex asked. “Yes, please,” she replied. Bixby was summoned, tea and biscuits were provided, and they flew on in a silence that burned all the way through uncomfortable into excruciating. “Would you like me to kiss you when we get the chance?” Alex asked. “Try and I’ll slap you,” she replied. “Yes, please,” he said, and grinned sidelong at her. She looked away, nibbling a biscuit contemptuously. The silence began to steam. Charlotte, fanning herself with the tea saucer, realized Alex was watching her reflection in the window. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said. “Like what?” He turned, looked at her directly, his gaze so deep, so intense, it made her feel naked. “Like you want to eat me.” His lithe, sultry smile leaped. Her blood leaped in response. At that opportune moment, Bixby reappeared, tea towel and grenade in hand. “I beg your pardon, sir. There is a house following us.” “Who is it?” Alex asked, still holding Charlotte in that unblinking gaze. “Muriel Fairweather, judging from the yellow walls and pink curtains.” “No doubt she’s taking a chance that following us will lead her to Armitage. Ugh, they don’t call that woman Fox Terrier for nothing.” He turned finally, glancing out the window, allowing Charlotte to breathe again. “Actually, they call her Furious Fairweather,” Bixby said. “Also Foulweather, Frightfeather for some unknown reason, and Muriel the Mad. She has no canine nicknames.” Alex frowned slightly. “Are you sure?” Bixby’s silence was an eloquent response. “Well, in any case, I’ll bring her to heel.” He began unfurling his sleeves, and Charlotte put half a biscuit into her mouth to quell her disappointment. “I’ll just jump over and toss a smoke grenade down her chimney, then we can get on with hot pursuit.” “Here you are, sir,” Bixby said, and handed over the grenade as if this was something they did often. “But may I suggest a safer method of delivery?” “Safer?” Alex laughed. “Are we pirates or w—” He stopped, glancing at Charlotte. “Er . . .” “No, do go on,” she said, regarding him with calm interest. “I am keen to know what you intended to say. ‘Witches’ or ‘women’?” To her delight, he flushed. “Never mind,” he said grumpily. “Bixby, take the wheel. I’m going upstairs. The last time we tried to lob a grenade from the house, we missed, and nearly blew up a flock of sheep grazing below.” “Sir,” Bixby argued, “I know you are a vegetarian, but that does not mean you should throw yourself off the roof.” (Aficionados of the paleo diet may disagree.) “Thank you, Daniel.” Ignoring the butler’s expression of offended dignity, he began pulling on his coat. “I’ll be fine. Besides, we have no choice. It’s not like there’s a bicycle sitting around so Miss Pettifer can pedal over with the bomb.” Charlotte came at once to her feet. She drew breath— “No,” said the men in unison. “But you have not heard me yet,” she replied reasonably. “I will not allow Miss Fairweather to interfere with the plans to recover my amulet. In the absence of a bicycle, I can incantate across to the lady’s premises.” “No,” Alex reiterated. He put his hand on his sword pommel, as if that might in any way influence her. She looked at the hand, then up at his face, and blinked with absolute unconcern. In fact, so unconcerned was she, it practically served as a declaration of war. Alex took a deep breath to calm himself. “No. One misstep or gust of wind and you’d fall. Eight hundred feet. To a ground that I can assure you is even more unyielding than a witch’s opinion.” “I am not afraid of a little empty air.” “You really should be.” “Perhaps Miss Pettifer could levitate you instead, sir,” Bixby suggested. “She would not need to emerge from the hatch any farther than shoulder height, and with most of her situated on the ladder inside the attic, she would be quite safe.” “So we are agreed,” Charlotte declared. “No, we are not,” Alex said. “I shall require a change of garments if I am to climb a ladder.” “No.” “Shirt.” “No.” “Trousers.” “N—” He stopped, a speculative look darkening his eyes. “Well, perhaps it is a good idea, I suppose. So long as you stay on the ladder. Bixby, do we still have those clothes belonging to the young Viscount of Sheffield?” “I believe so, sir.” “Fetch them for Miss Pettifer. Shirt. Coat, if there is one. Trousers.” “I have my own coat,” Charlotte said. “I removed it when I entered your premises.” Alex stared at her unfocusedly. “Come along, miss,” Bixby said, gently placing his hand at her elbow. “Best not to mention removing clothes to the captain just now. Let us see what is available to outfit you more appropriately for shenanigans.”
Ten minutes later, Charlotte re-entered the cockpit. Alex glanced around and nearly choked on his own breath. She wore a white shirt that had been tucked into tight-fitting black trousers, and while her long coat protected him somewhat from the provoking sight of her hips, there was no reprieve from her thighs or her knee-high studded boots. He hastily turned away, wincing at the discomposure her revealed form caused in him. No doubt she would have smiled with triumphant irony had she been aware. “So,” he said, then had to pause to clear his throat. “Are you ready to come—I mean—oh God.” “You wish to pray before the endeavor?” Charlotte inquired. He laughed, rubbing his eye and temple, and smiled sardonically out the window. “No, but my priest had better set aside a whole afternoon soon to hear my confession.” “You’re Catholic?” She sounded surprised. “A Catholic pirate.” “I’m Irish. Being both Catholic and a pirate are almost obligatory.” Adjusting his own trousers, he turned, and focused determinedly on her face. This did not help much. She had tied her hair back at the nape of her neck, but one strand curved over her cheek, stirring him almost as much as the revelation of her legs. How could a woman look so artless and yet so sensual all at once? And how was a man expected to properly breathe in the same room as her? She’s a witch, he reminded himself. A witch with gorgeous lips, so lush beneath his . . . Witch. Enemy. Briefcase thief. And the way she can kick a man with those fierce boots . . . He clenched his jaw. This woman was no different from Deirdre Riordan—bees at her wrist, ruthless magic in her heart. And like Deirdre, she would hurt him, no question. Hell, she already had. He was going to have bruises on his leg where she’d kicked him, and that was nothing compared to the discomfort he currently endured in his crotch. “Oh yes,” she said, her voice like velvet against his gritty thoughts. “This is yours.” She brought something from her coat pocket, held it out. Alex extended a hand automatically and she dropped his ruby ring into it. He stared at the ring, feeling utterly blindsided. Kindness was the last thing he had expected from this woman—or anyone, ever. Something painful leaped in his heart. The ring was still warm from having lain between her breasts; slipping it on his thumb, he took a rather shaky breath. “Thank you,” he said, surprising himself with the words. “This is particularly precious to me.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t buy much for the orphans,” she said, but he thought he heard an apology beneath the words. Suddenly he needed the restraint of every moral fiber he possessed to stop himself from taking the wicked little witch in his arms and kissing her, feud be damned. But he saw the shadow in her eyes, and realized she probably felt vulnerable in the masculine clothes. And since he wasn’t the complete cad he was reputed to be, he gentled his smile. “Ready to go?” Charlotte looked down at herself. “Hm, let’s see. I have a besom full of weapons in my pocket; I found my gun, so that’s tucked into my studded, poisonous boots; I’m thoroughly trained in combat magic; and I moisturized this morning.” She withdrew her sunglasses from a coat pocket and put them on. “I’m ready.” Alex swallowed dryly. “Er, good. Bixby!” The butler appeared at once in the doorway. “Yes, sir?” “We’re going up. You have the helm.” “Very good, sir.” “Hmm. Get us alongside Fairweather’s house and keep us there until I give the all clear.” Turning to Charlotte, he grinned. “Tally ho!” She tipped the sunglasses up to frown at him. “Is that some kind of insult? I demand an—” Alex rolled his eyes and, stepping closer, clapped his hand over her mouth. She glared at him above his fingers, her own eyes a hot, flashing storm. Looking at them, he rather thought that was why he had done it. “It means Let’s go.” “Mphm,” she said. He laughed, releasing her. She jammed the sunglasses back down and marched furiously from the cockpit—then stopped, foot tapping against the floor, waiting for him to catch up and show her which way to go. Behind them, Bixby almost certainly did not snicker, although it sounded a great deal as if he did.
Charlotte followed the pirate up through dusty attic darkness into the wild light. Alex pushed open the hatch and hauled himself off the ladder to the roof; she emerged more carefully. With her feet several rungs into shadows and her face lifted to the sun, she thought how metaphorical a moment it was—and then she stopped thinking at all. The sky, so vast, filled her with its fierce, cool emptiness. The way Alex walked the ridgeline as if he were walking a parlor floor captivated her pulse. “Stay there,” he called over his shoulder. The wind whipped his words like a red flag. “I will,” she said, but knew it for a lie. Riding a bicycle up over buildings had been too uncertain a venture to enjoy at the time, but ever since, she’d felt heavy, slow, as if her body was meant for flying and she’d just never realized before. She steadied her hands on the rooftop and, climbing the last few ladder rungs, sat on the edge of the hatch. Her spirit flung out its arms and laughed. Her actual body, rigid with the posture drilled into her from earliest childhood, sat quietly and used its proper good sense to clutch the roof tiles. But Charlotte knew in her heart she was ruined. Just like that, between an attic and a rooftop: utterly ruined for genteel life. All her dreams of rural peace collapsed. To sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure was not the most perfect refreshment after all. To breathe the wild blue wind was so much better! No wonder pirates always seemed so satisfied—which Charlotte was learning meant something quite different from self-satisfied, the witch’s ground state of being. Everything in her longed to rise up and run after Captain O’Riley, who stood with his booted feet set apart on the ridgeline as he watched Miss Fairweather’s house grow nearer. He was so steady he might have been anchored there by magic. Charlotte found herself moving, drawn unthinking toward him, and scolded herself back into submission. Even when sitting on a pirate’s roof—or perhaps especially when—a lady must maintain her proper deportment. Gently the cottage veered until it was easing alongside Miss Fairweather’s garish townhouse. Alex swayed a little at the shift of angle. With his long black coat and black-sheathed sword, sunlight flashing on the silver dangling from his ear and the various knives strapped about his person, he looked casually dangerous. He did not say “Ahoy!” but he smiled it, a smile of crookedness and contentment. Clearly, staying alive was less interesting to him than all-out living. Charlotte realized he wasn’t going to wait for her to safely incantate him between rooftops. The moment the houses aligned, he was jumping. And if he fell— She shook her head at the thought. He must not fall. If only because she’d never convince his butler to fly on in pursuit of Lady Armitage. Besides, she was a seventh-generation witch and the Prophesized One who would next lead the Wicken League. She could easily keep him safe. He would not fall. Breathe, Charlotte. His coat billowed around him as he took the grenade from his pocket and tossed it up, caught it, restless. He glanced at her and winked. Her heart winked back. She began muttering. Magic awoke, sparking against words, sending trails of heat along her nerves. Charlotte frowned. Something felt wrong. Suddenly, Alex leaped. All the thoughts in her head seemed to go with him; blank, she incantated by habit alone. He landed with ease and began running up the roof toward its ridgeline as if he could outrace gravity. Would her magic reach across the distance to him? Worried, Charlotte removed her sunglasses to see more surely. She incantated in a louder voice. Wind shook through the sound, shook her awareness, making her realize she’d somehow got to her feet and was standing on the cottage roof, anchored only by magic. Her heart leaped like a pirate. She swayed, hands reaching out as if she could grasp hold of the wind to steady herself. Magic whipped inside her in a way it never had before, rowdy, messy . . . Exhilarating. She laughed. The sound shocked her. A witch ought not laugh when reciting the incantation. Magic was not fun. It shouldn’t delight, nor disturb, nor tug at instincts deep and secret inside her until she felt like dancing. Charlotte told herself sternly to get back onto the ladder where she could be safe and focus her thoughts on protecting Captain O’Riley. That was the sensible thing to do. And no one was more sensible than a witch. She nodded in agreement with herself. And began to walk toward the chimney at the far end of the roof. On the other house, Alex had reached its chimney and was dropping in the grenade. Charlotte watched him from the corner of her eye. Smoke erupted from the chimney and he turned to run back. In that moment, he saw her. He stopped, his body teetering on the narrow ridge. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. Charlotte put a finger against her lips to shush him as she continued to mutter the incantation. The ladies of the Wicken League would be aghast if they saw her. But those ladies were not present. And Elizabeth Bennet had nothing to say, since not even exploring the rooms of Pemberley equated to such a daring perambulation. Charlotte was alone and utterly bewildered by herself. She needed encouragement from a literary character who understood that walking the ridgeline was her only reasonable option. But if such a heroine could exist, she had not been written yet. Left to her own narrative devices, Charlotte inhaled sunlit wind and exhaled enchantment as she swayed on through the ancient, sea-washed, unburied dreaming of the incantation’s magic. “Goddamn idiot!” From the corner of her eye, she saw Alex running to leap back onto his own house. No doubt he intended to chastise her, but she did not care. After all, she was a grown woman, capable, intelligent, and mature. He was not the boss of her. She’d just reached the chimney when he caught up to her. She turned, a little unsteady, and he grasped her arms, pushing her back against the brick column as if that might save her from plummeting into the depths of a wayward enchantment. She stared up at him, half-drunk on magic and wanting to fly. Good heavens but he was gorgeous. Those black-lashed eyes reflecting the vast, bare sky . . . that mouth more alluring than anything she’d envisioned on Mr. Darcy . . . Suddenly Charlotte found herself wishing they’d let her read Madame Bovary. Alex drew a breath as if to chastise her. She smiled, daring him. And then he kissed her. And she discovered there was a magic beyond words. She had supposed he would take her in the way of a rogue, capturing her body and plundering her mouth and doing other things described with equally piratic metaphors until she was robbed of all good sense. But he was astonishingly gentle. His mouth lay soft on hers, tentative, wishing. His stubble was like a hundred tiny kisses against her skin. Every nerve in her body began to sing. An aria. From a grand opera. With magnificent costumes, an entire orchestra, and flowers tossed onto the stage. And yet, she wanted more—wanted something forceful, so she could be sure of what was happening, and how she must react. He would not give it to her. He brushed her lips with such a light touch that she almost sobbed with yearning. Lifting on her toes, she pressed against him, hands clutching in his windswept hair, trying to pull him into passion. This was not anything close to ladylike behavior, and Jane Austen would have ripped it out of her notebook and thrown it away, but Charlotte could not seem to help herself. The wind was to blame—or magic—or the pirate’s aggravating nature. He responded with a smile, and flicked her lips with his quick, devilish tongue. The fiend! This was outrageous! He was kissing her, and yet—not quite. He was coaxing a flame in her and then blowing it out, over and again, until the singing along her nerves reached such a pitch it would have shattered glass, had any been in the vicinity. He shifted back an inch, leaving her bereft, and an old, aching loneliness rushed into the space between them. Charlotte could not bear it. She moved toward him, and he allowed their lips to touch gently, desperately briefly, before shifting back again. His smile tipped like a hook. She wanted it to pierce her, wanted kisses and sighs and his bare hands on her skin, but no book had equipped her with the necessary conversation to request such things. And Alex just stared back in provoking silence, as if he knew perfectly well how she felt and was enjoying it. Charlotte realized then it was a game, like the briefcase had been. She considered reaching for the besom in her pocket so as to hold him at rapier point until he damned well ravished her. But if he wanted to play, she could play. She could be flirtatious. Books went that far, at least: Mr. Tilney had flirted with Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey, and she recollected the way of it perfectly well. She gave one smirk and began to turn her head as if she had lost all interest in this irrational kissing venture— Suddenly, Alex surrendered. Catching her face in his hands, he kissed her with a passion that utterly engulfed her senses. For one exciting moment she thought she might combust. Smoke swirled around them—granted, from the Fairweather chimney, but it was still conveniently metaphorical. Charlotte’s knees trembled, and she grasped at the pirate’s coat, arms, anything she could, to keep herself from tumbling. He pushed her back against the chimney again, his body pressing to hers, trapping her between a rock and a hard place. In that moment she discovered what an inadequate education statues had been. That which she felt through Alex’s trousers wasn’t so much a storm in a teacup as a teapot—a samovar, even—and the thunder was in her blood. The whole world thundered. And then shuddered. They pulled apart, their eyes glazed with passion, realizing a moment too late that something was wrong. The Fairweather house had collided with Alex’s cottage. It jerked away, then back again, brick smashing against stone with a screeching crash. “Hell!” Alex swore, wrapping his arms around Charlotte in futile protection. The cottage rocked violently, tipped to port, and before either could think of what to do they were thrown off the roof.