Mischief Read Free

well-muscled men. She lived in the country, after all. Most of her neighbors were farmers who worked in their own fields. Many of them had developed broad shoulders and strong legs. In addition, she was not entirely without experience when it came to the male of the species. First, there had been Philippe D’Artois, her dancing instructor. Philippe had been as graceful as a bird in flight. And then there had been Alastair Drake. Athletic and handsome, he had certainly not required any help from his tailor in order to do justice to his attire.
    But Colchester was as different from those men as night was from day. The strength that emanated from him had nothing to do with his sleekly muscled shoulders and thighs. It radiated from some inner core of inflexible steel. The force of his will was palpable.
    There was also a great stillness about him that belonged more properly to the shadows than to the daylight.It was the patient stillness of the predator. Imogen tried to imagine him as he must have looked on that fateful day when he finally mastered the labyrinth beneath the ruined city of Zamar and discovered the hidden library. She would have sold her soul to have been with him on that memorable occasion.
    Colchester turned his head at that moment and gave her an inquiring, slightly amused glance. It was as though he had read her thoughts. Imogen felt a wave of embarrassed warmth go through her. The teacup she was holding rattled on its saucer.
    The dark library was chilly, but Colchester had obligingly built a fire on the hearth. The room, which was crowded with a variety of bizarre sepulchral artifacts, would soon warm.
    Once she had been assured that Colchester was not a ghost or a vampire, Bess had recovered sufficiently to retreat to the deserted kitchens. There she had prepared a pot of tea and a cold collation. The simple meal consisted only of leftover salmon pie, some bread pudding, and a bit of ham, but Colchester seemed content with it.
    Imogen certainly hoped he was satisfied. The food had not come from the mansion’s empty cupboards. It had been packed in a hamper early that morning and brought along to sustain the women as they went about the business of cataloguing Selwyn Waterstone’s collection. Judging by the efficient manner in which Colchester was demolishing the repast, Imogen doubted that there would be much left over for Horatia, Bess, or herself.
    “I am, of course, delighted to make your acquaintance,” Matthias said.
    Imogen suddenly realized that his voice had an extremely odd effect on her senses. There was a dark, subtle power in it that threatened to envelop her. It made her think of mysterious seas and strange lands.
    “More tea, my lord?” Imogen asked quickly.
    “Thank you.” His long, elegant fingers brushed hers as he accepted the cup.
    A curious sensation began at the point where he had touched her. It traveled along Imogen’s hand, rendering her skin unaccountably warm. It was as though she sat too close to the fire. Imogen hastily set the pot down before she dropped it.
    “I am very sorry that there was no one here to greet you when you arrived last night, sir,” she said. “I sent the servants to their own homes for a few days while my aunt and I conduct the inventory.” She frowned as a thought struck her. “I was quite certain that I directed you to come to Waterstone Cottage, not Waterstone Manor.”
    “No doubt you did,” Matthias said softly. “But then, there were a great many instructions in your letter. I may have forgotten one or two along the way.”
    Horatia glared at Imogen. “Letter? What letter? Really, Imogen, I must have an explanation.”
    “I shall explain everything,” Imogen assured her aunt. She eyed Matthias warily. The cool mockery in his eyes was unmistakable. It cut her to the quick. “My lord, I fail to see anything amusing about the contents of my letter.”
    “I was not particularly amused by it last night,” Matthias admitted. “The hour