Sweet Treason (Entangled Ignite) Read Free Page A

soon forget either.
    She turned away from the door, heading back to the library with the spy still behind her. “Wine, did you say?”
    “If you have it.” He paused, and his voice lowered an octave. “And tell me your name, that I may know of whom I dream, and where to place my fondest hopes.”
    Remembering a line from her Shakespeare, she answered, “Rose. My name is Rose, sir.” Her hand clenched so tight that her mother’s forgotten brooch pressed its pattern into her palm. She placed it on the desk before stooping to reach into the back of the cupboard and bring forth a nearly empty bottle of brandy. “All I have is brandy.”
    “’Twill do,” he said, and she thought she detected a smile in that slow velvet voice.
    She heard the scrape of a tinder box, and a moment later, the light of a single candle, together with a renewed fire, infused the room with a warm glow. She continued to work the cork from the bottle, blinking to focus as she did.
    She heard him stirring behind her, then the ruffle of pages—her beloved sonnets, no doubt. “Shakespeare?” the spy inquired. “Who is the scholar here, Rose? Your father?”
    “The book is mine.” She poured the deep golden liquid into a glass. “I read, sir, but I do not indulge.”
    A softly amused laugh sent a shiver up her spine. “Indulge in what, miss?”
    She whirled to confront the impudent intruder and realized her mistake too late. She had surprised the spy in the act of untying the cord of his black hooded cloak.
    His hair, as dark as her own, was pulled back in a club and tied with a green velvet ribbon. His surprised eyes were the precise color of her chestnut mare, and his skin was unfashionably tan and healthy.
    Forgotten, the brandy bottle slipped from her nerveless fingers. Only the shatter of the glass broke her fascination. When she could think again, she turned away, a sinking feeling twisting her stomach.
    She heard him take several steps toward her before stopping close enough to feel the heat of his breath on her neck. “Too late, Rose,” he murmured. “The damage is done. You’ve seen me. No use to pretend otherwise.”
    She swallowed, trying to find her voice as she made a slow turn to face him again. He was not dressed in the pastels so popular at the moment, but in a gray coat and breeches, a white ruffled shirt, and a green waistcoat. His narrow hips fell into long, powerful legs that were encased in black riding boots, muddied to mid-calf. He was taller than she by a good ten inches, and the width of his shoulders seemed to block out the world.
    But his smile! Slightly lopsided, exposing two rows of white, even teeth and a boyish dimple in his left cheek, the effect of that smile on her pulse was devastating.
    And here, at her feet, lay an example of her idiocy—shards of broken glass and a puddle of brandy.
    “What a pity,” the spy said, following her gaze to the floor. “That looked to be good brandy. Is there more?”
    She nodded before she stooped to pick up the larger pieces of glass, put them on the desk, and roll up the braided rug that held the puddle and glass shards. She needed a moment to collect her wits.
    He placed her book on the desk beside her mother’s brooch and lifted the piece to inspect it. Emily held her breath and cursed herself for being so careless. Was he a thief as well as a spy? If she lost the brooch, too, she’d never be able to make the payment tomorrow. But he placed the brooch on top of the book and went to the cupboard to withdraw another bottle of brandy.
    “French!” he exclaimed when he saw the seal. “Excellent! I’ve worked up the very devil of a thirst on this interminable ride. Lucky for me you’ve been hoarding.” He rubbed the layer of dust off the neck of the bottle and worked the cork free. That done, he took a long drink straight from the bottle. “Is your mother sleeping?”
    “My mother is…in Scotland.” That much, at least, was the truth.
    “Then we are