Her arm snaked around his neck, her cool fingers slipping into his hair to toy with it. Had he the ability to purr, he would.

“That isn’t love,” she said.

“No?”

“No.”

He nuzzled closer, brushing his mouth against hers. “Kiss me again.”

“We are in public.” But she sipped at his upper lip as though she liked the taste of it.

Winston chuckled and reluctantly stepped back a pace. His gaze landed again on the storefront window beside them, and he looked back at a wonderfully flushed and mussed Poppy. “Do you realize you take us past this empty shop with every walk we take?”

Her cheeks darkened more. “Do I?” She moved to go, but he blocked her way with his shoulder.

“Yes.” He nudged her chin with his knuckle. “And you won’t get me to believe it’s by chance, either. Confess, Boadicea. Why this shop?”

Standing straight and smoothing her hair back into place, she attempted to look past him, her sweet lips pressed into an annoyed line. But then a noise of defeat sounded in her throat, and she glanced at the shop before meeting his eyes. “I want to let it.”

When his brows rose in surprise, she pushed on. “It is a bookshop. Or was.” Her nose wrinkled as she made herself speak. “I would like to see it reopened. I-I have always wanted… It is a silly dream, I know.”

Her words cut into him. He hadn’t expected her to have dreams. Why? Why hadn’t he thought of her wants? It shamed him that he’d been so oblivious. Putting a staying hand around her waist when she squirmed to get away, he looked over her shoulder and studied the shop. “Have you any experience in running a bookshop?”

Poppy’s expression closed. Tension tightened the muscles along her back. But she did not drop her gaze from his. “No.”

He looked into her dark eyes, his hand firm upon her. “Then you shall learn.”

She flinched. “What?”

He smiled then, tucking a stray lock of fire-bright hair behind her ear. “We have need of funds and a place to live. There is a flat attached to the shop, I see. You want this shop. So you will have it.”

Her breath left in a gust. “Win… How can you…” She drew herself up. “What if I fail?”

Slowly he shook his head. “My love, I have no doubt that if running a bookstore is what you want to do, then you will do it. And do it well. You are too strong-willed to fail at anything.”

She gaped at him, and he cupped her cheek. “I believe in you, Pop. I always will.”

A startled cry broke from her before she flung herself at him, the force of it making him stumble back a pace. Laughing, he caught her up and held her tight. Then she was kissing him, tender yet fierce. And all was right in his world.

“I love you. I love you so much, Win.” It was the first time she’d ever said the words.

Chapter Thirty-two

Usually the SOS library brought Poppy a good measure of peace. A cavernous space, two stories high and the length of two city blocks. Rows and rows of golden wood shelves flanked the walls and ran down the sides like soldiers in formation. The second story was open to the first and mirrored it with perfect symmetry, cresting with a Moorish arch ceiling, tiled in golden glass. The library was always cool and quiet. A refuge. Today, however, Poppy restlessly toyed with her quill pen and ended up getting ink on the tips of her fingers for her efforts.

They were at a dead end. Miss Evernight could not direct them to anyone else who might know Moira Darling, and Jack Talent was in a bad way, unable to divulge who or what took him. Poppy swallowed thickly. Talent’s torture had shaken them all. Ranulf House was in an uproar, with Ian demanding blood. But whose? Isley’s? Winston doggedly maintained that they were missing the whole picture. His solution? Investigative research.

Poppy could not fault his methods, but while Win was a man of planning and precision, she was a woman of action. Like two parts of the same weapon, she thought bemusedly. He was the cutting edge of the blade and she the thrust behind it. Suppressing a sigh, she shifted in her chair, easing the tension in her lower back. Research was all very well and good, but after going through about two hundred old newspapers, she had nothing to show for her efforts. Not one bloody mention of Moira Darling, or Isley, for that matter.

Tossing her pen aside, Poppy watched Winston while he read. Really, she ought to be reading as well. Only he did the job so much more thoroughly. The whole of his concentration went into the task of discovery. And he sat, spine straight yet shoulders hunched over the desk, his gaze firmly upon the book in his hands. With his attention diverted, she could study the clean lines of his profile and the way his lashes swept down in a thick, gold-tipped fan. It wasn’t fair, really, that a man should have thick, curling lashes while she was cursed with ones that were straight and red. Indeed, his lashes ought to make him appear feminine. Yet paired with the square arc of his jaw and the determined slash of his mouth, those thick lashes tempered him somehow, giving him a bit of vulnerability among all that masculine hardness.

He smelled of wool, books, and man. An intoxicating concoction that made her want to lean closer and inhale. Warmth radiated from his lean body. Delicious warmth that she, who always ran slightly cold, craved with every breath. His lips parted a touch as he read on, and a flush of heat rose up her breast. How many times had they sat just so? With him reading as she’d torment him, bringing her body against his, knowing he would feel the press of her br**sts on his upper arm. He’d remain unmoved, a smile working about his lips as if daring her to try harder. And she would. First by threading her fingers through his hair the way he liked, gentle touches that made him relax. And then, when that smile grew, she’d lean in, lick that sensitive corner of his mouth, and wait for his breath to catch. There were days when he’d be stronger, when he’d keep himself utterly still until she had mounted his lap and tossed his papers aside, then she would shriek when he’d catch her up and—

“Find anything?”

She sucked in a breath at his sudden query and glanced down at the papers in front of her. “Ah… no.”

He was too silent. The heat of his body too unnerving. She risked a look. Blue-grey eyes stared back with steady focus. There was a question in them, as well as recognition. He’d noticed her attention. And remembered. The warmth in her skin flared white-hot. Surely her face was scarlet. His gaze flicked to her cheeks, and his color grew as well. Yes, she was assuredly red. His lids lowered a fraction, his attention settling on her lips, and his own lips quirked.

On a breath, he was closer. Or perhaps she was. The hard swell of his biceps pushed against her breast, and she tensed. Damn it, but she was tired of this separation. She wanted him. So much she couldn’t breathe.

“Win…” The silk of his hair slid over her fingers. When had she moved?

His nostrils flared as his attention intensified. “Boadicea.”

Carefully, she cupped the rough terrain of his ravaged cheek. He swallowed audibly yet offered no resistance as she turned him toward her, closer, and her back arched with the almost decadent need to press her br**sts harder against him. His pulse thrummed where she held him. The sound of crumpling paper filled the air, and vaguely she realized it was Win’s hand clutching at pages. His breath brushed over her lips, and everything within her went tight. A helpless sound escaped her as her lips parted. She could almost feel him there. Almost. Her lids grew heavy, yet she could not close her eyes. She needed to watch. Needed to see that mouth of his part for her, come to her.

The first brush was so soft it almost didn’t register. Yet every nerve along her skin leapt to life, and she trembled. Her fingers twined in his hair as he pulled back a fraction. An unsteady breath left him, and his mouth returned. Another brush, a bit deeper. An exploration, the warm, wet glide of his tongue into her mouth. His fingers touched her cheek. She trembled and leaned closer, ready to crawl onto his lap and slip her hand into his trousers to grasp that c**k she knew would be so very hot.

“Ahem!”

The voice was loud enough to make them freeze. Anger and frustration stabbed her breast as Win pulled away. But she blinked in surprise as a puff of frosty air left his mouth. Had she done that? She stayed where she was as Win looked up at whoever stood behind her.

“Yes?” Win sounded far less irritated than she.

The man—it was a man—made a sound of reproach. Poppy did not turn around. The voice belonged to Grevis, the old fusspot librarian who always gave her the gimlet eye. And though she was in fact his superior, she did not favor the idea of having him catch her in the act of kissing. Likely the man had an idea who she was—her red hair being unique—however, as long as she did not turn, they both could maintain the illusion of anonymity.

Grevis’s sonorous tones rippled over her. “The Reading Room is for study and reflection, sir. Not for… loose behavior with one’s…”

“Wife?” Winston supplied softly.

The mere word had Poppy’s heart skipping a beat. It had been so long since he’d openly used that tone, as if he did so to not only protect her honor but to lay a claim. A pulse beat at his neck, and then a warning flashed in his eyes. His hand still cradled her cheek, not letting go.

“Yes, well, kindly finish what you are doing here and attend to your wife,” Grevis paused and Poppy felt his censorious stare upon her shoulders, “elsewhere.”

Win held Grevis’s gaze for a beat and then he eased. “We are nearly finished here.” With that, he turned his attention back to the papers, dismissing the man with nothing more than a shift in posture, and Poppy could see the son of a duke shine through. Did he even realize it?

Winston glared down at the papers in his hands but could not focus. “And to think, I used to like librarians.” Everything in him shouted to finish what he and Poppy had started, to take her now. Had the librarian not caught him, he just might have done so. “Bloody busybodies.”

Poppy laughed, but her voice held a huskiness that danced along his spine. “You’re merely sore because he had impeccably bad timing.”

“ ‘Sore’ is an appalling understatement,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

He cut her a quelling glance, and her grin widened. “Why, Winston Lane,” she said, “I do believe you are in a snit because you got your fingers caught in the biscuit bin.”

“Lovely metaphor.” His lips pinched as he tried to read. Really, the words ought to make sense now. But they merely swam before him. “Are you going to crow or concentrate upon the task at hand?”

“I thought I’d crow a bit more. After all, it’s always a bit of a triumph to see even the smallest of cracks occur in the great Winston Lane’s polished veneer.”

He set his papers down then. “Ah, Poppy love, all you have to do is touch me, and you’d feel the cracks in my veneer well enough.”

His reward was her deep blush and the way she nibbled her lip.

“Cheeky,” she said, and then met his gaze. “Kiss me again.”

His breath left him in a rush. Need. Want. Take. Primitive lust had his hands shaking and his heart slamming against his ribs. Her soft lips were so close, plumped up from his earlier ministrations. He could lose himself in her mouth, kiss her until he no longer thought about failure or what he’d done to put them in this predicament. And if what he’d just sussed out about this case was correct, things were going to get a lot uglier before they got any better.

With shaking hands, he gathered his papers. “It is not a good idea.” His eyes stayed on his movements as he further ordered his things, then left the neat stack on the desk for the librarian to shelve. Not waiting for her, he stood and walked away.

“Damn it, Win.” Her footsteps clattered behind him. He did not even know where he was headed, but he didn’t want to face her. Not when the feel of her lips was still upon him. “I know what we said before about choices but… Blast it, will you stop?”

He kept going. Down the bloody endless rows of bookshelves.

“I did not love you when we married!”

Win halted, the soles of his boots scuffing along the marble. Her confession robbed him of air and sent a spasm of pain through his chest. Slowly, he turned on his heel to face her, his heart going in slow, aching thuds. “What?”

Her expression was almost serene, as if she hadn’t just made him bleed internally. “I did not love you.” Her slim shoulders lifted. “I lusted after you, to be sure. Cared for you very much. But it wasn’t love.”

Cold comfort that. He swallowed and tried to think of a reply that did not involve shouting or cursing the world to bloody hell. Did she ever love him? No, he could not ask it. He knew he wouldn’t recover from that blow.

Perhaps aware of his turmoil, she looked about and then tugged him down a shadowed aisle between the shelves. Her voice, smooth as cream, surrounded him. “Do you remember that day when I told you about the bookstore?”

For a moment he couldn’t think, but merely searched her face and wondered if pregnancy left her slightly touched in the head. But she was watching him earnestly so he managed to nod.

Her eyes turned the color of fine cherry wood. “You believed in me,” she whispered, taking a step closer to him, “without proof of my ability, without question of my motives.”

He swallowed hard, his hand fisting at his side in an effort to keep still, for he needed to see this conversation through, not tug her into his arms. “I will always believe in you.” It was the truth. She was the strongest person he knew.

Her sweet mouth trembled as she smiled, a small, secretive smile. “I fell in love with you in that moment, Win. Utterly, irrevocably.”