“No. But I could have been.” She hesitated. “What if there had been a fire?”

His gaze did not waver. “I would have fetched you.”

His certainty set her back for a moment. When she recovered, she asked, “Through your miracle passageway?”

“Yes.”

“And if the fire had already destroyed it?”

“I would have found a way to get to you.”

“I am to believe that?”

“Yes.” He sounded so certain, as though nothing would stop him.

“Why?”

“Because it is true.” The words were ever so quiet in the small, enclosed space, and Pippa realized two things in that moment. First, that they had both leaned in, across the great slab of ebony—an emblem of power as strong as Charlemagne’s army—until they were mere inches apart.

And second, that she believed him.

He would have come for her.

She let out a long breath, and said, “I came for you, instead.”

One side of his mouth twitched into a half smile. “You didn’t know where the passage would lead.”

Everything about him, his eyes, his voice, the sandalwood scent of him tempted her, and she hovered on the edge of closing her eyes and leaning into the moment, into him. When she spoke, the words were barely above a whisper. “I was hopeful that it would lead to excitement.”

That it would lead to you.

He pulled back sharply, as though she’d spoken the words aloud, jerking her from the moment. “In that case, I am sorry that it brought you here.”

She straightened as well, turning her attention to the painting through which she had come—the painting she’d barely noticed the first two times she’d been inside this room and that now seemed to swallow the space, dwarfing one wall of the office, five feet wide and twice as tall, at once grotesque and beautiful and deeply compelling.

At the center of the oil, a woman wrapped in white linens slept on her back in a state of utter abandon, arms above her head, blond curls tumbling to the floor, loose and free. Her skin was pale and perfect, and the only source of light in the piece, so bright that it took a moment to see what lurked in the shadows of her bedchamber.

To one side, through a red velvet curtain peeked a great, black horse, with terrifying, wild eyes and a wide-open mouth filled with enormous white teeth. The beast seemed to leer at the sleeping figure, as though he could sense her dreams and was merely biding his time before he struck.

But the stallion would have to wait his turn, for seated on the woman’s long torso, in the shadowy stretch between breast and thigh, was a small, ugly figure, part beast, part man. The creature seemed to stare straight out of the painting, meeting the eyes of anyone who dared look. The expression on the goblin’s face was at once patient and possessive, as though he would wait for an eternity for the lady to awaken—and fight to the death to keep her.

It was the most compelling thing she’d ever seen, scandalous and sinful. She moved closer. “This piece—it is remarkable.”

“You like it?” She heard the surprise in his tone.

“I don’t think one likes it. I think one is captivated by it.” She wanted to reach out and wake the woman in the painting, to warn her of what was no doubt the beginning of a terrible demise. “Where did you find it?”

“It was used to pay a debt,” Cross said, closer, and she looked over her shoulder to find him at the edge of his desk, one hand on the ebony, watching her move toward the oil.

“A very large one, I imagine.”

He inclined his head. “I liked the piece enough to allow the debt wiped from the books—free and clear.”

She was not surprised that he had been drawn to this painting—to the wickedness in each brushstroke, to the darkness of the story it told. She turned back, drawn once more to the strange creature seated on the sleeping woman. “What is it?” she asked, reaching out to the little man, afraid to touch him.

“It’s an incubus.” He paused. Continued. “A nightmare. Demons were once thought to come at night and wreak havoc on those who slept. Male demons, like that one, preyed upon beautiful women.”

There was something in the way he spoke, a hint of—memory?—and Pippa looked to him. “Why do you have this?”

He was no longer watching her, instead, he stared down at the desk, lifting the dice she had placed there, clutching them in his palm. “I do not care much for sleep,” he said, as if it were an acceptable answer.

Why not?

She wanted to ask it, but knew, instantly, that he would not tell her. “I am not surprised, considering you spend most of your day in the shadow of this painting.”

“One becomes comfortable with it.”

“I rather doubt that,” she said. “How often do you use the passageway?”

“I find I don’t have much need of it.”

She smiled. “Then I might appropriate it?”

“You do not use it well. I heard you the moment you came near.”

“You did not.”

“I did. You will no doubt be surprised to discover that you are not very good at sneaking, Lady Philippa.”

“I’ve not had much cause for the activity, Mr. Cross.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in an approximation of a smile. “Until recently.”

“This place rather calls for it, don’t you think?”

“I do, actually.”

He returned the dice to the desk with a soft click, and the little white cubes captured her attention and she spoke to them. “Now, if I remember correctly, you owe me the answers to three questions. Four, if you count the one you left unanswered.”