"That," she informed Myst, "suggests a 'later.' A 'sometime'. " Patience set her teeth. "What I want to know is when?"
A scandalous, inadmissable want perhaps, but… "I'm twenty-six." Patience eyed Myst as if she'd argued. "I'm entitled to the knowledge." When Myst responded with an unblinking stare, Patience continued: "It's not as if I intend throwing my cap over the windmill. I'm not likely to forget who I am, let alone who and what he is. And neither is he. It should all be perfectly safe."
Myst tucked her nose into her paws.
Patience went back to frowning at the keyboard. "He won't seduce me under Minnie's roof." Of mat, she was certain. Which raised a most pertinent question. What did he want-what did he expect to gain? What was his purpose in all this-did he even have one?
All questions for which she lacked answers. While, over the last days, Vane had not engineered any moment alone with her, she was always conscious of his gaze, always conscious of him, of his watchful presence.
"Perhaps this is dalliance? Or some part thereof?"
Yet more questions without answers.
Patience gritted her teeth, then forced herself to relax. She drew in a deep breath, exhaled and drew in another, then determinedly laid her fingers on the keys. She didn't understand Vane-the elegant gentleman with unpredictable reservations-indeed, he confused her at every turn. Worse, if this was dalliance, then it apparently proceeded at his whim, under his control, entirely outside hers-and, of that, she thoroughly disapproved.
She wasn't going to think about him anymore.
Patience closed her eyes, and let her fingers flow over the keys.
Delicate, hauntingly uncertain music floated out of the house. Vane heard it as he walked up from the stables. The lilting strains reached him, then wrapped about him, about his mind, sinking into his senses. They were a siren's song-and he knew precisely who was singing.
Halting on the graveled drive before the stable arch, he listened to the moody air. It drew him-he could feel the tug as if it was physical. The music spoke-of need, of restless frustration, of underlying rebellion.
The scrunch of gravel under his boots, brought him to his senses. Frowning, he stopped again. The music room was on the ground floor, facing away from the ruins; its windows gave onto the terrace. At least one window had to be open, or he wouldn't hear the music so clearly.
For a long moment, he stared, unseeing, at the house. The music grew more eloquent, seeking to ensorcel him, insistently drawing him on. For one more minute, he resisted, then shook aside his hesitation. His face set, he strode for the terrace.
When the final notes died, Patience sighed and lifted her fingers from the keys. A measure of calm had returned to her, the music had released some of her restlessness, had soothed her soul. A catharsis.
She stood, more serene, more confident than when she'd sat. Pushing back the stool, she stepped about it and turned.
Toward the windows. Toward the man who stood beside the open French door. His expression was set, unreadable.
"I had thought," she said, her words deliberate, her eyes steady on his, "that you might be thinking of leaving."
Her challenge could not have been clearer.
"No." Vane answered without thinking; no thought was required. "Aside from unmasking the Spectre and discovering the thief, I haven't yet got that something I want."
Contained, commanding, Patience's chin rose another notch. Vane studied her, his words echoing in his head. When he'd first coined the phrase, he hadn't appreciated exactly what it was that he wanted. Now he knew. His goal, this time, was different from the prizes he habitually lusted after. This time, he wanted a great deal more.
He wanted her-all of her. Not just the physical her, but her devotion, her love, her heart-all the essential her, the tangible intangible of her being, her self. He wanted it all-and he wasn't going to be satisfied with anything less.
He knew why he wanted her, too. Why she was different. But he wasn't going to think about that.
She was his. He'd known it the instant he'd held her in his arms, that first evening with the storm lowering about them. She'd fitted-and he'd known, instinctively, immediately, at some level deeper than his bones. He hadn't come by his name by accident: he had a gift for recognizing what scent was on the breeze. An instinctive hunter, he responded to shifts in the mood, the atmosphere, taking advantage of whatever current was flowing without conscious thought.
He'd known from the first just what was in the wind-known from the instant he'd held Patience Debbington in his arms.
Now she stood before him, challenge lighting gold sparks in her eyes. That she was tired of their present hiatus was clear; what she envisioned replacing it was not so obvious. The only virtuous, willful women he'd interacted with were related to him; he'd never dallied with such ladies. He had no clue what Patience was thinking, how much she'd accepted. Taking a death grip on the reins of his own clamorous needs, he deliberately took the first steps to find out.
With slow, prowling strides, he approached her.
She didn't say a word. Instead, her eyes steady on his, she lifted one hand, one finger, and, slowly, giving him ample time to react, to stop her if he would, reached to touch his lips.
Vane didn't move.
The first tentative touch inwardly rocked him; he tightened his hold on his passions. She sensed the momentary turbulence. Her eyes widened, her breath caught. Then he stilled and she relaxed, and continued her tracing.