"In a moment, I want you to shout at me, slap me hard across the face, grab your cape and march out of the door." He ignored her gasp. "Once outside, I want you to walk to your right, around to the side of the inn and wait for me there. Can you do that?"
Anna nodded though the confusion in her eyes suggested she had a thousand questions.
"You must make it look realistic," he continued. "Feel free to proceed whenever—"
The loud crack stung his skin. Even though he'd been expecting it, he almost jumped from the chair.
"Leave me alone," she cried, leaping up and throwing her cape around her shoulders.
"Anna, wait!" He called after her as she opened the door and disappeared out into the night.
Good, he thought, as numerous heads dropped as he met their curious gazes. Shrugging into his greatcoat, he threw a few coins on the table and raced out of the inn in search of his enchanting accomplice.
Chapter 11
Her hand stung. Her fingers throbbed where she had slapped him hard across his cheek. It had happened quickly. She'd been too scared to wait. The violent act prevented her from doing the only thing she desperately craved. It stopped her pulling him into an embrace in a bid to soothe the pain she knew festered like an open wound deep inside.
Wrapping her cape tightly around her, she turned right as instructed, stopping halfway along the outside wall of the inn to wait for him. The sound of her ragged breathing cut into the stillness of the night. Her emotions were raw, fragile, but it had nothing to do with the haunting memories of Victor.
With trembling fingers, Anna touched her chest. The wild, erratic thumping was a result of two conflicting emotions: shock and her desire for Marcus Danbury. For days, she had tried to ignore it, pushed those thoughts aside. Her feelings were harder to identify or define, having felt nothing but disdain for most men.
The obvious questions demanded her attention.
Could she trust him?
Were his amorous protestations genuine?
Or in the end, would he prove to be a worthless scoundrel?
Before she had a chance to rouse a coherent response, he charged around the side of the inn, his greatcoat flapping behind him like huge brown wings. He appeared every bit the Devil's angel: dark, brooding, a dangerous disciple on a mission to wreak havoc.
He tapped his finger to his lips as he came to stand in front of her. "We must whisper now," he said, his broad frame swamping her.
She tried to focus on the assignment. After all, it must surely be the reason behind his odd request to hit him. But his unique masculine scent filled her head, travelled through her body sparking every nerve to life.
He pressed closer. "I'll just take a look around the back of the inn."
She felt the loss instantly, her body shivering as if exposed to a bitter breeze. Why tonight? Why was she suddenly so aware of him now? Hearing his sad tale had affected her deeply.
Then he came back, standing closer still, his head just a few inches away from hers. His soft breath brushed across her cheek like a lover's caress.
Good heavens.
Was it the wine?
"The men are moving contraband from the cellar," he whispered against her ear. "There's a wooden hatch in the ground back there. We need to listen for a few minutes."
His muscular thigh brushed against her leg causing a bolt of heat to pool, her core throbbing and pulsing in response.
"How … how many men are there?"
God help her! Surely he must hear it in her voice — the overwhelming need, the deep longing.
"Two, plus Lenard."
In the darkness, she couldn't see the raised red imprint of her hand on his cheek, yet she imagined the size and the shape as a way of focusing her mind.
"Shuffle closer," he said, tugging the edge of her cape and pulling her nearer to the end of the wall.