Her widowed Lycan

Her plans

*Michael*

If the rebellious glimmer in her eyes is any indication, Miss Tempest hasn't taken kindly to my remark. I don't know why I made it. What do I care if she goes around snipping nonsense from newspapers and carrying it in her pocket?

Maybe because I realize, much to my embarrassment, that I have misjudged her. I had seen her as open and honest, and had started to take more than a casual interest in her, only to discover that a cunning mind might be hiding behind those deep brown eyes that remind me of a doe I adopted as a pet when I was a boy and spent most of my time in the countryside.

It irks me, irks that she is planning to land a a titled mate and would use any means necessary to obtain him. I find it even more annoying that because of a foolish letter, she might be setting her sights on the prince of the Rose.

"I'm not in love with him," she finally snaps, stuffing the clipping back into her skirt pocket. "His wife adored him, and I find it commendable that he should inspire such devotion. But more, her plea to bring him out of his sorrow touched my heart. Not that it's any of your concern nor should I have to justify myself." She heaves an impatient sigh. "Thank you for providing conversation during dinner. It's late. I must be off."

It has grown dark. I can't remember the last time I have eaten a leisurely meal. Generally, I gobble down my food so the task of providing my body with sustenance is done, and I can move on to drinking. "I will escort you back to your shop."

"I'm fine on my own. No one would dare accost me. They know my brothers would see them dead." She says pushing out her chin.

"You are assuming everyone around here knows you are a Tempest. I didn't." I point out.

She opens her mouth to protest, and quickly shuts it, obviously realizing I have already won the argument. "I can't stop you if you have a mind to accompany me."

However, she is certainly determined to give it a try, because she turns on her heel and marches briskly for the door, a couple of lads jumping out of her way, obviously realizing they are in danger of being mowed down. Just as she nears the door, I easily catch up to her, reach around her, grab the handle, and pull. She passes over the threshold with a muttered "thank you" that, for some inexplicable reason, makes me smile for the second time that evening.

I have grown accustomed to happiness being absent for some time, and it's a strange thing to feel it tapping on my shoulder.

In silence, guided by the lit street lamps, we cross the street and stroll along the bricked pavement until we arrive at her shop.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a key. This time no paper flutters to the ground. After unlocking the door, she hesitates a moment before looking over her shoulder. "I hope you won't be a stranger to the shop, Mr. Solman."

She is protecting her business. In spite of her ambitions. Or perhaps because of them. She doesn't strike me as a woman who would accept failure of any kind, including when it comes to securing her mate. "I'm certain I will be in need of another book before long, Miss Tempest. Sleep well."

Pushing open the door, she slips through and closes it behind her. I hear the turn of the lock. She's left a light burning, and I wait until the main part of her shop goes dark. Although the windows sporting little shelves for books and knick knacks prevent me from having a clear view inside, I still manage to follow the journey of light turning on along her path… no doubt she is climbing the stairs… until the last one disappears from my sight, assuring me that she will soon be safely tucked into her rooms.

Glancing around, I consider returning to the pub for another drink, but as she is no longer there, the din within those walls that usually drowns out my thoughts doesn't hold much appeal.

I head down the street and turn the corner. Looking up at the brick building, I can see pale light spilling out of a window on the top floor. She is in her room now, undoubtedly preparing for bed, removing the pins from her dark hair, dragging the brush through the long strands. Braiding it. Then she would slowly unbutton the bodice of her navy dress.

My thoughts come to an abrupt halt. I'm not going to be enticed into falling into her web of deceit by her passion for books or her ability to create a shop that invites one in and offers comfort as welcoming as a warm blanket on a chilly evening. Or her large eyes or her pretty face or her kindness to a pub-serving girl or her welcoming of a stranger.

I pass the mews that run between her shop and my residence. Continuing on, I take a right at the street, turn up the path to my terrace house, jog up the steps, and let myself in.

Reaching for the light, I turn it on letting the soft yellow glow illuminate the front parlor. I go straight ahead through the tiny hallway, ignoring the narrow stairs that lead to the floor where I sleep, and enter the small room where I eat my meals prepared by the woman I have hired to come in daily to cook in the small kitchen beyond and keep things tidy.

A stuffed chair rests near the fireplace, and I have spent many evenings reading there. I go over to the plain table that houses a solitary decanter and pour myself a tumbler of scotch.

With comfort in hand, I climb the stairs. At the top, the narrow landing branches off into a door on either side. I go through the one on my right, into my bedchamber, simply furnished with a four-poster bed, a table beside it, an armoire across from it, and a high-backed brocade chair in the corner. I carry on until I reach the window.

Taking a sip of my scotch, I lean a shoulder against the window casing. When I'm in a contemplative mood, I prefer to become lost in whatever lies beyond my own window. In the early mornings, I have watched drays pulled by large horses make their way through the mews. Late at night, I have often witnessed drunkards stumbling around. I have seen a number of cats, a few dogs, and the occasional child. And sometimes, like tonight, my gaze drifts upward to the faint glow from her window spilling into the darkness and defeating a small part of it. Often I wish it would reach into my soul and conquer the black void that resides there.

Because it's a terrible abyss of emptiness and despair, craving that which I have never possessed and never will: love. Having put my heart at risk once, I'm determined to never do so again.

Watching shadows moving behind the drawn curtains on the top floor of the bookshop, I wonder if the window looks into her bedchamber, if I'm observing my neighbor preparing for sleep. I wonder if Leah Tempest takes the Prince of the Rose into her dreams.

The poor girl will be disappointed when she attends her first ball because her hopes of being introduced to him will be dashed. He won't bow before her, take her hand, and kiss it. He won't ask her for a dance, hold her in his arms, and sweep her over a polished parquet floor. He won't tell her that she has the most expressive brown eyes he has ever seen. He won't confess that more than once during dinner, he had decided that her mouth had been perfectly designed for kissing.

No, the Prince of the Rose will do none of those things.

Because now I know her plans, and I want no part of them or her.