In person he was even larger than her study of his clothing had implied. "What are you doing here, girl?" he growled in a drink-slurred voice. "My room was locked."

" 'Twas open, sir," she said in a thick country accent. Rounding her shoulders to ruin her posture, she continued, "If you don't wish your bed warmed, sir, I'll be on my way."

"The damned locks have probably been here since Henry the Eighth dissolved the abbeys. Candover should have them replaced," Harford said sourily. He closed the door and crossed the room, his steps a little unsteady. "Don't leave, girl. It's a cold night, and now that I think about it, I could use a little warmth in my bed."

Alarmed by the glint in his eyes, Kit dodged to one side as he reached for her. "I'll be leaving now, sir." She darted toward the door.

"Not so fast, sweetheart." He grabbed her wrist and jerked her to a halt. "You're a skinny wench, but you'll do for a quick blanket hornpipe."

It was easy to show terror. Tugging to get away, Kit wailed, "Please, sir, I'm a decent girl."

"There will be a gold guinea in this for you," he said with boozy cheer. "Maybe two if you do a good job of keeping me warm." He pulled her into a disgusting, port-soaked embrace.

Fighting would be useless against a man twice her size. She forced herself to relax, though she kept her mouth closed tightly against the attempted invasion of his tongue. Taking her stillness as compliance, he mumbled,

"That's better, sweetheart," and moved one hand to her breast. "Show me how warm you are."

She took advantage of his relaxed grip to break away. She had made it to the door and was halfway into the corridor before he caught her again. "Like to play, do you?" he said jovially. "You're livelier than you look."