Bound by Your Touch by Meredith Duran

off to a cave somewhere. And no doubt Miss Boyce of the Stone Age, bereft of an education to sharpen her tongue, would have sharpened a rock instead, and neatly gutted him.
    He realized that she was nearing some conclusion. "Sorry, I missed that. Can you start over?"
    Her gaze leveled on him. She had resolved not to be provoked: it was clear in the set of her jaw. "I will repeat it very slowly," she said, in the manner that mothers used with recalcitrant three-year-olds. "I know that my coming here is beyond the bounds—"
    "Even when you break the rules, you insist on reminding me of them? Really, Miss Boyce, have mercy."
    Her voice sharpened. "But I wanted to appeal to you in person."
    "Oh, you do."
    Her eyes widened briefly. She started to say something, then thought better of it. No doubt she had interpreted his statement correctly, but did not want to believe it. Poor Miss Boyce. This sober, tight-laced scholar, trapped against her will in a figure that smelled like flowers and communicated with his body in a secret language that perhaps even she did not recognize. No wonder she swaddled herself. The thought of inadvertendy soliciting male attentions must no doubt appall her.
    "Listen," she said, and came to her feet. "I paid a visit to Mr. Carnelly."
    "Did you?" It did not surprise him, for some reason, that she would feel entided to bowl into the East End. "How was it? Did you sample the chestnuts? They're very tasty."
    She rolled her eyes. Pretty eyes, the exact shade of a harvest moon. Her best feature, he thought. And then, as she began to pace the perimeter of his carpet, he revised his opinion. When Miss Boyce moved, she . . . bounced. He turned to follow her progress. Oh, yes. While the lady did not seem desirous of providing entertainment, she also seemed unable to prevent herself. She walked as though there were springs in her feet. Some forgotten governess had - no doubt despaired over these long, bouncy strides.
    He realized he was smirking like a schoolboy. Embarrassing, really. The woman took less note of him that she would of Canadian rubbish. Still, he could not resist his curiosity. "Do you hunt?" He could see her as a horsewoman; she was what his Scottish nanny might have termed a strapping lass. Since it produced such serendipitous effects, top to bottom, he could not mind it.
    She pivoted. The violence of her movement suggested some strong emotion, and her fingers were twined together before her, pressed into her skirts like a secret prayer. But her face and voice remained composed. "No, I dislike horses. And please let us stick to the point, Viscount. I regret to tell you that your conjecture was correct. The forgery did originate from my fathers shipment."
    He smiled. "How kind of you to confirm what I already know. Perhaps next you'll introduce me to myself. I hear I'm very popular."
    The dimple peeked out. He silently congratulated himself. "However," she said with emphasis, "the forgery's inclusion does not mean my father had knowledge of it. I believe the shipment was sabotaged—the correct piece switched for the false one. At any rate, I have wired to Egypt. I'll let you know when I learn more."
    "I see," said James. "So, you've come to tell me that while my facts are correct, your conjectures should sway me to disavow them?"
    She blinked. His vocabulary had startled her. Oh, she was too easy. She fell into her preconceptions of him as easily as a fish into water. "No," she said, but her denial sounded uncertain. "Only that I wish to—oh, to apologize, I suppose, for the horrendous mix-up. It could never have occurred to me that your accusations were sound—although misdirected, of course."
    She spoke all the right words, Miss Boyce did. But the stiff set of her shoulders, and the fisting of her hands, suggested that apologizing felt about as pleasant as a sword through the stomach. "Manners," he said sympathetically. "Very tedious. I suggest you shelve them. I don't miss them at all."
    "Yes,