Percival novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: Under the Desk

I did not think.

I grabbed Percival by the collar and hauled him off the floor.

"Under my desk," I whispered. "Now."

"I cannot go under a desk."

"You can do anything. You're three hundred. Go."

He went, with his trousers held up in one fist and his waistcoat hanging open.

My desk sits at the end of the reading room, a huge oak partner's desk with a solid front panel and a kneehole behind it.

He folded himself into the dark space with the quiet speed of a man who had once hidden from a British patrol.

I smoothed my skirt and walked out of the stacks, and Cornelius Bascombe was already at my desk.

He had hooked his cane over the corner and was reading my blotter.

He was sixty-three, silver-bearded and smiling, with a signet ring the size of a walnut.

"Miss DeMille," he said. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all, my lord. Sit down."

I took my own chair, the one with its back to the window.

My knees went under the desk, and something warm and large moved aside to make room for them.

Bascombe lowered himself into the visitor's chair.

"I came to pay my respects," he said, "to the newest talk of the keep."

"I'm sorry?"

"The east wing is very excited this morning."

"The east wing is drafty," I said. "I'm the one who should be talking."

Something warm brushed my ankle.

It was only his breath, because Percival was not allowed to touch me.

He was obeying my terms to the letter, and I could feel him waiting.

I put one hand down in my lap, found his hair in the dark, and curled my fingers into it.

He went absolutely still.

Then he pressed his cheek against my knee, and I heard him breathe out.

Bascombe was still talking.

"I'll be plain, Miss DeMille. A human woman went into the adviser's rooms last night. A great many wolves would like to know why."

I tightened my fingers in the hair under my desk and pulled his head up toward my lap.

"A mix-up with the room numbers," I said. "The brass plate on his door was hung upside down. I walked in at midnight and walked out again at one when I saw whose bed it was."

"At one."

"I was mortified."

My voice did not shake.

I had been telling small lies to the Crown's officers for four years, to protect the archive from people who wanted to burn it.

I was good at it.

I hiked my skirt over my knees with my other hand.

I felt Percival's hands settle on my thighs, burning hot, and stop.

He was waiting for the word.

I pushed his head down.

His mouth landed on the inside of my knee, open and hot, and my breath hitched.

"You're flushed," said Bascombe.

"It's the lamp."

"Of course."

He studied me with pleasant, patient eyes.

Percival dragged his mouth up my thigh, slowly, an inch at a time.

I slid my hips forward on the chair, and his hands pushed my skirt to my waist.

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