He asks her about Mary's book.

Was she expected him to climb into the bed with her? Randy found the thought alarmingly attractive and quickly changed the topic before he did something stupid.

“Have you ever seen a volume like this?” Randy asks pulling the red book of poetry from his satchel. Charlotte was clearly caught completely by surprise by the sudden change in topics and Randy had time to get his emotions back under control.

Lady Marlton took the book he offered and examined the the small red volume with interest no doubt wondering why he'd risk capture and certain **** to ask her about a book of poems. He watched her carefully looking for any hint of recognition. God, she was beautiful! She must know how easy it would be for him to cover her long-limbed body with his and take her on her own bed, and yet she seemed fearless. She wouldn't be this calm if she could read the erotic thoughts that distracted him every time he let his mind wander.

Charlotte was no longer afraid even though this was the man who had dragged her deep into the woods like spoils of war and treated her so outrageously. Black Brand was a known outlaw and was now in her moonlit bedchamber late at night, but she no longer feared him. She took a deep breath trying to suppress the memory of her response to his caresses not realizing how her rising chest made her breasts strain against the thin cotton of her night gown. Mr. Fuller was noticeably agitated and Charlotte wondered if it had to do with how risky this late night visit was or if he, like her wondered what might happen if he climbed into the bed by her side.

“What is it?” She asked as she leafed through the pages of the small red volume.

“Poetry” Randy told her unnecessarily, that much she knew already. “Shakespeare's sonnets. Have you seen it before?” From the way Mr. Fuller asked, Charlotte knew it must be important but had no idea why. Why had he come to her, and why should she help him after the way he had behaved?

“I'm sorry, perhaps someone else in my house would know.” Charlotte could sense the strange gentleman's emotion as he asked about the book. Not wanting to disappoint him she continued boldly. “Shall I find out for you?” Was she really offering to help this brigand?

Randy scowled when he heard Charlotte's offer. Why would the daughter of Lord Marlton offer to help the very man terrorizing her family’s estates? She was far more likely to lead him into a trap than betray any of her companions. But he couldn't refuse her offer; it was the best chance he had to learn what he needed to know. More importantly he wanted to continue seeing this intriguing woman, to feel her in his arms without forcing himself upon her. God he wanted her to trust him, and to be able to trust her in return.

“That is most uncommonly kind of you to offer Lady Charlotte.” He was acutely aware of the how beautiful Charlotte was dressed only in her nightgown as she lay under her sheets, once before he had felt her in his arms and the desire came back like a flame blooming from the glowing embers of a fire pit. “I think I had better leave now.” He said rising abruptly and turning quickly from her to hide the painful bulge in his trousers. If he stayed any longer he would not be able to restrain himself.

"Wait!" He was leaving! Charlotte felt an unexpected panic. He was leaving and she didn't even know if she'd ever see him again. Charlotte had hoped he would stay by her side and talk with her. Perhaps hold her hand in his as the dark of the night passed or even hold and kiss her as he had the day of the hunt. Had she done something wrong that had pushed him away?

"Your book!" She stammered looking for any reason to have her return to her bedside.

"Keep it for now." Randy told her trying not to stare at her as she sat up in her bed, with quilt piled on her lap all modesty forgotten. "Do you know the ruins of the old Papist chapel East of here?"

"Saint Theresa's?" Charlotte knew it well, the roof had long ago collapsed, only the four rose covered walls remained and the chapel floor was now covered in soft moss. As a teen Charlotte liked to imagine that the chapel had been built by Celtic Druids, not her Norman ancestors one thousand years after the last of the forest priests wandered these woods.

"Yes, I know it." Charlotte answered slowly slightly confused by both the sudden change in topic and Mr. Fuller's sudden retreat.

"I will be there most afternoons this week if you learn something of interest." Mr. Fuller told her as he stood facing the window he had so recently climbed through.