call me lass. As you are in service to my aunt, I expect to be addressed by my proper title.”
Swift as a dervish, his hand snaked out to recapture her wrist. She shriveled a bit at his superior strength, and when he moved in near enough for her to count the whiskers on his chin, she blanched. In stature, she usually stood the equal of men. However, this one loomed a few inches above her.
“You no’ only bit my hand, milady.” His low voice stressed her title.
She regarded him with a cool stare, determined never to allow another man to cow her true nature and jabbed a finger into his hard chest for good measure.
“Now see here, I had no indication you were sent by Onora, therefore, I refuse to feel remorse for your injuries, if you are indeed injured.”
In a surprise move, he seized her finger and pulled her in, until the tip of her nose grazed his. A pleasant foil of horse, leather, and cloves teased her nose, and the sudden intimacy of their situation pervaded her awareness. Compared to Warford, this man’s nearness disturbed her decency in an entirely different manner. Right away, she noticed the excessive amount of heat his body produced as it easily penetrated her thin layer of dress. An unwelcome hotness crept into her cheeks as the hand on her stomach shifted upward. How in the world could she even contemplate such things when he all but assaulted her? Well, maybe assault was a bit of an exaggeration. If she took a moment to step outside her reaction, she acknowledged that he hadn’t really harmed her, except to possibly cause premature gray hair to take root. Still, she decided it for the best not to concede anything. The amused arrogance of his tone deserved no such consideration. During her inward reflection, she became conscious the silence had stretched to an intolerable degree. To cover her embarrassment she pretended a sneeze.
“Bless you, my lady,” he drawled.
“Thank you,” she gave him a tight smile. “Now, unhand me, ’tisn’t decent.”
“Neither is biting the hand of the man sent to your aid,” he murmured dryly.
Gradually, a break in the cloud cover afforded her a clear view of his mocking expression, well-illuminated by the full moon, and her banked temper flared anew.
“You might explain why you manhandled me, knowing full well whom it was you manhandled, unless you are used to women dropping into your lap like acorns from an oak tree.”
The accusation came out in an unintelligible garble, but she elected to care naught. He knew her meaning.
An edge of impatience tinged his voice. “You were on the verge of a scream, and we’re not far from Cadby Hall. Be thankful I only placed my hand over your gob … my lady.”
Taken aback by the threat, she gasped, “As opposed to what, pray tell?”
“As opposed to gagging you, throwing a sack over your head, and tossing you over my shoulder like so much grain.”
Contrary to his threat, he unwound his arm from her waist and put enough space between them to stable a horse. To mask her confusion, she palmed the loose balls of hair hanging in clumps around her shoulders. Aware of her dishevelment, and his unruffled appearance, she sent him a peevish glare and searched for the whale pins buried under the heavy tangle. Not that she worried he supposed her hideous, she thought, and sent him another hostile glare. Annoyed for the reasons behind her sudden vanity, she fashioned the unruly mop into a lopsided plait and secured the inelegant mess in the back of her head. An uncomfortable silence ensued while he examined her handiwork. A flash of humor crossed his face and he pressed his lips tight, barely covering his amusement. Maddened by his ungentleman-like behavior, she folded her arms and adopted a posture that dared him to voice his opinion.
His grin deepened and laughter lurked in his smile. “‘Is no’ much of an improvement if you want my opinion.”
Her hands flew to pat the back of her head. She blinked, then narrowed
Swift as a dervish, his hand snaked out to recapture her wrist. She shriveled a bit at his superior strength, and when he moved in near enough for her to count the whiskers on his chin, she blanched. In stature, she usually stood the equal of men. However, this one loomed a few inches above her.
“You no’ only bit my hand, milady.” His low voice stressed her title.
She regarded him with a cool stare, determined never to allow another man to cow her true nature and jabbed a finger into his hard chest for good measure.
“Now see here, I had no indication you were sent by Onora, therefore, I refuse to feel remorse for your injuries, if you are indeed injured.”
In a surprise move, he seized her finger and pulled her in, until the tip of her nose grazed his. A pleasant foil of horse, leather, and cloves teased her nose, and the sudden intimacy of their situation pervaded her awareness. Compared to Warford, this man’s nearness disturbed her decency in an entirely different manner. Right away, she noticed the excessive amount of heat his body produced as it easily penetrated her thin layer of dress. An unwelcome hotness crept into her cheeks as the hand on her stomach shifted upward. How in the world could she even contemplate such things when he all but assaulted her? Well, maybe assault was a bit of an exaggeration. If she took a moment to step outside her reaction, she acknowledged that he hadn’t really harmed her, except to possibly cause premature gray hair to take root. Still, she decided it for the best not to concede anything. The amused arrogance of his tone deserved no such consideration. During her inward reflection, she became conscious the silence had stretched to an intolerable degree. To cover her embarrassment she pretended a sneeze.
“Bless you, my lady,” he drawled.
“Thank you,” she gave him a tight smile. “Now, unhand me, ’tisn’t decent.”
“Neither is biting the hand of the man sent to your aid,” he murmured dryly.
Gradually, a break in the cloud cover afforded her a clear view of his mocking expression, well-illuminated by the full moon, and her banked temper flared anew.
“You might explain why you manhandled me, knowing full well whom it was you manhandled, unless you are used to women dropping into your lap like acorns from an oak tree.”
The accusation came out in an unintelligible garble, but she elected to care naught. He knew her meaning.
An edge of impatience tinged his voice. “You were on the verge of a scream, and we’re not far from Cadby Hall. Be thankful I only placed my hand over your gob … my lady.”
Taken aback by the threat, she gasped, “As opposed to what, pray tell?”
“As opposed to gagging you, throwing a sack over your head, and tossing you over my shoulder like so much grain.”
Contrary to his threat, he unwound his arm from her waist and put enough space between them to stable a horse. To mask her confusion, she palmed the loose balls of hair hanging in clumps around her shoulders. Aware of her dishevelment, and his unruffled appearance, she sent him a peevish glare and searched for the whale pins buried under the heavy tangle. Not that she worried he supposed her hideous, she thought, and sent him another hostile glare. Annoyed for the reasons behind her sudden vanity, she fashioned the unruly mop into a lopsided plait and secured the inelegant mess in the back of her head. An uncomfortable silence ensued while he examined her handiwork. A flash of humor crossed his face and he pressed his lips tight, barely covering his amusement. Maddened by his ungentleman-like behavior, she folded her arms and adopted a posture that dared him to voice his opinion.
His grin deepened and laughter lurked in his smile. “‘Is no’ much of an improvement if you want my opinion.”
Her hands flew to pat the back of her head. She blinked, then narrowed
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