Suzanne Robinson Read Free

trappings matched those of the chamber, a pearl gray shot with silver thread. The same brocaded silk covered the walls and draped the line of tall windows that made the room appear even larger than it was. An Adamesque white-and-silver plastered ceiling finished the chilly look in a foliated oval design. Liza shivered and realized she had yet to build the fire.
    She ran back to the study, dumped the coal in the hearth, and began piling it correctly. Her hands, dress, and face were black by the time she had lit the coals and hurried into the bedchamber. She heard the rattle of a silver tea service. Tessie entered and placed a tray on a table between the windows and the fireplace.
    “Hurry,” the maid hissed as she skittered out of the room.
    Liza knelt at the white marble fireplace and spilled the coals onto the hearth. Her hands moved rapidly, arranging the coals in a compact pile. She had to squint, for the only lamp she’d lit was sitting on the table by the silver teapot. She was engulfed in shadows.
    Dropping the last coal on the pile, Liza sat back on her heels and fished in the darkness for her brush and dustpan. She heard a peculiar tapping sound and paused. She turned her head quickly and jumped at the sight of the viscount walking slowly from the sitting room into the bedchamber. The noise had been the heels of his boots as he stepped from the carpet to the polished wood floor.
    He regained the carpet. Without glancing her way, he walked to the window near the tea table. He’dremoved his coat downstairs. By the lighted lamp she could see the gleam of a coarse, white shirt beneath the vest and the tight buckskin that hugged his thighs. He wore that same expression he’d had when he first left his carriage—an expression that was no expression at all. Stretching out a brown-skinned hand, he moved a curtain aside to peer out into the night. Beaded with moisture, the glass revealed only the fog and a black, skeletal tree limb.
    He dropped his hand, and as she sat there frozen, he sighed. She jumped again, for she hadn’t expected him to make such a human sound. He belonged to a world of savagery in which sighs played no part. Then he did something that made Liza’s jaw loosen and drop. He turned toward the tea table, giving her her first full glimpse of his face with its straight, dark brows and harsh planes softened by the smoothness of the skin that stretched over the sharp angles. To her amazement his long fingers slipped around the handle of the silver teapot with the ease and grace of long practice. Resting his free hand on the hilt of his revolver, he lifted the pot and poured steaming tea into a china cup edged with silver.
    Brown liquid streamed into the cup to just the right height. He tilted the pot back and placed it on the tray. The whole scene added to her feeling of unreality. This man who wore a gun in a city where no one wore guns, this man who dressed in animal skins, poured tea like the son of a duke. A man who poured tea like that couldn’t be a murderer, could he?
    She was about to clear her throat to announce her presence as the viscount’s hand moved toward the teacup. Before she could summon her wits, she saw a blur of movement and heard a metallic click. She found herself staring at the small, round hole at theend of the barrel of his revolver. Her mind slowed from shock, Liza gasped and lifted her gaze to Jocelin Marshall. He must have heard her, though he never betrayed surprise. He wiggled the barrel up and down.
    “Come into the light, slow,” he said quietly.
    Liza maneuvered her padded self erect and took three steps. He narrowed his eyes as the lamplight danced over her soiled apron and voluminous cap. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but the revolver hadn’t moved. It was still aimed at her stomach.
    “Don’t move.”
    There it was again, that slow, hot drawl. He went on.
    “I can draw, cock, and fire in one move, without thinking. Takes years of practice. You grasp the gun by