Page 6 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
“You cannot. No one can. And you cannot talk me into a quick trip to Paris to demonstrate the error of my ways.”
He inhaled. Between the slats of the door of her little closet, she could see how he smiled like a hungry jungle cat. His expression was not sadistic, but benevolent. Few rakishly divine men ever developed the capability of compassion. When had he? “I’ve no desire to take you anywhere you do not wish to go.”
Despite his tenderness, she scoffed. “Who are you, then, if you are not Vaillancourt’s man come to haul me back to him?”
“I would never do that man’s bidding.”
“Whose do you do?”
“Scarlett Hawthorne.”
She sat with that revelation for far too long. Her hesitance gave credence to his words, but still, they stunned her. Even more, she realized he spoke cultivated English. She had returned the favor, and never noticed in what language they conversed until he revealed this about Scarlett. Speaking English did not make him an agent of her friend’s, but it soothed her feathers a bit. “I know her.”
“She definitely knows you. She showed me a watercolor portrait of you. A fine one.”
Whose painting could that have been? Only Augustine.For years, her best friend Augustine had refined her art by redoing Amber’s portrait in ink or pencil or watercolor over again andagain. “I know you best,” Gus had often said when Amber complained. “It gives me joy.”
However, the gentleman before her was not joyful. He frowned at the door slats. “That portrait is how I have been able to track you in and out of town the past few days. Even in your men’s attire, to say nothing of your numerous changes of public carriages, hired coachmen—and haylofts.”
“I trackedyoutoday,” she blurted at him as a ripple of despair shot through her.
“I know. A double play, eh?”
This man trailed her. Were there others? More whom she had not noticed? Were they from Scarlett or from Vaillancourt? What had she not seen? Who else was out there plotting her capture?
Her bravado was for naught. She clutched her middle. If she had had more space in this cramped closet, she would have doubled over in distress.
“Come out, madame,” her captor murmured with sweet appeal. “I long to meet you face to face. I have admired your courage.”
“And my stupidity to allow you to corner me?”
He waved a hand. “Curiosity was bound to snare you.”
That was true. “You allowed me just enough of you to lead me on.”
“Ah, well. Essential to one who wishes to meet you.”
“But sir, I have no desire to meet you.”
“You will.”
Did he toy with her?Rather carefree, isn’t he?Yet his discovery of her was so dire a challenge to her. “Huh! You think very highly of yourself.”
“I think very highly of you, madame. You are quick, nimble, thoughtful in your escapade. Add to that, you are lovely from afar. I can only imagine how stunning you are closer.”
She snorted. “I am noimbécilewho will welcome your compliments or your protection in exchange for my obedience.”
His jaw, square and blunt as it was, went rigid with his displeasure. His pale eyes grew eerie. “Madame, you test my good nature. I do not want you servile. I am here on a mission. You are my quest. I have found you, and now you will do me the courtesy of appearing without further ado. This delay grows tiresome. We have much to say, more to plan.” He extended one hand toward the closet and waggled his fingers at her. “Come out, I say.”
Out, she had to go. With a huff and a shake of her trousers, she emerged into the golden candlelight of his presence.
She stood toe to toe with him. But that was all that matched. Her breasts came to his ribcage. Her chin was level to his throat. Her gaze took in his mouth, generous and strong. His own eyes, in the fuller light now afforded her, could have sent her to her knees. How could a man possess such an erotic gaze of Nordic blue with long brown lashes so sweeping she could envy them herself?
“Yes.” He pronounced the word in a long, low drawl that had her sensing his bass voice down through her stomach to her loins. “I see one reason why Vaillancourt pursues you. ’Tis not simply your hair. Though the red does claim the eye, burn the mind. It is your demeanor.”
“Far from it!”
The fellow shot up a hand to make her pause. “You are rare.”
