Page 3 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
The scent of soap and horses curled around the warmth rising in her. While he gazed up at the tangle of branches, her eyes fixed on the broad shoulders rippling under dark coats.
She shook off her fluttering. He was a great bloody ox dressed up in fine clothing, this man. That was all.
“My maid was holding it.” There’d been no more room in the cart’s box after Paulette and Mabel’s small cases and all of Mrs. Everly’s trunks.
“She was careless.”
“And how would you know? It wasn’t her fault. We hit a great rut.” A great rut that roused the dozing Mrs. Everly, knocking her into poor Mabel.
His gaze sent her skin squirming, raising the heat in her up a notch.
He wasn’t handsome, exactly, not like the smith’s new apprentice, or the poetically thin dancing master who came round the neighborhood for lessons, or even like Lord Bakeley, who Mabel had ridiculously mooned over on their only visit to Cransdall a few years before.
When he smiled, he cracked a few lines around his eyes, though she’d swear this man was no more than a few years older than her own self. The sun wore on freckled skin, Mabel always said, and wasn’t it true in his case. Lucky he was born male—the wrinkles only made him look rugged.
“And just how were you planning to have your maid help you get it down?”
More irritation welled in her. “I could shake the tree and Mabel could catch it.”
“She might miss it entirely, or fumble it, and plop it right into the brook.”
If therewastruly a brook. “I don’t see water.”
“But you hear it.”
Grrr. She’d only noticed the sound when he’d mentioned it.
“Or it might hit the ground and crack all to pieces.” He turned his gaze back to the box. “And there’s no shimmying up that tree without taking an axe to the branches.” He sidled lower and reached a hand.
Her breath caught. He was only a bit short of the mark. On horseback evenshecould reach—but she wouldn’t risk any horse on this slope, and certainly not Horace. And then there would be the time wasted unhitching and hitching—
“Paulette.” Mrs Everly’s screech pierced through the thicket, bouncing off rocks, drowning the sough of the summer breeze.
Nerves itching, she looked up. The writing case was the one thing she had of the man she couldn’t remember. She wouldn’t lose it to a brook or her companion’s impatience, or her own rush to get where she must go.
“Well?” he asked.
In spite of the heat, a shiver went through her.
She straightened her shoulders. She wouldn’t lose that lap desk to fear either.
“Fine, then.” She’d let him help her.
His steady gaze sent her heart pounding like the beat of a downpour. Who was he? She didn’t even know his name.
He crossed his thick arms and her breath eased. The man could hold her down with one finger and do the terrible things Mrs Everly always alluded to but never truly described. Yet he hadn’t really flirted. He hadn’t grabbed at her. He hadn’t as much as stared at her bosom.
She took a deep breath. “You could boost me.”
His lips lifted into a full grin.
She took a step back, and he frowned.
“You’ve naught to fear, miss.” His jaw tightened. “I’ve never hurt a woman, and I won’t start with it now.”
“Paulette. Leave it Paulette.”
“Not eventhatwoman,” he muttered. He shed his gloves and coat and tossed his hat atop them.
