Page 21 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
The deep voice boomed behind her, startling her, causing her to jump back, lose her balance—
The chair toppled—
She was falling—
Landed more gently than she’d expected, caught in those powerful arms that had rescued her the night before. Her own were entwined around his neck like some clinging vine that would never be ripped from its purchase. Her heart raced like a mad thing, her lungs fought for air. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his loose linen shirt. The buttons were undone at collar and cuff, and the untidiness made him appear more masculine, more dangerous.
“You’re not spying on our neighbors, are you?” he asked, one thick dark brow arched.
Angling her chin, she refused to be chastised for her actions. “I was meeting the housemaid, Marla.”
“Marla?”
She nodded.
“What did she have to say?”
She didn’t know why he appeared so displeased. Surely she was misreading him. She could hardly think, clasped so tightly against him as she was. “Would you mind putting me down?”
Very slowly, he released her, her body sliding down his as though it were striving to interlock with his, as though it belonged nestled within the planes and hollows. Her mouth suddenly dry, she stepped back, aware of his studying her as though he didn’t quite know her, but then speaking with the neighbors, meeting the servants was obviously not something she’d done before.
“Marla mentioned that my speech is one of refinement. Although even without the mention, I would have noticed. She seems to have misplaced her G’s and H’s. Her vowels contain a coarseness that is lacking in mine. She rather thought I was the mistress of the household. And I must confess that I can more readily see myself in that role than in the role of servant.”
A corner of his mouth curled up and the tiniest dimple appeared in the folds. She almost reached out to touch it. It was familiar, so very familiar. Had she skimmed her fingers over it before or merely contemplated doing so? “Can you?” he asked.
Could she? Could she touch it? Yes, she rather thought she could. But before she took the action, she regained rational thought and realized he was referring to her comment about her roles.
“Yes. Yes, I can. Quite well in fact. And don’t say it’s wishful thinking or daydreams.” She began to pace. “I can’t explain it, but I don’t belong here. I know that with every fiber of my being.”
“Perhaps you didn’t once upon a time, but you do now. And I need my bath prepared. Come with me.” He headed for the house, his long legs eating up the ground. She hurried after him.
“But I have more that I wish to say.”
“Your wishes are not my concern.”
Good God, could she have found a more irascible employer? How desperate must she have been for work to have settled for being within his employ? Piqued beyond measure, she followed him into the kitchen and nearly rammed into his back when he came to an abrupt halt. “I’m not smelling the aroma of pheasant cooking.”
“It has eyes.”
With his own widened, he faced her, and for a moment it appeared he might choke. “I beg your pardon?”
She edged past him. “I can’t cook something that can watch me while I’m doing it.”
“It’s dead.”
“Well, yes, of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But there is accusation in those eyes.”
“Then chop off its head.”
She thought she might be ill. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t know how.”
“You pick up a cleaver—”
“No!” she cried, slicing her hand through the air, not wanting those images described in detail invading her mind. “I meant that I don’t know how to prepare the blasted thing for eating.”
He studied her as though she had said something of monumental importance. “Of course you don’t.”
“Yet I remember how to waltz. Do you not find that odd?”
