by Anne Gracie
He breathed in the scent of her again; she was intoxicating. Her small, soft palm cupped his jaw delicately, tentatively. He felt her hesitate, felt her fingers flutter under his, half nervousness and half exploration, and he smiled.
It would be good between them. Better than good. She was shy, she was inexperienced, but he knew: she was becoming aroused. He could sense it.
He closed his eyes briefly and let his mouth and tongue explore her palm, seeking the precise angle of the splinter’s entry. The taste of her skin, of her blood, sparked something deep inside him, arousing his more primitive instincts. He forced them back under control.
His teeth bit gently down, pressing the fleshy part just below her thumb, where the splinter was lodged. He knew it must hurt, but she gave no sign. He let his tongue circle the spot, soothing, teasing, pleasuring her shamelessly. Her body softened against him, and he felt the delicate, subtle shivers that she tried so hard to hide from him. He pulled her closer and felt her stiffen, then gradually soften again. Oh yes, she would be his very soon.
He positioned her hand carefully, intensified the pleasure and then, without warning, sucked hard. She gasped at the mixture of pain and unexpected pleasure, and then suddenly he was gripping the end of the splinter between his teeth and drawing it firmly, smoothly out.
He spat it out into his other hand. “A big one. Let’s see if anything was left behind.” He lifted her hand to the light again. “It doesn’t do to leave even the tiniest splinter in. I knew a man who died of a splinter once. Went septic on him and poisoned him in the end.”
“Thank you for the reassurance,” she said dryly.
He liked that tart astringency about her. She was flushed and flustered, yet determined he wouldn’t see it. She would not come to him easily. The predator in him smiled. He liked it that she would be no easy conquest.
He scrutinized her palm with dispassion. “I can’t see anything,” he told her. “But soak it in hot water, as hot as you can stand, for ten minutes or so. And keep an eye on it. If it gets red and sore, it’s infected and we’ll need to poultice it.”
Grace thanked him and moved shakily to the doorway. Her legs felt decidedly unreliable.
What had just happened?
It couldn’t be called a kiss, but . . . oh . . . my. It was a relief to move into the fresh, rain-washed air. She didn’t know what had come over her in the darkened outbuilding. Her knees had almost turned to jelly back there when he was . . . sucking on her palm.
She shivered again. Perhaps she was catching a chill after all. She felt hot and shaky and her pulse was tumultuous. He didn’t seem the slightest bit unsettled.
She tried to gather her composure.
He straightened his coat. “Now, I’m off into the village. I’ll arrange for some villagers to start work here tomorrow. Have you any idea how much help you’ll need?”
She blinked at him, but he said impatiently, “Oh, never mind. I’ll just send a dozen or so up and you can pick out who you need to help you. Two weeks’ work only. I have no intention of setting up house here.”
Grace’s jaw dropped. He expected her to pick out his servants?
“And in the meantime, don’t let me catch you doing anything so foolish as chopping wood again!”
She bristled at his bossiness. Did he think she was chopping for her own entertainment? She said in a docile-sounding voice, “You said I should bathe my hand in hot water?”
He gave a curt nod. “Yes. Very hot.”
“And that I’m not to chop firewood?”
“No, of course not!”
She bared her teeth sweetly. “Then how would you suggest I get very hot water?” She enjoyed the look that stole over his face as it occurred to him belatedly just why she’d been chopping the wood in the first place.
He pulled off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. His forearms were as sunburned as any gypsy’s, strong and sinewy. His shirt was made of very white fine linen, so fine it was semitransparent. He set a large chunk of wood on its end on the stump.
“Stand back,” he ordered and Grace obediently retreated, fascinated by this aspect of him.
Lord D’Acre, wood chopper!
He spat on his hands and swung the ax. Crash! It split the log in half. He picked up the largest piece and placed it back on the stump and swung the ax again. Again it split the wood cleanly in half. He stacked the split pieces in a neat pile to the side, and collected the smaller chips and tossed them onto a piece of sacking nearby.
“You’ve done this before,” she said cleverly.
He gave her a baleful look from under his brows and fetched another piece of wood. He demolished that in one blow. He fetched another. Crash! And another. Crash!
She stood watching him, mesmerized by the swinging ax and the smooth rhythm and pull of his muscles. The fabric of his shirt clung to his body. His face darkened with the exertion and she could see a faint film of sweat on his brow.
He was a magnificent sight; raw, primitive, angry. And exciting.
She swallowed. She had come here to rescue Melly from this man. She watched his muscles bunch and flex, smooth, powerful masculinity in action. Would Melly truly want to be rescued from this?
She thought about the way he’d removed her splinter.
Her hands crept to her mouth. What if she’d got a splinter in her lip?
Dominic was furious with himself. It was his fault she was standing there in her damp and dowdy woolen dress, watching him with big eyes, with a ruddy great gash in her hand. The skin of her hands was so soft, almost silken. She’d never done manual work in her life. He ought to have anticipated the need for fire, for hot water. But dammit, he’d intended to send Sir John and his daughter back to London with a flea in their ears. Arriving uninvited. Forcing Dominic to set foot in a place he’d sworn never to lay eyes on!
And bringing this big-eyed, soft-skinned girl, dammit!
He was all stirred up. And not just by coming here!
He could feel her watching him. She hadn’t made a sound while he’d got that splinter out. Not a peep. One gasp when he’d caught her off guard, that’s all. Every other woman he’d known—except one—would have wailed and wept all over him.
His mother had been able to take pain in silence, too. It was something some women learned. The hard way.
He swung the ax again and again, splitting each log cleanly in half and half again. It was strangely satisfying. He needed to do something to dissipate the tension banked up inside him.
He had the scent of her in his nostrils, the taste of her in his mouth. And he wanted more. Dammit! He hadn’t planned on this. But Little Miss Freckles, with her soft, silken skin and her big blue eyes fired his blood in a way that no woman had fired it before.
Finally a stack of wood stood in a neat pile and Dominic laid down his ax. He felt sweaty and dirty and not a lot calmer than when he’d started. He bent and collected a pile of wood, bracing it against his chest.
“Take the chips on that sacking,” he ordered. “We’ll use them to start the fire.”
She looped up the four corners of the sacking and ran ahead of him to open the kitchen door. He tried not to watch the sweet sway of her rounded hips and bottom as she moved, but the damp wool clung to her body and he had no choice. His mouth dried, watching.
On the big kitchen table, an array of fresh, clean vegetables were laid out. Dominic frowned. “What’s all this?”
“Vegetables from your garden. I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d make soup for supper. There’s nothing else.”
His eyebrows rose. Was that a faint jibe at his lack of hospitality? The cheeky minx. He dumped the wood with a clatter beside the big, old fireplace. “Hand me that kindling.”
She bent gracefully and placed it on the floor beside him. He began to lay the fire.
“Any paper?”
She passed him an old newspaper. Her fingers brushed his and he caught the scent of her again. Damp wool. Damp woman. Dammit
!
He crumpled the paper and swiftly arranged chips of wood over and around it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the cutting of the traces on your coach.”
“Why? The horses were all tangled up and they were upset and jumpy. Cutting the traces was the quickest way to free them.”
He laid the final pieces of kindling. “I agree. But where did you get the knife?”
“I had it with me, of course.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “You carry a knife?”
She raised her eyebrows disdainfully. “Yes, I try never to travel unarmed.”
He frowned. “But ladies don’t—” He broke off. She wasn’t a lady. She was a hired companion, no doubt used to fending for herself. Probably needing to fend for herself. Look how she’d tried to chop the wood.
But she knew what he’d been going to say and took him up on it. “Ladies do so travel armed. My mother always did. So do two of my sisters and my great aunt, and several other ladies I know.”
He doubted very much whether the women she spoke of were ladies at all. The only ladies he knew who routinely went about armed were ladies of the night. But all he said was, “Not with knives, I’ll wager.”
“No, they prefer pistols. But my sort-of-sister-in-law and another friend of the family both carry knives.” She frowned and corrected herself. “Actually, Elinore’s is more of a, a stabbing pin. Cassie’s is a proper knife, though.”
A stabbing pin? Good grief! But he had a clearer idea now of the sort of background Greystoke came from. Some hired companions were women of good family, fallen on hard times. Others, especially the younger variety, were making an attempt to better their situation. Greystoke was of the latter variety, he decided: such small details gave her away. He would be doing her a great favor in removing her from the company of such unsavory women.
He had a sudden vision of her running through the rain, her wet clothes clinging to her body. He could see no place she could have carried a knife. Was she teasing him? “Where did you carry it—your knife?”
“In my boot,” she replied carelessly. “Do you need the tinder box now?”
Wordlessly he put out his hand for it. In her boot? He glanced at her feet. The toes of a pair of boots were peeping out from the mud-spattered gray hem. He could just flip the hem up and see if she was teasing or not . . .
“You don’t believe me, do you? Well, see for yourself.” She thrust a foot out and pulled back her hem just enough for him to see a bone handle protruding from her half boots.
Good God! She did carry a knife in her boot. She also had lovely calves. “That’s interesting,” he began.
She gave a satisfied nod. “I told y—”
“Not a single freckle on your leg at all.” He struck the flint.
She crossly twitched her hem back into place.
“Of course the other leg might be covered with hundreds of them. Unpredictable things, freckles. Pop up in the most interesting places.” He struck the flint again.
She made a huffy noise but refused to rise to his bait.
He struck the flint a third time. His fingers felt like thumbs. He was too aware of her. Clamping down on his instincts, he finally got a flame going and lit the fire.
“You’re very quick at lighting fires,” she commented.
He darted her a glance to see if she was speaking metaphorically. She wasn’t. He made a few last-minute adjustments to the fire, and then straightened.
“That should last the rest of the night.” He turned toward her with a purposeful expression. “Now.”
Grace was startled out of her brooding reverie. “What do you mean, now?” She didn’t trust the look in his eyes.
“I told you to get out of that damp dress.”
“And I will, as soon as—”
“I’m not accustomed to having my orders disobeyed, Greystoke.”
Grace skittered away, intending to put the big kitchen table between them but like lightning, he reached out and snagged her wrist. “Come with me, Mistress . . . Greystoke.” He towed her out of the kitchen and back to the entry hall.
She fumed silently. High-handed wretch. She was getting fed up with being dragged places by him. She had to run to keep up with his long strides.
He stopped in front of the mound of baggage. “Which of these is yours?”
“That one.”
He snatched it up and marched her with it back to the kitchen. He dumped it on the kitchen table and flipped it open. Ignoring her protests, he rummaged through her valise, pulling out everything she would need for a complete change of clothes. He didn’t even hesitate, but pulled out a pair of lace-trimmed drawers, a muslin chemise, and a lacy petticoat without the slightest qualms. He lifted the lacy white underthings in one big, tanned hand, dangled them in front of her, and raised an eyebrow. “Pretty fancy for a paid companion. I can’t wait to see them on you. Or off, as the case may be.”
Grace was scandalized. She snatched at the underclothes, but he jerked his hand away and she missed. A wicked look on his face, he held her underclothes high above his head while he rummaged with his other hand for stockings.
She was furious. “Have you no shame?”
The golden eyes glinted. “Not a lot. Do you?”
Blushing enough for both of them, she snatched her unmentionables from him. He laughed softly.
“Now, which dress do you want to wear? This gray thing or this other gray thing. My, my, what a lot of gray. Tell me, do you wear gray because of your name or—”
She slammed down the lid of the valise. He managed to pull his hand back in time. “I can choose my own clothes,” she muttered, still furious with him, but a little shocked that she’d almost trapped his fingers.
“Yes, but you didn’t,” he said with silky menace. “I don’t know how many times I told you to change, but—”
“Three.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “You told me three times. It might have been four. I forget.” She gave him a sweet, mocking smile.
“Then why didn’t you change?”
She shrugged again. “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my master.”
He placed his hands on the table and regarded her from under lowered black brows. “No, and you’re not my mistress—yet! I am, however, the master of this house. And I ordered you to change. And you will find, Little Miss Bright Eyes, that my orders are to be obeyed.”
“Oh, stop fussing! And don’t call me Bright Eyes! My name is Greystoke. And I told you I never catch cold. I told you I’d change as soon as I have time. But in case it has escaped your attention, Sir John is extremely ill, and this great barn of a house of yours is without servants of any kind. So someone had to make up a bed for Sir John. Someone had to light a fire. Someone has to provide hot water for tea. And that someone is, apparently”—she bared her teeth at him—“the hired companion!”
She waited, expecting him to apologize. He pulled a watch from the pocket of his breeches and flipped it open. “You have ten minutes. I will wait outside while you change.”
She stamped her foot in frustration. “Did you hear nothing I said? Sir John is—”
“Being attended to by the doctor. And nobody will expire from lack of tea. Nine minutes,” he said calmly and strolled toward the door. “If you are not in dry clothes when I return, Mistress Greystoke, I will strip that ugly gray thing off you, and whatever you are wearing underneath. Then I will dry you . . . thoroughly. Then—eventually—I will put you into those delightful white lacy things and finally, and most reluctantly, I will cover you in another ghastly gray dress.”
“Y-y-you wouldn’t dare!” His words had conjured up shockingly explicit images in her mind—visions of big, brown gypsy hands smoothing white lace over her bare skin . . .
She shivered.
He turned and shot her a glinting gold look. “Oh I’ll dare, Miss Freckles, and having not a shred of shame in me, I will enjoy the exercise very much.” His gaze roame
d over her. “I’ve never seen freckles quite like yours, and my mind keeps speculating about whether you have freckles all over your body. Or not. And if not, where do the freckles stop?”
Grace’s hands flew defensively to her chest.
His eyes followed their movement. “There, you think?” His gaze trailed insolently down past her middle. “Or lower down? Not as far as your ankles—I know that already.” He gave a lopsided, wicked grin. “Well, we shall see.”
“Over my dead body you will!”
He laughed softly. “Oh, you won’t be dead. You’ll be very much alive, Greystoke. Eight minutes.” And he shut the door.
Chapter Five
Go to your bosom; Knock there,
and ask your heart what it doth know.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
FOR FULLY THIRTY SECONDS GRACE DEBATED WHETHER TO PUT his threat to the test. He wouldn’t really strip her. Would he? He couldn’t possibly behave in so scandalous a manner. She was a Merrid—! She stopped in midthought. She was not Miss Merridew, of the Norfolk Merridews. To him, she was just somebody’s hired companion. And to many gentlemen, servants were fair game.
He would enjoy it, too, the scoundrel! Her fingers flew to unbutton her wet dress.
Keeping a wary eye on the closed kitchen door, she rummaged in her valise. She refused to wear any of the clothes he’d touched. The mere thought of his strong brown fingers rifling through her lacy underclothes made her hot with—with fury! Her skin prickled with it.
She stripped off her damp clothes and scrambled into dry ones, cursing him with every rude word she could think of. She did not know nearly enough bad words to do his perfidy justice.
She fastened the last button with a mixed feeling of triumph and . . . anticlimax? No, relief. The door had stayed shut. She’d never dressed so fast in her life. She even had a minute to spare, she thought.
She forced a composed look on her face and looked around for something to do. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d flustered her. Soup!
She scraped carrots and chopped them into chunks. It was a bit awkward, cutting with her sore hand. The carrots were quite woody. They’d soften in the cooking, she hoped. She chopped the herbs. Luckily the splinter had gone into her left hand. She picked up the onion and was about to behead it, then put it down. If that black-browed devil saw her with red eyes, he’d think he’d made her cry and she would not give him the satisfaction. He did not have the power to make her cry. No man did!