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“Are you ever going to marry?” “I hope so, Rye. But I have to find the right gentleman first.” “If no one else will marry you, I will when I’m grown up. But only if I’m taller, because I wouldn’t want to look up at you.”
The air was charged with the promise of … something.
Beatrix looked up at the man who had stopped approximately three yards away. Christopher. It seemed the entire world stopped.
No longer a god descending from Olympus … now a warrior hardened by bitter experience.
“I remember you.”
The rough velvet of his voice was a pleasure-stroke against her ears. Fascinated, bewildered,
“It seems we have different interests.” I’m interested in you, and she’s interested in your inheritance.
“I only meant that Miss Mercer is conventional. And you’re … not.” His tone was seasoned with the merest hint of condescension … but there was no mistaking it.
Abruptly all the feelings of compassion and tenderness disappeared as Beatrix realized that Christopher Phelan had not changed in one regard: he still didn’t like her.
“I would never want to be a conventional person,” she said. “They’re usually...
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Bad enough to love a man who didn’t love her. But it was exponentially worse to love a man who actively disliked her.
He dismissed me as someone who didn’t deserve a modicum of respect. Clearly he thinks I’m wild and more than a little mad. And the worst part is that he’s probably right.
It crossed her mind that this was why she preferred the company of animals to people. Animals weren’t deceitful.
And one was never tempted to hope that an animal might ...
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It was just that he was nearly mad with longing for Prudence, for the sweet, artless voice that had saved his sanity. Every word of every letter she’d sent him still resonated through his soul.
mad idea had taken hold of him … that she was nearby, and fate would bring them together that quickly, that simply. But instead of finding the woman he had dreamed of, craved, needed for so long, he had found Beatrix Hathaway.
haunting blue eyes, a blue so rich and deep it seemed to contain hints of purple.
“I owe him my life, and my loyalty. And unsightly and ill mannered though he is, I happen to love him.”
Clearly Prudence was the victim of vicious rumors—and in light of her beauty and charm, that was entirely expected.
“And you find Beatrix Hathaway superior to her?” “In every regard, except perhaps beauty.” “There you have it wrong,” he informed her. “Miss Hathaway is a beauty.”
“It’s obvious. Regardless of what I think of her character, Miss Hathaway is an exceptionally attractive woman.”
“Oh, I don’t know …” Audrey devoted careful attention to her tea, adding a tiny lump of sugar. “She’s rather tall.” “She has the ideal height and form.” “And brown hair is so common …” “It’s not the usual shade of brown, it’s as dark as sable. And those eyes …” “Blue,” Audrey said with a dismissive wave. “The deepest, purest blue I’ve ever seen. No artist could capture—” Christopher broke off abruptly. “Never mind. I’m straying from the point.” “What is your point?” Audrey asked sweetly. “That it is of no significance to me whether Miss Hathaway is a beauty or not. She’s peculiar, and so is
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It was common knowledge that the Hathaway family was a close-knit, clannish group, fiercely protective of each other. And they had to be, with a pair of Romany brothers-in-law, not to mention their own lack of blood and breeding.
Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand.
“No, I … came to call on Miss Hathaway.” “Are you one of her suitors?” Christopher gave a decisive shake of his head. “You might be one,” the boy said wisely, “and just not know it yet.”
“Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?” “Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her.” “Why is that, do you imagine?” “They don’t want to get shot,” the child said, shrugging. “Pardon?” Christopher’s brows lifted. “Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love,” the boy explained. He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think the rest of it hurts as much as the beginning.”
His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid … the eyes of a vagabond angel.
The touch of her hands against his shirtfront elicited an unnerving response, a pleasurable heaviness in his groin.
She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic.
I … words are too important for me to be so careless with them.”
“And I don’t.” “You don’t what?” she asked with a frown. “Dislike you. That is … I don’t know you well enough to either like or dislike you.” “I’m fairly certain, Captain,” she said, “that the more you discover about me, the more you will dislike me. Therefore, let’s cut to the chase and acknowledge that we don’t like each other. Then we won’t have to bother with the in-between part.”
“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.” “Why not?” “Because when you said that just now, I found myself starting to like you.”
She began to brush at his lapels vigorously. It took Christopher a full five seconds to remember how to breathe.
“Miss Hathaway—” In her efforts to whisk away the scattering of stray goat hairs, she was standing much too close. He wanted her even closer.
Christopher’s control broke. He snatched her slender wrists with his hands, holding them suspended. God, the feel of her … the smooth skin … the exquisite throb of her veins against his fingertips. A subtle tremor ran through her. He wanted to follow it with his hands, smooth his palms over the supple curves of her. He wanted to wrap her around him, her legs, her arms, her hair.
“Captain Phelan and I dislike each other,” Beatrix told her. “In fact, we’re sworn enemies.” Christopher glanced at her quickly. “When did we become sworn enemies?” Ignoring him, Beatrix said to her sister, “Regardless, he’s staying for tea.”
But really, apologies are wasted on our family—we’re usually pleased by the things we should be offended by, and vice versa.
Perhaps you should reconsider your attire. Poor Captain Phelan may find it somewhat shocking.” “But he’s already seen me like this,” came Beatrix’s voice from behind Christopher, “and I’ve already shocked him. What is the point in changing clothes? Captain, would you feel more comfortable if I took my breeches off?”
“My sister prefers her tea flavored with mint. Would you like some as well, Captain?” “No, thank you, I …” Christopher’s voice faded as he watched her stir a spoonful of honey into the cup. “Every morning and afternoon I drink fresh mint tea sweetened with honey …” The reminder of Prudence awakened the familiar yearning, and Christopher steeled himself against it. He forced himself to focus solely on this situation, these people.
Christopher continued to object, but he fell silent, blinking, as she reached out and touched his chest. Her fingertips rested over his heart for the space of one heartbeat.
Christopher fell back a step, his breath catching. His body responded to her touch with disconcerting swiftness. A lady never put her hand to any area of a man’s torso unless the circumstances were so extreme that … well, he couldn’t even imagine what would justify it. Perhaps if his waistcoat was on fire, and she was trying to put it out. Other than that, he couldn’t think of any defensible reason.
“One of my private rules for dealing with Hathaways,” he said, “is never to forbid them anything. Because that guarantees they’ll keep doing it.”
An ordinary life—being contained in parlors and drawing rooms—would be a prison for her. She relates to the world in a far more vital and natural
“You will call again soon, I hope,” Amelia said. “Yes,” Christopher said, not meaning it. He was fairly certain that the Hathaways, although enjoyable, were best taken in small, infrequent doses.
“It’s obvious that Beatrix is fascinated by Captain Phelan.” “She’s always been drawn to wounded creatures.” “The wounded ones are often the most dangerous.”
Beatrix’s assertiveness was like a pebble lodged in the toe of his shoe. And yet when she was near, it was impossible to feel detached from his surroundings. She had a knack of keeping him anchored in the present.
“I have one talent,” he said, taking Albert’s leash from Beatrix’s hand. He looked down into her round eyes. “I’m good at killing.”
And the more successful he’d become at bringing death to others, the more dead he had felt inside.
That was the only decent part of him left, the part that loved her.
Except … she couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was like an illness. It was impossible for her to carry on as usual. She was constantly on the verge of tears.
