He held out his arms, inviting her to look. “No hidden weapons.”
But Grace knew well that a man didn’t need weapons to harm a woman. She wore the proof of that in the scar on her cheek. Brute strength and anger could be enough to destroy. Although this stranger wasn’t in a rage, the muscles on his broad frame seemed more than powerful enough to harm.
Not threatened at all by the iron poker she still held ready to strike, he walked slowly toward her—rather, toward the warmth of the fire beside her. As he approached, the dim light of the fire chased away the shadows and finally revealed his face. A light growth of beard covered his cheeks, cuts bled at his brow.
A distant memory triggered in the far back of her mind, but it swirled away before she could latch onto it. That face. So familiar…
Or perhaps she was simply so frightened that she’d gone daft. To think she’d know a stranger who’d forced his way into her home, who even now could lunge for the gun still resting on the settle before she could strike with the poker—madness! His large presence in her small cottage was enough to make her tremble, if she wasn’t already freezing from the icy rain.
He unfastened the half dozen buttons at his neck. “You can put that poker down now.”
“I’ll keep it right where it is, thank you very much,” she shot back, gripping it more tightly. Why was he so familiar?
In coarse and ill-fitting clothing, he was dressed like one of the sailors who filled the boats that sailed from the harbor to ports all along the western coast of England. But in the ten years she’d lived in Sea Haven, she’d never seen a sailor like him. He wasn’t one of the men who worked on the docks, either. Oh, he had the muscles for that, certainly, but his bearing was too commanding, too proud. He wasn’t one who took orders. She could read that in every inch of him.
No, this man was used to giving them and having them followed without question. Even now, from the way his mouth pulled down, he was irritated that she continued to defy him, with the poker still raised to strike.
“I’d prefer that you put that down.” He nodded toward the poker and said wryly with a quirk of his brow, “Wouldn’t want it to go off accidentally and hurt someone.”
“Yes, that would be a great shame,” she muttered, not lowering it even though her arm had begun to ache, “if someone got hurt because he didn’t leave when he was asked.”
“You didn’t ask.”
A tendril of irrational hope rose amid her fear. “Would you please leave?”
“No.”
She bit back a cry of frustration. Oh, the infuriating devil! Her fear was quickly being replaced by anger, and by that nagging feeling that wouldn’t go away that she knew him.
Untucking his shirt, he stripped the wet material up his body, over his head and off, baring himself from the waist up. Her gaze darted to the bare chest he’d so scandalously revealed—
She swallowed. Hard.
No, definitely not anyone she knew.
Instead of tossing the shirt over the settle with the rest of his clothes, he carefully draped it over the iron arm where she hung her kettle and swung it closer to the fire to dry. The firelight played over his smooth muscles and the faint tracing of hair on his chest that narrowed across his ridged abdomen before disappearing beneath the waistband that hung low around his slender hips. He wore only his trousers now. She couldn’t help but bite her bottom lip as she wondered if he planned on removing even those.
Then she would have to hit him with the poker.
He turned around to heat his backside. With that too familiar face once more plunged into the shadows and the firelight behind him outlining his broad shoulders, he resembled a devil escaped from hell.
He nodded at her. “You need to take off that coat now and warm yourself up.”
Dangling the poker at her side in one hand, she grabbed at the front of the coat with the other to keep herself covered. “No.”
He shrugged. “Then freeze. Makes no difference to me.”
Her lips fell open at his callous comment. Why that arrogant—
She bit back a laugh. It did make a difference to him, or he wouldn’t be asking her, repeatedly, to remove it. The same strategy she used against Ethan—tell him to do what she didn’t want, in hopes that he’d do the opposite. Well, years of mothering had taught her that the strategy failed more often than it worked, and she wasn’t some nine-year-old boy refusing to do his chores. If he thought—
She sneezed.
The stranger arched a brow.
Her shoulders sagged. Oh blast the devil!
“I cannot take off this coat,” she explained with a haughty sniff to cover the flushing in her cheeks, “because I’m in my night rail.”
“Then go dress.” He turned back toward the fire. “Because we’re going to be up all night.”
Her stomach plummeted to the floor. She wanted him gone. Now. “You need to leave,” she pleaded in a desperate whisper. “Just go. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
He said nothing.
“I don’t have any money. Search through the cottage if you’d like, you’ll see.” When he continued to remain deaf to her pleas, her frustration changed to panic. “Take whatever you’d like. Just take it! And leave. Please.” A tear fell down her cheek. “Please just go!”
He stiffened at the sight of her tears, yet he made no move to dress and leave. “I cannot.”
“Please!” Each plea sliced into her. She’d sworn to herself long ago that she’d never again beg any man for mercy. But that old helplessness was surging to the surface, and she hated herself for it. Hated him for stealing away the strength that had taken her years to find.
“I need shelter from the storm.” His voice remained calm and quiet even as hers rose toward hysteria. “This was the first cottage I came across.” His gaze pinned her with a gravity that made her shiver. “If I go back out into the night, I’m dead. And several other good men with me.”
When he faced her, she reflexively took a step back, once more raising the poker.
“So you can stand there all night holding that damnable poker if you desire,” he continued in the same quiet, controlled voice, “and I’ll sit there on the settle with my pistol pointed at you to make certain you don’t get some fool idea about hitting me over the head with it.” His eyes flickered with steely resolve. “But I am not leaving until it’s safe for me to travel. So go dress if you’d like, or stay in that coat and freeze. As I said, it makes no difference to me.”
He reached toward her—
She swung. The poker arced through the air toward his head.
Startling her with how fast he moved, he grabbed the poker in mid-swing with one hand while the other seized her arm. He twisted the poker from her grasp and held it away so she couldn’t reach it.
Grace stared up at him, her heart pounding so hard with fear that each beat knotted her belly impossibly tighter. Dear God, what would he do to her now? Oh dear God!
He tossed the poker away, and it clanged against the stone floor. He lowered his face until his eyes were level with hers, his mouth so close that his warm breath shivered across her lips. Anger simmered inside him. “I told you that I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You were reaching for me,” she choked out, all of her shaking violently as old memories came crashing back, ones she’d thought she’d buried long ago. Now they returned with the same fierce intensity as the storm raging outside.
“Because I hate to see a woman cry.” He slowly raised his hand to her cheek and finished the gesture he’d started moments before—to wipe away the tear with his thumb, as gently as his other hand held her like an iron manacle. “But if you try something like that again, I will tie you up. Understand?”
Blinking hard to keep another tear from falling and giving him cause to touch her again, she gave a jerking nod.
“Good.” He released her.
As Grace shoved away from him, she saw the gaping gash in his right bicep and the trickle of
blood seeping down his arm. But she hadn’t hit him!
Her eyes narrowed on him, now that she was standing close enough to notice not only the bleeding cut on his arm but all the wounds that the black shadows inside the dark cottage had hidden before, that she hadn’t noticed in her fear of him. Bruises dotted his arms and chest, and a hideous purplish black-and-blue spot on his right side marked a bruised rib, if he were lucky. More than likely a broken one. Heavens, the pain he must have been in…
She knew now that she didn’t need the poker to defend herself. Even if he tried to attack her, she could drop him to his knees in agony with a poke of a single finger into the bruise on his side. How he’d found the strength to hold her immobile only moments before she had no idea, or how he managed to keep standing upright on his feet even now.
“You’re wounded,” she whispered, surprised out of her fury and fear. “Your arm…”
He glanced down curiously, as if he’d forgotten it was there. Then he turned back to the fire without comment.
Her lips parted; she was stunned. A cut that deep, the bruises and damaged ribs—the storm hadn’t done that. Good God, what had he been through tonight? And who were those other men he said would lose their lives if he headed back into the storm?
Who on earth was this man?
“Go dress,” he said quietly into the fire. “I need your help, and you can’t help me if you catch fever.”
“I won’t help you anyway.” Defiance lifted her chin. “I might be stuck here with you, but I won’t—”
He turned his head and pinned her beneath a look so black that she gasped. Her hand went to her throat.
“Go.” His low voice slithered down her spine.
Her hand rose to her cheek to reflexively cover the pink scar with her trembling fingers. Nodding, she backed away. Desperation seeped from him and grew the fear that roiled in her stomach, making him more dangerous than she’d first realized.
“I’ll trust you enough to remain here,” he called after her as she retreated toward her bedroom, not turning her back on him. “But keep the door open.”
She froze in her steps. “You expect me to change in front of you? I’ll do no such thing!”
“The door stays open.” He glanced past her into the bedroom. “It’s dark enough in there to keep you covered by the shadows.” Then his lips twisted grimly. “And I won’t risk that you keep another poker hidden beneath the mattress.”
“You are not a gentleman.” Her words were so soft that they were nearly lost beneath the rain pounding against the roof. “You are despicable.”
She stood her ground, waiting for him to unleash his fury on her. It was what Vincent would have done. Just like her brother-in-law, would this stranger have enjoyed hurting her?
But instead of a harsh warning—or making good on his threat to tie her up—he turned back to mutter into the fire, “So much more than you know.”
He was quickly lost in his own thoughts, but Grace knew he was still aware of her and every move she made. If she attempted to run, he would pounce before she reached the door.
She walked into her bedroom. Part of her contemplated defying him and closing the door anyway. Would serve him right! But something in her gut told her not to press him. So far he’d kept true to his word and not attempted to hurt her, and the last thing she should do was provoke his anger. The night was half over now; by dawn the storm would be weakening, and he’d leave. She only had to wait him out.
Even knowing that, she still couldn’t stop the shaking as she shrugged out of the wet coat, then reached for her dress and undergarments in her dresser. The room was dark, and the shadows hid her from view, yet she took repeated glances over her shoulder to make certain he kept his distance, still standing at the fireplace with his eyes focused on the flames.
After she’d changed into her dress and wrapped a shawl securely around her shoulders, she blew out a deep sigh of relief, both at finally being properly dressed and that the stranger hadn’t moved from where she’d left him.
Her hands fumbled with putting up her damp hair as she emerged from the bedroom, with two hairpins between her lips. Grudgingly, she mumbled around them, “Thank you for not—”
He glanced up from the fire as she stepped from the shadows, his face fully visible in the firelight.
She halted in mid-step at the intensity of his gaze as it trailed slowly over her in an assessing manner, a look filled with such deliberate aloofness that she couldn’t help but see the arrogant reserve beneath, the cool detachment. That look crystallized a long-forgotten memory at the back of her mind, so distant as to be almost a dream…
Ross Carlisle, Viscount Mooreland, heir to the Earl of Spalding.
Dear God—so much worse than a stranger!
Chapter 2
Frowning both at her reappearance and at the relentless pounding in his head, Ross turned his gaze back to the fire as the woman slowly approached. She’d changed, and more than just her dress. The difference was palpable.
“Better?” He carefully kept the suspicion from his voice, along with his surprise at seeing her looking so pretty in that plain dress and wool shawl, all soft and warm.
Yet at the same time, he sensed an inexplicable hardening in her. Oh, she was still afraid, certainly. Even now she moved stiltedly as she approached, each step uncertain and cautious, reminding him of a skittish doe. But she no longer exuded the fury and terror of before. Thank God.
She stopped beside the fireplace, close but cleverly just beyond his reach. Her gaze dropped to the iron poker that he’d returned to the rack of tools beside the hearth while she’d been changing. Her mouth twisted, but she didn’t deign to answer his question. Instead, she lifted her chin and defiantly narrowed her eyes.
Stubborn woman.
Not that it mattered. Once the storm broke, he would be on his way. If he somehow managed to wrangle himself out of the mess he was in, then he would make certain she was well compensated for any trouble he’d caused her.
But tonight, he needed her help.
“I need a bandage for my arm.” When she didn’t reply, he added with grim humor, “Unless you’d rather I keep bleeding all over your floor.”
“I’d rather you leave.” She fumed that he’d expected her to help him, yet she turned to the hutch and lifted up on tiptoes to reach for the workbox sitting high on the top shelf.
His eyes darted over her lithesome figure, noting her thin waist and round hips, her slender shoulders…She’d pinned up her hair. Damnable shame, that. He would have liked to have seen what it looked like when it dried, whether it would have hung down her back in chestnut waves or dried to light brown curls. After all, tonight was going to be hellishly long and quite possibly his last as a free man. He might as well enjoy himself a bit.
She took down the box and sat at the table. “There’s a lamp on the peg near the door. Light it and bring it here.” A hostile brow arched high. “Unless you’d rather I sew you up in the dark.”
Well. That was certainly a change in attitude, all right.
He suspected as he fetched the tin lantern and lit it on the fire that he’d have little rest tonight, if any, with her here with him. Dear God, he desperately needed rest! The weakness in his limbs from swimming for his life in the Channel, coupled with a growing headache, proved that. Yet as tired as he was, he couldn’t let his guard slip or his journey might end right here. Wherever here was.
He sat at the table and extended his arm toward her. With an irritated scowl, she reached for his bicep, which she inspected by jabbing at it with her fingertip. Gritting his teeth, he held perfectly still, even when she gave him a hard poke right in the bruised muscle. Pain shot all the way up his arm to his pounding temples. Christ!
Given all he’d been through during the past sennight, she’d have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to wound him.
With a disappointed sniff—perhaps unhappy to find his arm still attached—she leaned back and reached into her wor
kbox to retrieve a large square of cloth, most likely one she’d been saving for her embroidery. Then she pulled out a needle and thread.
He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “Is that necessary?”
“A big strong man like you, frightened of a bitty needle and thread?” she taunted. “Then you shouldn’t have gotten into a fight in the first place.”
He released her wrist and let her jerk herself away. “It wasn’t a fight.” Not exactly. “And I didn’t have a choice.”
She eyed him warily. “Then what was it?”
He gestured at his arm, silently ordering her to continue. He wasn’t willing to share that piece of his story.
With an irritated huff, she rose from her seat and returned to the hutch, where she angrily poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and snatched up a hand towel. In afterthought, she bent over to retrieve a small brown jug from the lower cabinet. She carried it all back to the table. The jug came down with a thud, the bowl of water with a splash.
He bit his cheek to keep from laughing.
If he weren’t in such danger and utterly exhausted, he’d find her hostility amusing. In his normal life, society women didn’t dare show him such irritation, even when they wanted to slap him. No, they kept false smiles plastered firmly on their faces, no matter how much he irritated them, because they all hoped they might become his countess, not knowing that they didn’t have a chance. He couldn’t stand the preening lot of them.
He watched her closely as she returned to her chair and soaked the towel in the bowl. “What’s your name?”
“Apparently, it’s Captive,” she answered flippantly, wringing out the excess water. When she leaned toward him to dab at the wound to clean it, he grabbed her wrist again, silently pressing for her name. She shook her head. “You first. You’re the stranger here, not me.”
“Thomas.” He released her arm to let her continue to nurse him. “Christopher Thomas.”
His brother’s Christian name rolled easily off his tongue and without a prick of guilt at lying to her. Self-preservation. By now, there must have been a reward out for him, with notices plastered in all the posting inns and every constable and soldier in southeastern England on watch, just in case he made it out of France. He expected no less from King George and the Court of St James’s, who would certainly hang him for a traitor if they caught him.
How the Earl Entices Page 2
