Likely the elder Olson had eschewed the house party and his wife’s and son’s titillating company. Perfect opportunity for him to spend a week in the cozy cottage he’d set his current mistress up in.
A few minutes later—probably no more than three or four, but to Morgan’s burning lungs and fatigued muscles, it felt like hours—he hauled the young woman into shallow water.
Breathing raggedly, he managed to prop her up, and after scrambling to his feet, offered her his hand.
“Here,” he gasped. “Permit me to help you stand.”
Even bedraggled and soggy, and with her hair plastered to her face, her soft treacle eyes glowed with gratitude, and another rosy blush swept up her cheeks’ gentle slopes.
Who was she?
Not one of the usual country house party set, to be sure.
Neither Olson made an effort to assist them. Probably afraid of getting their clothes wet or muddy.
However, Clarence Olson did concede to greet Morgan with a grudging, somewhat curt nod. “Dragon.”
Morgan clenched his jaw, his nails cutting into his palms.
Steady on.
He sucked in a silent, calming breath, forcing himself to relax and smile casually, as if unaffected by the deliberate slur. “Le Draco will do, Olson.”
Leave it to that sod to call Morgan by the nickname his regiment had bestowed upon him after the Battle of Waterloo. Few dared voice it to his face, and he’d bet his ruined boots the knave had done so to blacken his character to the woman shivering before them.
“Olson, I tossed my coat aside over there.” Morgan pointed in the general vicinity of where he’d heaved the garment. “Fetch it. Please. She’s freezing.”
Not for long. In this scorching heat, her gown would dry in minutes.
For an instant, Morgan thought he’d refuse, but after his mother touched his arm and murmured something, Olson gave a terse nod and trudged off in the direction Morgan had indicated.
Hugging herself, her chin tucked to her chest, the woman sloshed to shore. Her gown clung just as tenaciously to her backside, giving Morgan a glimpse of wondrously plump buttocks.
A heady wave of lust engulfed him, and he balled his hands against the urge to graze his palm over the supple mounds.
Since the accident, he hadn’t enjoyed feminine delights. No women besides trollops, and deuced few of them, welcomed a disfigured, half-blind man into their beds. And even had he ever been inclined to dally with trulls, he hadn’t the coin to spare.
Olson approaching with Morgan’s coat prevented him from making a complete arse of himself. He wrenched his befuddled gaze away from her delectable behind and swiped his hair off his forehead, shoving the longer-than-fashionable strands behind his ears.
A mocking grin twitched his mouth.
He really ought to get his hair cut. But his long locks irritated Father so much, Morgan had refused to let scissors near his head since learning his sire had overstepped the bounds and taken it upon himself to make the life-changing decision to terminate Morgan’s military career.
His refusal to enter the family business riled Ruben Le Draco more than Morgan’s overly long hair. Every time Morgan saw Father, his sire toddled down the same contentious, verbally plowed-to-bedrock path.
“As a dutiful son, Morgan, you’re obligated to oversee the sugar plantations and refineries.”
Why? So his avaricious father might grow wealthier at the expense of the wretched, abused slaves sweating their lives away in the tropics?
No, by God. Morgan wasn’t having any of it. Ever. He might not have much left in the way of pride or dignity, but his integrity and honor remained intact.
He’d told Ruben as much. Again. Not more than a half hour ago. Nothing this side of heaven or hell would ever compel him to profit off the suffering of others.
Playing the gallant and holding Morgan’s jacket open, Olson’s contorted his mouth into an oily, sycophantic smile. “Allow me, Lady Atterberry.”
Lady Atterberry?
Married then.
Morgan’s ribcage tightened. He had no right to feel such a fulminating crest of disappointment, like a rusty knife twisting in his gut.
Olson draped Morgan’s jacket over Lady Atterberry’s quivering shoulders. Had he been a true gentleman, he’d have offered his own coat, since Morgan stood dripping into his boots.
“Thank you.” She kept her attention fixed on her muddy, once white stocking-clad toes, her shred of a voice so soft, Morgan barely heard her.
Something akin to jealousy gripped him that his coat should have the pleasure of touching her when he could not.
“You disappeared right after breakfast.” The corners of Olson’s mouth sidled upward in what he no doubt believed was a charming smile.
Looked more like a rat about to pounce on a fresh, flaky croissant a baker had accidentally dropped.
No. Make that a posturing rooster.
Chest puffed out, one knee bent, and a hand resting upon his hip, he stood as if posed for a portrait. Temptation sorely prodded Morgan to inquire if Olson expected a portraitist forthwith.
“You missed a rousing croquet tournament,” Olson said, still postured in his ridiculous stance.
Rousing?
Racing a horse neck or nothing across the Scottish moors was rousing.
Surviving a bloody battle when your troops were outnumbered was rousing.
Even a quadrille with a certain pretty, sable-haired damsel with compelling melted chocolate eyes might be considered rousing.
Arousing, to be sure.
However, the only thing croquet could ever be credited with stimulating was wide yawns. And only a complete boor would’ve introduced the topic on the cusp of a near drowning with the victim still shivering from terror and cold.
“Croquet holds little fascination for me, I’m afraid, Mr. Olson.” The pale honey of Lady Atterberry’s skin glowed in the sunbeams sifting through the foliage above. Her voice had gained strength, and she gave Morgan a direct, if somewhat hesitant, look. “My interests lie in other areas.”
A double entendre?
Surely Morgan had imagined it.
Nonetheless, his cynical heart jostled a trifle giddily behind his ribs. Then kicked into a rousing—yes, rousing—triumphant jig when Olson’s faced hardened, aggravation bracketing his mouth.
“My lady, I’m certain we can find a pastime we’d both enjoy,” Olson persisted.
Doubtful she’s fond of drinking, gaming, or whoring.
“Archery?” he inquired hopefully.
“No. I fear not.” She shoved sopping strands of hair off her cheeks. “I never learned the skill.”
“Lawn bowling? Shuttlecock? Riding?”
Desperation raised Olson’s voice to a near whine when she shook her head after each suggestion. He cut his mother a fraught glance, to which she screwed her mouth and eyes tight, her expression shrieking, Try harder, dolt.
“Whist or loo? Charades? Singing? Canoeing? Fishing?”
Good God. Fishing?
Lady Atterberry’s adorable turned-up nose crinkled the tiniest bit. “No. I don’t fish. In fact, fish makes me ill.”
Morgan just managed to check his gleeful guffaw.
Oh, poorly done, Olson. Very poorly done. Made a grand impression there.
Everyone knew the Olsons were on the prowl for an heiress and in dun territory up to their haughty eyebrows. Almost as bad as Morgan’s own purse-pinched pockets. Except, unlike Olson, he’d never pursue a woman for her money. And neither was he third in line for a title.
Why all this posturing for Lady Atterberry if she was married, then? It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps she’d been widowed. Awfully young to have suffered that travesty.
Unless she’d married an ancient codger.
A droplet of water teased a slow path down Morgan’s forehead, and he swiped it away.
Imagining a decrepitude codger’s cold gnarly fingers caressing her tender flesh left an acrid taste in hi
s mouth. He swallowed and, eyes narrowed in censure, stared pointedly at Olson’s hands.
They remained cupped upon Lady Atterberry’s milky shoulders.
Morgan set his jaw against an insane urge to wrench the dandy’s sweaty palms off her. And then toss the twiddlepoop into the lake. That ought to cool the ardor glinting in Olson’s randy gaze.
Instead, wringing out his shirttail, Morgan studiously, leisurely, and most thoroughly, took her measure.
He refused to ponder why exactly, other than her curvaceous form could tempt a saint. Which he assuredly was not.
Why did he feel so protective then? Possessive even?
Hers wasn’t the first life he’d saved, and there wasn’t anything heroic about diving into the lake. He’d only acted the gentleman. Done what any decent chap would’ve done. And in all honestly, he hadn’t been positive he was equal to the task. Those last few feet had been murderous.
He slanted a dubious brow at Olson.
Morgan doubted that unprincipled jackanape would’ve risked his life to save her, even had she been his wife. Olson couldn’t even be bothered to help her ashore after Morgan had plopped her in the shallows.
And Olson seriously thought she’d welcome his attentions after that oversight?
His noggin must be as dense as the oaks surrounding them.
“My dear young lady, Clarence will escort you back to the manor,” Mrs. Olson declared, her pointy nose angled authoritatively. “I must admit, I cannot conceive how you found yourself in the lake.”
“I clumsily tripped on a root and fell in.” Lady Atterberry hadn’t even attempted to alter the truth or paint herself in a more favorable light.
However, such self-castigation riddled her voice that Morgan longed to reassure her.
Mrs. Olson cut the sparkling water a dubious look before glancing at Morgan’s face. Unable to completely conceal her distaste, her artificial smile wobbled, and her attention skittered away. “So very fortunate Captain Le Draco was nearby.”
“Yes. It was. Most fortunate, indeed.” Lady Atterberry tilted her head at a winsome angle. Shyly peeking at him from beneath her thick, spiky lashes—looking like a soaking-wet kitten—she offered Morgan what he suspected was a rare, genuine smile.
Her innocent gaze softened at the corners as she regarded him. Warm and sincere, her mesmerizing, chocolatey eyes sucked him in. Nothing coy or pretentious about Lady Atterberry. A true original.
He rather liked that. Liked it a great deal, in truth. And he hadn’t any right to. He’d nothing—absolutely nothing—to offer any woman.
Getting miles ahead of yourself there, old chap. Rein in your cavorting imagination.
“I must thank you, Captain. I’m not convinced I’d have made it ashore without your assistance. Please forgive my ineptness, which compelled you to jump in after me.” The slope of Lady Atterberry’s cheeks pinkened charmingly again. Her regard sank to his sodden boots, and her forehead furrowed into two neat rows. “Your boots are quite ruined. You must allow me to replace them.”
Her contrite gaze met his before fluttering over his shoulders and hips, then flitting away like a nervous little bird.
His groin constricted at her timid perusal. What was it about this woman that penetrated the surface of his emotions and stirred his dormant senses to full alert? Dangerous that, and not a path he dared venture along.
“And your garments too, naturally.” Embarrassment, or perhaps strain, made her speech clipped and formal, yet an undercurrent of sensual awareness tinged it too.
“That’s not necessary.” He hadn’t sunk so low as to accept clothing from damsels he’d rescued. For the party’s duration, he could always borrow boots from his closest chum, Allen Wimpleton. They were of the same size and build. “You are well worth the sacrifice.”
Faint color flared across Lady Atterberry’s cheeks once more.
“Come along at once, dear girl. You don’t want to catch a chill. Clarence, take her arm.” Clearly not pleased with the conversation’s turn, or perhaps sensing Morgan’s budding fascination, Mrs. Olson flapped her hand between her son and Lady Atterberry. “I shall brook no refusal.”
What a controlling, interfering harridan she’d be as a mother-in-law. God spare Lady Atterberry that purgatory.
Before Olson could grasp her elbow, Lady Atterberry scooted away, her discomfiture as obvious as her soaked appearance. She caught her lower lip between her small, white teeth, then, with apparent resolve, straightened her spine, raised her head, and notched her delicate chin upward.
Admiration swelled in Morgan’s chest.
Well done you, Lady Atterberry.
Her frank gaze sought his, a question, or perhaps a plea, in its glowing depths. “Thank you for your kind offer. However, there’s no need. The captain already graciously offered to see me safely to the house.”
Where Shona marshalled the courage to spout such outlandish flummery, she couldn’t begin to venture.
But it felt wonderful.
So wonderful in fact, that in that instant, she determined to do so again.
And again. And again.
Not tell thumpers, just speak her mind and do as she wanted more often.
Captain Le Draco’s mouth slid into an approving smile, his azure eye, the tiny flecks of silver there, flashing with wry amusement.
His support bolstered her growing courage.
“I did indeed promise.” Humor infused his melodic baritone. With a smart bow, all proper decorum and politesse, he extended his right arm as if she were a princess he escorted to The Theatre Royale.
A giggle almost escaped Shona at the vinegary expressions pleating the Olsons’ faces and cinching their prune-like puckered mouths. The darkling look Mrs. Olson glowered at the captain nearly caused another round of uncontrolled mirth.
Only by biting the inside of her cheek was she able to check her jollity.
If she’d offered them sugared earthworms or glazed maggots during tea, they couldn’t have appeared more offended. Yet, how could they raise a breeze? As new acquaintances, they held no power over her and certainly had no right to any expectations.
Perceptibly displeased with the situation, they exchanged a peeved, telling glance.
Good.
Perhaps they’d take the hint and leave off their pursuit. She’d never allow a gentleman of Mr. Olson’s weak character to pay his addresses. And a more disagreeable mother-in-law she couldn’t envisage.
Far better to remain unwed.
Shona darted an uncertain look upward to find the captain observing her with that same grave contemplation he’d regarded her with earlier.
What was he thinking?
Did he find her inadequate too?
The thought chinked away at her burgeoning confidence like rust relentlessly eroding iron. She almost retreated into her customary shell of silence and fled to the house. However, the kindness tempering the hard lines of his face and warming the edges of his eyes encouraged her.
Shona trailed a sympathetic visual path over the scar slashing his face’s left side.
What on Earth had happened to him?
How horribly painful it must’ve been, unfortunate man. She’d half raised her fingers to her cheek in sympathy before she caught herself.
Others might think him hackit and unpleasant to look upon. She couldn’t have disagreed more.
Nae, nothing about his countenance was ugly.
The strong angles and planes of his face still modeled a proud if somewhat harsh masculine beauty she found hard to ignore. Much the same way a damaged Grecian or Roman sculpture remained timelessly breathtaking despite its obvious imperfections. One didn’t focus one’s attention on what was missing or marred, but rather admired the undeniable awe-inspiring magnificence that had endured.
“You needn’t wait for the captain and me. I’ve lost my slippers, so my progress will be considerably slower than yours.” Shona offered the Olsons a genial smile to lessen the sting of her words.
My, but she’d grown bold as polished brass buttons since making the captain’s acquaintance mere minutes ago. And what an utterly lovely, heady feeling. She could get rather accustomed to this. In the past five minutes, she’d demonstrated more gumption than…
Well, ever in her memory.
Perhaps not terribly audacious by some standards, but certainly an acceptable beginning for a diffident mouse of a thing.
Clutching Captain Le Draco’s coat closed across her bosoms with one hand, she looped the other through his extended elbow. The merest hint of cologne wafted up from his jacket. A clean, manly aroma. Faintly spicy. Woodsy, even.
At once comforting and invigorating.
Neither of the Olsons moved an inch.
Not even when a bird flitting about the oak’s branches pooped on Mr. Olson’s shoulder.
Shona choked on another restrained laugh and faked a cough into her cupped palm when Mrs. Olson’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Evidently Captain Le Draco had no such compunction for he laughed outright, despite Mr. Olson’s denigrating glare.
His mother opened her mouth, no doubt to object to Shona’s suggestion, but before she uttered a syllable, Captain Le Draco smoothly suggested, “If you would be so kind as to hurry ahead, find our hostess, and inform her that Lady Atterberry requires a bath drawn straightaway. I’d advise hot tea and broth too. For as you sagely advised, Mrs. Olson, we wouldn’t want her ladyship taking a chill.”
Oh, my.
The captain possessed the cheeky boldness of a bloke with bull-sized ballocks.
Rampant heat streaked to Shona’s hairline even as her focus gravitated to that part of his anatomy.
“As you say,” Mrs. Olson ground out as if chewing glass. Her gray eyes sinking into irritated slits, the irises barely visible between her lids, she gave a terse nod. No match for the captain, she evidently knew when she’d been beaten. “We shall see you at dinner, Lady Atterberry. It’s my fervent wish that afterward you’ll permit Clarence a turn about the terrace or gardens with you on his arm. And of course, you must save him a waltz at the ball.”
Not a polite request but the command of a domineering woman accustomed to getting her own way.
Then you’re in for a disappointment, my dear lady. I do not waltz.
Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts Page 3
