Page 28 of Who’s That Earl

Unbidden, the image of him as a Highland warrior rose once more in her mind. “And a Scotsman’s.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Still, I should have realized straightaway that you didn’t need my protection.”

“How could you possibly have realized any such thing?” She hoped she was past succumbing to flattery. “You haven’t any idea who sent that letter. And you don’t know what I’m capable of, either.”

“Well, there was a knife protruding from your desk.” The mischievous twinkle had returned to his eyes.

“I thought maybe it was the ferocious watchdogs that gave you pause.”

His laughter was loud in the stillness, echoing off a nearby outcropping of rock and the more distant walls of the castle. Uncertain whether to join in or succumb to embarrassment, she turned and walked quickly on.

She had not gone many steps before he chuckled softly. “Now, that reminds me of how you turned your back to me the first time I ever saw you. In that little shop in Tenchley.”

Embarrassment fluttered in her belly as she glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You fancied it a challenge, I suppose?”

He looked at her intently, brows lifted. “Wasn’t it?”

“I—”

When no more words came to her rescue, she began to march forward again. He did not immediately follow. After a few steps, she looked back again and found him watching her, his eyes traveling lazily over her figure. “Let’s just say, I liked what I saw.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why, all you could see was my—” Oh.

“Aye,” he readily agreed. “And I wanted to see more.”

As she spun fully to face him, so that her backside was no longer on display, her foot slipped on an icy patch hidden beneath the soft snow. Swiftly, he closed the distance between them, catching her by the elbow to steady her. She gasped, taken aback not by his strength, but by his gentleness. His arm tautened, absorbing her momentum and keeping them both upright, yet the pressure of his fingertips was not so great as to leave a bruise. When he seemed certain she would not fall, he let her go, though truth be told, she still did not feel entirely steady on her feet.

She did not know whether to blame his touch or the sudden loss of it.

“You’re beautiful, ye ken?” His voice had deepened, giving the words an unusual intensity. For once, he sounded serious.

“No, I don’t ken,” she retorted, more snappish than the dogs, who were walking tranquilly along beside them, noses low to the ground and feathery tails waving almost languidly, fatigue having won out over their usual skittishness. “When I look in the glass, I only see what’s there: a rather plain face, hair an ordinary shade of brown, and an…ample figure.”

“Then your glass needs a good polish, lass.” He shook his head. “Your hair is the deep glossy brown of roasted chestnuts, and your eyes…” His hand rose as if he longed to cup her check, to tilt her face to the feeble winter sun. Then he seemed to think better of touching her altogether and dropped his arm to his side. “Your eyes put me in mind of the summer sky on a rare perfect day—the sort we think back on when ’tis rainy or cold, the light we dream of in the dark of night.”

She had never expected poetry from Thomas Sutherland. Hearing it fall from his lips in the softest Scottish brogue made the normally steady rhythm of her heart wobble a bit.

“And as for the rest?” His eyes raked over her curves and a low, appreciative rumble rose in his throat. That look, that sound quickened her breath and made her all too aware of the rise and fall of her breasts. “Ordinary? Ample?” he repeated derisively. “I hope your Mr. Higginbotham wooed you with better words than those.”

Your Mr. Higginbotham.

In an instant the butterflies in her chest transformed into great, leathery-winged bats. She’d been so consumed by his secrets, she’d almost forgotten her own.

Her consternation must have shown on her face, for he dropped his gaze to the ground between them even as he stepped closer still. “Did you love him very much? I think you must have, to have married so soon after we—so soon after I left.”

After he left? Then he didn’t know...

“I—”

“I suppose he swept you off your feet?” Was it her imagination or did his voice waver? Certainly, he’d lost his usual mocking tone. “Or perhaps—perhaps you knew him long before I came into Sussex, and I was...presumptuous in my attentions.”

“No.” The protest rose instantly, unthinkingly, to her lips, though it might reveal more than she intended.

But he did not seem to hear it. “No wonder you gave me such a cool reception last night. You mourn him still, I see.” His lifted his head, and as he took in her black pelisse, his eyes held none of that teasing lasciviousness.

Enough. She straightened her spine, and her chin jutted forward. “Mr. Higginbotham did indeed use all the right words to woo me. A poet could not have done better. He was unfailingly courteous and kind. Most attentive during our courtship. And generous to a fault after we were wed.”

With every phrase, Thomas’s eyes grew darker, more pained, and despite her stiff posture, her resolve began to sag. She longed to lay a hand on his arm, to soften the blows her words were inflicting. Her own story was proof positive that one might have honest reasons for keeping a secret.