Page 7 of Who’s That Earl

When she fixed him with an answering glare, she could see mischief sparkling in his eyes. “An amanuensis, Mr. Sutherland, is one who transcribes another’s work, or copies a manuscript.” The prim explanation only served to amuse him further. A dimple dented his left cheek as he fought and failed to check a smile. “A secretary’s labors are considerably more demanding and diffuse,” she continued, “and would, I’m sure, be far beyond my humble abilities.” The less anyone expected of the fictitious Mrs. Higginbotham, the more time Jane could devote to the fiction of Robin Ratliff.

At that, Mr. Sutherland laughed aloud. Only after a long minute, and with some apparent trouble, did he manage to bring his humor under control. “Forgive me, Miss Quayle. But I’ve seen that gleam in your eye before. And it’s not humility.”

Miss Quayle, again. Her name, her dearest secret, all but shouted from the rafters, repeatedly. And in the Great Hall, where almost anyone, where—oh dear God—Agnes might overhear. This would never do. Impulsively, she reached out and laid a staying hand on his sleeve.

She knew instantly she’d made a dreadful mistake. She had no business building a bridge over the troubled stream of the past, forging a connection between two people whom the years had made strangers. And...oh, and worse. She was suddenly, almost painfully aware of the strength of his corded forearm.

What absolute nonsense! Feel the shape of muscles, through two layers of heavy wool? It was one thing to conjure up such a reaction for the heroine of one of her novels. Readers expected heightened emotions, exaggerated physical sensations. They wanted to experience everything her characters did.

It was quite another matter to discover that she, sensible Jane Quayle, wanted to dig her own fingertips into the cool, damp fabric of a man’s greatcoat.

“I believe it would be best if we spoke somewhere else,” she said, snatching back her hand.

He dipped his head in acquiescence, but the movement did not quite hide another mocking smile.

She led him from the hall, silently chiding herself for the rashness of her suggestion. At this hour, the only room in which she could be sure of finding both light and heat was the room she had just left: her private study.

As they ascended the circular stair of the south tower, she glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. He was several steps below her, once more lost in thought. Where had he been all these years? What was the urgent business that had brought him to Dunnock Castle? And what could it have to do with her—in any of her guises?

He’d paused to remove his gloves, and she watched as he lightly trailed the long fingers of one hand over the curved stonework. Before she could stop it, her traitorous imagination had transferred his touch to her own skin, and a spark of awareness swept up her spine, like lightning arcing across a stormy sky. How very different these last seven years might have been, if only...

Narrowly, she caught herself before she stumbled against the next step. At the top, she paused before the door and drew a steadying breath. It was just a room. A room with a desk and a pair of glass-fronted bookcases, with comfortable leather chairs and an uncomfortable horsehair sofa. She hadn’t bothered to redecorate when she’d taken up residence at Dunnock. She’d added only a few personal touches. So, despite calling the room her private study, the only truly private thing in it was the manuscript on which she was currently working.

Then again, perhaps that was his business. Perhaps he hoped to sneak a copy of the next Robin Ratliff novel.

A furtive smile twitched across her lips. Now her imagination really was running away with her. Surely Mr. Sutherland had his talents, like all God’s creatures, but a spy?

He reached the top of the staircase just as she lifted the door latch. “Now,” she said, swinging open the door and stepping inside, “about this urgent business—”

The dogs bounded forward at the sound of her voice, a blur of brown and white fur, long ears flapping in a breeze of their own making. The moment an unfamiliar man crossed the threshold behind her, however, they stopped in their tracks and began to bark. The low rumble of a growl traveled along the floor.

Bred to be a lady’s lapdogs, the little spaniels tended to react strongly to men, a vestige of the days they’d spent being kicked and shouted at by the London dandy from whom Jane had—well, she liked to think of it as having rescued them, though stolen might be more technically correct. Reacting partly out of fear and partly to her flustered, frustrated state, they were now busy expressing their vocal distrust of Mr. Sutherland. Did they know more than she did?

She glanced back at him. One brow had risen in a sharp arch. He looked more amused than alarmed by this unexpected show of...well, call it ferocity.

With a snap of her fingers, she pointed at the floor. “Athena! Aphrodite!” To her surprise and relief, the dogs sat and were silent. But they did not take their eyes from the unwelcome visitor, and the fur on the back of Athena’s neck ruffled when Mr. Sutherland stepped closer.

“Athena and Aphrodite.” A wry smile curved his lips as he repeated their names. “Mr. Ratliff evidently has a flair for the dramatic. In the, er, classical sense.”

She bent and plucked up a dog in each arm. Athena squirmed distractedly, while Aphrodite sniffed and snuffled, inspecting her mistress for any harm. Flair for the dramatic, indeed. “It’s a comfort to have their protection in the wilds of the north.”

“Protection, eh?” The second eyebrow joined the first somewhere in the middle of his forehead as he looked the dogs over. Athena, the larger of the two, still weighed less than a stone. “Were you counting on them licking intruders to death, Miss—Mrs. Higginbotham?”

Belatedly, she discovered it was no better to hear that name from his lips. “Do you doubt the efficacy of such an approach, Mr. Sutherland?”

Though she’d spoken in her most Mrs. Higginbotham-ish voice, the one she generally reserved for Agnes whenever the matchmaking fit was upon her, the effect on Mr. Sutherland was wildly different. His dark brows...well, waggled was the only word she could think of to describe their movement, and the smile that played around his lips now was positively wicked. “That depends entirely on who’s doing the licking.”

Innocent Jane Quayle ought not to grasp the bawdier implications of the exchange. Even the genteel widow Mrs. Higginbotham might claim ignorance. Robin Ratliff understood perfectly. Heat rushed into her face, which earned her another sharp yip of warning.

“Aphrodite, hush.”

“I suspect they’re snappish because we woke them from a sound sleep,” Mr. Sutherland suggested then, smoothing his features into something like bland propriety, though she knew he had not overlooked the hot, knowing blush that had risen to her cheeks. “Probably chasing rabbits in their dreams, and our ill-timed arrival snatched victory from their jaws.”

Athena squirmed more vigorously, and her round belly threatened to slip from Jane’s grasp. If these dogs dreamed, it was of Agnes’s cheese, and that was a prize that didn’t often elude them. Aphrodite began to bark again in earnest.

“Perhaps I should go,” he offered, though without enthusiasm, in a voice pitched loud enough to be heard over the racket, “and call again in the morning.”

Yes. It had been a mistake to bring him up here. An invasion of her sanctuary. The dogs were trying to shield her. They sensed that the stranger had rattled her defenses. Far better to hold this meeting in the bright light of day.