At Your Pleasure by Meredith Duran

cantankerous piece with your head as the target.”
    She felt incredulous stares pressing into her. She did not look away from the Frenchman’s wolfish face.
    His gaze narrowed and traveled down her. It was a survey meant to assess the strength of her intention and her ability to carry it out.
    The gun seemed to weigh as much as a millstone, but her arms did not shake as she raised them.
    The Frenchman could not afford to abuse her. She knew that, and so did he. She was the daughter of Lord Hexton, new advisor to the rightful king of England, His Catholic Majesty James Stuart.
    “We will have to lock you inside,” he said sourly. “We cannot risk his escape before we are well clear of this place.”
    Was that meant to frighten her?
    Perhaps it should. Rivenham had good cause to be unhappy with her. She might regret being cloistered with him.
    But she could not back down now. “Then do so,” she said. “My servants will release me in the morning.”
    A muttering went up from the other men. But the Frenchman, after another cold moment of silence, only shrugged. “As you wish.” He sketched a mocking bow. “I do hope her ladyship will not regret it.”
    As did she.
    It took ten long minutes for the rest of Rivenham’s men to be cleared out. In all that time, she never lowered the gun nor removed her focus from the Frenchman and his minions, though her every sense screamed of the peril immediately at her side: the furious Lord Rivenham, whose eyes must surely by now have burned a blister into her cheek.
    At last, the door slammed. She waited for the thud of the bar being set into place and the rattle of the lock as someone tested it. Only then did she lower the pistol. A gusty breath burst from her.
    Her knees folded, taking her to the floor.
    For a dumb second, she stared at the pistol. Her fingers had gone numb around the butt. Her elbows and shoulders burned from the strain of holding it aloft.
    She loosened her grip, then quickly flexed and chafed her hands, forcing the blood back into them. As feeling began to return, she made herself meet Rivenham’s eyes.
    They were closed.
    Braced as she was for hatred, the sight struck her as a shocking relief. She exhaled as she studied him, the fatigue etched on his face, the surprising delicacy of the golden lashes that lay against his high cheekbones, the long, lean line of his legs stretched out before him.
    Perhaps her heart had been as numb as her fingers, for blood now seemed to flood back into it as well, causing her chest to prickle and expand.
    No doubt she would regret this as heartily as the Frenchman had predicted. But she could not have lived with herself had they killed this man.
    She reached for him, intending to pat down his body to find the source of his bleeding. But at the brush of her fingers against his shoulder, his eyes opened, and she froze.
    His steady regard revealed nothing. His very impassivity seemed ominous. She took a nervous breath. “You are wounded,” she said. “Where?”
    He bowed his head, his unbound hair falling forward to obscure his face.
    Of course, the gag prevented him from replying. She rose onto her knees, wrestling with the fabric where it was knotted behind his skull. Then she remembered the small knife on her chatelaine’s key ring. One slice and it was done.
    He spat the rag from his mouth. She tensed in preparation for curses or a threat.
    In silence, he lifted his hands where they were tied behind him.
    A strange laugh born of nerves bubbled in her throat. “Where are you hurt?”
    “Free my hands,” he said hoarsely.
    Such was his natural authority that she moved to obey him before realizing that caution demanded otherwise. Hesitating, she sat back on her haunches. Her palms had not been sweaty around the hilt of the gun, but now they were damp. “Would that be wise?” she asked.
    Their eyes met. His jaw hardened.
    “You fear that I will strike you?” he asked. “Do you reckon I have cause for it now?”
    That