bound to honor and obey him.”
A twitch in his jaw let her know her point struck home. He didn’t respond with his usual verbal parry and his expression hinted he was more affected than he revealed. Was it too much to hope that he might have second thoughts about inflicting a husband on her?
She watched him test his right hand, flex it and wince. Her breath caught in her throat. His knuckles were swelling.
He had defended her.
She relived in her mind’s eye the moment when he’d slammed into Clapford to keep him from reaching her…the way his big frame braced and strained…the fierce determination in his face. The elemental female in her savored theraw male power that had come to her defense. The rational woman in her wanted to express how grateful she was. But the feminine heart of her wanted to curl up around that battered hand and soothe—
A well-timed shiver claimed the rest of that thought. She forced her gaze away from him, and it fell on her cold, sodden footwear.
“My shoes.” She hiked her skirt to the top of her nine-button boot. “I didn’t realize I’d stepped into the water. They’re wet through and through.”
Mercy bent to feel the leather. “We got to get ye out o’ them, miz.” She patted the seat beside her, then reached into her carpet bag for a button hook. “Set yer feet up here. We’ll get ye warmed right up.”
Jack jerked his chin back. “We?”
10
“B REAK OUT yer flask, sarr,” Mercy ordered, glowering when he hesitated. “She needs a nip. And don’t pretend ye ain’t got one. Genl’men always got a drop tucked away somewhere.”
His jaw loosened at the old girl’s audacity, but he reached into a compartment under the seat and retrieved a silver flask. Removing the cap, he took a sizeable swallow himself before passing it over to Mercy, who astounded him by doing the same before handing it off to Mariah.
“This is outrageous,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the trim ankles and French-heeled boots now on the seat. He could barely swallow.
“Removing my cold, wet shoes to prevent catching pneumonia is outrageous?” Mariah took a drink from the flask and closed her eyes, clearly appreciating its warmth. “I suppose you think a lady should rather die from lung sickness than reveal her ankles?”
Hell, yes, he wanted to say. He managed to rise above it.
“Then, it’s a good thing that I’m a simple widowed innkeeper instead of a lady.” She sank back, cradling the flask against her breasts. “Absurd, isn’t it, how society decides such things? A woman in a ball gown bares her entire bosom with impunity, but let a man catch a glimpse of a common, ordinary ankle—”
“I think you’ve had quite enough brandy,” he said, holding out a hand for the flask. She ignored it.
“All the more nonsensical because ankles aren’t erotically responsive and breasts are,” she continued. “However did such a paradox come to be?” When Mercy’s surprise turned into a frown, she winked at the old girl and took another sip. “Speaking philosophically, of course. Every topic is allowed in discourse on natural and social philosophy. Is that not so, Jack?”
“Pay her no mind, sarr—she jus’ likes to talk hot peppers,” Mercy said, scowling at her mistress. “She were alwus tormentin’ the old squire.”
“Teasing,” she corrected. “And he liked it.”
Mercy addressed Jack. “He let her get by wi’ a lot, sarr.”
Mariah affirmed that comment with a mischievous smile.
“Because I let him get by with a lot.”
Jack could barely follow the exchange; he was stuck on erotically responsive. The words had set his blood humming and his skin aching. That sin-tainted smile…she was determined to provoke him and he was just as determined not to allow himself to be provoked. Not in that way.
Not again. Too damned much was at stake.
To think that moments ago he was thinking of her as selfless and upright and telling himself she deserved better than
A twitch in his jaw let her know her point struck home. He didn’t respond with his usual verbal parry and his expression hinted he was more affected than he revealed. Was it too much to hope that he might have second thoughts about inflicting a husband on her?
She watched him test his right hand, flex it and wince. Her breath caught in her throat. His knuckles were swelling.
He had defended her.
She relived in her mind’s eye the moment when he’d slammed into Clapford to keep him from reaching her…the way his big frame braced and strained…the fierce determination in his face. The elemental female in her savored theraw male power that had come to her defense. The rational woman in her wanted to express how grateful she was. But the feminine heart of her wanted to curl up around that battered hand and soothe—
A well-timed shiver claimed the rest of that thought. She forced her gaze away from him, and it fell on her cold, sodden footwear.
“My shoes.” She hiked her skirt to the top of her nine-button boot. “I didn’t realize I’d stepped into the water. They’re wet through and through.”
Mercy bent to feel the leather. “We got to get ye out o’ them, miz.” She patted the seat beside her, then reached into her carpet bag for a button hook. “Set yer feet up here. We’ll get ye warmed right up.”
Jack jerked his chin back. “We?”
10
“B REAK OUT yer flask, sarr,” Mercy ordered, glowering when he hesitated. “She needs a nip. And don’t pretend ye ain’t got one. Genl’men always got a drop tucked away somewhere.”
His jaw loosened at the old girl’s audacity, but he reached into a compartment under the seat and retrieved a silver flask. Removing the cap, he took a sizeable swallow himself before passing it over to Mercy, who astounded him by doing the same before handing it off to Mariah.
“This is outrageous,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the trim ankles and French-heeled boots now on the seat. He could barely swallow.
“Removing my cold, wet shoes to prevent catching pneumonia is outrageous?” Mariah took a drink from the flask and closed her eyes, clearly appreciating its warmth. “I suppose you think a lady should rather die from lung sickness than reveal her ankles?”
Hell, yes, he wanted to say. He managed to rise above it.
“Then, it’s a good thing that I’m a simple widowed innkeeper instead of a lady.” She sank back, cradling the flask against her breasts. “Absurd, isn’t it, how society decides such things? A woman in a ball gown bares her entire bosom with impunity, but let a man catch a glimpse of a common, ordinary ankle—”
“I think you’ve had quite enough brandy,” he said, holding out a hand for the flask. She ignored it.
“All the more nonsensical because ankles aren’t erotically responsive and breasts are,” she continued. “However did such a paradox come to be?” When Mercy’s surprise turned into a frown, she winked at the old girl and took another sip. “Speaking philosophically, of course. Every topic is allowed in discourse on natural and social philosophy. Is that not so, Jack?”
“Pay her no mind, sarr—she jus’ likes to talk hot peppers,” Mercy said, scowling at her mistress. “She were alwus tormentin’ the old squire.”
“Teasing,” she corrected. “And he liked it.”
Mercy addressed Jack. “He let her get by wi’ a lot, sarr.”
Mariah affirmed that comment with a mischievous smile.
“Because I let him get by with a lot.”
Jack could barely follow the exchange; he was stuck on erotically responsive. The words had set his blood humming and his skin aching. That sin-tainted smile…she was determined to provoke him and he was just as determined not to allow himself to be provoked. Not in that way.
Not again. Too damned much was at stake.
To think that moments ago he was thinking of her as selfless and upright and telling himself she deserved better than
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