boot heel on rough stone, brought her conjecturing to a hasty halt.
“Desmond?” she called out, thankful her steady voice betrayed none of the trepidation she felt, for it would do little good to give in to her fear. Even if someone were to hear her screams, Desmond’s word was law here. And it would be foolhardy to hope for a conveniently passing gallant to again come charging to her rescue, especially considering the distinct dearth of gallants in her life these days. She could honestly name only one, and even so foolhardy a Scot might be reluctant to intervene a second time.
She had but one recourse and that was to rescue herself. After all, she’d gotten herself into this predicament, hadn’t she? She was convinced her stalker was Desmond, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t answered when she called his name. It would be like him to remain silent just to prolong her misery. The little toad was probably hoping that if she were sufficiently frightened she would collapse in his arms with gratitude when he finally showed himself. Abrielle nearly snorted at the thought, for the odds were better that she would flap her arms and fly out of there than that she’d cozy up to him of her own free will.
She would wait him out, knowing he had to step forward eventually, and when he did she would remain calm and make him see it was to both their advantage for him to respect her family’s dignity—as well as a gentleman’s duty to invited guests in his home—and restrain himself until they were officially wed. If that failed, she was prepared to hoist her skirts and bolt before he could lay hands on her. God help her, she would not surrender her body to that lecher one second sooner than required by the terms of the devil’s bargain they’d struck.
The silence stretched until Abrielle was certain her nerves would shatter. Finally there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, and a shadow fell across the patch of moonlight at her feet. She still could not see well enough to make out who it was and instinctively she grasped the fabric of her gown, poised to flee for her life. “Desmond?” she demanded more forcefully. “Is that you?”
The shadow moved, and a voice too deep, too masculine, and far too appealing to belong to the squire said, “Nay, Lady Abrielle. I can only pray ye’re not overly disappointed.”
CHAPTER 5
It was not disappointment she felt, but something else, something she could not yet name, as she realized it was Raven, the moon bathing him in shadows and a pale glow, revealing enough for Abrielle to recognize him, but not enough for her to see clearly the expression on his face. So, her intruder was neither squire nor stranger, and she knew she ought to feel relieved, but she did not.
Caution and propriety dictated she leave his presence immediately, but something else, something far less familiar, kept her rooted to the spot. It was as if the damp evening fog had seeped into her brain, making her forget everything and everyone save the handsome man who was once again watching her with bold, unguarded interest. What strange power did he hold over her that a mere glance or a small curve of his mouth could set her senses reeling this way? The very sight of him should send a betrothed woman scampering for the safety of her chamber; instead Abrielle felt more powerfully drawn to him than ever, her body reacting in the age-old way a woman responds to a man.
He shifted his weight slightly and a shaft of pearl light illuminatedthe loose, long-sleeved white shirt he wore with his kilt and soft leather boots. “So,” he said quietly. “Are ye?”
Are ye? Abrielle frowned in consternation. Was she …what? It was no easy matter to concentrate with one’s heart racing and an army of butterflies assaulting from within and she struggled to recall his words to her.
“Disappointed,” he prompted before she had to
“Desmond?” she called out, thankful her steady voice betrayed none of the trepidation she felt, for it would do little good to give in to her fear. Even if someone were to hear her screams, Desmond’s word was law here. And it would be foolhardy to hope for a conveniently passing gallant to again come charging to her rescue, especially considering the distinct dearth of gallants in her life these days. She could honestly name only one, and even so foolhardy a Scot might be reluctant to intervene a second time.
She had but one recourse and that was to rescue herself. After all, she’d gotten herself into this predicament, hadn’t she? She was convinced her stalker was Desmond, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t answered when she called his name. It would be like him to remain silent just to prolong her misery. The little toad was probably hoping that if she were sufficiently frightened she would collapse in his arms with gratitude when he finally showed himself. Abrielle nearly snorted at the thought, for the odds were better that she would flap her arms and fly out of there than that she’d cozy up to him of her own free will.
She would wait him out, knowing he had to step forward eventually, and when he did she would remain calm and make him see it was to both their advantage for him to respect her family’s dignity—as well as a gentleman’s duty to invited guests in his home—and restrain himself until they were officially wed. If that failed, she was prepared to hoist her skirts and bolt before he could lay hands on her. God help her, she would not surrender her body to that lecher one second sooner than required by the terms of the devil’s bargain they’d struck.
The silence stretched until Abrielle was certain her nerves would shatter. Finally there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, and a shadow fell across the patch of moonlight at her feet. She still could not see well enough to make out who it was and instinctively she grasped the fabric of her gown, poised to flee for her life. “Desmond?” she demanded more forcefully. “Is that you?”
The shadow moved, and a voice too deep, too masculine, and far too appealing to belong to the squire said, “Nay, Lady Abrielle. I can only pray ye’re not overly disappointed.”
CHAPTER 5
It was not disappointment she felt, but something else, something she could not yet name, as she realized it was Raven, the moon bathing him in shadows and a pale glow, revealing enough for Abrielle to recognize him, but not enough for her to see clearly the expression on his face. So, her intruder was neither squire nor stranger, and she knew she ought to feel relieved, but she did not.
Caution and propriety dictated she leave his presence immediately, but something else, something far less familiar, kept her rooted to the spot. It was as if the damp evening fog had seeped into her brain, making her forget everything and everyone save the handsome man who was once again watching her with bold, unguarded interest. What strange power did he hold over her that a mere glance or a small curve of his mouth could set her senses reeling this way? The very sight of him should send a betrothed woman scampering for the safety of her chamber; instead Abrielle felt more powerfully drawn to him than ever, her body reacting in the age-old way a woman responds to a man.
He shifted his weight slightly and a shaft of pearl light illuminatedthe loose, long-sleeved white shirt he wore with his kilt and soft leather boots. “So,” he said quietly. “Are ye?”
Are ye? Abrielle frowned in consternation. Was she …what? It was no easy matter to concentrate with one’s heart racing and an army of butterflies assaulting from within and she struggled to recall his words to her.
“Disappointed,” he prompted before she had to
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