Her Master and Commander by Karen Hawkins Page B

either.”
    “A widow, hm?”
    Tristan shot a hard glance at Reeves. He didn’t like the way the butler said the word “widow,” as if it opened up a whole new avenue of hope.
    But Reeves met his look blandly enough, so Tristan asked Stevens, “Where is that blasted sheep now? I hope it is not also residing in my library.”
    “Lord, no! Although, I do think that’s what Mrs. Thistlewaite wished to do. But as soon as she crossed the front doorway, it took off for deeper water. Some of the men are chasin’ it now.”
    “Good. I hope they may catch it so we can have it for dinner. Reeves, we shall speak more later of your use of my barn.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    Tristan turned and limped his way back toward the house. He reached the terrace and opened one of the doors into the study, then halted. There, balancing on a chair seat, was his neighbor and chief irritant. She stood on the edge, raising up on her tiptoes. One hand rested on the shelf above her, the other held something that glittered. But what interested him the most was that she was, for once, devoid of her cloak.
    Tristan quietly closed the door. Stevens was right—the little widow was indeed a sight to behold. She reached up on the shelf, her gown pulled tightly over her generous chest, outlining the full swell in a way that made his body hum.
    More tantalizing still was the way the light from the fire backlit her skirts until he could just make out the length of her legs and the seductive hint of her backside curve. His body tightened with need and he was assailed with a strong sense of vexation. “What are you doing?”
    His guest took an instant and startled step backward, her foot coming precariously close to the edge of the chair. Tristan was there in a trice, dropping the cane and striding forward regardless of the pain, arms outstretched. He caught her just as she fell, collapsing into his arms, flailing wildly.
    One of her elbows caught him in the chin. He blinked as white spots danced before his eyes, even as he pulled her tight against him, pinning her arms. For a heart-splitting second, he wobbled in place, struggling to gain purchase on his stiff leg as she squirmed against him. “Hold still, you fool!”
    His harsh tone must have cut through her panic, for she stilled and looked up at him, her eyes wide. She had the most beautiful brown eyes, Tristan decided, fascinated once again with the slant of her brows. She was almost exotic in her features, and he liked the faint laugh lines that danced from the edges of her lashes, tempting him to try and win a laugh for himself.
    Her gaze narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”
    “Was I smiling?” he asked, turning on his good heel and sitting in the chair she’d fallen from. He nestled her in his lap, her scent tickling his nose. She smelled of fresh cut lemon and something else…Was it pastries?
    “Captain Llevanth, you may release me now.”
    “I could,” he agreed, noting how her hair shone in the light streaming from the windows. She was a trim piece, but rounded for all of that. He rather enjoyed the feel of her in his arms.
    “Captain Llevanth!”
    He raised his brows.
    “You will release me at once, or—”
    He waited.
    “Or—”
    Her expression went from outrage to irritation in the space of a half of a second. “Put me down this instant!”
    He was well aware that he should do as she asked. But she felt so damned good, warming his lap, her lily-fresh scent tickling his nose, that he simply could not. Could not put her down. Could not even loosen his hold, not for a thousand pounds and ten earldoms. “I will put you down when I want and not a second sooner.”
    Her mouth dropped open, all prim astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
    Tristan couldn’t help himself; there was something irresistibly tempting about Mrs. Thistlewaite. “You may beg all you wish, sweetness. I won’t stop you.”
    Her gaze narrowed. “Captain Llevanth, I will not be treated in such a—”
    Tristan