Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) by Adrienne deWolfe Page A
Authors: Adrienne deWolfe
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worried about surprising a coyote than losing a valuable pack animal. Coyotes had nowhere to hide in a stump forest. Horses and mules, on the other hand, could hurdle themselves through the debris and break a leg.
For the rest of that journey, Silver battled her uneasiness. Her animals weren't much consolation, since they spooked each time a bee buzzed or a magpie shrilled. It was downright eerie. She tried to tell herself she was being silly, that no predator large enough to hurt her could hide behind a tree stump, and that included outlaws.
Nevertheless, her shivers continued. Instinct told her that something she couldn't quite see or hear was following her—just as she'd dreamed in her nightmares about Nahele. The realization was far from comforting.
But to actually acknowledge that Nahele was real—and worse, that he was stalking her across deforested acreage that she had ordered her lumbermen to clear—was preposterous. She refused to dignify such nonsense. Even to her mule.
At last the gray-green aspen trunks closed around her. She didn't know whether to be relieved or further alarmed at that point. City-born and bred, she'd never much cared for forests. Her nerves were stretched to their limits. She couldn't enjoy the beauty of the columbines, stretching like an azure field of stars along the riverbank.
When at last she reached the water's edge, perspiration was rolling between her breasts. Her hands were damp and sticky as she fumbled with Jenny's buckles. To her dismay, the basket slid free of its straps, crashing bottom-side-up under Jenny's belly. Silver muttered an oath, envisioning a hoofprint in her forehead as she stooped to retrieve the nuisance.
"Come on, Jenny," she said, leading the animal a safe twenty feet away. "I sure wish I knew what had you so jittery."
The twig that snapped behind her was nearly her undoing.
"Maybe the ol' girl's in heat," drawled a familiar Kentucky accent.
"Jones!" She practically shrieked his name. She didn't know whether to be relieved or outraged to see him. "How dare you sneak up on me like that! Were you following me all this time?"
"'All this time'?" He flashed a lopsided grin, leaning his flannel-clad shoulder against a tree. "That all depends. How long do you think someone was following you?"
Ooh, wretched man. She would have loved to wring his neck. "Never mind," she snapped, hiding the tremor in her hands beneath the folds of her tweed riding skirt. "Just where the devil have you been? You were supposed to register at the Windsor Hotel two days ago."
"Why, Silver, I'm touched," he purred. "That you would miss me—"
"Oh, stop it."
He chuckled, his pewter eyes like polished mirrors in the slanting shafts of light. "Very well. But might I remind you of your instructions? I was supposed to purchase a conveyance suitable for a British lord. I couldn't very well do that in Aspen, now, could I? All the social-climbing busybodies would have been appalled to know that our noble Lord Chumley haggles over pennies like a horse trader."
She narrowed her eyes at him. He had a point. Still, she knew better than to drop her guard. He was as lean and lithe as a puma, and probably twice as dangerous—at least to her peace of mind. She tried not to notice how his blue jeans strained across his thighs or how the red-checkered plaid of his shirt accentuated the width of his chest. The wind-teased curl that spilled so boyishly across his forehead couldn't quell her misgivings. Raphael Jones smiled like a fallen angel. And fallen was the operative word.
"I left you more than enough money to rent a coach," she rallied briskly. "And if you would have gone to the Windsor Hotel, as we'd agreed, you would have found the bank draft waiting for you. Not to mention," she muttered with a twinge of remorse, "a score or more of sycophants all eager to meet 'a real live aristo.'"
Honestly, the stir she'd caused was disgraceful. After one bald lie to the greenhorn who operated
For the rest of that journey, Silver battled her uneasiness. Her animals weren't much consolation, since they spooked each time a bee buzzed or a magpie shrilled. It was downright eerie. She tried to tell herself she was being silly, that no predator large enough to hurt her could hide behind a tree stump, and that included outlaws.
Nevertheless, her shivers continued. Instinct told her that something she couldn't quite see or hear was following her—just as she'd dreamed in her nightmares about Nahele. The realization was far from comforting.
But to actually acknowledge that Nahele was real—and worse, that he was stalking her across deforested acreage that she had ordered her lumbermen to clear—was preposterous. She refused to dignify such nonsense. Even to her mule.
At last the gray-green aspen trunks closed around her. She didn't know whether to be relieved or further alarmed at that point. City-born and bred, she'd never much cared for forests. Her nerves were stretched to their limits. She couldn't enjoy the beauty of the columbines, stretching like an azure field of stars along the riverbank.
When at last she reached the water's edge, perspiration was rolling between her breasts. Her hands were damp and sticky as she fumbled with Jenny's buckles. To her dismay, the basket slid free of its straps, crashing bottom-side-up under Jenny's belly. Silver muttered an oath, envisioning a hoofprint in her forehead as she stooped to retrieve the nuisance.
"Come on, Jenny," she said, leading the animal a safe twenty feet away. "I sure wish I knew what had you so jittery."
The twig that snapped behind her was nearly her undoing.
"Maybe the ol' girl's in heat," drawled a familiar Kentucky accent.
"Jones!" She practically shrieked his name. She didn't know whether to be relieved or outraged to see him. "How dare you sneak up on me like that! Were you following me all this time?"
"'All this time'?" He flashed a lopsided grin, leaning his flannel-clad shoulder against a tree. "That all depends. How long do you think someone was following you?"
Ooh, wretched man. She would have loved to wring his neck. "Never mind," she snapped, hiding the tremor in her hands beneath the folds of her tweed riding skirt. "Just where the devil have you been? You were supposed to register at the Windsor Hotel two days ago."
"Why, Silver, I'm touched," he purred. "That you would miss me—"
"Oh, stop it."
He chuckled, his pewter eyes like polished mirrors in the slanting shafts of light. "Very well. But might I remind you of your instructions? I was supposed to purchase a conveyance suitable for a British lord. I couldn't very well do that in Aspen, now, could I? All the social-climbing busybodies would have been appalled to know that our noble Lord Chumley haggles over pennies like a horse trader."
She narrowed her eyes at him. He had a point. Still, she knew better than to drop her guard. He was as lean and lithe as a puma, and probably twice as dangerous—at least to her peace of mind. She tried not to notice how his blue jeans strained across his thighs or how the red-checkered plaid of his shirt accentuated the width of his chest. The wind-teased curl that spilled so boyishly across his forehead couldn't quell her misgivings. Raphael Jones smiled like a fallen angel. And fallen was the operative word.
"I left you more than enough money to rent a coach," she rallied briskly. "And if you would have gone to the Windsor Hotel, as we'd agreed, you would have found the bank draft waiting for you. Not to mention," she muttered with a twinge of remorse, "a score or more of sycophants all eager to meet 'a real live aristo.'"
Honestly, the stir she'd caused was disgraceful. After one bald lie to the greenhorn who operated
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