The Countess by Claire Delacroix Page A

child fear her? What had happened to the count? And who, of course, had forged that deed? Within the tangle of mysteries lay the key to driving her away, to securing this holding for his own.
    Though Duncan was honest enough to admit to himself that he was somewhat less interested in seeing this lady depart just yet. ’Twas just her mysteries that intrigued him, and once he understood her better, his fascination would fade.
    But his gaze clung to her figure overlong all the same.
    â€œIf that be a woman you believe wrought of stone, lad—” Gillemore commented from such startling proximity that Duncan jumped “- then I should be wary of meeting one you call fiery.”
    Duncan chuckled, then clapped one hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I shall drive her away yet, Gillemore. She is not one who takes kindly to being denied her will.”
    Gillemore harrumphed. “Aye, mind she takes naught of you with her when she leaves, lad.”
    â€œThere is no fear of that.” Duncan declared with confidence, though he ran his tongue across his lip as he walked, tasting Eglantine again.
    He wanted more. One sample of her sweetness would not suffice. Would Eglantine writhe beneath a man, would she demand as much as she gave—or would she lie back like a corpse once she chose to surrender? Was her show of passion a ploy, or a glimpse of her true character?
    Duncan did not know and he was sorely tempted to find out—if only to ensure that he chose the best strategy to drive the lady away. That was it. Aye, he would attend that meal—the one to which Eglantine had pointedly not invited him. With any luck, his presence alone would infuriate the lady yet further.
    Duncan could hardly wait.
    * * *
    Eglantine hated losing her temper.
    Nay, she never lost her temper. ’Twas out of the question. She was not Esmeraude, blessed with Theobald’s charm and his stormy temperament. Nay, not she.
    Eglantine was tranquil. Eglantine was collected. Eglantine never so much as raised her voice, she turned chaos to order everywhere she went.
    Her blood most certainly did not boil.
    Although on this day, it gave a fair impression of doing so. Aye, she seethed, as never she had seethed before. She had been stern with Esmeraude when softness would have won greater results—a mistake for which she would certainly pay, even though it could readily be blamed upon her exhaustion. Worse, she had shouted at and struck another.
    One who deserved no less, but still.
    Her loss of composure was all because of that same irksome ruffian, a man who had no right remaining on her land, a man whose moods shifted like the shades of the sea, a man who tested her mettle then laughed when she responded.
    A rogue who kissed her, when he had no right to even address her. She never felt lust either, not Eglantine, she never burned with desire. A man’s touch was pleasant, no more than that, and occasionally gratifying. Men did not make sensible Eglantine simmer.
    Though on this day, she nigh expected to see steam rise from her flesh.
    Had it not been for the obvious annoyance of dealing with Duncan MacLaren, she might have assumed she had fallen ill with some foul disease. Indeed, ’twas amazing to Eglantine that in the course of one short day, her murderous intent should have shifted almost entirely from Theobald to a man she had only just met.
    And trebled in intensity.
    No less, she could not ignore the burn upon her lips, a brand left by Duncan’s provocative kiss. A stolen kiss, ’twas, a token of affection seized without permission or request! Such audacity was beyond belief.
    And she, shameless wanton that she had evidently become, had wanted more. She was no trembling virgin in these days, and though her marriages had been dutiful arrangements, there had been nights of passion and pleasure. Eglantine admitted to herself that she missed the weight of a man’s hand upon her flesh.
    Not often. But