The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis Page B

the bailiff, who almost lost his footing and toppled into the sea. “I won’t see you harmed. My father would roll over in his grave.”
    “Now there were a level-headed bloke, your old man. I respected him, I did.” Jacca finally shrugged and vanished into the bushes.
    “We know you’re down there. Halt in the name of the King!” the gruff voice shouted. “We’ve muskets and aren’t afraid to shoot them.”
    Griffin stood alone in the bleak darkness, the wind whipping his cape about his legs. He waited until his men’s footsteps faded. But the tread from above grew louder. Sweat gathered around his collar. He decided to make a break for it himself, instead of standing here like an idiot.
    He turned to run. Another volley of gunfire. A sharp pain cut into his shoulder. Deuce it all, he’d been hit by a bullet. He grabbed his arm, where warm blood pooled, and staggered through the earthy scent of gorse.
    Footsteps scrambled down the path above, growing closer. The yells of men chased him as Griffin stumbled around trees and bushes, ducking stray branches, his shoulder on fire. His breath rasped in his throat as he silently cursed his heedlessness.
     
    ****
     
    “So you were shot in a hunting accident?” Melwyn wondered if he sought her pity. Lambrick’s face looked drawn, and her sympathy did rise, fie! She fought the urge to trail a finger down his chiseled cheek, to hold him close to her breast. “What were you hunting so abysmally?”
    “A very rare Italian grouse.” He smiled, and her vulnerable heart fluttered.
    “What other leisures do you partake of at your estate?” She moved away from him and his appealing cheeks, his infinitely arousing scent. “Murdering innocent creatures couldn’t take up all your time.”
    “That is private, and the reason I don’t wish a prying wife in my business.” He averted his gaze.
    Now he intrigued her. People called him a rogue, but in what way did he deserve that moniker? She’d heard a few whispers as to the truth in London. “You are up to something...illegal, not quite above-board, perhaps?”
    Lambrick’s dark eyes flashed, his mouth tightening. “Have a care, my dear. Ignorance is bliss. What have you heard, exactly?”
    “Nothing specific.” She had touched a nerve, and his fierce look sent shivers up and down her spine. She ached to know more about him, before she let him disappear from her life. “Everyone calls you a rogue, or infamous, and I was only wondering why.”
    “Curiosity killed the cat, my lady. In your case, the hellcat.” He arched a dark brow, his expression half amused. “Again, more reason to not want a snooping spouse about me, particularly one with your eviscerating tongue.”
    “Then we are in agreement, our betrothal and any connection between us is null and void.” A strange emptiness that he would no longer accost her in parks and pleasure gardens seeped through her. She breathed slowly. “You should be on your way now.”
    “Do I detect a hint of reluctance on your part?” His voice came out soft, searching.
    “You are wishful thinking, sir.” Melwyn moved toward the parlor door, ignoring the tingle in her flesh at the timbre of that voice. She prayed she wouldn’t stumble. “Do you spend the night, or take a room at the local inn where you may rape a village whore?”
    “The whore sounds delectable. I need a warm form in my bed to temper the frigidness here.” He sounded almost angry as he followed her back out into the hall.
    “What did your daughter mean, Pencavel, that you’re already married?” The widow nibbled on a chicken thigh, the conversation out here —if not the food—apparently stalled in their absence. “Aren’t you a widower these many years?”
    “She was distraught, Madam Whale, that’s all.” Her father sighed deeply. “What shall I do with her? A girl with few prospects now.”
    “Forgive me, Papa.” Melwyn rested her hand on her parent’s shoulder. “I spoke out of turn; it