She glanced up, her gaze locking with his. What she saw made her belly flutter. Those golden eyes, flecked with burnt honey, were his real appeal. They captured her, trapped her in their sticky allure, like an unsuspecting insect caught in sap. The eyes alone hinted at softness. The rest of him was hard, intimidating, and enthralling all at the same time.
Not him, she thought. Anyone but him.
Francesca forced herself from the security of his arms and flattened her back against the coarse wood of the stable wall.
He watched her as she backed away, dark eyebrows slashed together in a scowl. She felt a bead of sweat meander the curve of her spine. Despite those captivating eyes, he’d always had a particularly potent scowl. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.” He looked angry, almost offended.
“I know.” She inched her hands behind her body, the barn’s prickly wood rasping the tender flesh of her palms.
“Then why are you cowering?” The line between his eyebrows deepened with disapproval.
“I’m notcowering.” Francesca pushed away from the barn, her chin coming up a notch. “I was just being”—she pursed her lips, eyes searching the dusky sky for the right word—“cautious.” She gave a succinct nod. “After all, you could have been a...highwayman.”
His mouth quirked in what she supposed for him passed as a smile. “A highwayman? I’m sorry to disappoint you, miss. I’m not nearly as exciting or romantic as a highwayman. I’m—” He stepped forward, preparing to introduce himself.
“I know who you are, Lord Winterbourne,” Francesca interrupted. She felt a flood of heat wash her cheeks at the realization that he didn’t recognize her. But then, why should he? She was nothing special, particularly not to him. “I don’t suppose you remember me.” She hated the tiny spark of hope that flickered in her.
He wasted no time dousing it with an ocean of water.
His warm tawny eyes skimmed over her with a skill borne of practice. His perusal was thorough, and she felt her blush deepen. She hated blushing. It made her look like a big red beet. But she couldn’t help it. Being the daughter of a viscount, she wasn’t used to such insolent behavior. Then again, she should have expected this and worse from the Marquess of Winterbourne: rake, rogue, and rumored agent for the Crown
His liquid gaze poured over her body, causing heat to pool from her breasts to her belly to her toes. When he reached her burning face again, he said, “I don’t recall having made your acquaintance, Miss—?”
“Dashing!” a rough male voice interrupted. “You meddling little hussy!”
Francesca jumped a foot and clunked the back of her head on the stable wall.
“I warned you I would shoot you if I ever caught you on my property again. Now get off!”
Lanky, unwashed, and unshaven, Will Skerrit stood behind Winterbourne, an ancient blunderbuss in his hand. He pointed the rusty gun at her, and her anger returned.
“Yell at me all you want, Mr. Skerrit.” Francesca rubbed the burgeoning knot on the back of her skull, barely managing to keep her voice and temper steady. “But do not think I will sit idly by and ignore this blatant cruelty.” She crooked her thumb toward the stable and the horse inside.
“Why you—” Skerrit took a menacing step forward, thin face flushed vermilion. He waved the gun at her threateningly.
Francesca planted her feet defiantly then stole a glance to gauge Winterbourne’s reaction.
The marquess hadn’t moved. Hadn’t turned around. Hadn’t so much as twitched since hearing the farmer’s voice. In fact, he was staring at her, mouth slightly open—the picture of disbelief. She gave him a questioning look. Though she could hardly imagine Winterbourne was Skerrit’s guest, she wasn’t at all certain she could rely on him to support her cause or defend her.
“Bitch!” Skerrit finally choked out.
Francesca whipped her attention back to the farmer.
“Who the devil do you think—” Skerrit began.
In a blur, Winterbourne turned and lunged for the man, clutching him by the throat and slamming him hard onto the dusty ground. Skerrit yelped and the blunderbuss tumbled into a yellowed patch of grass.
Francesca gasped and stumbled out of the way. She’d never seen anyone move so quickly and with so much force. Winterbourne attacked with the skill of a seasoned warrior, seeming more warlord than gentleman. Hearing Skerrit gurgle, she took a tentative step forward. Winterbourne straddled the farmer, and she had to crane her neck to see around the marquess’s broad back. She didn’t fail to notice that the taut fabric of his tailcoat outlined the honed muscles underneath. And at the mercy of those muscles was a creature lower than the scum that might have lined the poor horse’s water bucket.
“I’ve warned you about using profanity before, Mr. Skerrit.” She couldn’t resist scolding the wheezing farmer. “Lord Winterbourne is not accustomed to such coarse manners.”
Winterbourne tossed her an incredulous glance, and she shrugged. She was impudent, she knew, but she hated Skerrit for what he’d done to the colt. Goading the horrible man was the least of what she would like to do now that she had the upper hand—or at least now that Winterbourne did. Evidently he was on her side.
Winterbourne shook Skerrit by the neck. “Next time you’d better find out who you’re dealing with before waving your gun about. I could kill you for less.”
Francesca didn’t doubt it. Neither did Skerrit. His eyes bulged, and he struggled for another breath.
“Lord Winterbourne?” She had to tap his back several times before he jerked his head to glare at her.
