“Miss?”
He said it through clenched teeth, and Francesca summoned every ounce of courage to stand her ground. She couldn’t very well justify a retreat with Skerrit looking so decidedly purple underneath Winterbourne’s flexed fingers. The struggling farmer’s rotting teeth were bared in a last effort to squeeze a bit of air past those unforgiving hands.
“I think you’d better release him,” she said. “He looks as though he can’t breathe.”
Winterbourne’s cool gaze locked on her face, and his fingers tightened on Skerrit’s neck.
“Unless you really would kill him?” she squeaked. She hated Skerrit, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.
Winterbourne’s fingers flexed, and she began to fear he reallydidintend murder. Finally, with a last shove, Winterbourne released Skerrit and rose to his knees, gulping air like a fish caught in a net.
“Lord Winterbourne! Forgive me, your lordship. I had no idea it was you.” He struggled to his feet, hands on his knees, still trying to catch his breath.
Winterbourne wiped his hands on his breeches then locked his arms across his chest, watching the man labor as one might watch the toils of an ant.
“Why areyouhere?” Skerrit wheezed between gulps of oxygen.
At the farmer’s demanding tone, an ominous look crossed the marquess’s face.
“My lord,” Skerrit added quickly.
“My horse threw a shoe,” Winterbourne answered after a moment. “I saw your farm and thought you might lend assistance.”
“Of course,” Skerrit answered too quickly, with an obsequious little bow. “I’d be honored to assist in any way I can.” He spun toward the barn, but Francesca wouldn’t allow him to scurry away so easily.
“Mr. Skerrit! Wait just a moment.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ve come to discuss this latest incidence of abuse with you. I’ll have you know I won’t tolerate it.”
Skerrit turned back, looking down his thin, crooked nose at her. At times like this, she hated her short stature. It particularly galled her to have to look up at the odious farmer. She felt more like an indignant child than a dignified woman of one and twenty.
“To what abuse are you referring, Miss—Dashing, is it?”
Francesca beamed at the marquess, pleased to see that he shared her concern.
“My lord, excuse me,” Skerrit answered for her, making the ingratiating bow again. Little toady! “This girl is a nuisance.” He pointed a dirty finger at Francesca. “What I do with my animals is my business. Now get off my property!” He screamed the last, apparently forgetting Winterbourne.
Francesca set her jaw. “Not until you release Thunder to me.”
“Look, you stupid little chit—”
Francesca raised her voice over his. “I won’t leave him here after the way you mistreated him today. I saw you ride by, whipping him and pushing him past the limits of any animal.”
“I told you. My animals are my business.”
“Thunder needs medical attention.”
Skerrit turned beseechingly to Winterbourne, probably hoping to tap into some shared male condescension toward women. But as far as Francesca could tell, the marquess’s face didn’t betray any emotion.
“Who is Thunder?” Winterbourne asked. He sounded bored.
Francesca gave him a frown.
“It’s the ridiculous name she’s given to my colt.” Skerrit gave a derisive laugh. “The chit’s daft, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” Winterbourne reached into his charcoal tailcoat and extracted a slim silver case. “How much do you want for the animal?”
Francesca stared at the marquess, her breath coming out in an indignant huff. “My lord, I appreciate your assistance, but I really must insist you allow me to handle this.”
Winterbourne shifted, blocking her view with his bulky shoulder. With an exclamation of disbelief, she scooted around him.
