Poison or Protect
Page 27
She was teasing; how fine a thing. He was not above teasing back. “You ken I need a shave of an evening?”
“I ken no such thing! I meant scruffy in terms of wrinkled coattails and ill-tied cravats.”
“I can shift for myself if left clear enough instructions.” Gavin brushed his chin against her glossy hair. It was braided and looped for riding, soft against his skin. “You lost your hat.”
“That happens when one launches oneself off a horse at a duke.”
“We shouldna have left without looking for it.”
“It is of no consequence.” She tilted her head even farther back and brushed the tiniest of kisses on his chin. “Stop mussing my hair.”
“’Tis remarkable. I didna think tresses could be so black outside the West Indies.”
“Are you likening my hair to that of a heathen?” She pretended offense.
“And your eyes are blue.” He couldn’t stop his tone from sounding petulant.
“Well, yes, yes, they are.”
“’Tis disconcerting.”
“Sorry if the color offends – not a great deal I can do about it. Yours are blue, too, you do realize?”
“We’d make beautiful blue-eyed bairns.”
“What a thing to say!” She twisted in token protest, but not so much as to jostle his injured arm, which he’d rested about her waist. ’Tis the most comfortable position.
Rusticate twitched an ear at their antics but kept plodding along. The horse was keeping the others in sight but had allowed distance to develop, as if aware of his master’s desire for privacy.
Preshea changed the subject. “Remarkable beastie, this gelding of yours. Doesn’t look like much, but he’s a work of art underneath, isn’t he?”
“Aye.” Gavin’s affection for the woman in his arms expanded. The way to Gavin’s heart had always been through praise of his mount. Weel, and dainty sandwiches.
She quieted a moment and then said, very softly, as if to herself, “Quite the opposite of me.”
“Now, lass, I’m thinking that’s somewhat for me to find out on my own.”
“If you must.”
* * *
Preshea had to accept that they were on the same side, which made the big Scotsman an ally of a kind. I can no longer avoid him. How very vexing. Why hadn’t Lord Akeldama said he’d double-booked? Unless Gavin represented a different interest. The werewolves, perhaps? Immortals, always mucking about in mortal business.
To Preshea’s annoyance, the rest of the afternoon was spent fussing.
The Duchess of Snodgrove fussed over her husband. Lady Flo and Miss Pagril fussed over Captain Ruthven. Preshea retreated to her chambers for a nap, claiming fatigue over the excitement of the afternoon.
She watched a man who must be Mawkins (he was riding Rusticate) depart the grounds. He galloped back a good while later, empty-handed. The duke’s attacker had escaped.
Preshea did not return downstairs until well after the dressing bell chimed.
She was never alone with the duke long enough for him to interrogate her, which was perfectly fine with Preshea. It was most likely that, having tried and found Snodgrove well protected, the enemy would not try again during this house party. Certainly, the duke would not take another silly risk.
Preshea sighed as the maid helped her into a grey dinner gown. The rest of my stay is going to be awfully dull. Unless, of course, I do something to liven it up.
Gavin had made an offer. The question is, do I take him up on it? Preshea had never engaged in a dalliance before. At least, not one of this particular nature, with no ulterior motive. I would be pursuing nothing but my own pleasure. I would be using him. That’s appropriate for a woman like myself. She tried to console herself by reasoning away her desire.
Would the experience be good for me or ruin me in some way? If I found I liked it, or liked him, more than I thought myself capable, will it destroy my future plans?
Oh, really, Preshea! she reprimanded herself. What plans are those? She’d served out her indenture to Lord Akeldama. She’d done her work for vampire and by royal decree. I’ve killed for them both and been well compensated for my trouble.
In truth, she’d given little thought to her future. I could retire to the country. And do what? Take up bee-keeping? She shuddered. Perfect my badminton game? She shuddered again.
Is that all that motivates me now? Boredom?
The idea was appealing. It implied that she was attracted to Gavin not for him but for lack of something in herself.
Except that it was him. The size of him. The easy way he rode. The comfortable nature of their discourse. He’d never questioned her actions, not once, during that fight. He’d been a partner. It had been easy. Too easy. And he was easy to trust, and lean against, and caress. Too easy there, also.
There was Miss Pagril to consider. Was she trying to catch him? She was a pretty girl, vivacious, exactly innocent enough to tempt a man to marriage. She would make him the perfect wife.
Preshea was never one to let another lady win, no matter what the prize.
Boredom. Attraction. Curiosity. Competition. Do I really need a reason to take to his bed? What am I actually afraid of?
That he will change me. That he will make me regret my choices. That I will hurt him simply by acting as I have always acted. That in letting him love me, I become responsible for his emotions.
For some reason, the large, amiable Scotsman was the first man Preshea had ever met whom she did not wish to break.
“I ken no such thing! I meant scruffy in terms of wrinkled coattails and ill-tied cravats.”
“I can shift for myself if left clear enough instructions.” Gavin brushed his chin against her glossy hair. It was braided and looped for riding, soft against his skin. “You lost your hat.”
“That happens when one launches oneself off a horse at a duke.”
“We shouldna have left without looking for it.”
“It is of no consequence.” She tilted her head even farther back and brushed the tiniest of kisses on his chin. “Stop mussing my hair.”
“’Tis remarkable. I didna think tresses could be so black outside the West Indies.”
“Are you likening my hair to that of a heathen?” She pretended offense.
“And your eyes are blue.” He couldn’t stop his tone from sounding petulant.
“Well, yes, yes, they are.”
“’Tis disconcerting.”
“Sorry if the color offends – not a great deal I can do about it. Yours are blue, too, you do realize?”
“We’d make beautiful blue-eyed bairns.”
“What a thing to say!” She twisted in token protest, but not so much as to jostle his injured arm, which he’d rested about her waist. ’Tis the most comfortable position.
Rusticate twitched an ear at their antics but kept plodding along. The horse was keeping the others in sight but had allowed distance to develop, as if aware of his master’s desire for privacy.
Preshea changed the subject. “Remarkable beastie, this gelding of yours. Doesn’t look like much, but he’s a work of art underneath, isn’t he?”
“Aye.” Gavin’s affection for the woman in his arms expanded. The way to Gavin’s heart had always been through praise of his mount. Weel, and dainty sandwiches.
She quieted a moment and then said, very softly, as if to herself, “Quite the opposite of me.”
“Now, lass, I’m thinking that’s somewhat for me to find out on my own.”
“If you must.”
* * *
Preshea had to accept that they were on the same side, which made the big Scotsman an ally of a kind. I can no longer avoid him. How very vexing. Why hadn’t Lord Akeldama said he’d double-booked? Unless Gavin represented a different interest. The werewolves, perhaps? Immortals, always mucking about in mortal business.
To Preshea’s annoyance, the rest of the afternoon was spent fussing.
The Duchess of Snodgrove fussed over her husband. Lady Flo and Miss Pagril fussed over Captain Ruthven. Preshea retreated to her chambers for a nap, claiming fatigue over the excitement of the afternoon.
She watched a man who must be Mawkins (he was riding Rusticate) depart the grounds. He galloped back a good while later, empty-handed. The duke’s attacker had escaped.
Preshea did not return downstairs until well after the dressing bell chimed.
She was never alone with the duke long enough for him to interrogate her, which was perfectly fine with Preshea. It was most likely that, having tried and found Snodgrove well protected, the enemy would not try again during this house party. Certainly, the duke would not take another silly risk.
Preshea sighed as the maid helped her into a grey dinner gown. The rest of my stay is going to be awfully dull. Unless, of course, I do something to liven it up.
Gavin had made an offer. The question is, do I take him up on it? Preshea had never engaged in a dalliance before. At least, not one of this particular nature, with no ulterior motive. I would be pursuing nothing but my own pleasure. I would be using him. That’s appropriate for a woman like myself. She tried to console herself by reasoning away her desire.
Would the experience be good for me or ruin me in some way? If I found I liked it, or liked him, more than I thought myself capable, will it destroy my future plans?
Oh, really, Preshea! she reprimanded herself. What plans are those? She’d served out her indenture to Lord Akeldama. She’d done her work for vampire and by royal decree. I’ve killed for them both and been well compensated for my trouble.
In truth, she’d given little thought to her future. I could retire to the country. And do what? Take up bee-keeping? She shuddered. Perfect my badminton game? She shuddered again.
Is that all that motivates me now? Boredom?
The idea was appealing. It implied that she was attracted to Gavin not for him but for lack of something in herself.
Except that it was him. The size of him. The easy way he rode. The comfortable nature of their discourse. He’d never questioned her actions, not once, during that fight. He’d been a partner. It had been easy. Too easy. And he was easy to trust, and lean against, and caress. Too easy there, also.
There was Miss Pagril to consider. Was she trying to catch him? She was a pretty girl, vivacious, exactly innocent enough to tempt a man to marriage. She would make him the perfect wife.
Preshea was never one to let another lady win, no matter what the prize.
Boredom. Attraction. Curiosity. Competition. Do I really need a reason to take to his bed? What am I actually afraid of?
That he will change me. That he will make me regret my choices. That I will hurt him simply by acting as I have always acted. That in letting him love me, I become responsible for his emotions.
For some reason, the large, amiable Scotsman was the first man Preshea had ever met whom she did not wish to break.
