“Decent? I already have those traits, Captain Johnson. I take exception to your slurs on my reputation.” Visions of a rope blurred in front of her eyes…what had happened to her father. “Are you interested in my reputation or are you more interested in my plantation that borders yours?”
“You’re letting this place run to ruin like your worthless father did.”
A true animal he was. Without warning, he lunged for her and seized her roughly by the upper arms. Surprised by the attack, she screamed but the muscles in her throat were taut with fear and she barely uttered a sound.
Simon sauntered down the stairs, polishing the pistol in his hand. “Miss Rachel? I believe there is one more bullet left in this gun. What should I do with it?” His face belied a mask of innocence.
“You shouldn’t let your darkie have a gun,” Johnson said.
Rachel twisted free of his hold, refusing to be cut down by this brute. “I’m most comfortable with Simon holding a gun for me. Good day, Captain Johnson.” She swung the door open and he strolled through it like he owned the place. She locked the door and sagged against the wall.
Chapter Four
Colonel Rourke’s antics had sent her into screaming fits. Earlier that day, Rachel rode her stallion, forcing the animal over hedgerows, driving him across meadows, plunging through trampled cornfields until the mount lathered and foamed, and she was drenched in sweat. To think all three of them might be swinging from the nearest tree.
When she stalked by his bedroom and found him struggling to shave with no mirror, she drew back and leaned against the doorframe. He wasn’t to blame, it was Johnson.
“Would you like some help?” she offered.
He arched a brow. “Promise you won’t slit my throat.”
“You deserve worse for putting us in jeopardy when you grabbed me into this room when Johnson and Washburn came to call.” She placed the bowl on his lap, took the razor from him, and then glanced at his face, obscured with shaving soap. Rachel smiled. He looked like a little boy.
“What do you find entertaining?” His eyes warmed and danced with merriment, and on closer inspection revealed an unusual blue flecked with brighter sapphire highlights.
He dipped his eyes to the razor in her hand. “I hope you have experience at this.”
“We’ll have to find out,” she said, and commenced shaving. When her father’s eyesight had begun to fail, she had enjoyed the familial pastime, but this was different. She willed her hands to stop shaking, and carefully scraped along his chin, rinsed the blade in the basin of water and scraped again. From time to time, she stepped back to see what sort of delicate, feminine face had been hidden by his thick beard.
Far from her musings, she was quick to modify her earlier assessment. As his face cleared of soap, his square jaw with proper cleft revealed an air of obstinacy and strength.
“What do you think?” he asked when he caught her studying his profile.
She had been leaning so far back, she could not recover her balance quickly enough to pretend she had been doing exactly that. Stumbling, she dropped the razor into the basin, splashing the contents on his chest.
Devoid of beard, the beauty of his pure, classical bone structure reminded her of a painting of Sandro Botticelli, the Italian Renaissance painter whom she venerated. Maybe his jawline was almost perfect, but just enough off to have character. Below the ridge of his brow, intelligent, probing eyes raked her…and those sculpted lips? Her cheeks heated, his face so designed would make a nun whisper with lust.
Why wasn’t she surprised by his obvious smugness? Too handsome for his own good, she said, “I could be cruel.”
“Be candid.”
If beauty was power, his smile was a sword. “Tolerable, I suppose.”
“Your flattery is hardly charitable. Do you think I’d have a chance with the females of Richmond?”
Rachel picked up the blade again. “I imagine, Colonel Rourke, you fascinate and dominate women until they surrender all with blissful pleasure, sacrifice and servitude.”
“And of course, you are immune?”
Was the self-assured Colonel Rourke flirting with her? With imperious formality, she inclined her head. “Be assured, I will not add purpose to your vanity.”
“That, Miss Rachel…is a very interesting theory.”
“Do not under any circumstance attempt to dazzle me with silver-tongued flattery, Colonel Rourke, for you haven’t a prayer of success.”
“I’ll warn you about demolishing a man’s confidence. Of course, I suppose you’d find that notion amusing.”
“That bad?”
