It was also inconvenient. He did not have much time in which to complete his mission, and this tiny warrior seemed determined to prevent him. He tried reason first.
“I confess to having broken the kitchen window in order to gain access, madam. But no one answered the door.”
“And do you always break into houses when no one answers the door?”
He considered it. “Generally speaking, the houses whose doors I knock upon seem to have servants. You have no servants?”
“That is none of your business.”
But he’d hit a nerve. Who the devil was she? This house in Maidenhead had been rented by the Earl of Walgrave to act as a prison for his daughter, Lady Chastity Ware. Bryght had expected to find it empty now Chastity had escaped.
The young woman raised the pistol a threatening inch. “Leave, sirrah!”
“No.”
Bryght heard her hiss of irritation and awaited events with interest. It took a truly callous soul to shoot a stationary person in cold blood, and whatever her qualities he didn’t think this pocket Amazon was callous.
He was proved correct. She did not pull the trigger.
“Now,” he said. “I have a reasonable purpose in being here.”
“What reasonable purpose can excuse housebreaking?”
“I have come to collect a document left by a recent occupant.”
She didn’t waver an inch. “What recent occupant?”
“You are full of questions, aren’t you? Let us say, a lady.”
“What lady?”
“I prefer not to answer that.” Tiring of the game, he stepped forward to disarm her.
He saw her suck in a breath and raise the gun an inch farther.Damn. He threw himself at her legs just as she squeezed the trigger.
Portia was flat on her back, squashed under a giant. Her hands felt numb from the kick of the pistol, and her head was ringing where it had connected with the tiles of the hall floor. Or perhaps it was ringing with the thunder of the pistol shot. She had never fired a gun indoors before. It made a lot of noise.
She stared up dazedly and saw that the house-breaking devil seemed rather concerned.
He raised some of his weight on his arms and she took a deep breath. “Howdareyou!”
“I could hardly let you shoot me.”
“Then you should have left.” Portia heaved to try to throw him off but immediately realized that it was a very bad idea. He was lying between her legs and her simple dress with but the one petticoat was a flimsy barrier.
The way his elegant lips twitched at her predicament made her want to scratch his all-too-handsome face. No one had a right to features which so closely resembled an amused Lucifer, especially a bullying, house-breaking wretch.
“Whoareyou?” she demanded.
“Bryght Malloren, not precisely at your service. And who are you?”
“That, sir, is none of your business.” She tried to wriggle from under him, but he had her trapped.
“Then I will call you Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons.” He brushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen over her eyes, and the gentleness of the gesture disconcerted her. The same gentleness was in his voice when he said, “Do you always fight against the odds, Hippolyta?”
His dark hair was disordered, too. It was escaping its ribbon and falling in wavy tendrils about his face. The informality was disarming.
“I had a pistol,” she pointed out.
