“He’s her coachman, not mine. Mrs. Dash, as you doubtless noticed, is accustomed to having her own way.” Those heavy-lidded eyes held hers. “So, I might mention, am I.”
His expression could be described as tranquil, but Genova’s every instinct screamed to get out of his way.
He made no aggressive move, but his intent beat against her. She knew this ability men had to give off danger, but it had never been directed at her so forcibly before. She was astonished by how hard it was not to slide away and be safe.
She stiffened her spine. “You must make arrangements for the child before you leave, sir.”
“Must?” The word seemed to astonish him. “The arrangements seem satisfactory. I will, of course, pay you to continue your hospitality for a few more hours.”
“I do not wantpay!”
He inclined his head. “Then I thank you for your charity.” He took a small, significant step closer. “Are we going to fight for the right of way?”
She made herself hold her ground. “Why should you wish to?”
“An inveterate requirement that I have my own way.”
“Your marriage must be interesting, then.”
“A bloody battlefield—which does give me useful skills.” He put fingers on her shoulder and traced a line toward her neck. Even through the cloth of her winter gown, the invasion sent shivers through her.
“Sir!” She seized his wrist, but he broke her hold with ease and cradled her neck. Not tightly, but her throat constricted and she felt she could hardly breathe. Even so, she would not move away from the door. She would not. He could hardly throttle her, here in a public inn.
“Remove your hand, sir, or I will scream.”
He pushed her back against the door, captured her head in both hands, and kissed her.
Genova had never been assaulted with a kiss before, and shock held her captive for a moment as his mouth sealed hers. When he pressed closer, pressed his body against her, she came to her wits and gripped his wrists to pull his hands away.
Hopeless.
She kicked at him, but her skirts and his boots made the effort pathetic. She couldn’t twist her head, and when she tried to scream, his tongue invaded. Oh, for a knife or a pistol!
Then something had an effect. He freed her lips, eased the pressure of his body….
She pushed him away with all her strength and scrambled out of reach, gathering breath to cry for help if he came near her again.
With an ironic, victorious bow he opened the door and escaped.
“Perish it!” She ran after, but the damnable manmust have slipped the key from this side and locked the door on the other.
It took only moments to run through the bedroom and leave by that door, but by that time he was down the stairs. She arrived at the landing to hear the door slam, and reached the hall at the same time as the bewildered innkeeper.
“He’s left his cloak and things! He’ll freeze.”
“Not him,” said Genova grimly. “The devil looks after his own.”
Chapter Three
The Marquess of Ashart left the inn and flinched in the blast of cold air. Damn the harridan who’d forced this on him, but he wasn’t being stuck with that child.
He raced around to the stable where he’d left the horses and his groom, Bullen. A door showed light around it. He opened it and entered blessed warmth heavy with the tang of burning wood, tobacco, and spiced ale. Five men sat at a rough table, smoking pipes and drinking, and Bullen was one of them. They all rose. This must be a kind of grooms’ parlor—a place for them to take their ease between service.
Ash addressed Bullen. “Get the horses. We’re leaving.”
The middle-aged man didn’t move. “Your cloak, sir? You won’t want to travel without it.”
Ash didn’t, but wasn’t going back for it.
