“Why not?” he asked. “What’s stopping you?”
She waved her hand and continued walking.
He watched her, examining, or rather appreciating her feminine frame wrapped up in tan, woolen trousers and a belted tunic. There were knives in that belt and probably some in her boots, as well.
Her rich, chestnut hair spilled down her back in glossy locks that begged to be touched, inhaled, tangled through his fingers…
“Where would you be going if I hadn’t found you?” he asked.
“I expected you to find me, Investigator. I simply wanted you and my father to be aware that I cannot and will not be ordered about until I am forced to marry, and I will likely not change even then.”
“Hmph. Is that what marriage is to you? Being ordered about?”
“That is indeed what it is!”
“Have you been married?” he asked her.
“No, I have not, but I was betrothed to Lord Benjamin Adere and he found great pleasure in my subservience.”
“Betrothed…what is that, like engaged?” he asked.
She stopped and gave him a blank look. “Engaged? No, betrothed, as in promised to wed.”
“Yes, right. So what happened?”
“He died,” she told him, picking up her steps again. “He was older than my father.”
Michael scrunched up his face. “Why would you promise yourself to an old man?”
“My father did. It was a solution to having me around.”
He was quiet for a moment. Was she correct? Did her father want to get rid of her? Was she more trouble than she was worth? Michael shook his head on both counts. He didn’t know the duke, except to have spent a few hours with him, but he seemed like an okay guy, not someone who hated his daughter or wanted to get rid of her.
“He could’ve sent you to your aunt’s place,” he pointed out, “but he let you stay here with him.”
“With you as my shadow,” she reminded him.
He shook his head. “One thing has nothing to do with the other. You’re his kid. His daughter,” he corrected when she gave him an insulted look. “If you weren’t such a pain in the a—neck,” he corrected again with an impatient growl, “he’d probably like having you around.”
“You don’t know any better, Detective,” she smiled. “He is not your father.”
He noted that she smiled often, even when she’d rather be shouting. He doubted her father, or any other man for that matter noticed the stiffness in her lips and the muscles around them, the veiled passion in her eyes that had nothing to do with happiness. She was a tempest cloaked in apathy.
He was trained to see things like this in people. Tells. Something that gives them away.
And now he knew that her issues likely stemmed from her father. But he didn’t want to go into what they were.
Something flew by his head! What the—? He leaped from the saddle and snatched Miss Whimsey clean off her feet. She weighed little. She smelled like lilac. He let the scent fill his head and used his body as a shield while he rushed her to a large tree and set her behind the thick trunk. “Are you okay?” He wanted to run his fingers down her face.
“Aye, are you?”
“What was that?” he asked her, peering from behind the tree.
“An arrow,” she replied as if he should know.
He should, since he was in the eighteenth century. He knew how to fire a gun, but an arrow was a different monster.
And speaking of monsters, what was with his pistol? A flintlock. Seriously? With a 9” long steel barrel, it was heavy and awkward to hold compared to the guns in his century. It was in working condition with a finely raised acanthus leaf finial. The entire thing was embossed and engraved with markings that meant something to gunmakers of its time. It was a nice piece of handiwork, but none of it meant a thing. Why? Because Michael had no bullets. When the duke had given the pistol to him, it was on the condition that Michael become the lawman here. The duke didn’t give him any bullets, he was to earn them. Michael’s first assignment was to keep his eyes on his boss’ daughter so why did he need bullets? Besides, the duke didn’t know if Michael was a lunatic—whom he’d sent to watch his daughter. Michael shook his head while he looked into the bushes across from him. Someone was there.
