When Xenia thrashed, trying to get free, he squeezed until stars floated in her vision. Darkness threatened to suck her under, but she continued to struggle, trying to push him off?—
He flew backward, hitting the opposite wall with a loud thud.
She wheezed, filling her lungs with air.
Am I…am I stronger than I realize?
Then Lord Ethan stepped into view. He hauled the protesting ruffian up. The brute threw a sudden punch, and she gasped when it connected with Lord Ethan’s jaw. The latter showed no reaction, and any wise person would find his stoicism foreboding. The brute, of course, didn’t take the hint and swung again. This time Lord Ethan caught his fist, twisting it in a quick, controlled motion.
The brute yelped, holding his injured arm. “You’re going to pay for that! Do you know who I am? I’m Patrick Harlow, head o’ the Corrigans?—”
Lord Ethan drove his fist into the other’s jaw. He pinned the ruffian with his left forearm, pummeling Harlow’s face with savage right jabs. His technique was unique and effective, resulting in blood…a lot of it. When he was done, Harlow lay slumped in the dirt, moaning incoherently.
Lord Ethan looked down at his vanquished foe. “Touch my housekeeper again,” he said with a soft snarl, “and I will finish you.”
Then he raised his gaze to hers. She saw the primal blaze in his eyes, blood dripping from his gloved fist. Her rescuer was a beast of a prince.
She shivered, not with fear…but something far more dangerous.
Something she could no longer deny.
ChapterEleven
“There is no need to fuss,” Ethan said.
“I am the housekeeper. It is my job to fuss.”
“I relinquish you of that duty.”
“It’s too late for that,” she said. “I already went to the trouble of gathering the supplies from the stillroom. Now sit.”
She pointed at the chair as if she were a governess and he a wayward schoolboy. Perhaps she felt comfortable asserting her authority because they were in the servants’ hall. He decided to go along, mostly because he didn’t wish to fight with her. The aftermath of violence still simmered in his veins, and he didn’t trust himself to give rein to his emotions.
Especially where she was concerned.
As he sat, the image of that bastard Harlow groping her,chokingher flashed in his mind’s eye, and his insides tightened like a coil. She’d looked so small and vulnerable…though not powerless. Despite her assailant’s grip on her throat, she’d fought like a wildcat. Thus, he’d discovered another fact about Jane Wood.
She had courage. In spades.
He tucked away the pebble of knowledge along with the others he’d collected. It had become a hobby, trying to figure out his housekeeper.
More like an obsession, and you know it.
She intrigued him, he realized. She was like Beethoven’sGrosse Fuge: intricate, paradoxical, at times indecipherable. Although critics had panned the maestro’s composition, Ethan loved it for its unapologetic embracing of chaos and complexity and all the tender moments in between. It was music that he would never grow tired of listening to.
Mrs. Wood fiddled with the objects she’d set on the table before turning to him. Given her petite stature, she barely had to bend to touch his jaw, examining the injury. Her scent wafted to his nostrils, herbal and feminine and clean. The gentle brush of her fingertips sent a sizzle to his loins; he inhaled sharply.
“Does that hurt?” Behind her spectacles, her eyes were that of a worried doe.
I ache like the devil. But not because of the scratch on my face.
“No,” he said.
“Thankfully, the cut on your jaw looks shallow, but I’m going to clean it with witch hazel. This may sting.”
What stung was how close she was, practically standing between his splayed thighs. What stung was how he burned to pull her closer and how he had to grip his thigh to prevent himself from doing so. The minuscule burn of the witch hazel?
That was nothing.
