His sudden snarling tone decided her against mentioning that the town was rife with rumors about him, none of them flattering. So she merely said, “Because you brought my father to the doctor after the accident in his mine.” He just scowled at her. She worked up the courage to say, “Thank you for doing that.Areyou taking me to his mine?”
He stared at her for a long moment. In the bright morning light, she stared back, but she still couldn’t discern what was under all that shaggy hair. But she soon became uncomfortably aware that he seemed to be cataloging her attributes. And she didn’t get an answer to her question. She was asked one instead: “What made you think you could convince me to? Because you’re pretty? I reckon Shawn would have picked his spy carefully. You’re either an actress—or a harlot. Which is it?”
Oh, good Lord, what he was implying was beyond mortifying. And provoking. Did he want her to yell at him? To give him an excuse to abandon her there on that dusty road?
She didn’t yell, but there was no way she couldn’t sound as insulted as she felt. “I was looking for you before I even met Mr. Sullivan because I am exactly who I said I am and I have a legitimate claim to my father’s mine and its proceeds. But to answer your question, no reason had occurred to me why youwouldn’tbe my guide.”
“No? I can give you a bunch, but none suitable for a lady’s ears—if you really are one.” Her blush just got much hotter. “I heard there was a fancy harridan screaming in the streets last week. Was that you?”
She sucked in her breath. “Certainly not.”
“Can’t imagine there’s more than one fancy harridan in town,” Morgan countered, apparently not believing her about this either.
“I assure you that wasnotme. I would never yell in public. It would be beyond the pale.”
“Beyond what?”
“The bounds of acceptable behavior.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?”
She gritted her teeth. The man was intolerable and his disbelief even worse. “Why are you so sure I’m not Charles Mitchell’s daughter?”
“He never mentioned a daughter, just sons.”
It hurt that her father had forgotten about her. She shouldn’t be surprised—out of sight, out of mind—but it still hurt.
“Are you going to cry?”
She blinked, then snapped her brows together. “Absolutely not. I’ve had two weeks to shed my tears. And grieving is done in private or with relatives, certainly not with strangers like you.”
“Were you fed your lines by Sullivan, or are you just making them up as needed?”
“You don’t think I would be grieving for a father I dearly loved?”
“Lady, I told you I don’t believe you’re a Mitchell,” he replied. “You don’t even talk right. Can’t believe Shawn couldn’t afford a better actress.”
“I am no such thing, and I talk perfectly fine for someone who grew up in England these last—”
He cut in sharply, “If you persist in the pretense, then we’re done talking.”
Good. Talking to him was far too infuriating. He obviously wasn’t going to tell her anything that she wanted to know and certainly nothing about his mine and its location, so what was the point?
Then he said, “We can pick up the pace now.”
Music to her ears, until he mounted again and the entire string of mules began trotting to keep up with his horse. She nearly screamed, she was so sure she was about to fall off. This wasn’t anything like urging one’s mount to trot while sitting on a comfortable saddle. This sort of bouncing on the hard back of a mule was more than just jarring, it was becoming painful.
And the bustle of her jacket and the blanket under it that she was sitting on had afforded her some cushioning at the slower pace, but not now. It had already been uncomfortable sitting this way without the anchor of a pommel. Her back was already aching from it. Now her arse would be aching, too.
There was no help for it now. She abandoned propriety and swung one leg over the mule’s head to sit astride. She felt warm air on her bare legs just above her boots. She didn’t dare lean over to push the sides of her skirt down to cover her legs, if the hem would even stretch that far. Good Lord, she could just imagine what Aunt Elizabeth would say if she could see her now.
“How are you holding up now?” she suddenly heard.
“I’ll—manage!” she snarled.
He didn’t look back to see if she would. The despicable man was probably laughing and didn’t want her to see it.
Chapter Eight
