Or what could have been a wall. Her head smashed against a man’s jaw with a blindingthunk. Her books flew from her hands, barely missing the water barrel, the impact propelling her backward. She would have fallen had twolarge hands not grabbed her arms and steadied her.
Her lashes snapped upward as her chin tilted and she stared into a pair of eyes, not quite black but indigo. Sensation bolted down her spine. Then just that fast, as if he felt it too, the expression of annoyance on his face vanished and her own alarm melded with something more pliable than fear.
Shock perhaps, for she would admit to nothing else.
Close up, Lord Roxburghe was even taller and more solidly built than she’d thought when she saw him atop his horse in the village. But his strength did not come from his appearance as much as it did from some unseen force inside him.
One glance into his unshaven face told her why people called him the Black Dragon. Though it had been the name of his frigate, he wore the mark like a mantle of armor. Heat burned where his hands held her.
“Loose me,” she whispered on a caught breath, cleared her throat and said the words again with more authority. “Now, if you will.”
His grip loosened. She stepped backward but not so quickly her actions signaled fear or retreat. Her foot bumped one of her precious books that lay scattered in the straw.
“Allow me,” he offered and stooped to gather up the books.
She started to protest but he had already knelt at her feet. Instead she let her gaze trace the width of his shoulders beneath his jacket. His hair was nearly black in the shadows that seemed to steal the setting sun’s light from the surrounding sky and clubbed back from his face with a leather thong. A small silver hoop pierced his left earlobe and gave him an irrepressibly wicked look. She stole another glance at his face as he rose and had to suppress the urgeto step back. She had never met a man taller than she was. Being this close to such a rarity stole her breath.
“You read,” he said, turning each leather-bound tome over in his gloved hands. Amusement laced his expression. “Arthurian Legends?The Myth of Merlin?Metallurgy and Electricity?”
She removed each book from his hands and held them protectively to her chest, not about to trustthisstranger with her secrets. She was conscious of a prickling warmth that spread where his fingers had brushed hers as if the books had become electricity themselves. “Is it so strange that a woman should read? Or that I should be interested in science?”
His eyes filled with growing amusement brushed down her, taking in her simple dress and wrap. “Both perhaps.” His mouth crooked and revealed white teeth. “Those are very old tomes. Valuable.”
She did not dispute that fact. Nor did she explain how she had got her hands on such valuable antiquity. She balked at fearing him. “You are not planning to steal them from me, are you, Lord Roxburghe?”
“You know who I am?” His eyes narrowed perceptively on her hair, then her height. “I would remember if we’d met.”
Rose withheld a frown beneath his scrutiny. It was too true that she was memorable to people for all the wrong reasons. He would be no exception. “I was one of your many minions lining the street when you passed through Castleton.” She graciously inclined her head in an act only the dimmest would construe as subservient. “No doubt the speed with which you rode through the village, you missed us all standing along the streets cheering your return. ’Tis understandable if you missed the village entirely, small as we are, my lord.”
Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth, though his eyes as they peered into hers remained more thoughtful. She wanted to turn away from the disturbing gaze. No one, not even the lowest field hand had ever eyed her thusly, in a way that caused a curious sensation in her stomach.
“A thousand pardons, m’lady. Had I seen you standing there, I would have surely stopped—” His hand motioned to her hair, and she thought he might touch her. “If only to discern the color of your curls. Like a radiant sunset burning against the ocean. The color of warm cinnamon.”
Her hair? A radiant sunset? Warm cinnamon indeed. She stared speechless and saw the laughter in his eyes. But before she could give him the rebuke he deserved, he humbled himself with a light bow. “My horse has come up lame,” he said with seriousness. “I am seeking shelter for my men and me tonight and a conversation with the prior of this keep.”
Rose looked beyond him. The abbey did not have enough food in its stores to feed his small army. Nor did she understand who Jack had seen crossing the bridge.
“There are only four of us,” he said, clearly reading her mind. “I will compensate this abbey for its trouble, Miss—”
“Friar Tucker is not yet returned.”
If she had not been so intently staring at his face, and noticing the perfect cleft on his chin, she would have missed seeing his lips tighten. “Is there another with whom I can request lodging?”
“You are asking permission to stay here?” she said, surprised that a man as powerful as Lord Roxburghe would seek consent.
“As a mere formality,” he said, leaving no doubt he was a man without convention, dangerous, and completelycapable of doing as he pleased, yet, still possessed with the illusion of manners.
But in the end, the storm decided for her and she had to get everyone inside. The abbey sat on the highest point in the area. The last lightning storm that struck had burned down the watermill. Friar Tucker already blamed her for that incident, an experiment on electricity gone awry. He would be even more displeased if she allowed similar harm to befall the new Roxburghe laird or his men. Unfortunately, his lordship’s rank forbade her from putting him on a pallet in the kitchen or in the stable with his horse where he deserved.
Rose sighed, knowing she would be giving up her much-coveted room to him tonight.
Chapter 2
Unable to sleep for more than a few hours, Rose had risen in the wee hours. At a small desk working in candlelight, she bent over an aged tome, meticulously studying each page.
Sister Nessa slumbered in the bed across the room, her hearty snores vigorously competing with the storm that blew with savage gusts. Thunder fiercely rumbled. Rain battered the rooftop and whipped against the tiny room’s dormer window. Rose hated the thought of the storm awakening the nun. With news that Friar Tucker would not be returning for weeks, poor Sister Nessa had taken on the burden, like a mantlet of iron about her shoulders, of caring for everyone at the abbey. His absence weighed heavily on them both, and Lord Roxburghe’s presence at the abbey put them all on edge. Rose more than anyone.
She disliked powerful men on principle, and she doubted a lame horse had brought Roxburghe to the abbey. He risked much coming here without his guard. Lord Hereford was not known for even-handed justice. And if the warden suspected Roxburgh of fomenting trouble among the Scots in an effort to rescue his brother, Hereford would have cause to arrest him. She had seen a man hanged once bythe warden’s order and she shivered instinctively at the thought.
