“Fergus also.” The note of triumph in her voice was unmistakable.
But Christian wasn’t through. “Where isMr.Fergus?”
Her gaze quickly dipped to the floor. “He took Mrs. Goatsocks to town. She was in need of a doctor.”
He hitched up her arm again and she yelped. More out of surprise than pain, he suspected.
“I don’t know anyone named Mrs. Goatsocks,” he ground out.
“Of course you don’t. She’s my chaperone.”
That did it. Christian spun the woman away. She whirled to face him, her bright crystal-green eyes flashing. He eyed her up and down. She was actually more beautiful than he’d first thought. Stunning, if truth be told. High cheekbones, a delicate jaw, and the body of a goddess. But that didn’t make up for the trespassing. And he’dseenmany beautiful women before. Perhaps he had trouble speaking to them, but he’d seen them. This one needed to explain herself.Immediately.
He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her down the length of his nose. “So thieves have chaperones, do they?”
She rubbed her wrist and gave him a condemning glare. The dog sat in between them and glanced back and forth, as if he were watching a fascinating game of battledore and shuttlecock.
“I told you, I’mnota thief, and Mr. Fergus led me to believe that you are agentleman.” She sneered the last word.
“Mr. Fergus takes care of this house and the accompanying property. I don’t pay him to make assessments of my character. Now finish telling me who you are, and don’t lie to me. Because if I don’t believe you, I may still throw you outside.”
Her eyes widened. “According to Mr. Fergus, there could bewolvesout there.” She sounded more affronted than frightened.
“He’s right about that,” Christian replied. “I suggest you make your story extremely convincing.”
Two black brows snapped together over eyes filled with anger. She glanced about as if looking for another potential weapon. Christian crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back against the doorjamb. “There’s a longbow on the wall in the other bedchamber.” He didn’t uncross his arms. “But you’ll have to get by me to get it. And we’re staying right here until I’m satisfied.” He gave her a challenging glare.
She gasped and put her hand to her throat. Then she rushed back over to the bed and pulled the patchwork quilt off of it. She wrapped it around her back and shoulders, covering herself completely. She sucked in air through her nostrils, and Christian could tell she struggled with her next words.
Her voice quavered slightly. “Sir, I must inform you that I am the daughter of the Earl of Highfield, and if you intend to dishonor me—”
Christian’s laughter stopped her. She snapped her mouth shut and glared at him. “What is funny aboutthat?”
He gave her a tight smile. “I have no intention of dishonoring you, Miss Thief. But I don’t care if your uncle is the pope, which I doubt, by the by, given the manner in which you’re dressed. If you don’t explain your presence in my houseright now,your father will have to come fetch you from a pile of snow in Scotland, and something tells me he’s not nearby at present.”
After delivering that little speech, Christian braced both elbows against the door and eyed her carefully. “Give me one good reason to allow you to stay.”
CHAPTER THREE
Sarah glared at the man resting casually against the bedchamber door, blocking her only chance at escape. Though where she’d escape to, she had no idea. The thought of the snowy, dark, wolf-filled Scottish woods held little appeal. She considered attempting to overpower him but quickly discarded that notion. She’d wrestled with her brother upon occasion when they were younger, and Hart had always won. This man was at least Hart’s size, if not bigger. She had no chance of beating him at hand-to-hand combat. Especially now that she’d been divested of her sword.
Very well. She had no choice but to stay here and reason with him. She eyed him up and down. He had the voice of a gentleman, indeed. Though she was somewhat surprised to hear that it was the voice of anEnglishgentleman. Mr. Fergus was Scottish, and she’d simply assumed his master was as well.
Yes. This man was clearly English, and his accent indicated he hadsomebreeding, but he was clearly not of the Quality. The man himself was wearing coarse wool trousers, a rough linen shirt with a rumpled white cravat, and a simple black overcoat. His boots looked expensively made, but they were the only things he wore that appeared to be of any value. Still, she suspected they were not from the fashionable Hoby’s in St. James’s.
It was true that she herself was dressed as a maid, but that was for a very good (or very bad, depending upon how one interpreted the matter) reason. This man, whoever he was, had threatened to toss her out in the snow. Twice. He couldn’t possibly be a gentleman. Agentlemanwould have instantly recognized her father’s name. Agentlemanwould have immediately inquired after her health and safety. Agentlemanwouldn’t have threatened to feed her to wolves.
She eyed him up and down again. What did she expect from a man like this? A man who lived in a tiny house in Scotland and had one servant to his name? Despite Mr. Fergus’s assurance, clearly Master Christian here—if indeed that was with whom she was dealing—was a barbarian. Not only was he sporting several days’ growth of beard, he looked grimy and smelled as if he’d been sleeping in a barn.
No. He was no gentleman. He was a ruffian. Albeit a somewhat handsome ruffian. His nose was straight. His jaw was square. His shoulders were broad.Washe Master Christian? If so, she’d been mistaken about his age. But she was quickly beginning to suspect that the tall, arrogant blond man with the crystal-blue eyes was probably the son or some poor relation of Master Christian. There was no help for it, however. She would have to tell him her name. She cleared her throat. “I’m Lady Sarah Highgate, daughter of the Earl of Highfield.”
The man glanced at the dog as ifhemight be able to verify her identity.
“And what are you doing in my house, Lady Sarah Highgate, daughter of the Earl of Highfield?”
Nervousness made her voice far harsher than she intended it to be. “In London people take such titles quite seriously,” she informed him, clutching the quilt tightly around her shoulders.
“I’m certain they do. Too bad for you that we’re in Scotland.”
