“He wants to buy this hall to use as a recruitment office for his sand pits,” she said. “But he needs my influence to convince the vicar and the people of Ivy Hill to sell.”
“Need we call this a ‘problem...’?” wondered Stinchcomb, “or an opportu—?”
“Yes,” Luke cut in. “I do believe it is a problem. It’s aproblemwhen a man corners a young woman alone. It’s aproblemwhen the same man hounds her repeatedly for the answer ofYesafter being told—also repeatedly—No. Intimidation, in general, is a considerable problem, especially when directed at my future wife.”
“You, sir,”drawled the quarryman, “insult my honor, and I will not...” With shaking hand, he began to peel off his glove.
“Stop,”Luke said on a sigh. “No duels. I haven’t the time nor energy. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
“That’s quite a boast.” The man snorted under his breath, but he made a show of tightening his glove rather than removing it. He wouldn’t meet Luke’s eye. He muttered, “Marry the girl, will you? She’ll be a trial—”
“Look, Stinchcomb, if you say another word, I will buy every building on this high street including this parish hall. If owning property of Ivy Hill is your goal, I’d tread very lightly, indeed.”
“What need have you for property in Ivy Hill?”
“I’ll transform the lot into the finest cat sanctuary England has ever seen and colonize it with Miriam Dinwiddie’s many cats. Few projects, in fact, would make me happier. Do not test me, Stinchcomb. You should go. Immediately. Never address Miss Allard again. In fact, do notthinkof Miss Allard again—not as a resource, not as a soft mark, not as someone you knew, once upon a time. Do you understand? Are we perfectly clear?”
The man could only nod. Luke made a sweeping gesture with his hand and stepped back, clearing the way to the door. The man’s face was tight but he didn’t counter him. Muttering, he shuffled out.
When he was gone, Luke blew out a breath. “Sorry.” He snatched off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and reseated it.
“I— Thank you,” she said, sliding her hand free of his arm. Her voice was breathless, her cheeks flushed.
“There are less verbose ways of dealing with men like Stinchcomb,” he told her, drifting from the room, “but excessive chatter seems to be his weapon of choice. Bludgeoning him would’ve had far less impact.”
She chuckled, and he felt the sail in his heart swell. He eyed her. “You are well?”
“Oh yes, perfectly well.”
“I don’t mind telling you, the sight of you pinned in the corner by him was...”
“Pitiful?” She chuckled.
“No,” he said. “Infuriating.”
“Oh.” A blush rose on her cheeks.
The truth was, it made him furious to see the other man so close, lording himself over her.
Andhe’d missed her terribly.
Andhe’d been anxious to see the ring on her hand, he realized that now. His eyes flicked to it, again and again.
Andhe wanted her—not simply to see her or chat with her, hewantedher. Here. In this church hall.
He’d made no progress since the pond, clearly. He was overwhelmed with desire to touch her. He forced himself to turn away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He ambled to the stage and propped a hip on the edge. She hovered in the doorway. She was wearing a pale green dress overlaid with an apron. Her hair was pulled back in a kerchief. She looked like an incredibly fetching village girl.
She is a princess, Luke reminded himself. Even if he didn’t mean to use her as a pawn to recover his friend, he was the bastard son of an itinerant sailor. He, himself, smuggled guns. Stinchcomb had been right about one thing, he was a brute.
He glanced to her again; this time, he held her gaze. The pink of her cheeks had spread to her throat. Her green eyes were large, locked on him. Her lips were parted. Her breath came in swift, shallow little gasps. Luke knew desire when he saw it, and everything about her was an invitation. His heart thudded a resoundingYes.
She took three steps toward him, idling just out of reach. She touched her new ring with a fingertip. Her tongue peeked out to tease her top lip.
Luke was suddenly too hot. He peeled off his gloves. The hall was too empty, the stage too conveniently horizontal. He looked at the rafters, looked over his shoulder, looked at the floor. He saw nothing. When he returned his gaze to her, every detail came into sharp focus. The cinch of the crisp apron at her waist, the smudge of soot on her cheek. Her hair fell down her back, the ebony curls a sharp contrast to the white of her kerchief. Her hands were bare except for his ring. Her throat was bare. Her hem was high and showed an inch of ankle. She smelled like furniture polish and soap.
“Will Mr. Stinchcomb believe your threats, do you think?” she asked.
“I dare him not to believe them.”
