“There’s more on the floor than in the bucket.”
“Alas, I lack your brawn, Mr Ramsey.”
“What you lack in brawn, you make up for in courage. Pity the same can’t be said for your father. Hawke won’t rest until he makes him pay.”
So there had been no duel at dawn. No blood spilled in her name. Mr Hawke hadn’t hunted him down and fired regardless.
He had chosen restraint.
He was not a complete scoundrel.
Her father had done more to disgrace her than Mr Hawke with his scandalous waltz. At leasthefought for a cause, one she had yet to understand. Her father fought only for himself.
Mr Ramsey led her down a narrow corridor, stone yielding to wood so polished it shone like old wine. Mr Hawke might be short on scruples, but he didn’t cut corners.
They stopped outside a door with two keyholes and aplaque that read:Enter upon pain of death. One had to admire a man who didn’t mince words.
Mr Ramsey knocked twice.
“Enter.”
The rich sound of Mr Hawke’s voice stirred the hair at her nape. Her belly fluttered, which she put down to nerves. This would be their second round. She had to win this bout.
Mr Ramsey handed her the bucket and opened the door. He didn’t set foot over the threshold, merely closed it behind her.
Daphne took a moment to scan the room, not him.
The deep reds and plush velvets that dominated the house were absent here. The walls were painted hunter green, the wainscoting and heavy oak poster bed evoking the quiet hush of a forest. The furnishings were spare but elegant: an escritoire scattered with papers and numerous quills, a book he was midway through reading.
She knew the traits of the man who owned Shadowmere.
Not those of the person who slept here.
She noticed the monstrous shower contraption raised on a tiled dais in the far corner, and reluctantly drew a breath. The room smelled of him, as she feared it would, that tantalising mix of dark spice and danger.
“Put the buckets beside the shower-bath, Miss Harland.”
She caught him in the corner of her eye: grey trousers, a loose white shirt, and—lord help her—bare feet.
“It’s Miss Smith while I’m working here, sir. A lady on the run should remain incognito.”
He closed the gap between them, his fingers warm as they slid over hers to take the bucket. “I’m sorry to say you’ve been misinformed. There is no vacancy.”
She turned to face him, ready to fight, but he was too close for comfort, her eyes level with the open neck of hisshirt. Her hand trembled. Water slipped over the rim of the remaining bucket, splashing onto her feet.
“You’ve made a puddle on the rug, Miss Harland, and I’ve not touched you yet.”
“Hell will freeze over before you touch me again, Mr Hawke.” She met his gaze and wished she hadn’t. Mischief lived in those compelling green eyes.
“Then I’d better buy a fur coat.”
She set the bucket down with a thud. “I used you last night. I’ve no plans to do so again.”
The slight jerk of his head said he’d felt her bite.
“We used each other. And now it seems the advantage is mine. I don’t want a maid, and you need employment.”
“Is this where you make me a different offer?”
