Page 17 of Bound By The Christmastide Moon

The man’s move was clear, the telegraph so evident on his face it was a wonder he’d survived any past brawls.

He made to lunge at Silas again, spreading his arms wide and preparing to grab him about the chest, but the man halted before he pushed off and crumpled to the ground at Silas’s feet. A boulder the size of an ale pitcher hit Silas’s ankle and rolled into the tavern behind him.

What in the blazes?

Someone had stepped in and put an end to the scuffle.

Silas should have welcomed the assistance; however, it was unwarranted and unnecessary. As if he needed someone to step in and rescue him.

He stepped out of the tavern’s doorway and turned to the interloper, a rebuff on the tip of his tongue.

What he saw had Silas staggering back a step, his eyes widening in shock, surprise, and confusion as his pulse slowed to normal.

His mouth opened and closed several times as he searched his mind for the right thing to say. Hell, at this point, he’d be satisfied with gibberish nonsense.

Before him stood Lady Mallory Hughes, her wayward curls hanging haphazardly about her shoulders, her cloak’s buttons undone, her cheeks reddened from either the brisk December air or the excitement, and dear heavens above, Silas could not look away from her.

With lips pursed and arms still raised above her head from throwing the rock that had connected with the seaman’s head, Lady Mallory was anything but the poised, demure London debutante he’d met an hour before.

Her grey eyes fairly sizzled with unbridled heat as they took him in, scrutinizing his arms, legs, chest, and face—for injuries?

Certainly not.

Confident that he was whole and unharmed, Lady Mallory lowered her arms to her sides and took a deep, ragged breath, her chest straining against her bodice.

She was strong, self-assured, and robust. There was no spark of madness in her eyes as he noticed them darkening in the afternoon sunshine.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I could ask the same of you, my lord,” she retorted without hesitation, her stare narrowing on him as if challenging him to lie.

Not that Silas had any reason to lie.

“You should be at Tetbery Estate, not gallivanting about the Cornwall countryside.” He stepped forward, hoping to steer her away from the man at his feet who was beginning to stir and the crowd gazing on from the tavern. “You could have been seriously harmed.”

Pulling from his grasp, she huffed and hurried ahead of him before rounding and pinning him with a hardened stare. “It is you, Lord Lichfield, who was in jeopardy. And feel free to offer your thanks for my rescuing of you.”

“You, rescue me?” No one rescued him. It was Silas who took care of everyone around him. And it appeared that would extend to his betrothed, as well. He laughed, “Don’t be addlebrained, Lady Mallory. It is you who will be harmed if your escapades become known.”

Her eyes flared with irritation, and she crossed her arms over her still heaving bosom. “If my escapades are made known to whom?”

“Anyone,” he retorted. “Your reputation would be tarnished.”

“And you would be free to find fault with our betrothal?”

Find fault with their betrothal?

Silas’s mind whirled in an attempt to keep up with her words. “I have no intention of crying off. I committed, papers have been signed, and the banns read in both my parish and published in the London papers.”

“It is only your name on a piece of parchment that has bound you to me?”

“Are you mad, woman?” Silas knew the error of his words the moment they crossed his lips.

Lady Mallory’s nostrils flared with fury, and her lips pulled back, baring her clenched teeth.

When she took a step toward him, Silas backed up, out of shock or self-preservation, he was uncertain.

When her eyes narrowed on him, one hand landing on her hip as the other rose, she said, her words clipped, “You—think—me—mad?” She poked her finger into his chest with each venomous syllable.