Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

Hal eyed his son with a mixture of doubt and fear. “What are you going to do, lad?”

Jed’s angry gaze turned to Sebastian. He was of only medium height, but thickset, with big shoulders. There was something of the bully in him, Francesca decided, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. “I’m going to have to kill him myself, seeing as you didn’t do the job properly, Da.”

His father and Francesca gasped, and Jed smiled, pleased with the effect of his words.

To Francesca, standing in the warm circle of Sebastian’s arms, the moment didn’t seem real; it was as if at any time she would wake up.

“What about Miss Greentree?” Hal was saying. “You gonna kill her too, lad?”

Jed glared at him, his hand clenching on the pistol, as if he was trying to make up his mind.

“Stop it,” Francesca said. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

Jed curled his lip at her. “You always was too good to be true. Maybe I’ll enjoy wringing your neck, miss.”

“Jed—”

“Always handing out your charity, always visiting the poor folk. You visited us. Da here was over the moon, but I hated it. I hated you. Well, now I don’t need your charity.”

Francesca was shocked. She hadn’t known Jed felt this way. It had never occurred to her that her good works might be resented by those they were meant to help.

“Jed, you know that if anything happens to me, or my guest Mr. Thorne, there will be a hue and cry all over the county. You will be hunted down. Is that what you want?”

“This has nothin’ to do with you,” Jed snarled.

“She’s right.” Hal moved toward his son. “Leave them be, Jed. I’m asking you as your da.”

His impassioned plea was enough to distract Jed, just for a moment. Francesca didn’t even see Sebastian move, but suddenly she was brushed aside, and he launched himself at Jed. They clung to each other, toppling over the chair and falling to the floor.

The pistol clattered across the bare wooden boards. Francesca went for it a moment too late. Hal knocked her to one side, and she fell heavily against the table, bruising her shoulder and her leg. The candle teetered in its holder and fell. The flame was extinguished, and suddenly everything went dark.

As Francesca lay, momentarily stunned, she was aware of the men still rolling and fighting on the floor nearby. The next moment there was the sickening crack of something hard striking flesh and bone. She tried to move, but she was disoriented. Where was he? Then, from the blackness, Hal’s voice: “Come on!” Jed was cursing softly. They stumbled to the door, one of them limping, and it slammed shut behind them.

A moment later Francesca heard horses galloping away, and silence. They’d gone. But where was Sebastian? She climbed to her feet and stood perfectly still. It wasn’t really pitch dark. There was some starlight from the window, but not much.

“Mr. Thorne?”

He didn’t answer. She felt dizzy. What had they done to him? What if he was dead?

That just wasn’t possible, she told herself with rising alarm. The villain didn’t die, at least not until the very end, when the hero bested him, and so far there were no heroes in this story. She shuffled forward, creeping across the room, feeling for him. She was praying, but she didn’t know for what. It couldn’t be a happy ending, could it?

That was when she smelled it.

The smoke.

At first she thought it was the candle, and that when it’d fallen over, it had caught alight on some piece of furniture. But then she realized this had nothing to do with the candle. Jed really had meant what he said about killing them.

He’d set fire to the blacksmithy before he rode away.

Chapter 8

He was dreaming again, and a very nice dream it was, too. Francesca Greentree was holding him in her arms and caressing him. He could feel her trembling hands on his chest and shoulders, her fingertips touching his face. That was nice. But then she began calling his name in a shrill voice that pierced right through him, and suddenly she grasped him under the arms and attempted to haul him to his fe

et.

Her seduction technique certainly needed some refining, he thought muzzily. And then nausea curled in his stomach as she jolted his head forward, and his brain felt as if it was jumping up and down inside his skull. He thought about protesting, but the next moment she sat down on the floor, cradling his poor aching head on her lap. She leaned over him, and he felt her breath, tickling his cheeks and jaw, the tip of his nose, his eyelids…

He wished she’d kiss him. He wanted to feel those luscious lips on his again. You could keep your resurrectionist remedies, a kiss from Francesca Greentree would bring a dead man back to life.