Ravensdale's Defiant Captive

She narrowed her gaze in scepticism. ‘Promise?’

He didn’t know which Holly he preferred—the snarky challenger or the hot little seductress. Both, he realised with a jolt of surprise, were vastly entertaining. ‘Promise.’

She made a little huffing noise. ‘Fine.’

He seated her then came around to his own chair and took his place. He spread his napkin out across his lap and watched as Holly expertly served the vegetable dish with silver-service expertise. Then she served the herbed chicken galantine with the same level of competence. She sent him a look from beneath half-mast lashes that made him realise how much he had underestimated her. How much he had misjudged her. She might come across as a bad girl from the wrong side of the tracks but underneath that don’t-mess-with-me attitude was a young woman with surprising dignity and class. And pride.

During the course of their meal he made desultory conversation: stuff about the weather, movies and the state of the economy but she didn’t seem inclined to talk. The questions he asked her were greeted with monosyllabic responses. He tried using open-ended questions but she just shrugged in a bored manner and mumbled something noncommittal in reply. She didn’t eat much, either. She just moved the food around her plate, only taking the occasional mouthful. Was she doing it to punish him? To make him regret his all-too-quick summation of her character and seeming lack of abilities? She was more than capable of holding her own in sophisticated company. Why had she let him believe otherwise? Or was she just contrary for the heck of it? Thumbing her nose up at anyone who judged her without getting to know her?

‘Are you not feeling well?’ Julius asked.

‘I’m fine.’

He studied her for a beat or two. ‘You’re sweating.’

She gave him a haughty look. ‘Ladies don’t sweat. They perspire.’

He felt another smile tug at his mouth at the way she so expertly parodied his accent. ‘Take off your cardigan if you’re hot.’

Her eyes skittered away from his. ‘I’m not hot.’

He watched as she made another attempt at her meal but every now and again she would shift in her seat or wriggle her neck and shoulders as if her clothing was making her itchy.

‘Holly.’

‘What?’

‘Take it off. You’re clearly uncomfortable.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Would you like me to adjust the air-conditioning?’

‘I told you, I’m fine.’

He shook his head at her in disbelief. ‘This afternoon you were parading around half-naked and now you’re acting like a nun. What is it with you? Take it off, for God’s sake, or I’ll take it off for you.’

Her eyes were narrowed as thin as twin hairpins. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

She shot up from the table and spun around to leave but Julius was too quick and intercepted her. He caught her by the back of her cardigan but when she pulled away from him it peeled off her like sloughed skin.

His heart came to a scudding stop when he saw what was on her upper arms before her hands tried to cover it. The cardigan he was holding slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. His mouth went completely dry. His stomach dropped as if it had been booted from the top of a skyscraper.

‘Did I do that?’ His voice came out rusty, shocked. He was ashamed. Mortified.

‘It’s nothing. I can’t even feel it.’

His stomach churned in disgust. ‘I hurt you.’

‘I bruise easily, that’s all.’

Julius scraped a distracted hand through his hair. Dragged the same hand over his face. How could he have done this? How could he have been so...so brutish to mark her flesh? For what? To prove a point? What point was worth proving if a woman was hurt in the process? It was against everything he believed in. It was against everything that defined him as a man—as a civilised human being. Real men did not use violence. It was the lowest of the low to inflict physical hurt on another person, particularly a woman or a child. How could he have lost control of his emotions to such a point that he would do something like that? He had grabbed her on impulse. He had been so het up about her goading behaviour it had overridden all that was decent and respectful in him.

‘Don’t make excuses for me,’ he said. ‘I’m appalled I did that to you. I can only say I’m deeply, unreservedly sorry and assure you it will never, ever happen again.’

‘Apology accepted.’ Her chin came up again, her gaze as hard and brittle as shellac. ‘Now, may I get on with serving the rest of the meal?’