Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Something about her spirit tugged at his heart, almost more so than the memory of her soft thighs and long legs.

“Whyever not? You aren’t already engaged, are you?” He didn’t know why, but for some reason he didn’t like the idea of her being another man’s betrothed. Besides, what the devil was the fellow thinking, letting such a pretty little chit wander lost about the countryside?

But his concerns about another man in her life were for naught, for she told him very tartly, “I am not engaged, sir, and I assure you, I’m not destined for marriage.”

“I don’t see that there is anything wrong with you,” he said without thinking. Demmit, this was what came of living the life of a recluse—he’d forgotten every bit of his Town bronze. “I mean to say, it’s not like you couldn’t be here seeking a husband.”

The disbelief on her face struck him to the core.

Was she really so unaware of the pretty picture she presented? That her green eyes, bright and full of sparkles, and soft, brown hair, still tumbled from her slumbers and hanging in long tangled curls, was an enticing picture—one that might persuade many a man to get fitted for a pair of leg shackles.

Even Jemmy found himself susceptible to her charms—she had an air of familiarity about her that whispered of strength and warmth and sensibility, capable of drawing a man toward her like a beggar to a warm hearth.

Not to mention the parts that, as a gentleman, he shouldn’t know she possessed, but in their short, albeit rather noteworthy, acquaintance, had discovered with the familiarity that one usually had only with a mistress…or a hastily gained betrothed.

He shook that idea right out of his head. Whatever was he thinking? She wasn’t interested in marriage, and neither was he. Not that any lady would have him… lamed and scarred as he was.

“I hardly see that any of this is your concern,” she was saying, once again bustling about the room, gathering up her belongings. She plucked her stockings, gauzy, French sort of things, from the line by the fire.

He could well imagine what they would look like on her, and more importantly what it would feel like sliding them off her long, elegant legs.

When she saw him staring at her unmentionables, she blushed and shoved them into her valise. “I really must be away.”

“Away?” He shook his head. “You can’t leave.”

“I’m certainly not staying.”

He rose from the table. “You don’t understand. You can’t leave. If you do, you’ll be breaking the law. The magistrate won’t allow it, and I assure you the constable will have you in irons before you can cross the shire.”

“And you, sir?” she asked. “Will you allow me to be wed against my will?”

“Well, I…I mean to say,” he stammered. He’d never considered the idea. “That is, order must be maintained.” Some

answer, he thought. He sounded like a third-rate barrister who’d barely managed to make the bar, let alone find the Inns of Court.

“Yes, that is a fine opinion. Some gentleman you are.” She tossed a glance in his direction, as if she were sizing him up to see if he were capable of stopping her. When she continued her packing, he felt more than just slighted.

“I care not what your antiquated laws require,” she told him. “I will be well away from here before anyone misses me. As it is, I’ve tarried too long. Thank you, sir, for your warning, and now I bid you good day.” She finished stowing her meager possessions and then plopped a straw bonnet atop her head and hustled out the door before he could even try to stop her.

So much for his arguments about maintaining law and order.

But more than that, he found himself unsettled by the quiet solitude of Esme’s cottage that now surrounded him. Instead of wrapping him with a sense of calm, it only served as a unpleasant reminder of the empty, lonely void that was his life.

How was it that in such short order, this tart-tongued, spirited lady had left her mark upon him? Not that he was likely to discover what that mark might be, for he’d let her get away.

Demmit, he didn’t even know her name.

But a few moments later she came rocketing back into the cottage, a frown creasing her fair brow, and she managed quite handily to toss his life upside down once again.

“Forget something?” he asked, trying his best to ignore the cheer of elation rising in his chest at the sight of her crooked bonnet and the tangled curls peeking out beneath it.

“Yes,” she said, her booted foot gouging at the floor, her teeth nibbling for a moment at her lower lip. “Which way is it to Brighton?”

Two

“Brighton?” Jemmy replied. “Are you serious? That’s a good fifty miles away. You can’t go there unescorted.”

Once again her chin rose stubbornly. “I don’t see that it is any of your concern.”