Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection
Bess glanced around the dusty, empty room. “Not with domestic matters.”
“His lordship—”
His lordship stormed in.
At least Bess assumed that the disheveled auburn-haired man who crashed through the door at the other end of the hall must be Penton Abbey’s elusive new master. He stalked past her, brandishing a sheaf of papers.
“That blasted Farrar besom is hounding me again, Ned. I thought I asked you to put her off.” His Scottish brogue added an exotic edge to his heated remarks.
He didn’t see her as his long stride ate up the tiled floor. It would be hard to make out an army in this gloom, especially with the sky darkening for snow.
“Rory, for heaven’s sake,” the other man stammered, casting Bess an embarrassed glance.
Bess stood and performed a perfunctory curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
He turned on her. He was as tall as his friend, but much more heavily muscled. A more formidable character altogether, she could already tell. “Just who the devil are you?”
She permitted herself a cool smile. “I believe I’m the blasted Farrar besom.”
“Oh, hell,” he muttered, staring at her thunderstruck. He looked as shocked as if one of these iron-hard oak chairs had stood up, bowed and asked him to dance.
She paused to take stock of the new lord of the manor. The previous earl, his brother, had died six months ago, and had been abroad for two years before that. Since his demise, tattle had run rife about Rory Beaton, the heir. Confused stories about a licentious rapscallion who had led a lawless life sailing the world’s oceans.
Surveying him now, Bess was inclined to trust to rumor. From his ruffled red hair to his large booted feet, he was every inch a man who commanded the stage. Even more buccaneerish were the brilliant green eyes with their spark of devilry.
Never had she encountered anyone who so precisely fitted her image of a pirate, a wicked seducer, and a reckless adventurer.
She’d spent her life in peaceful Penton Wyck. It was perfectly natural that her heart should skip a beat in the presence of a notorious rascal.
Or so she told herself as she raised her chin and stared his lordship down. Which, to her annoyance, was more difficult than usual. She was a tall woman, but the new earl towered over her in a most disconcerting fashion.
Also disconcerting was his casual arrogance. Not to mention those flashing good looks.
“Manners must be at a premium north of the border,” she said softly, even as she reminded herself it would be more politic to butter him up.
Her starchy remark made his long, expressive mouth twitch. “If you inveigle yourself into my house uninvited, lassie, you must put up with what you get.”
“Rory…” the other man bleated.
Channing arched one sardonic red-brown brow in his direction. “Don’t you have some letters to write?”
The man flushed, but to his credit stood his ground. “I would hate nasty gossip to spoil your arrival at Penton.”
Too late for that, Bess could have told them. The villagers weren’t far off locking up their daughters and calling in the militia.
Another twitch of his intriguing mouth. Despite everything, that hint of laughter fascinated Bess. Even if she knew quite well that he was laughing at her.
“No need to beat around the bush, Ned. You fear for this lady’s safety once you’re out of sight.”
“Should he?” she asked, suppressing the urge to inform his lordship that she was more than a match for any scurvy Scot, pirate or not.
When those deep-set eyes settled on her, she shivered. With nervousness that made a mockery of her brave words. And with something else she couldn’t quite identify.
“I could eat you up in one bite and nobody could stop me.”
Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. “I’d stick in your neck.”
To her surprise, he laughed with unfettered appreciation. The joyous sound echoed off the bare stone walls as he flung the papers onto an ancient chest against the wall. A glance revealed that they were the letters she’d written since he’d arrived a month ago. “Aye, you might, at that.”