When he didn’t speak, she forced herself to go on. “We’re together in this, my lord. If we trust each other, perhaps we can find some comfort.”

A bitter light darkened his eyes to caramel. “There is no comfort here.”

“Then friendship is a worthwhile prize.”

His brows contracted and she waited for him to lash out as he had yesterday. He leaned back against his workbench and folded his arms over his chest. The sudden memory assailed her of that chest gleaming bare and hard in flickering candlelight. A wayward pulse began to beat deep inside her.

He spoke as if he considered every word. “I believe you’re genuinely afraid of my uncle.”

She gave a shiver as she remembered yesterday’s ultimatum. Of course she was afraid. Lord John would order her death and hardly note the event. “Yes.”

Lord Sheene still frowned. “I can’t save you, Mrs. Paget.”

“You make me feel safe,” she said, and knew she spoke a lie. Although with the marquess, her fear wasn’t for her life but for what she threatened to become. “Lord Sheene, I’m not your enemy.”

“No,” he said slowly as if he reached an important decision. “Perhaps you’re not.”

“So may I stay?” She couldn’t retreat to the cottage and her own company. All she did there was relive that hideous conversation with Lord John. His threats buzzed round her mind like wasps trapped in a bottle. With a determined gesture, she placed the hat on her head, although her fingers trembled as she tied the ribbons. “Surely I can help.”

Astonishingly, the marquess’s expressive mouth quirked in long-suffering humor. “You must indeed be bored if you seek hard labor.”

“I told you yesterday that I’m used to working, my lord.”

He straightened and stepped closer to take one of her hands. One simple touch and she was undone. A jolt of sensation sizzled up her arm to lodge in her pounding heart, and lower where wanton heat made her slick with need. She shifted to ease the uncomfortable pressure between her thighs. She prayed he didn’t notice her agitation.

He inspected her palms with a scientific attention that did nothing to calm her racing pulse. “These hands have done their share.”

Mixed with reluctant sensual awareness was chagrin at her calluses and scars. It was many years since she’d had a lady’s smooth white hands. Such a ridiculous thing to fret about when her life was at risk. But seeing the signs of wear and work through the marquess’s eyes, she wanted to weep for shame.

His thumb brushed a thick white mark. “You cut yourself,” he said softly. His face was all somber concentration and she was close enough to catch his scent, healthy male and something citrus that must be his soap.

“The knife slipped when I built a rabbit hutch,” she whispered, swaying nearer to catch that elusive scent. Her eyes drifted shut as the delicious mix of male musk and lemon eddied over her. She realized what she did and blinked. She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth.

“Such capable hands.” Abruptly, he let her go. He looked shaken and for once the hauteur was absent. She flushed. Had he discerned her hunger? If so, he had every reason to despise her. She despised herself. One short month a widow and already she craved another man.

Lord Sheene became all practicality as he turned to the bench crowded with gardening apparatus. He passed her a pair of gloves. “Try these. They’re probably too big but that can’t be helped. I’d be grateful if you cleared some weeds.”

Wordlessly, Grace reached for a trowel. She was still lost in a longing haze. She’d forfeit her soul for another touch from those elegant hands. She wrenched herself back to reality. Mooning over the marquess only worsened her untenable situation.

For a long time, they worked without speaking. The garden was more neglected than her first impression of order had indicated. She’d sought company as distraction. But looming danger gnawed at her as she dug the cool soil. And her sinful desire for the marquess only reminded her what she must do, willing or not.

Fear inched higher every minute. She had to concentrate on something other than her dilemma or scream. Once she started screaming, she wouldn’t stop. She spoke quickly before she thought to censor herself. “Have you been ill this last year?”

His back was to her as he bent over his workbench and she saw his shoulders tense. “Not ill, exactly.”

He warned her off. She knew it as surely as if he posted a sign saying no trespassing.

“Then what?” she persisted, surprising herself.

Slowly he turned, his lips adopting a sardonic twist. “I see you’re in a mood for confidences, Mrs. Paget.”

She flinched. They were almost the same words he’d used yesterday when he’d accused her of colluding with his uncle. Of course he had no reason to trust her but the reminder hurt. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“Oh, hell, what does it matter? What does any of it matter?” He glanced down at the knife in his hand and pitched it onto the bench where it landed with a clatter. “What do you want to know?”

Absolutely everything about you.

Tags: Anna Campbell Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net