Page 6 of How the Earl Entices

He was quickly lost in his own thoughts, but Grace knew he was still aware of her and every move she made. If she attempted to run, he would pounce before she reached the door.

She walked into her bedroom. Part of her contemplated defying him and closing the door anyway. Would serve him right! But something in her gut told her not to press him. So far he’d kept true to his word and not attempted to hurt her, and the last thing she should do was provoke his anger. The night was half over now; by dawn the storm would be weakening, and he’d leave. She only had to wait him out.

Even knowing that, she still couldn’t stop the shaking as she shrugged out of the wet coat, then reached for her dress and undergarments in her dresser. The room was dark, and the shadows hid her from view, yet she took repeated glances over her shoulder to make certain he kept his distance, still standing at the fireplace with his eyes focused on the flames.

After she’d changed into her dress and wrapped a shawl securely around her shoulders, she blew out a deep sigh of relief, both at finally being properly dressed and that the stranger hadn’t moved from where she’d left him.

Her hands fumbled with putting up her damp hair as she emerged from the bedroom, with two hairpins between her lips. Grudgingly, she mumbled around them, “Thank you for not—”

He glanced up from the fire as she stepped from the shadows, his face fully visible in the firelight.

She halted in mid-step at the intensity of his gaze as it trailed slowly over her in an assessing manner, a look filled with such deliberate aloofness that she couldn’t help but see the arrogant reserve beneath, the cool detachment. That look crystallized a long-forgotten memory at the back of her mind, so distant as to be almost a dream…

Ross Carlisle, Viscount Mooreland, heir to the Earl of Spalding.

Dear God—so much worse than a stranger!

Chapter 2

Frowning both at her reappearance and at the relentless pounding in his head, Ross turned his gaze back to the fire as the woman slowly approached. She’d changed, and more than just her dress. The difference was palpable.

“Better?” He carefully kept the suspicion from his voice, along with his surprise at seeing her looking so pretty in that plain dress and wool shawl, all soft and warm.

Yet at the same time, he sensed an inexplicable hardening in her. Oh, she was still afraid, certainly. Even now she moved stiltedly as she approached, each step uncertain and cautious, reminding him of a skittish doe. But she no longer exuded the fury and terror of before. Thank God.

She stopped beside the fireplace, close but cleverly just beyond his reach. Her gaze dropped to the iron poker that he’d returned to the rack of tools beside the hearth while she’d been changing. Her mouth twisted, but she didn’t deign to answer his question. Instead, she lifted her chin and defiantly narrowed her eyes.

Stubborn woman.

Not that it mattered. Once the storm broke, he would be on his way. If he somehow managed to wrangle himself out of the mess he was in, then he would make certain she was well compensated for any trouble he’d caused her.

But tonight, he needed her help.

“I need a bandage for my arm.” When she didn’t reply, he added with grim humor, “Unless you’d rather I keep bleeding all over your floor.”

“I’drather you leave.” She fumed that he’d expected her to help him, yet she turned to the hutch and lifted up on tiptoes to reach for the workbox sitting high on the top shelf.

His eyes darted over her lithesome figure, noting her thin waist and round hips, her slender shoulders…She’d pinned up her hair. Damnable shame, that. He would have liked to have seen what it looked like when it dried, whether it would have hung down her back in chestnut waves or dried to light brown curls. After all, tonight was going to be hellishly long and quite possibly his last as a free man. He might as well enjoy himself a bit.

She took down the box and sat at the table. “There’s a lamp on the peg near the door. Light it and bring it here.” A hostile brow arched high. “Unlessyou’drather I sew you up in the dark.”

Well.Thatwas certainly a change in attitude, all right.

He suspected as he fetched the tin lantern and lit it on the fire that he’d have little rest tonight, if any, with her here with him. Dear God, he desperately needed rest! The weakness in his limbs from swimming for his life in the Channel, coupled with a growing headache, proved that. Yet as tired as he was, he couldn’t let his guard slip or his journey might end right here. Wherever here was.

He sat at the table and extended his arm toward her. With an irritated scowl, she reached for his bicep, which she inspected by jabbing at it with her fingertip. Gritting his teeth, he held perfectly still, even when she gave him a hard poke right in the bruised muscle. Pain shot all the way up his arm to his pounding temples.Christ!

Given all he’d been through during the past sennight, she’d have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to wound him.

With a disappointed sniff—perhaps unhappy to find his arm still attached—she leaned back and reached into her workbox to retrieve a large square of cloth, most likely one she’d been saving for her embroidery. Then she pulled out a needle and thread.

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “Is that necessary?”

“A big strong man like you, frightened of a bitty needle and thread?” she taunted. “Then you shouldn’t have gotten into a fight in the first place.”

He released her wrist and let her jerk herself away. “It wasn’t a fight.”Not exactly. “And I didn’t have a choice.”

She eyed him warily. “Then what was it?”