Page 38 of The Forsaken

In one smooth movement, he rolled them both to their feet. His body all fluid, sinewy muscles against hers, put her into the carriage, and on his lap, and stole her breath all over again.

This time, she told herself he was an arrogant lout, a deceiver of innocents, and still it was a hard task not to fan herself. She was, however, grateful for his intervention.

“I am grateful for your kind assistance—”

“You mean for saving your life.”

He wanted to get a rise from her. He might be a sour-faced, rude curmudgeon, but she would not stoop to his level—metaphorically speaking, of course—even the Sycamore Gap tree would struggle in a head-to-head with Viscount Kerr.

“If I weren’t so put out by you, my lord, I would praise you on a job well done in chasing off those pig-widgeons.”

“Unfortunately, the biggest one hasn’t been so deterred.”

Frowning, Andromena tipped back the enormous brim of her Gainsborough hat. She turned her gaze in a slow circle in the narrow roadway, searching for the fool who had defied the menacing Viscount Kerr.

She came to a full stop on a dreadfully bored-looking Edgar.

Andromena gasped. “You meant me.”

He smirked. “What a clever thing you are.”

Fiery heat raced to her cheeks. Something about this man turned her violent. She wanted to thwack her reticule across his slightly broken, Greek nose.

Her reticule.

Andromena’s breath stuck in her throat. She did a frantic sweep, tearing her beautiful bonnet away and letting it drop carelessly to the ground. Then, her breath caught. Against the black, damp cobbles lay a single, sparkling pink speck.

She didn’t realize she cried out. Didn’t care that Edgar thundered: “No!” or that he cursed a sailor’s litany behind her while she bolted from the carriage for the only thing standing between her and complete ruin.

Which was why, this time, she didn’t see the horse and rider until it was too late.

A black-and-brown skewbald mount reared and pawed at the air above her head. Screaming, Andromena just managed to rescue her reticule.

Rescue came—for a second time—in Lord Kerr’s quick thinking, sharp reflexes, and strength.

With a powerful arm wrapping around her waist, he snatched Andromena to safety. A fraction of a second later, the monstrous horse thrashed the empty air with its deadly hooves.

Gasping, she gripped the viscount’s thick forearm as it locked around her waist. Her heart felt as though it would lodge permanently in her throat.

An ashen gentleman in a bottle-green frock jumped down and came skidding toward them. “My apologies, miss—” he cried.

“Go.” Lord Kerr needn’t shout; the low rasp of his baritone was the only threat needed.

The shaken rider muttered a fresh round of incoherent apologies and offered a clumsy bow. Instead of mounting up to gallop away, the gentleman took his horse by the reins and continued on foot, leading the animal slowly behind him.

While he made his slow—undeserved—march of shame, Andromena’s heart hammered against her ribs. After two near-death escapes, dread was the only suitable response. Desire the wickedest. And, naturally, since she was a McQuoid-Smith, her body chose the latter.

His presence was overwhelming: tall, muscular, and weathered by years at sea. Crucially, he made her feel entirely dainty. She stood nearly a head shorter than him, dwarfed by his size.

“Do you not have a damned brain in your head, Miss Smith?” Edgar raged.

It was hard to say at the moment.

“No answer necessary, Miss Smith. Clearly, you don’t.”

It was one thing for her to think it, but quite another for this lummox to say it.

“You rattle-pated gobble-cock. Surely you aren’t insisting this was my fault?”