Page 50 of The Countess Caper

She knew exactly how that hand would feel curled around her ankle, stroking her spine. Elsewhere. She swallowed.

She was misinterpreting a flash of an expression. Roarke did not want her, not that way.

Maybe that way. But not in any way that invited permanence. She was to be easy, forgettable. Disposable.

Tessa’s horse, bored with standing about, began to lead them home. She walked beside him, letting him set the pace. Roarke fell into step easily, as if this was all perfectly normal. As if she didn’t have a strange sort of pain in her ribcage, like her most vital organs were shifting, dropping.

It was not comfortable.

“Why are you stealing from Stanhope?” he asked.

“Because he’s awful.” It was the truth, if only part of it. And since he was not linked to any of the women in her house, she was not putting anyone in danger by admitting it was Stanhope, or that he was a donkey’s arse. “And convenient.”

“Ah.” Roarke was not fazed. In fact, he appeared to think that was a very reasonable explanation.

It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. She untied the knot of the scarf around her neck and shoved it into her pocket. It was too warm. She shrugged off her coat as well, as there was no one around to be shocked by her linen shirt.

“What happened to your throat?” There was a growl in his voice.

“Nothing happened to—” She touched her neck, felt the slight ridge of the cut, already healing. “Oh, that.”

“Yes,” he said with seething, glacial fury, suddenly every inch the Beast of Dartmoor. “That.”

“You can’t be angry every time you think something has gone wrong,” Tessa pointed out, ignoring the warm flutter in her belly. Lower. “You’ll spend most of your time very angry indeed. Just this morning, part of the ceiling in the kitchen fell into the soup.”

Roarke wasn’t listening. His fingers clasped her jaw gently, but firmly. He wasn’t going to let her pull away. He tilted her head back, examining the cut. Everything about him screamed brutal vengeance and cold justice, but his touch remained gentle on her skin. She shivered. Just a little. There was something to be said for the contrast.

“It’s fine,” she said. He was so close that she could smell his soap and the wind on him. “Mrs. P gave me a poultice. It looked like mud, but it did the trick.”

“What the hell have Mrs. P and her bloody gang been doing? Making poultices and baking pie?”

“Actually, yes. Peter makes the best raspberry tarts I’ve ever had.”

“Tessa.”

“Well, he does.”

“Tessa.”

She sighed. “It happened before they even arrived. You can’t blame them.”

The timbre of his voice changed. Darkened. “Who can I blame, then?”

He was still touching her, raking her with his searing gaze.

“Tess, you are trying my patience,” he said through his teeth when she did not answer. “And I am much vaunted for my patience.”

“I’m sure it’s a lovely quality.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “You were sent by the devil himself.”

“I’ve heard that before.” It had never made her want to smile before, though.

He stroked his thumb near the cut. “Why won’t you tell me who did this? I have the powerful urge to separate him from his own skull.”

“It’s not my secret to tell.”

He was outraged. “Someone tried to cut your throat and it’s not your secret?”