Page 64 of After the Abduction

What now? She finally had a chance to get Sebastian alone again, and she didn’t know what to do with it. Rosalind’s comments had thrown her off balance. If Sebastian truly cared for her, that changed matters considerably.

What was she thinking? How could he possibly care for her? He continued to deny who he was, for goodness sake. He could hardly expect her to marry him when he wouldn’t even admit whom she was marrying.

On the other hand, she hadn’t exactly made it easy for him to confess. That first night, she’d threatened to hold a pistol to his head. Later, she’d refused to marry “Morgan” under any circumstances. And last week, she’d sworn never to forgive him.

All without knowing the reasons for his actions. Her behavior had been understandable when she’d first come here, full of righteous indignation, wounded from two years of abandonment and tormenting questions. But as she’d come to know the kind of man he was—proud, responsible, overwhelmingly conscious of how scandal could wreck his family—she should have realized her mistake. In launching herself at him in anger, without stopping to think how he’d view it, she’d erected walls that made it impossible for him to confess anything. No wonder he’d remained mute.

Didn’t he deserve the chance to speak without fear of reprisal?

She stiffened in the saddle. Very well, she’d give him that chance. She’d try this again, without all the tricks and the anger. After all the games she’d played, she had to change her pattern, rip out the old stitches. Neither of them had spoken an honest word from the beginning. She’d sought to trap him; he’d sought to allay her suspicions.

But somebody had to start being honest, and it might as well be her. If he truly had felt something for her, then surely he still did. She must remind him of that. She must confess that she wanted to hear him out, that she cared for him, too. Perhaps then they could be honest with each other.

And if he didn’t care for her, after all? If it had been as she feared—all part of a scheme to distract her?

She’d deal with that when the time came. Worrying about it now would only lessen her resolve.

With that, she spurred the horse to a trot along the broad path to the cottage. Without the snow to hamper her, she reached it in little time. She spotted the plume of smoke before she saw the cottage itself, and her gloved hands squeezed the reins. He was indeed here. She’d have him to herself, so she must make good use of the opportunity.

Moments later, she drew up in the clearing where sat the cottage and its outbuilding. Dismounting, she glanced around. A painted target was set up at one end. Sebastian’s horse was tethered beneath a lean-to at the other, contentedly munching hay. And the plume of smoke hadn’t come from the cottage after all, but from the outbuilding. His forge. Of course.

The doors and windows stood open, no doubt to release the heat from the fires. Tying off her horse at a nearby tree, she approached slowly, nervous now that she was here. Nor did the loud clang of metal against metal inside calm her agitation.

When last she’d seen him, they’d both been angry. He probably still was, judging from how he’d been avoiding her. And accosting an angry man with a hammer in an isolated place might not be the brightest idea she’d ever had. Yet her other choice was to return to London without seeing him again, which was no choice at all.

Squelching any misgivings, she walked in. A pleasant warmth engulfed her, a sharp contrast to the cold outside.

Sebastian stood with his back to her at an oven, drawing out a glowing red object with iron tongs. She froze just inside the door when she realized he was naked from the waist up. Good Lord in heaven.

Apparently he hadn’t heard her enter over the roar of the fire, and she was in no hurry to alert him, not with such a magnificent display before her. She’d never seen him shirtless, not even when they’d eloped and certainly not since she’d come here. This was one of those things an unmarried woman simply wasn’t meant to see, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Damp, inky tendrils of hair clung to his neck. And what a sleek, fine neck it was, too, as beautifully made as the muscular shoulders flexing under their gloss of sweat and the well-defined sinews of his back. Then there was his nicely rounded bottom and thick, strong thighs so eloquently displayed by snug breeches. My oh my oh my.

She swallowed hard. So this was how a man looked beneath the layers of coat and waistcoat. She wasn’t sure why, but the very sight evoked an exotic quivering in the nether reaches of her belly.

Knowing it was horribly wicked of her, she held her breath, willing him to turn around and show the rest of that impressive male physique. To her delight, he did, swinging the tongs around to dip the glowing object into a pail that lay between her and him. It sizzled hotly, steam rising to veil him, but as the steam dispersed, she found herself staring at his sculpted chest with its smattering of black, curly hair. How would that taut skin feel beneath her fingers? Or her lips?

She blushed at the thought, and that’s when he lifted his head and saw her. His fabulous chest rose with his sharp intake of breath. “What are you doing here?”

The curt tone caught her off guard, and she wet her lips nervously. “I…I…was looking for you.”

“Were you?” Eyes cool as chilled wine flicked over her. He lifted the tongs out of the bucket, then carried his object over to a high wooden table and dropped it there. Picking up a small hammer, he tapped with rhythmic, skilled blows, molding the metal to suit some inner design. “That means you’ve either come to your senses and recognized you were wrong. Or you’re trying a new trick to get me to confess to Morgan’s crime.”

A week ago, the mere mention of “Morgan” in third person would have sparked her temper. But that had been her problem all along—letting her anger keep her from asking reasonably for the truth. “I’m not wrong. But I’ve given up on tricking you. You’re obviously too clever for that.”

He stopped tapping. “Then why are you here?”

She couldn’t just blurt out what she wanted, not with him so hostile. Yet she must bridge the gap that he seemed determined not to cross. What did a woman do when she wanted a man to resume his courtship of her, aside from telling him right out?

Why, she showed an interest in his endeavors. “I’d like you to teach me to shoot.”

That got his attention. Slowly he faced her. With his forearm, he wiped the sweat from his brow, streaking soot across the already grimy skin and giving her a glimpse of hair-shadowed underarms. “To shoot what?”

“What do you think? A pistol.”

“Why in God’s name would you want that?”

She thought fast. “To have some means of protection from scoundrels in London.”