Page 3 of Wild Hearts

His eyebrows rose. "Impossible," he said quietly, silkily. "That word is not in my vocabulary, Mrs. Graham." His eyes narrowed dangerously.

Determined not to be overruled by him, she patronized him. "Let me be blunt with you, milord. Visitors disturb the children when they disrupt their lessons. We need time to prepare them for such an intrusion."

The silky tone left his voice and was immediately replaced with a harsh, knife-edged sound. "Let me be blunt with you, Mrs. Graham. Fetch the Lamont child now, or the money stops!"

Her nostrils pinched together with the distaste she felt at doing his bidding, but nonetheless, she turned and left without a word, her black skirts rustling their protest with each forced step.

Rogue Cockburn, not known for his patience, paced about the hall. Actually, he had been amused at the woman's temerity in trying to thwart him. He'd had too much experience with women— by now he was thoroughly familiar with every wile and device that had ever been dreamed of to manipulate a man. Mrs. Graham didn't stand a chance.

Mrs. Graham returned with a young girl who stepped back in fear the moment she laid eyes on the tall man. Paris's eyes missed nothing as he keenly examined the maid before him. He saw little of her face because she hung her head, but he saw that her wrists and ankles were delicately boned, since they were uncovered by the ugly smock that did not fit her. His eyes traveled up to her bodice, and though the loose smock did nothing to enhance them, he saw that her breasts were developed and thrust up through the thin material. "Don't run away, my dear, tell me your name," he invited, and his features softened.

Tabby had been terrified from the moment Mrs. Graham had singled her out for attention. When she had been commanded to go with the woman, fear had almost paralyzed her legs. She had been brought to this room where she caught a fleeting glimpse of an enormous man with a forbidding face. When he spoke to her, she shrank from him.

Mrs. Graham answered for her: "Her name is Tabby Lamont."

"How old are you, Tabby?" he asked.

She hung her head and tried to dig a hole in the floor with her toe.

Mrs. Graham said, "She is fourteen, almost fifteen, milord."

He said, not unkindly, "Is she simple?"

With that, Tabby quickly lifted her head and shot him a look of pure hatred, which he observed with some amusement. He noted with satisfaction that if he angered her, he would get a reaction. It would have taken a blind man not to have noticed the budding beauty of her face. It was heart-shaped with a small retrousse nose and wildly pink lips. The lovely mop of auburn curls he remembered had been dragged back and tortured into such tight plaits, it pulled the skin around-her eyes. This emphasized high, slanting cheekbones.

After Tabby shot him the defiant look, she quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. Her anger had dissolved back into fear the moment she dared to look at him. He was an authority figure, and authority was always associated with cruelty in Tabby's mind.

Lord Cockburn turned to Mrs. Graham quickly. "This won't do, madam. Show us to a more amenable room with a fire and somewhere to sit."

"We can use my sitting room," said Mrs. Graham, leading the way reluctantly.

He nodded. "This will do nicely. You may leave now." It was not a request, it was a command. He noticed cynically how comfortable and warm the room was compared to the rest of the building. It had a fireplace with a brass kettle hung on the hob. The stone floor boasted a thick-piled carpet, and the windows were covered with velvet drapes to keep the drafts at bay. He wondered how much of the orphanage's budget went toward Mrs. Graham's creature comforts. He was silent until she went through the door and shut it with a bang, which made Tabby jump with fright.

"Are you afraid of her?" he asked flatly.

Tabby trembled at the thought of being alone with him. She hesitated, her mind confused with the emotions raging within.

"I can see that you are afraid of her," he decided, sweeping her with a glance from head to toe, with glittering green eyes.

She nodded.

"Why?" he demanded harshly.

She hesitated. She tried to answer him, but the words would not come. Slowly, she pulled back the neck of her gown and showed him the purple bruises of a beating.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked softly. She nodded.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice getting louder.

"You are a man," she whispered.

"Bloody hell!" he exploded. "That says it all, doesn't it?"

She cowered.

"Don't do that. Raise your eyes and stop whispering. Don't you realize, if you make a doormat of yourself, the world will wipe its feet on you?" he shouted. He watched her closely as she raised her head. When she lifted her lashes, her eyes were pooled with tears in a mute plea that he not hurt her. When she looked him full in the face, he was startled to find her eyes the color of amethysts.

"That's better," he approved, smiling to try to lessen her fear. "Salt tears never grew a rose! I have four sisters between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, and although they cannot do whatever they like, they most certainly can say whatever they like.. We do still have freedom of speech in Scotland, you know. Now I give you permission to say anything you please in this room without fearing any consequences whatever."

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