Page 18 of This Haunted Heart

“I’m not a fool,” he said. “I wouldn’t carry that kind of money directly on my person.”

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop reading my mind. It’s unseemly.”

“Then stop shooting your thoughts at me like they’re bullets.”

“Wish they were bullets,” I muttered.

“What was that you just said?” He pushed a sagging mail bag roughly away from him.

I ignored him. “Stupid sad eyes,” I murmured. “Stupid big hands . . . Stupid handsome son of a—”

“If you don’t stop cursing at me,” he growled, “I’m going to gag you with your own stockings.”

I wanted to call his bluff, but I’d already tried that once when he threatened to sit on me. The situation hadn’t ended in my favor.

“How’d you do it?” I grumbled at him.

“Which part?” he grumbled back.

“How’d you get into my safe? How’d you even know it was there?”

He stared ahead like the other side of the coach was more interesting than whatever else I had to say. “It doesn’t matter.”

Lips pursed, I thought on his words and reconsidered mine. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You have plenty of money of your own.Whydid you get into my safe? Why are you doing this to me?Thatmatters most.”

He breathed through his nose, long and slow. I waited. Then waited some more but less patiently, tapping my foot.

“Oh, for the love of God, say something!” I shouted. Then inspiration struck, and I gasped. “Is this about Utrecht?”

The venom in his glower turned my blood cold. “No, this isn’t abouthim.”

“If you think he tells me business secrets—”

He shook his head. “I don’t care about his damn business.”

“Utrecht doesn’t tell me anything, I swear it. You can’t ransom me or get something in trade. I’m not worth anything. I’m just one of many women he kept. He doesn’t care for me. He probably keeps a mistress in every city he frequents. Go on and steal one of them instead!”

He spun to face me so suddenly I yelped. A muscle inhis clenched jaw jumped. “This is not about Utrecht. This is not a bid for information about that foul man or any of his businesses. I am not ransoming you to anyone—ever! In fact, I want the name Utrecht to never touch your lips again. Are we clear?”

I swallowed hard. As he waited impatiently for my answer, his angry breath warmed my face. I could taste him on my tongue: mint and cedar and honey. The spicy scent of black tea and orchids teased my senses. Fear—that wicked little devil—heated my cheeks and pumped thrills of pleasure through my pulse.

My lips parted around my next needy exhale, and I hated myself in that moment.

I hated him too, doubly so. How dare he make me feel this way, now especially.

“Hatred,” he whispered, like he saw it in my eyes and plucked the thought straight out of my mind. “Yes, that’s closer to the truth of things.”

“We hardly know one another. Who do you hate so desperately?” I asked, and my voice shook. My hands too—they shivered as I fisted them in my frock.

Instead of responding, my pirate did an excellent impersonation of a marble statue, as stern and silent as a gargoyle.

Since he would not talk to me, I spoke out loud to myself.

“I hope this is about debauchery. Debauchery I can handle.” I filled the cabin with my forlorn sigh, ready to make a trade I could tolerate. I’d grown accustomed to transactions with serpents over the years. I knew how to talk them down. Usually. “If you’d just tell me something, anything! You mentioned lambing season. For all I know, you’re taking me someplace secluded so you can murderme the way you like, chop me into tiny pieces before you feed me to your sheep . . .”

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