Page 54 of Her Magnificent Mistake
“Hawk.”
His mind couldn’t manufacture that perfect blend of amusement and exasperation. He lifted his head, and aye…there was Marcia, one hip propped against the doorframe, holding his hat.
His hat?
The spokeshave dropped from Hawk’s hand as he stared.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Forcing himself from his surprise, he blinked, then glanced down at his project. “Making a new ax handle. I was chopping wood and this one broke.”
He watched her gaze flicker over his shoulders and down his arms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. There was admiration in her eyes, and despite his promise that he would avoid her and her brothers, her admiration heated his blood. His cock stirred in his trousers.
So it was with frustration that he snapped, “Dinnae tell me I have servants for such things.”
“I would never dream of such a thing,” she murmured. Then Marcia straightened from the doorway and moved toward him, her hips swaying sensuously so her skirt brushed the tops of her boots. It wasn’t until she reached him and bent to take his hand in one of hers that he realized she was still holding his gray hat in the other.
“But you should be more careful,” she admonished quietly, running the pad of her thumb over the welt on his. “Tostinham does not need to lose yet another baron.”
“I’m clumsy, no’ suicidal.” Frowning, he tried to pull his hand from hers, but couldn’t. Her hold wasn’t tight; the fault lay with his traitorous limb and its apparent inability to break contact with her.
Coward again. But for a better reason this time.
To his surprise, his words caused her to flush and drop his hand. “I did not mean… I thought…” She took a deep breath and met his eyes. “I was just worried for you, Hawk.”
This didn’t sound like Marcia. Not the Marcia he’d fallen in love with, not the Marcia who’d shown up at Tostinham pretending to be someone she wasn’t, not the Marcia who confessed she was trying to win him back, not the Marcia who made love to him yesterday with abandon.
Marcia—worried?
“There’s nae need to worry about me,” Hawk announced before thrusting himself to his feet. Now he stood, straddling the shaving horse, unable to go farther because she still stood there, far too close. “Why do ye have my hat?”
Judging from her reaction, Marcia had forgotten she was holding it. Her brows dipped in as she glanced down, then her expression cleared. “This is not yours. It belongs to my brother.” As she said this, she turned away, both hands cupping the hat. “He was wearing it yesterday when someone…someone tried to kill him.”
“Kill him?” Hawk blurted, lunging toward her with no thought other than to comfort her. Unfortunately he forgot he was still straddling the woodworking device, and his boot caught on the treadle, spilling him onto the sawdust-covered floor with an unpleasantly sore thump.
As she reached to help him Hawk waved her away, scrambling to his feet, his attention focused on her face. “Is Bull well? I spoke with the doctor yesterday after he saw Bull, and the man—and Rupert—said he was recovering, just unable to remember anything.”
Nodding, Marcia moved to one of the workbenches. “He has a headache and a lump, and cannot remember exactly whathappened after he went rushing off to Pook’s Glen, but he is recovering.”
“Thank fook,” Hawk muttered, sinking back down atop the horse, this time using it as a bench. “But…ye dinnae think his injury was an accident?” He searched her melancholy expression. “Was it because of one of his cases? I ken he is involved in dangerous shenanigans.”
“Aye.” Her lips twitched before she looked down at the hat—and the bloodstains he could see—and she sobered once more. “But this time, I dinnae believe he was hurt by one of his enemies, but one ofyours.”
Cocking his head to one side, Hawk frowned. “I dinnae have enemies.” All he had was confusion. He was torn between wanting to go to her, to touch her…and the need to stay far away.
When Marcia inhaled, her breasts pressed against the cotton of her blouse, and he had to look away.
“Youdohave enemies, Hawk. I believe you have a very dangerous enemy, one who wants your title.” When he glanced back sharply, she shrugged. “If not your title, then perhaps Tostinham. It…it is why so many of your family have died.”
“Explain,” he barked, thrusting to his feet once more, pulse now pounding for quite a different reason. “My cousins and uncle died of natural causes.”
Something like pity flashed in her eyes. “Did they? So many Baron Tostinhams, dead? One after the other, leaving the place…to you.”
Hawk sucked in a gasp. “What are ye saying? Ye think…?” His eyes widened. “Dear God, Marcia, ye dinnae thinkIhad anything to do with their deaths?”
Was it naivety then, that he hadn’t realized the way things could look?
For fook’s sake, who else believed him capable of such a thing?
