Page 46 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Is that a threat?” he asked softly, menacingly. “Do you really think I’d be afraid of a man who lets a woman do his dirty work for him?”
Ranleigh’s face drained, a livid white. The reference to Ilsa Thelen hit its mark, and any trepidationThomas had for the noble and his ancient family fled.
“Whalers cut their teeth on fools like you,” he said.
His nod for the table was quick. “Miss Trevethan, my lord count.” A dismissive second and, “Ranleigh.”
He stalked off. It’d be a cold day in hell before hemy lord-ed Ranleigh—ifthey crossed paths. He’d not darken Maison Bedwell’s door again. Not for all the gold in London. But the die was cast and a new enemy made. He had a few, and he wore the scars to prove it.
Chapter Ten
Mary batted a gold-tasseled pillow like a restless cat. There was an abundance of tasseled pillows in the Red Rose room: piled before a cheery fire, wedged along the wall, stacked strategically on shelves, which she found after her eyes had adjusted to the dimly lit room.
She craned her neck at those shelves.
“A new fashion, is it? Sexual congress in elevated places?”
There were enough curiosities in the bedchamber to keep her guessing. One candle flickered on a table filled with fascinating accoutrements. A bottle of wine with two glasses was to be expected. The other items were not. Feathers, riding crops, willow branch switches, coiled silken ropes (with tassels at both ends), and a short-handled birch broom, which looked oddly familiar.
She picked it up, aghast.
The handle smelled of freshly cut wood. Light laughter bubbled. “Lord Ranleigh, you are a rogue of the first order.”
The broom had to be one of the many used to move his fountain this morning.
She traced the handle’s cut end. Had there been a deeper intent when he offered to join her? Emboldened, she set the broom down and selected the willow branch. Long and slender, it fit her palm.
How many infamous bottoms has this switch spanked?
She sliced air with it, thewhooshan amusing distraction. The monstrosity of a bed spoke volumes. Five people could sleep comfortably side by side. Six, if they squeezed together. A medieval tapestry covered the wall behind it. Harts and roses surrounded a chivalrous lord on bended knee, holding the hand of his lady fair.
Lord Ranleigh was to be congratulated. A woman embarking on a romantic assignation would appreciate the tapestry.
But this wasn’t a romantic pursuit.
It was carnal. Her thready pulse wouldn’t let her forget that.
She was tracing the willow’s length when the door swung open. Mr. West filled the portal, a phantom in tar-spattered jackboots.
Every nerve in her body singed.
His head cocked. “Miss Fletcher, are you... petting a switch?”
Heat flared behind her feathered mask, and her gaze dropped to the branch she held lovingly.
“It would appear that I am.”
Mr. West kicked the door shut and advanced on her with a rangy stride. She stood her ground, tiny flames of anticipation licking her everywhere—until he was inches from her and those little fires blazed.
The balance of power shifted.
Darkness didn’t help.
Piercing green eyes gleamed like bright gemstones set in black, his focus raking her from head to hem. Her mouth went dry.
The sea wolf had answered her call.
Chin up, she was proud. She’d invited this, but nothing prepared her for the delicious shock of being the object of a man’s leisured stare. The vitality of it. Mr. West’s mouth curled with pleasure when he examined the frippery hiding half her face, as if she was his new plaything.
