Page 17 of Some Like It Wild
Scrambling awkwardly to her feet, she peered into the cup. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. I didn’t spill a single drop of the shaving soap.”
He confiscated the cup from her hand before scooting his chair around to face the jagged spar of mirror propped against the wall. “I don’t know why the Brits bother sendin’ the redcoats to drive us off our lands.” He rested the cup between his thighs and brushed shaving soap along the curve of his jaw. “If they armed you with a razor and your sister with a parasol, they could conquer us without firin’ a single shot.”
Pamela leaned against the edge of the table, observing his reflection in the mirror. “Why do you hate the English so much?”
“Does a Scotsman need a reason to hate the English?”
“No. But I believe you do.”
He flicked her the briefest of glances, his eyes flashing silver in the sunlight. The razor looked far more menacing in his grip than it had in hers. Dismissing her question, he frowned at his reflection. “What if I don’t look anythin’ like this Warrick fellow?”
“That’s the beauty of my plan. No one knows what he would look like. He was only a few weeks old when he disappeared. He was as bald as an onion and his eyes were still that muddy blue all babies are born with. Besides, it’s all in the art of illusion. If growing up in the theater taught me anything, it was that people will see what they want to believe and believe what they want to see.”
Connor drew the blade down his cheek, clearing away a patch of bristling whiskers to reveal a swath of smooth, sun-bronzed skin. “So what will my new name be?”
Pamela straightened. “You shall henceforth be known as Percy Ambrose Bartholomew Reginald Cecil Smythe, Marquess of Eddywhistle and future Duke of Warrick.”
Pamela had expected him to be intimidated by such an impressive list of monikers and titles. She did not expect his striking face to curdle in an expression of horror. “Percy?The duke named the poor ladPercy? Why, you were right about the rotter! His wife should have shot him. If anyone calls me Percy, I’ll shoot them myself!”
She sighed. “I don’t think that would make for a very positive first impression. Christian names are very rarely used among the nobility. Your peers will probably call you Warrick and your inferiors will simply address you as ‘my lord.’”
“And which will you be?” he asked.
“As always, your superior,” she replied without missing a beat.
He snorted. “Then perhaps you can tell me where I’ve been all these years.”
“As I see it,” Pamela said, pushing off from the table to pace behind him, “when the duchess was stricken with the fever and realized she was going to die before she could reach the shelter of her grandfather’s cottage, she had no choice but to place you in a basket and leave you on the doorstep of a kindly old merchant and his barren wife.”
Connor’s voice rippled with mild sarcasm. “And I suppose I’ve been tendin’ the store ever since then.”
Pamela swung around to eye his brawny shoulders. She’d never encountered a man who looked less like a shopkeeper and more like one of the paid brawlers at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing club.
“I think not,” she said, conceding his point. “After the kindly couple died, you struck out on your own, determined to make your fortune in this world. When I found you, you were…” She tapped her pursed lips with one forefinger, searching her mind for a suitable occupation.
“Robbin’ hapless travelers of their underwear?” he offered.
She glared down her nose at him. “Oh yes, why don’t we just come right out and tell the duke you’ve been masquerading as Connor Kincaid—robber prince of the night, terror of the highways and scourge of the Highlands?”
“You left off despoiler of innocent females.”
Pamela might have been able to tell if he was joking had he not chosen that moment to scrape away the whiskers beneath his nose, revealing a delectably kissable cleft.
For a breathless moment, she could only stare.
“If we make them believe I truly am the duke’s heir, you do realize that the same villain who killed your mother may very well try to kill me.”
Pamela clapped her hands together and beamed at him. “Yes, I know! Isn’t it marvelous?”
His reflection cocked one eyebrow at her.
She hastened to explain. “What better way to expose the wretch than to catch him in the act?”
“The act of slippin’ hemlock into my brandy or slittin’ my throat while I’m sleepin’?”
She waved away the heavy note of mockery that laced his tone. “Don’t be ridiculous. If this murderer doesn’t want to get caught, he’ll have to stage a convincing accident. And since we’ll be expecting him to do just that, we’ll have ample time to see that he’s brought to justice. If you see anything suspicious at all, just send word to me and I’ll fetch the authorities.”
“Beforehe kills me.”
