Page 7 of Never a Bride
He grinned then, as if she should worship his prowess, instead of being perturbed by his casualness with such violence.
“This happens often in your world?” she demanded.
He straightened, and she was glad to see his smile lessen, for it was a potent weapon.
“No, not often. But London is a dangerous city, and unless I wish to remain locked up and as protected as a prince, I will occasionally have trouble.”
“I do not have trouble,” she said coldly. “Are you implying that people like me are isolated?”
“Have you ever been away from safety before?” he asked softly, walking toward her.
Every step he took nearer made her feel strange, not like the reasonable, rational Emmeline. Though she was tall, she had to arch her neck to look up at him.
“No,” she answered, “but nor do I sit sewing in a comfortable room all day.”
He stopped mere inches from her when she didn’t give way. The air was charged with a tension she’d never felt before. When he spoke, his voice was lower, huskier, and it seemed to skitter along her spine.
He said, “Perhaps the danger wasn’t to me, but to you.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No need for that,” he said, lifting a hand. “The brigands simply might have seen the attention you paid me, and wanted you for themselves. I daresay they recognized quality when they saw it.”
She inwardly cursed her cheeks for blazing her discomfort. “And I daresay you are trying to distract me from your dangerous way of life.”
“Forgive me; I tease you unkindly. You have but come on an errand that can only do me good, while I have no answers that will please you.”
She said nothing, caught in a trap of duty and promises.
He waited, and when she did not hand him the letter, he offered her a cushioned chair before the fire, which she refused.
“I only wish to speak to you about Blythe,” he said, in a kind voice. “Tell me what flowers she likes, what amusements keep her happy.”
How could he think that she would possibly help him? “No, Sir Alexander, you have not proven your worthiness to me.”
For a moment, she saw wariness in his eyes, gone so swiftly that she’d surely imagined it.
“I promised I would deliver this letter, but that is all I will do.” She handed it to him.
He took it slowly, studying her. “Do you wish to wait for a reply?” he asked softly.
She heard the teasing in his voice. “Of course. But please be quick; I’m certain that my driver is frantic with worry.”
As Sir Alexander read the letter, his face betrayed nothing. What had Blythe said? He took a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink from a trunk at the foot of his bed, and sat at a table to write.
Emmeline wanted to pace in the sudden stillness, and forced herself to listen to the crackling of the fire, and the distant sound of voices in the tavern below. She tried to keep her gaze from him, but it was difficult. He was so big and dark and reckless, too handsome, too wild. He was nothing like the man she’d once loved and lost.
He looked up and caught her staring, and she lifted her chin and held his gaze.
Oh, he was arrogant, so sure of himself. Well, he would see she was not a woman to cross. Blythe would be protected, no matter what Emmeline had to do to achieve it.
After blowing away the sand from the ink, Sir Alexander folded his reply, sealed it with wax, and handed it to her. She tucked it safely into her purse and turned to the door.
“Lady Emmeline, shall I show you another way out? There might be talk, should you go through the taproom.”
“Consideration, Sir Alexander?”
“For myself as well,” he said, standing much too close to her. “After all, my reputation would suffer should you appear to leave too quickly.”
