Page 25 of Sinfully Mine
The assailant grabbed his right arm, twisting it and attempted to push him to the ground.
A grim smile pulled at Drew’s mouth. The one thing he’d learned while engaging in numerous brawls was that he was often underestimated. His appearance often led others to believe he didn’t know how to fight. Then there was the matter of Drew being left-handed.
And he was not about to be beaten to death on his own bloody property without having tupped Hester Black.
Drew swung up and to the side with his left fist, popping the shadowy figure of the man who held him, on the temple. Again and again, Drew struck, until the man’s grip loosened enough for him to break free. The light coming through the window from the study caught on something in the grass. The pistol.
The assailant let out a pained groan, shoving Drew into the house and against the uneven stone.
He tried to make out the man’s features, wishing the moon would peek through the clouds or that those blows hadn’t made his vision blurry. He held up the pistol, wiping at the blood dribbling from his lip. “Get off my bloody property. Now. Unless you want a hole in your belly.”
Malcolm always said a stomach wound was a horrible way to die. Slow and painful.
The man made a sound and sprinted into the darkness towards the pond, and Drew allowed him to go. What else could he do in the middle of the night? Ride to Horncastle for a constable?
The door banged open. A pale hand held a lamp aloft, the light sliding over Hester’s features. “Who is out there?”
Drew’s head ached something fierce.
The light spilled around him. A small gasp came from her. “Mr. Sinclair?” Hester hurried into the grass, the white of her nightgown flapping about her ankles. “Whatever has happened?” She rushed forward, the thick rope of her hair bouncing over her shoulder.
“There was a noise outside the study window. I thought maybe a fox was trying to get at King George. Or one of your cows.” He decided not to tell her a stranger had been wandering about Blackbird Heath. Not yet, at any rate.
“You’re bleeding. Come, let me help you inside. Did you fall? It’s quite dark out here with no moon.” She helped him to the open door, holding his arm as she took him to the study and pushed him into a chair.
Drew sat with a plop, wiggling his jaw back and forth. His shoulder was bruised and his head ached, but otherwise, there seemed to be no lasting damage.
Hester glanced at the wine on the desk before leaning over to sniff at him, which gave Drew an excellent view of her perfect little bosom when the cotton of her nightgown gaped open. He could barely make out the color of her nipples in the muted light. Pale pink.
Murderous pale pink.
She straightened. “Let me get some warm water and a cloth.” Hester disappeared out the door leaving Drew to his unwelcome thoughts. Not about her nipples, those were entirely pleasant. More the consideration that Hester had decided to stop putting snakes in his bed and placing rooster droppings everywhere and instead chose to rid herself of Drew in more dramatic fashion.
Hester returned, bringing with her a small bowl of water and a cloth. She dipped the rag and proceeded to dab at his lip, wiping at the blood. She was so often wearing a faded dress or a pair of old men’s trousers, covered in dirt, and smelling like it, that Drew was surprised at the light floral scent mixed with warm woman coming from her. Bathing soap. Hester wasn’t the sort to wear perfume of any kind.
The cotton of her nightgown dipped once more, showcasing a pair of taut nipples and sending an ache down between Drew’s thighs.
Having nearly been murdered, possibly by Hester, hadn’t dispelled his desire for her in the least.
If she were inclined to look down, she would see the thickness of his cock tenting the crotch of his trousers. A strand of copper fell over her cheek, tempting Drew to wrap the tendril around his finger and pull her closer.
“Mrs. Black.” Drew’s fingers circled her wrist.
*
Hester inhaled softlyat the touch of his skin against hers. The brush of cotton along her nipples reminded her that only a scrap of worn nightgown separated her from Sinclair. The heat of him gently caressed the skin of her chest and throat, rising to color her cheeks.
She did not pull away.
The thumping along the wall of the house had awoken Hester from a sound sleep, one she dearly needed after the events of the day. First Sinclair’s declaration of war by announcing his house party and then Martin nearly kissing her. She’d had a cup of chamomile tea and gone to bed.
Hester had blinked the sleep from her eyes and gone to the window, surprised to hear the sounds of a struggle outside below and worried over the hens and King George. There had been recent signs around the chicken enclosure that some predator had been lingering about. Hurrying down the hall, she’d paused to take the light on a table at the top of the stairs before making her way to the back of the house. The study door had been open. A lamp lit on what was once her desk, the remains of a meal and a bottle of wine set atop.
Had Sinclair stumbled outside after drinking far too much wine?
She had hurried out the back door, wishing she’d thought to grab a weapon of some sort. A knife. Or even that bottle of wine sitting open in the study. Once outside, she’d been surprised to find Sinclair, bleeding and wobbling slightly against the side of the house.
“What were you doing up at this hour, wandering about in your nightgown?” he said softly.
