Page 33 of The Lady and the Desert Scoundrel

She’d tied her horse by the church, when she heard someone call her name. Lord Stanford. She turned to him with a hollow smile. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Lucinda.” He bowed, taking off his top-hat. “What an enchanting chance meeting for a spring day!” He flattered.

His clothes impeccable. Compared to Tariq’s impressive presence, though, he’d disappear. “Thank you, my lord.”

“What brings your delicate presence to our village?”

“Oh, only enjoying the fresh air.” She smiled and tilted her head pleasantly.

Unmounted, Tariq guided his fine horse through the village’s only lane, intending to ride around the country and explore the views. He dressed a fine white shirt, black cravat, breeches and black coat. The apparel made him look even taller, his shoulders broader and the black coat matched his obsidian sleek hair. He was taking the direction of the woods when he caught sight of Lucinda talking to a man. She showed the man her best smiles and courteous manners. His blood boiled. He understood it to be common here for women talk to men to whom they weren’t related. But he would not swallow the flirtatious scene! Something burned inside him like red-hot iron.

He didn’t take a minute to think. Not a second to consider he should not approach them without being formally introduced. The idea of her acknowledging him in public would compromise her, especially because he was a foreigner. The notion never crossed his mind. When he realised it, his steps had taken him to them, pulling his Arab black stallion by the reins.

“Excuse me.” He could bluff as a gentleman too, if he so saw fit.

Lucinda’s eyes widened on him. The milk-sop turned to him with a look indicating he didn’t like to be disturbed. Good, because it’d be exactly what Tariq would do. “Would you be so kind as to inform me if there’s an inn nearby?” He faked.

At this, Lucinda fusilladed him with her pepper-mint eyes. A very kissable view indeed.

“And you might be?” The milk-sop dared ask, obviously detecting his foreign accent. The black stallion and the fine clothes a signal of wealth.

Tariq smiled as if he’d pounce on the man. “

Tariq Al-Fadih, at your service, my lord.” He bowed, but there was nothing humble in the gesture. If possible, he seemed even more powerful.

An expression of disdain printed on the milk-sop’s irrelevant face. “Oh, a barbarian among us!” He said tactless. He didn’t bother introducing himself, or Lucinda for that matter. A grave breach of protocol.

“That would depend very much on the point of view, my lord.” Tariq’s too silky tone dripped with venom. What he really wanted was to haul Lucinda away from that man. From any man, to tell the truth.

Lucinda had to make an effort not to laugh at the exchange. Elegantly, Tariq had just called Lord Stanford a barbarian. This didn’t sweeten the fact that she was furious though. How dare he interfere with her social appearances? And if he’d said the wrong thing, he’d have compromised her. The view of him, so impressive in English attire, had almost knocked the air out of her lungs. Perhaps, she shouldn’t have come to the village. The sight of him would always take her off balance. More than that, the memories of the night, still so fresh, flooded in her, making her blush.

“The inn is along the lane, sir.” Lucinda ventured, hoping he’d excuse himself and let her breath normally, by taking his distance.

“Thank you, my lady.” His cognac-against-fire eyes burned on her.

He lingered. The seconds ticked by in tension. Nobody said a word. Still, he lingered, not giving a sign he’d taken the message to leave. He remained posted before them when he was supposed to thank for the ‘information’ and get lost! Lucinda got increasingly embarrassed. And annoyed! She flushed and ogled fixedly at him, willing him away. But he never moved, not even a blink. The two men eyed each other in open hostility and Lucinda bore the tense moment no longer.

“If the gentlemen will excuse me, I have to be on my way.” A strategic retreat presented the best solution. “Lord Stanford. Sir.” She curtsied, turned and mounted her white Arab mare.

She fumed. Who did the blast man think he was to act like that! She hastened her mount out of pure anger. Not even the wind on her face discoloured her simmering temper. She’d barely entered the woods when she heard horse hooves behind her. Needless to check who it was. The infuriating love of her life! She halted, dismounted and tied her mare. She turned to him, tying his stallion, arms crossed on her chest, chin up, eyes darting murderous at him.

“What do you think you were doing back there?” She said as he neared and she had to lift her head to meet his cognac eyes.

“You flirted impudently with that milk-sop!” He accused back. As soon she’d left, he took his leave with the arrogant bastard, made to head to the inn, turned at a shortcut and rushed after her.

“And what do you have to do with that?” She defied.

“You’re my woman.” He emphasised forceful. “I don’t allow it!” He stood legs open and arms crossed in an autocratic posture.

“I am not your woman!” Her arms flew to her waist.

Ignoring it, he watched as she moistened her lips. “He’s proposing then?” He asked disdainful. The feeble dandy would never be able to handle her.

Her chin rose higher and her beautiful green eyes flashed temper. “What if he is?”

Fury branded him, hot and incontrollable. The idea of another man in her life, in her bed, enjoying her ardour drove him to insanity. Impossible to go on like this. Here in England, she could marry anyone she chose and nothing would be left for him. This scared him much more than he’d be prepared to admit. “You’re marrying no one!” He pulled her to his arms, their bodies clashing and igniting.

The simple truth was: he didn’t have the least decrepit ability to keep his hands off her. It came stronger than him and from a more profound place. The need to be near her, with her, in her would always overcome him.

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