Tempting Fate (25 page)

“You’ll answer one question—” he began.

She pulled at her arm. “I’m not one of your servants to be ordered about, nor a member of your family inclined to humor your arrogance. Let me go.”

“Not until we’ve settled this.” He leaned down in an obvious attempt to intimidate. “Sit down. Now.”

He’d taken that tact in the past, more than once, and Mirabelle could only assume it was an instinctual sort of behavior, because she couldn’t remember a single time it had worked for him. She couldn’t remember a single time it hadn’t backfired spectacularly, actually. And since she’d always had affection for tradition, she gave in to the urge to respond in the way she always had—with claws.

She smiled at him, a sweet, slow spread of her lips.

“I find you, and that order, utterly…” She leaned forward until their bodies pressed together, and studiously ignored the hum of need the contact ignited. “…completely…” she smiled a slow, secret smile. “Resistible.”

As a final insult, she lifted a hand to pat at his cheek for the second time in as many days. He quite literally growled—which she found immensely satisfying—and grabbed her before she could step away—which she would have found unnerving if she’d been given the time to think on it. But the next thing she knew, she was spun about, backed up, and crushed against the wall. His hands pinned her wrists against the wood, his breath panted on her cheek as he lowered his head.

She closed her eyes, waiting, wanting.

And, eventually, severely disappointed when it was a hand rather than his lips that clasped over her mouth.

Her eyes flew open. “Mfflg.”

“Shh.”

She heard it then, the steady fall of footsteps coming down the hall. No, not steady, she realized, uneven.

She slapped his hand away. “It’s only Christian,” she hissed. “Let me go.”

“Christian,” Whit’s brow furrowed for a moment. “The stable boy?”

“The stable hand,” she corrected. “He’s a man grown.”

He shot her a curious look. “Friends, are you?”

“Yes.”

“How friendly?”

She felt the slap of that insult as if it had been his hand. Was that how he saw her now, after the humiliation at dinner? She gave him a mighty shove, which didn’t dislodge him much, but tipped his balance just enough for her to slip out of his arms and away. “You’re determined to be a complete ass to night, aren’t you?”

He blinked and took a step towards her. “No, Mirabelle, I hadn’t meant—”

“I don’t bloody care what you meant,” she lied. She did care, and his shocked and regretful expression soothed the hurt and temper, but not quite enough to tempt her to continue the conversation.

“Good night, Whit.”

She had enough sense to glance into the hall first before darting out and up to her room.

Nineteen

O
ccasionally, the guests at her uncle’s parties grew a bit too rambunctious, and Mirabelle had found it expedient during those times to remove herself from the house. She’d had the same room at the back of the building since the first day she’d arrived, and every man who frequented the parties knew where to find it. Most never cared to, but once in a great while, one of them would get randy and drunk enough to imagine himself capable of shouldering down her bolted door, or—worse, as the locks she’d paid a great deal of money to have secretly installed w ere incredibly sturdy—attempt to talk his way through.

Rather than bother with the fuss of them, she sometimes slipped out her window, down a rain pipe and into the stable. With the help of Christian, she’d made a nice little nest for herself in the hayloft where she could sleep in peace, complete with blankets and pillows. She doubted anyone had ever noticed her absence during the night, and if they had…well, they likely wouldn’t remember it by the morning.

Perhaps it was cowardly of her to hide from Whit, but she wasn’t ready yet to face his questions or his reactions to her answers. Avoidance was no nobler a tactic than denial, but her options, she knew, were limited and dwindling.

Christian was filling water buckets in the stalls when she entered, a task she thought must be difficult for him given his limp, weak arm, and the fact that he went without help. She wanted to offer assistance, but knew it would scratch at his pride.

He set the last bucket down and walked to her slowly. A
stooped man with clothes gone to rags, he would have been a sight to frighten if it wasn’t for his quick smile and bright green eyes. The layer of dirt that seemed a permanent feature on his face and bared arms made it impossible to determine his age, but she’d guessed it to be somewhere near five-and-forty.

He’d come to work for her uncle only a few years ago. She’d avoided him at first—as she did all the men of the house, servant or not—until one day he’d found her in the hayloft, hiding, while her uncle ranted and raved over a broken vase in the house. He’d brought her a blanket, sat down next to her, and told her stories of growing up in Ireland. She’d felt safe with him since.

“Wild to night, are they?” Christian asked as she came in.

“Why do you ask?” she inquired as he came to a stop in front of her. “You were just in the house.”

“Aye. And you were in the study. Are you wanting to discuss both, or should we let them be?”

“Let them be,” she decided. “I’m too tired for anything else.”

“Had a round with Lord Thurston?”

“I’d rather not speak of it…He can be such a tremendous ass.”

“You’ve a whole house of arses just now,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but I
expected
it of them.”

“Ah, he’s disappointed you, then,” he guessed.

“Yes. No.” She threw up her arms. “I don’t know.”

“Might want to figure that one through, lass.”

She sighed and walked toward a rope ladder hanging from the loft. “I’d rather just ignore it for to night.”

“Fair enough.”

He held the ladder while she climbed. When she reached the top, she pulled it up after her.

“Have what you need then, lass?”

“Yes, thank you,” she called down. “And you?”

“Aye.”

She pulled her bedding out from a small box hidden in the hay. She shook out the worst of the dust before spreading out the blanket, tossing down the pillow, and crawling atop her makeshift bed.

In the past, the soft snorts and neighs of the guests’ horses combined with the reassuring shuffling of Christian’s feet as he moved about the stable had never failed to lull her to sleep. But to night she lay awake, her eyes open and staring at the wood ceiling above.

What was she going to do? It had only been one day. One day and already her uncle and his friends had humiliated her in front of Whit. And to make matters worse, Whit was clearly angry.

That wasn’t anything new, she reminded herself. Whit had been angry with her more often than not in the past. But things had changed—wonderfully, to her way of thinking—at Lady Thurston’s house party. They’d become friends, perhaps more, and now…and now she was sleeping in a hayloft while Whit was likely standing in his room cursing her name.

She shifted onto her side in an effort to get comfortable.

She could leave, of course. She could let Whit take care of the ridiculous counterfeiting charges. She could tell her uncle to go straight to hell and walk out the door and down the road to Haldon. She was welcome there…as a guest. At least until Whit returned and kicked her back out again.

Dear God, where would she go?

If only this business had happened two years from now. She’d have her five thousand pounds and the little cottage at the edge of town it would afford her. She wanted to invite Kate and Evie and Lady Thurston to visit her, to be guests in her home. She wanted her pride for more than just the next two years. She wanted it for a lifetime.

She wanted, she thought ruefully, a great many things.

“We’ve company coming, lass.” Christian’s voice cut through her musings like a knife.

“What?” She shot to her knees and scrambled to the edge of the loft in time to see Whit stride through the door. Slowly, carefully, she crouched back down again.

“Christian, isn’t it?” Whit inquired.

“Aye.”

“I’m looking for Miss Browning.”

“Best to be looking in the house this time of night,” was Christian’s reply.

“And so I have.”

“The lady doesn’t care to be found, I guess. You’d be Lord Thurston, would you?”

“I would.”

“You’ve a reputation as a gentleman.”

“Earned, I hope.”

“Might a lowly stable hand ask what you’re about, searching out a lady while the house sleeps?”

Whit inclined his head. “I mean her no harm. You have my word.”

“She speaks well of you and your family. Speaks of naught else while she’s here.” He nodded once and jerked a thumb toward Mirabelle. “She’s to be found in the loft.”

Mirabelle gasped and sat up. “You
traitor.
”

Christian merely shrugged and ambled toward the stable doors. “If you’re not wanting him to pester you, keep your ladder where he can’t be reaching it.”

Whit walked down the aisle until he stood nearly under her.

“Are you going to come down, imp? Or shall I come to you?”

She held up the end of the ladder for him to see. “Unless humanity has been much mistaken, and pigs really can fly, you’re out of luck.”

“I come to you, then.”

He eyed the floor of the loft, several feet above his grasp. Then he took several steps back.

“What are you doing?” she asked warily.

He ignored her. He crouched, got a running start, and leapt up to grab the loft floor at her knees.

She was too stunned to do more than gape as he hauled himself up by his hands until he could throw one elbow over, and then the other. By the time it occurred to her that it would be an easy enough thing to lift up his arms and send him falling to the ground—which happened to be about the time she stopped staring at the play of muscles under his shirt—he was hauling his legs up and the chance was lost.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she whispered in astonished voice.

“You just saw me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but…” She leaned forward to look over the edge. It seemed an awful long ways down. “It must be twelve feet—”

“Ten at the most,” he assured her as he settled himself in the hay beside her. “I’m naturally spry. Why are you sleeping in the stable?”

“You’re like an enormous spring,” she breathed, looking at him again.

“The stable, Mirabelle. Why are you sleeping here?”

She opened her mouth to make another comment on his agility before deciding he’d just ignore it anyway. Settling back against a square bale, she frowned at him.

“If I’d been interested in answering your questions, I would have done so in the study. Besides, you seem to have your own ideas of what I might be doing in the stable…with Christian.”

“I didn’t inquire after your friendship with Christian with the intent to insult you,” he said. “I asked with the hope that you would tell me he was someone you trusted. I should like to know you’ve had someone here you could rely on. It was nothing more than that, I promise.”

“Oh. Well.” She shifted her seat in the hay, unaccountably annoyed with his explanation. She wasn’t in the mood just now to argue with him, but she was certainly in the mood to be angry with him. And being angry with him
now,
allowed for the possibility of an argument later.

“I won’t ask for you to accept my apology as of yet,” Whit continued, “as I suspect I’ll just be asking for it again when we’re finished here. There are things I need to know, Mirabelle.”

“Whit—”

He reached out to grip her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Please. Haven’t we come far enough in the last week for you to talk to me?”

Her hand fisted under his, not in anger, but in a kind of fearful agitation. She knew what he wanted to ask. She’d rather let it alone, to pretend they were sitting in the hayloft of a stable somewhere else, for some other reason. She didn’t think the desire foolish, she thought it completely understandable…and unrealistic.

As much as she might wish otherwise—and she did, badly—avoidance and denial would no longer work. Better to answer his question—or questions as she rather thought would prove to be the case—than to have him draw his own conclusions. And better to have the chance to skew those answers when necessary.

She let go of his hand, pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Ask your question, then.”

He paused a moment before speaking. “I want to know why you never saw fit to mention the fact that your uncle is unkind to you.”

“My uncle is unkind to near everyone,” she evaded.

“He’s friendly enough with his guests.”

“They’re men,” she responded with what she hoped would pass for indifference. “Men who live for nothing more than their next kill and the next bottle of spirits. No
one else can stand them, so they pack together, do as they please, and agree to keep it amongst themselves.”

“A sort of honor among thieves?”

“Among rats,” she decided. “And I lack a tail.”

That surprised a brief laugh out of him. “Are you always the only woman in attendance?”

“No. Some of the guests have been known to bring…other guests.”

“I see. And where is your chaperone?”

“This is my uncle’s home. A chaperone isn’t necessary to preserve my reputation.”

“Your reputation is the least of my concerns at the moment.”

“At
every
moment if the current situation is any indication.”

He ignored that statement. “Are they always as…difficult, as they were to night?”

“No.” Sometimes it was much worse. “You’re asking a great many questions, Whit.”

“I want a great many answers,” he replied. “But right now, what I want most is for you to return to Haldon.”

The words were like a soothing balm on a burn, and she closed her eyes as a rush of relief and longing swept through her.

She couldn’t return yet, not if she wanted her inheritance, but that Whit should offer after today…It was her greatest fear put to rest.