"I'm sorry. It's just that he is..." She closed her mouth, stopping the words before she blurted out that Cris was far more friendly. That wouldn't be thoughtful, would it? Apart from when they met, the count had been courteous, but to call him by his first name... It was too intimate.
He offered her the fruit. "He is a natural son."
Anne refused, her hand finding and holding her locket. "Why are you saying this?"
He leaned away, his chin jutting out. "It's the truth. Or will you try to convince me an English lady doesn't mind? Would you marry a bastard?"
The crude word, spoken so callously, made her flinch. "I would not care if my dream suitor was born out of wedlock."
He chuckled. "Dream suitor? You would marry this paragon without considering his background? Would your brother approve?"
"I can't speak for Griffin, but a person's character is more important to me, Your Excellency." She drawled the honorific and then cringed at how petty she sounded. She shouldn't let him goad her so.
He crossed his arms, lifting his blond brow in challenge. "Itexplains the suitors you've been leading on."
She gasped. "What are you implying?"
"You tell me." He threw the orange, and it hit a trunk, leaving a wet mark. "Sweet."
Anne hated how the endearment sounded on his lips. "You are in a bitter disposition, and I don't want to form a poor opinion of you because of some sour words." She stood and paced away from the fire.
"Where are you going?"
"I need air."
She weaved between firs and oaks, her steps muffled by the carpet of pine leaves. Shadows soaked the forest, making it hard to see a clear path. When she could no longer hear his breathing, she halted. With a heavy sigh, she leaned against a birch tree. The bark scratched her cotton-clad back, but she was beyond caring. A heaviness spread through her shoulders and neck, and she slid to the ground, shutting her eyes, and resting her chin over her bent knees.
The calling of crickets and cicadas failed to ease the thumps of her heart. She never gave reason for people to treat her ill. One moment, he soothed her. The other, he taunted her. What did he know of her life to accuse her of leading men? Her reputation had been irreproachable, at least before now.
Anne tugged her locket, twisting it in her hands. If there ever lived a man more different from her dream suitor, it must be the Count of Almoster.
Twigs broke to the left, and then the air shifted by her side. It was him. His breathing ruffled her hair, but she ignored him, keeping her eyes closed.
"Do you hate me yet?" He sounded hoarse.
"No." She sighed. "Do you want me to?"
A forceful exhale. "No."
He was silent, but his presence made the air thick. Anne scrunched her eyes, burying her face in her arms, willing him to go away.
"Come to sleep."
"I'm not tired."
"Do you relish disobeying my orders?"
She didn't.
"Ana," he said in his low, impossibly low voice, and shifted closer, rustling the leaves. "You are exhausted." His tone turned gentle and warm.
Her skin stirred. Soft, whispery soft. Had he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek? She opened her eyes. He crouched by her side, his face mere inches away. She could be mistaken, but his angry energy seemed to have faded. Why such mercurial moods?
"Perhaps I'll sleep here."
A howl, long and eerie, pierced the night.
Heart in her throat, she shuffled to the side, a breath from touching his bent legs, and scanned the black trees for furry visitors. "What was that?"
