He tentatively reached for the back of his skull, searching for the part where he was certain it had been split wide open. His fingers, however, found only rumpled hair.
“If you didn’t shoot me, then why am I in such agony?”
The woman snorted. “Stop grumbling; this is all your own fault. You were the one who did the dramatic leap out of the way and clipped your head on the planter tub as you fell. Just be grateful that you didn’t damage any of my petunias. If you had, I would have put a bullet in you.”
Francis flinched at her harsh words. She was certainly angry with him. He wasn’t used to women speaking to him in such unfriendly tones.
But he had heard the sound of a gun being fired. He pointed at the weapon in question, which was poking out of the woman’s blue bridge-coat.
She wasn’t wearing a coat when she answered the door.
His head might have been spinning, but he still had a clear recollection of pale skin and bountiful breasts.
If she had time to change, how long was I unconscious?
“You aimed that weapon at me. I heard you cock it. And I am convinced that you fired it at me.”
She gave a disinterested shrug. “Oh, yes, I did let off a round. But I shot wide. If I’d meant to kill you, I would have done so. Just be grateful that this is London and bodies aren’t so easy to dispose of. You are a big chap, so the chances of me being able to drag you across the road and dump your body into the River Thames without being seen was always going to be a slight one. Besides, your family has money, and that means people might actually miss you.”
Francis caught the obvious sneer in the word miss. Whoever she was, this woman didn’t think too highly of him. He would think twice next time before stopping to help a damsel in distress. Or at least a girl who had dropped her eggs.
And why should she care about you? You came to the door in the middle of the night making demands to see her employer. If she had shot you, she could easily have claimed self -defense.
Behind her fair hair and sweet cheeks was a woman who knew how to handle herself in a dangerous situation. And that included taking down strange men who foolishly pounded on her front door in the wee hours.
She got to her feet, and a rather chastened Francis struggled to his. He swayed unsteadily, but this time she didn’t offer him her assistance. Clearly, the limits of her hospitality had been reached.
Sucking in a deep breath, he caught the strong scent of cinnamon, which hung in the air. The cases he had seen being carried over from the ship must have been full of the expensive spice.
That thought had him scowling. The last thing Francis needed was a neighbor involved in the spice trade. It was bad enough that they had his warehouse.
Thank heavens the tender is closed. I don’t need that sort of competition.
Hands on hips, she glared up at him. “What do you want, Mister Saunders? It’s late and I am tired. And your breath reeks of brandy.”
He had come here for a reason, not just to lay on the floor of the warehouse.
Wait. How did I get in here? I was outside.
“Who else is here?” he replied. Someone must have helped to carry him in.
Her hand moved slowly from her hip toward the pistol. Her fingers wrapped comfortably, familiarly around its handle. She shifted her stance, her feet slightly wider apart.
“No one. But if you think to try anything, I promise you will be dead before you get near me. After that, I will take my chances with the hangman,” she replied.
While her voice and accent were different to that of the women he knew, the tone was exactly the same. Francis would bet a guinea that if she was given an elegant gown and dropped into a high society gathering, this intriguing female would be more than capable of holding her own with the sharp-tongued matrons of the ton.
“I was only asking because someone helped to drag me inside this warehouse. I am not a small man, so I assume you didn’t manage the task on your own.”
She chuckled softly. “Yes, you are a very large lump of male. But you are not the first unconscious man that I have had the displeasure of dragging around. Sailors might boast that they can drink, but many are hopeless after a few rums. Besides you came around for a moment earlier and crawled inside on your hands and knees. It wasn’t an elegant endeavor.”
That explains why my palms are so sore.
Francis let his gaze take in the woman standing before him. She wasn’t petite by any standard. And while the coat was large on her, he could still make out the generous pair of hips and pleasing bust which lay beneath it. She had some strength about her.
“And speaking of being a lightweight with his drink, why are you here? I am assuming you had a few brandies tonight and decided to take the fight over the barrels to the next level. If that is the case, then you are wasting your time. Adverse possession is invalid in this case. A handful of barrels does not give you squatter’s rights.”
A horrible thought crept into his mind as Francis continued to stare at the woman.
