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“The mare?”
He nodded, and she frowned at him interrogatively. “Iseult.” He said.
Surprisingly, it came from one of her favourite tales from the Round Table. “And this stallion?” Maybe she should not have uttered the question.
“Do you really need to ask?” His predictable response.
“Tristan.” She concluded.
The muddy road ahead filled her view while she remained bewildered and mute. She had been the one who embarked on this teenage enchantment for the Arthurian Cycle, reading every single book she found and used to talk to him about them that fateful summer.
Her throat clogged suddenly at the memory. The both of them were a lost case, there was no way of going back there and grasping that carefree happiness again. She should have forgotten all about it, should have let go. She pulled at her cape in a self-protective gesture, newly angry at herself for the thought.
“Are you cold?” His grave voice blew at her.
“No.” Without turning to him, she riled at the day’s events. At that moment, she wished badly to go and take refuge in her own home.
White clouds misted the sky as afternoon led to an early sunset, cold and windy. The inn he would take her to not far.
He dared not touch her, even though they sat too close on his horse. Her vexation reached him in ripples of awareness.
The minute he saw her, he had this inexorable need to take her back to Blackthorne, disgusted that she exposed herself to the perils of the road so lightly. Did she have no sense in that beautiful head of hers? Alright, so she came all the way from London unharmed. And she could defend herself quite well, he admitted. But still… The hellion had no qualms in being worrisome.
The inn came into view on the bend of the road and he hastened Tristan, eager to put her in due comfort. She travelled the whole night and day. Resilient, this woman, he would give her that.
Helping her from the horse, he ordered a room, a bath and dinner, while he headed to the stables to see to Tristan’s care.
By the time Annabel had soaked lengthy in her bath and dressed in a fresh chemise, she was completely renewed. She did not feel so tired as she slept in the carriage. The appetising smell from a meat pie wafted from the nearby table and she sat down to attack it.
Fire glowed in the fireplace and the room presented a spotlessly clean condition. As soon as she ate, she would lie down in the inviting bed. And leave the problems for tomorrow, she decided, as her hair dried before the flames falling down her back in midnight ringlets.
She had swallowed her last bite, when the door opened and the unnerving man came in, wet hair, soap scented, breeches and black shirt opened at the neck, no neckcloth.
CHAPTER TEN
She stood up, forgetting she dressed only a sheer chemise, minding herself solely when his eyes roamed over her and heat flourished on her skin.
“This is my room.” She asserted unwavering.
“And mine, too.” In non-committal movements, he hung his coat on a peg by the door. “We are Mr and Mrs Swanson.” He turned to her, kicking off his boots.
There could be no more cynical c
reature on the planet. “This cannot be!” Her fury surfacing all over again.
He neared her, attention trained on her face, fierce. “Do you really think I would leave you alone in a room for you to flee again?”
“I did not flee.” She countered. “I left on my own accord.”
“True.” That lopsided grin made an appearance. “And now you are here.”
Her hand flew to her waist, her eyes cast daggers at him. “You have no right to force me back.”
“When one is a Duke, the lines between right and will are very… blurred.” He waved his hand dismissively in the air, his shirt gaping over his muscled chest, peppered with hair and firm and hot… oh, my!
“I will head to London in the morning.” She reasserted.
His gaze fell to her lips. “No, you are not.” He took out his shirt, causing her almost to choke at the sight of that expanse of sinew and strength.
