“Let go—” she tried to choke out, but his fingers only dug deeper into her waist.
“Quit flailing,” a rough voice ordered just as the toy soldier in Grace’s hand collided with the man’s face. She heard a grunt of pain, but instead of loosening his hold, he held on, crushing her against him until she could scarce breathe. When he started towing her toward shore, she realized he thought he was saving her.
She’d be lucky if he didn’t drown her instead!
Cheeks hot with embarrassment, she pushed one more time at his chest, but it was hopeless. When she could finally touch the lake bottom, she scrambled to get her feet underneath her, explain she was fine but couldn’t catch her breath. As he dragged her up out of the water, her legs tangled with his. She stumbled and he caught her, tight in his arms. Her breasts flattened against the hard wall of his chest. The heat from his body burned through the barely-there covering of her chemise. Awareness jolted through her.
She pulled away and he finally let her stagger back a step. But her bare feet slipped in the mud, and she started to tumble backwards. He grabbed her arms with strong hands, steadying her.
Despite being half-blinded by her tangled hair, she knew where her ‘rescuer’s’ gaze was fixed. The sodden muslin sheathing her body was all but transparent, clinging to her chill-hardened nipples. The man released her, but the damage had already been done. Every inch of her was visible. She hastened over to the cast-off frock that was pooled on the ground. Dropping the metal soldier, she scooped up the fabric, clutching it in front of her in a belated effort to hide behind her discarded clothing.
Fortunately, the boys didn’t note her discomfiture. The little rogues were doubled over, laughing.
Grit from the churned-up water still blurred her vision as she turned back toward her ‘rescuer.’ His face was obscuredbehind one large hand as his fingertips explored the line of blood welling on his cheekbone.
Apparently, Lord Admiral Nelson’s sword had found its mark. Thank God it hadn’t been a little higher, or the man might have been missing an eye.
Sick with embarrassment, Grace fixed her gaze on the fabric bunched at her chest. “We were just-just playing a game. I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding.”
He cut her off, his voice iron hard. “There was nomisunderstanding. These lads were screaming for help. They said you were drowning.” He gestured to the boys who huddled together beside their stockpiles of mud-pies.
“Actually The HMS Victory came apart, and, it was Lord Admiral Nelson who was drowning,” she tried to explain. “I was being pulled under by our sea monster.”
Oh, God. She sounded like a madwoman. Stiffening her spine, she craned her neck back and took her first full look at her rescuer. Ebony hair, eyes like blue flame, a blade-straight nose and lips curled in a scowl that could turn people into stone.
Oh, no. Not him. Anyone but him!
“L-Lord Everdene.” Her voice came out in something resembling a squeak.
He stared in disbelief. She had never seen Lucien Harcourt shocked. Hadn’t known he could be. But the expression on his face might have made her laugh—had she not been perishing from humiliation because he’d been staring at her breasts.
“I know you!” He pointed an accusing finger at her, and it was as if every misstep she’d ever made was writ plainly on her face. “LadyGrace.”
The emphasis on her name felt like a slap. The boys in her childhood had often taunted her about it. She’d been awkward as a new filly, all elbows and spindly legs. Doubtless, Lord Everdene remembered just how pointy those elbows were.When the local dancing master had held fetes for his students, he’d always paired her with him. The result: Everdene had viewed her with cold disdain. She’d trod on his toes—on purpose.
But this was no irritated boy standing before her. Lucien Harcourt had grown into a formidable man. He stood, stripped to his shirtsleeves, the fabric of his soaked shirt clinging to every rippling muscle, his horseman’s thighs encased in buckskin, his stockinged feet squishing in the mud. A lily pad drooped over one iron-stiff shoulder.
“At least your memory is intact.” she said, trying to drag the tattered remnants of her dignity around her along with her dress. “Not only am I Lady Grace, I can swim perfectly well. My brothers and I were only playing a game. This was all a mistake.”
“It was nomistake.” He wheeled on the boys, his glare piercing. “You three tricked me on purpose. You watched me take off my boots.” He looked at gleaming Hessians that now lay in a heap, caving in one wall of Ethan’s fortress. “You boys had every chance to warn me off.” The viscount took a menacing step forward.
Only then did Grace notice the clump of mud in Avery’s hand. She started to shout a warning, but it was too late.
Avery flung the mudpie.
Grace watched in horror as it flew through the air, catching Harcourt on the right side of his jaw with a sodden smack. Ethan and Bennet followed their captain’s lead, scooping up handfuls of mud as Lord Everdene stalked toward them.
“Stop! Ethan! Bennet! No!” Grace cried out as the missiles hurtled toward the viscount, striking him in the chest and thigh with alarming accuracy.
She dove between the boys and the man who looked ready to murder them with his bare hands. “This was just a case of boyish mischief,” she pleaded. “Surely you indulged in somepranks yourself.” She swallowed hard. Had he? At the moment he looked as if he’d never smiled in his whole life. “Or—or your own brother did so…” She was babbling, but he really was quite alarming.
She flattened her palm against Lord Everdene’s chest, could feel his heart hammering, his muscles shifting. “I give you my word the boys will be made to see the error of their ways,” she vowed. “I promise I will…”
“Flog us?” Bennet suggested, trying to be helpful. “Tie us to the yardarm?”
Ethan nodded. “That’s what Lord Admiral Nelson would do.”
“Enough, boys!” Grace cried, eyeing Lord Everdene warily.
