Page 7 of In Honor’s Defense

“Where are you?” Luke picked up his pace yet still moved with caution, leaning inside every doorway to scan each room as he passed, making sure no surprises lurked behind sofas or beneath beds.

“Kitchen.” The voice was high-pitched. Could be a woman. Or a boy. “Cellar. Please. Let me out!”

Definitely female. Luke jogged the last few steps into the kitchen. As soon as he ascertained no threat waited for him, he holstered his weapon and looked for a root cellar. The banging drew him to a spot near a pinewood hutch, but all he saw was an empty table.

“In here. Please!”

Luke crouched down and peered at the floor. There. A square outline where the floorboards had been cut to make a door. A door that just happened to have the pedestal of a table planted on top of it.

Someone had trapped her in there deliberately.

Grabbing the edge of the oval table, Luke shoved it aside and reached for the door. It nearly caught his chin as it flew open. He dodged backward, almost getting hit again when a woman’s head and shoulders popped out of the hole like the clown from a jack-in-the-box. Her appearance startled him nearly as much as the suddenness of her arrival.

This was no prune-faced maiden aunt. The woman in the floor had the unlined skin of youth, her complexion creamy and smooth. Brown doe eyes blinked up at him as she adjusted to the light. She sucked in deep breaths, her chest rising and falling beneath a pleated ivory blouse as she worked to get her bearings. One slender hand moved to rest against her collarbone beneath a jet-black mourning brooch, her fingers trembling. Thick ropes of brownish-black hair sat piled atop her head like a royal coronet, a few haphazard tendrils falling loose around her ears. As she moved, different strands caught the sunlight, blazing for a heartbeat like burnished bronze before submerging again into the backdrop of deceptively ordinary coffee-colored braids. Wide, dark brows slashed across her face with a strength that seemed at odds with the shy way she ducked her chin.

“Here.” He wiped his palm on his trouser leg, then extended his hand to her.

Her cheeks reddened. “Thank you. I . . .”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but she did fit her hand to his and allow him to help her climb out of the cellar. Although, judging by the speed with which she vaulted up the ladder, his help probably wasn’t necessary.

Once she had both feet on the kitchen floor, she did an odd little dance, shaking out her skirt with all the vigor of a dance-hall girl, minus the high kicks. Next, she turned in a circle, brushing at her sleeves, bodice, and backside as if she’d just rolled down a leafy hillside and was trying to dislodge collected debris. Finally, she straightened, running her hands over her face and neck before tentatively meeting his gaze.

“Did I get them all?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Luke had not a clue what she was talking about, but she seemed to need reassurance, so he offered it. With authority.

A relieved sigh slipped past her lips, and he assumed he’d done the right thing. All those years of hangin’ out with Wallace must’ve taught him a thing or two about dealing with women after all. Dealing with, but not understanding. He was still as ignorant as ever in that department. The lady in front of him looked perfectly tidy. Nothing had fallen from her during her odd little jig, so he had no idea what she’d been trying to rid herself of. Hopefully she’d refrain from asking him anything else. He had no desire to look the fool in front of her.

She dipped her chin, aiming the crown of her head at him. “Are there any in my hair?”

Luke swallowed. So much for avoiding further questions. At least there were implied instructions this time. Examine her head. That he could do. Not that he knew what he was searching for, but he’d give it a go.

He didn’t even have to bow his back to do so. She was tall for a woman, her forehead level with his chin. Most women failed to reach his shoulders.

As requested, he dutifully scanned her noggin. It looked like a female’s head ought. Hair. Pins. Some kind of elaborate braid circle. Nothing that didn’t seem to belong.

“All clear.” He might not know what he was looking for, but he knew better than to let the troops sense uncertainty. Confidence bred confidence.

“Thank heaven. I swore I could feel them crawling all over me while I was down there.”

Bugs. The truth of his mission finally crystalized in Luke’s brain. He’d been looking for bugs. Good. His report had been accurate, then. No creepy-crawlies anywhere on her person.

“My imagination probably got the better of me,” she admitted as she raised her face, “but it was too dark down there to know for sure.” She smiled softly as she lifted her chin, and something tightened inside his chest.

Odd. Usually when he met an attractive woman, the electricity that zinged through him was purely visceral. This was . . . different. Probably because she was different. Not exactly pretty. Her brows were too thick. Her nose a tad long and turned up at the end. Her figure tall and willowy. Not many curves or even much meat on her bones. Yet when she looked at him with that small hint of a smile, something about her drew him. Made him feel . . . comfortable. Like he didn’t have to try to impress. He could just be himself in her presence. He’d never felt that way around a woman in his life.

Luke cleared his throat. “Are you hurt?” It felt good to be on the shootin’ end of the questions.

She shook her head, color rising in her cheeks again. “No. Just embarrassed to be caught trapped in my own root cellar. You must think me the veriest fool.”

“Not as big a fool as you must think me if you believe I could hold you responsible for that predicament.” Luke crossed his arms and raised a brow. “You might’ve managed to drop the door on top of yourself on the way down, but unless you can move furniture with your mind, someone else dragged that table over the hatch and trapped you inside.”

“Yes, well. I still should have known better.”

“Because your nephew pulls stunts like this on a regular basis?”