Page 43 of The Duchess Games

As was Callum, himself.

She dressed, wound her hair in a knot and traded her one pair of good shoes for her usual boots. Matthew was nearly a man grown and could no doubt take care of himself, but he wouldn’t bother with proper meals, just a hunk of bread stuffed in his pocket so he could race off to the blacksmith. The anvil and the blacksmith’s daughter held equal appeal. He probably hadn’t eaten properly since she’d left. He most certainly hadn’t weeded the cabbages.

And it would be hours before anyone else was up and about, never mind ready for whatever torture the dowager duchess had devised. It would be something suitably refined, meant to put Cat firmly back into her place. As many times as was necessary.

Cat was quite sure there would be no village lottery for the next event held at Penhallow. Noblesse Oblige wasn’t meant to be such a nuisance.

“There’s a smile for the devil himself,” Callum said drily from right behind her.

Startled, Cat tried to punch him in the throat.

Hard.

He didn’t bother dodging, only caught her fist before it connected with any part of his anatomy. Her heart raced and leapt right into her throat where it contemplated taking up permanent residence. She made a strange sound, somewhere between a laugh and a yelp.

“Miss Sparrow,” he said calmly, just this side of stern. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered waistcoat. She was wearing a dress with a mended patch under the right arm. He raised an eyebrow.

Every part of her went hot and needy.

She swallowed a curse and attempted to school her features into something normal and not like a woman trying not to salivate. Honestly. It was embarrassing. And she’d been humiliated enough. “Your Grace.” Her voice squeaked slightly but that at least could be attributed to getting caught trying to plant a duke a facer.

“I don’t think fisticuffs are on the agenda for these blasted games,” he said. His blue eyes turned to tarnished silver. Mesmerizing and filled with secrets. A veritable pirates’ hoard.

She never used to be so fanciful. It was probably not a good sign. Next, she’d follow a will-o’-the-wisp and fall into a bog.

The fact that anyone, especially the sophisticated Lady Siddal, could feel threatened by her, a fisherman’s daughter turned bog witch, was laughable.

“Caitriona.”

She’d gotten lost in her thoughts again. Bollocks. She knew the sound of someone having said her name more than once. Callum was patient, with none of the exasperation she was accustomed to. It was comforting.

She could not let it be comforting.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “You startled me.”

He had not let go of her. His hand moved to circle her wrist. The image of him pinning her to the door slammed into her. Her toes curled in their worn, practical boots. She could feel his mouth on her neck, his fingers on her thighs. She tried to tug free, cheeks pinkening. He did not immediately allow it. She swallowed. “Callum?”

He dropped her hand.

She shouldn’t have said anything. She missed his touch instantly. The warm strength of it. The promise in it.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded as though she had snuck out in the dead of night with the family silver.

To be fair, she had every intention of robbing him.

She glanced at his fingers. He wore no ring. Had he chosen not to wear it? Or was it still missing? She couldn’t very well ask him. Callum watched her. She’d waited too long to reply again. “I’m going home.”

He frowned. “You’re letting them drive you away?”

She blinked at the flash of fury under his usual control. Not at her. But at who? The house party? His own society? “No. Not yet anyway.”

“Good girl,” he murmured.

She blinked again. Why had those innocuous little words wrapped around her like silk? He didn’t look at her, merely kept pace at her side. And he hadn’t sounded condescending. Because she was fairly certain if anyone else had said that to her she would have landed that punch. Twice. So why then, when he said it, did her thighs press together involuntarily?

A kingfisher flew behind him, a flash of turquoise and copper feathers. The wind wound around her legs, ruffled the tall grass. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Anywhere but here,” he muttered.