AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Oh, my!” Adelaide whispered, feeling wholly something else altogether.
Clayborn looked to Mary, eyes wide behind the counter as Billy’s compatriots came to fetch their fallen man and take him from the tavern. “It is none of my business, but this man should not be allowed to frequent your place, miss.” Mary blinked, but before she could reply, he turned to Adelaide. “Now. What are your ways?”
When she did not immediately answer, Clayborn added loud enough for the whole room to hear, “My wife and I are not to be disturbed.”
And then he was heading directly for Adelaide, his countenance stern and unyielding. Her heart began to pound as he closed the distance between them, and she fairly vibrated as she held her ground, refusing to back away from his advance.
Not wanting to.
When he reached her, he leaned in, close enough to touch her. To do more.
To kiss her.
She lifted a chin. “Only six years?”
One dark brow rose. “At school.”
Where’d he learn the rest?
“Impressive,” she said, meaning it. Wanting to say more.
“Upstairs. Now.”
“Why did you call me that?” She didn’t move, even as every muscle in her body screamed to follow the order. “Your wife?”
“What would you have preferred? Foe? Adversary? Nemesis?”
“All more accurate,” she said.
He sighed. “Perhaps I was looking for the quickest way to protect you.”
“I don’t need protection,” she said instantly. She’d been protecting herself for years. Others, too.
He didn’t disagree, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “A path of least resistance, then.”
“Resistance to what?”
“Resistance to me. I’ve no interest in battling you right now.”
And that’s when she realized there was something wrong. Her focus narrowed on him, the way he stood, straight and proud . . . and leaning just barely to the left. Not enough for anyone to notice, truthfully, but Adelaide wasn’t just anyone . . . and neither was this man. She should have noticed earlier, when he tossed his bag intothe rear of her carriage and climbed onto the block, his movements stiffer than they’d ever been.
She should have noticed when his jaw clenched tight in the final minutes of their journey. Or when he hefted his bag and walked into the Hungry Hen, his shoulders hunched a touch more than they should be.
Not that any of it had stopped him from putting a man into the ground.
Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”
He looked to her. “Nothing of consequence. A leap from a moving carriage and some bruised knuckles can make a body wish for a warm bath and an amicable companion is all.”
Her gaze flickered to the scrape high on his cheek. He turned away instinctively, not wanting her to see it. Not wanting to show her even a hint of weakness.
“I’m perfectly amicable.”
“Yes, that’s exactly how I would describe you,” he said, humor in his tone, letting her take his hand. Letting her lift his fist and run a thumb gently over his knuckles, raw from laying the brute out.
When he sucked in a breath at the touch—pain?—something else?—she spoke, her words barely a whisper. “Up, then.”
Up, to her room. To the bath. To food. To rest.
