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Chapter 4
A few days later…
Simon slowly came awake, disbelief gripping him when he took stock of his surroundings. He was in a small cottage, and it was evening, evident from the warm hues of twilight peeking through the drawn curtains of a window. There was little other light in the cottage but that from the crackling logs of a well-banked fire warming the air. His damn hands were bound to a peg above his head, and he tugged with all his strength but could not get loose.
He’d received an urgent missive from his estate in Cornwall about a fire that had damaged the stables and the park wall. Simon had traveled down, and as he passed by Penporth, his carriage had stopped because of a damaged axle. He’d climbed out from his conveyance to see a familiar man talking with his coachman.
Simon tossed his head, trying to clear the cobwebs as his thoughts hazed in and out. That man had been Nicholas Fairbanks, and Simon had accepted the offer of a lift to his estate some miles away. Simon recalled accepting a drink from the man and then…
Bloody hell.
Had he been drugged with an opiate? Rage and shock pulsed through him. What in God’s name was this?
“You are awake,” a soft, feminine voice said from somewhere behind him. Such relief and joy echoed in that tone.
A rough humorless laugh spilled from Simon. “Who dares to have me kidnapped and brought to this hovel?”
“I do,” she said lightly as if she were not at all intimidated by the rage in his voice.
He was simply startled and fascinated.
“And I think the cottage quaint and very charming, certainly not a hovel,” she said pertly.
The dratted woman sniffed as if he had offended her sensibilities. He contained his outrage and tugged at the bindings once more. Those damn things were really fitted tight. “Come and remove these bindings.”
A decided pause, and then she replied, “How are you feeling, Simon?”
“I am well,” he growled.
“You have been sleeping for over six hours. I am glad to hear you are feeling well.”
Simon stilled. Six hours. He had most certainly been drugged, and he would see the villains get their comeuppance for their audacity. “Untie me at once.”
“Not yet.”
Now her tone was lightly chiding, stirring something deep and untouched inside of him. “Who are you?” Though he suspected it to be her. His damn, sweet tormentor.
There was a rustle of movement, and then she came into view—Miss Frances Fairbanks. A knot tightened and grew into a painful lump inside Simon’s chest. The lady wore a simple blue high-waisted wool gown, her bright blonde hair caught atop her head in a riot of lovely curls. Yet her eyes were somber as she came and tried to sit beside him on the small cot. It would be a disgrace to call this ridiculous lump a bed.
“Shift over,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Shift over?Simon glared at her and she wrinkled her nose. He found the action charming and oddly familiar. His heart jolted at the realization. Still, he shifted his lower body so she could sit in the space he made. She lowered herself to the cot, her fragrance of honeysuckle filling his senses. His damn mouth watered, ruffling his composure. They stared at each other for the longest minute, and he cleared his face of all thoughts. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and emotions he could not identify, yet they plucked a chord deep inside his body. Simon could feel something unknown inside him reaching for her, wanting to comfort and wipe that pain from her eyes. The anomaly was an aberrant irritation that he did not like. “Who else is here?” Simon demanded, his tone sharper than he intended.
A hint of a smile, one that was mysterious, hovered about her mouth. Simon did not like how his insides warmed to see it there.
“Only us,” she said softly. “There is no one else about.”
The scandalous intimacy of the situation robbed him of breath. “If your intention is to force my hand by compromising us together, let me inform you, Miss Fairbanks, it will not work. I would never marry a woman of your dubious…”
His words tapered off as her mouth finally smiled, and her eyes glistened with humor, brightening their rare beauty.
“You have gotten prouder,” she murmured, “more arrogant as befitting a lord of the ton.”
“Do not act as if you know me,” he said icily. “We have no relations, Miss Fairbanks.”
She leaned forward, bringing with her scent a pulse of such hunger his gut clenched. Her exquisite, delicate heart-shaped face softened. “That is why we are here, to remind you that you do know me, Simon.”
Hell, why did his heart pound so?
