air, and, whether from that, or exertion, or— she hated to think it— fear, her heart thumped painfully in her chest.
Stopping at the door, he managed, by dint of a little deft juggling, to turn the knob without loosening his hold on her. When the door swung open he carried her into the library and pushed it shut again with his foot.
"You were lying in wait for me, weren't you, you and your servant? Unwise, under the circumstances, don't you think?"
As she couldn't answer, and he obviously knew it, the question, uttered as he carried her across the library, took on a purely rhetorical quality. The fire had burned low in the hearth, Gabby saw, but it still gave off a faint orange glow that illuminated the area immediately around it. He deposited her in the same high-backed leather chair in which she had been sitting before. Imprisoning her wrists in one large hand, he crouched in front of her, looking at her speculatively. His wide shoulders blocked her view of much of the room. His hard-planed, swarthy-skinned face was too close for comfort. His dark blue eyes bored into hers; his mouth was set in a thin, hard line. With the best will in the world she could not deny that he was a heart-stoppingly handsome man. The acknowledgment did nothing whatsoever to make her loathe him less. Spine ramrod straight, chin up, she eyed him with open hostility.
He continued reprovingly, "What you should have done was kept your suspicions to yourself until you could lay them before Mr. Challow or another of his ilk. Confronting me in private with none but an elderly, undersized groom to protect you was nothing short of bird-witted."
As Gabby was thinking much the same thing, his words served merely to heap coals on the fire of her seething anger. Of course, it was of some small comfort to reflect that she had not intended to confront him at all; the confrontation had come about as a result of her fall, which had been entirely accidental. Still, had she taken the night to consider before attempting to determine the truth surrounding the appearance in London of her supposed brother, the outcome of the subsequent unmasking would have been very different.
"Now," continued her tormentor in a goading tone that made her long to spit in his eye, "purely as a result of your own foolishness, you find yourself at point non plus."
He smiled at her. The smile was slow, self-satisfied, with a definite mocking quality. To keep herself from kicking him— and it was a near run thing; his shins were right in front of her feet— she reminded herself that, with her soft slippers, what that would primarily achieve would be hurt to her own toes. It would certainly not win her release.
In an effort to avoid succumbing to temptation, she forced herself to concentrate for a moment or so on the purely physical. The heat from the fire felt uncomfortably warm now; probably because she was already overheated from her battle with him. The high neck and long sleeves of her kerseymere gown did not improve matters, and the tickling of her nose by a wayward strand of her hair added a final element of discomfort. She shook her head in a vain attempt to shift the errant lock; it fell right back to where it had been before.
Of course. Such was always her fate.
She wrinkled up her nose in silent protest, and glared at him. His gaze, she noted with some dismay, was fixed on her forcibly parted lips. Her breathing faltered as it occurred to her that, perhaps, murder was not all she had to fear….
"If you try to scream, I'll put it back," he warned. Then, to her considerable relief, he fished the gag from her mouth. She coughed and shuddered as it was withdrawn, then drew a deep, lung-filling breath.
The gag, she saw as she worked her dry jaw and lips, trying to restore them to a semblance of normal feeling, consisted of one of his leather driving gloves, now wet from her mouth. He glanced at it with obvious distaste before tossing it onto a nearby table. His
Stopping at the door, he managed, by dint of a little deft juggling, to turn the knob without loosening his hold on her. When the door swung open he carried her into the library and pushed it shut again with his foot.
"You were lying in wait for me, weren't you, you and your servant? Unwise, under the circumstances, don't you think?"
As she couldn't answer, and he obviously knew it, the question, uttered as he carried her across the library, took on a purely rhetorical quality. The fire had burned low in the hearth, Gabby saw, but it still gave off a faint orange glow that illuminated the area immediately around it. He deposited her in the same high-backed leather chair in which she had been sitting before. Imprisoning her wrists in one large hand, he crouched in front of her, looking at her speculatively. His wide shoulders blocked her view of much of the room. His hard-planed, swarthy-skinned face was too close for comfort. His dark blue eyes bored into hers; his mouth was set in a thin, hard line. With the best will in the world she could not deny that he was a heart-stoppingly handsome man. The acknowledgment did nothing whatsoever to make her loathe him less. Spine ramrod straight, chin up, she eyed him with open hostility.
He continued reprovingly, "What you should have done was kept your suspicions to yourself until you could lay them before Mr. Challow or another of his ilk. Confronting me in private with none but an elderly, undersized groom to protect you was nothing short of bird-witted."
As Gabby was thinking much the same thing, his words served merely to heap coals on the fire of her seething anger. Of course, it was of some small comfort to reflect that she had not intended to confront him at all; the confrontation had come about as a result of her fall, which had been entirely accidental. Still, had she taken the night to consider before attempting to determine the truth surrounding the appearance in London of her supposed brother, the outcome of the subsequent unmasking would have been very different.
"Now," continued her tormentor in a goading tone that made her long to spit in his eye, "purely as a result of your own foolishness, you find yourself at point non plus."
He smiled at her. The smile was slow, self-satisfied, with a definite mocking quality. To keep herself from kicking him— and it was a near run thing; his shins were right in front of her feet— she reminded herself that, with her soft slippers, what that would primarily achieve would be hurt to her own toes. It would certainly not win her release.
In an effort to avoid succumbing to temptation, she forced herself to concentrate for a moment or so on the purely physical. The heat from the fire felt uncomfortably warm now; probably because she was already overheated from her battle with him. The high neck and long sleeves of her kerseymere gown did not improve matters, and the tickling of her nose by a wayward strand of her hair added a final element of discomfort. She shook her head in a vain attempt to shift the errant lock; it fell right back to where it had been before.
Of course. Such was always her fate.
She wrinkled up her nose in silent protest, and glared at him. His gaze, she noted with some dismay, was fixed on her forcibly parted lips. Her breathing faltered as it occurred to her that, perhaps, murder was not all she had to fear….
"If you try to scream, I'll put it back," he warned. Then, to her considerable relief, he fished the gag from her mouth. She coughed and shuddered as it was withdrawn, then drew a deep, lung-filling breath.
The gag, she saw as she worked her dry jaw and lips, trying to restore them to a semblance of normal feeling, consisted of one of his leather driving gloves, now wet from her mouth. He glanced at it with obvious distaste before tossing it onto a nearby table. His
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