madcap?”
“Neither. I am exactly what I seem to be.”
“Of course you are, lad,” he said, enjoying himself. “I never doubted you for a moment.”
He heard her slip half a second before she shrieked. The scatter of pebbles beneath her feet, the quick, panicked intake of breath, and he’d whirled around to catch her as her burden went flying in all directions.
She landed in his arms with a solid thud, and he decided she must have breasts, if she had to take the troubleto bind them. She was soft in his arms, and damn it, she smelled like a woman. Faintly flowery, faintly musky, and just slightly like Dulcie’s best cinnamon rolls. He wondered what she’d taste like.
She was trembling. He didn’t release her, though he knew he ought to. He was never a man who did something simply because it was what he ought to do.
Her waist was damnably small beneath the thick jacket, and her hips flared sweetly beneath his hands. She was well past the seventeen years she claimed—in the bright sunlight he could see too much knowledge in her wary brown eyes, and he had a sudden desire to wash that sad knowledge away.
As if he could. He released her, so abruptly that she stumbled for a moment before righting herself. “I’ll carry the things the rest of the way,” he said in a cool voice, gathering up the fallen parcels.
She tried to protest. “It’s my duty …”
“You are the least dutiful serving lad it has been my misfortune to meet,” Phelan said flatly. “I don’t wish to have my luncheon mixed with sand, or my art supplies crushed, or my—” He picked up the shattered bottle of claret and stared at it mournfully. “Or my wine shattered,” he added heavily.
If he expected her to be cowed, he was in for a disappointment. “You could always beat me,” she suggested, her coolness matching his own.
He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed in the sunlight, giving her a look that had intimidated many a grown man. She didn’t even flinch. “Don’t tempt me,” he growled.
Dead Man’s Cove was a deceptively peaceful half-moon of a beach, with the still, gray water masking dangerousshoals. One might think it a perfect little harbor, until one saw the ghostly hulk of a ship listing on its side, its broken masts eerie against the bright blue sky. Once Phelan reached the sand, he dumped his burden down and began to strip off his jacket. He glanced back at the girl, but she was standing a few feet away from him, staring at the wreck with troubled eyes.
“How long ago did that ship founder?” she asked.
“I’m not certain. She’s still fairly solid—I would guess no more than fifty years ago. The salt water tends to preserve the wood for a bit. She probably won’t fall apart for at least another fifty years.” He dropped his coat onto the sand, sat on it, and proceeded to pull off his boots. “You might consider stripping down yourself, lad,” he said in a silken voice. “It’s damnably hot today, and those shoes are too big for you. You’d do better barefoot.”
She looked torn, as well she might. “I prefer to keep my jacket on,” she said.
He rose, moving toward her, his bare feet reveling in the feel of the sand. “And I prefer you remove it,” he said. “Since you’re my servant, it would behoove you to do as I say.”
He could see by the expression in her eyes that it took all her self-control not to retreat in the face of his steady advance. “And if I refuse?”
He smiled. She was not reassured. “Then I’ll remove it for you.”
She stripped off the coat, hurriedly. The cambric shirt beneath was too big for her, of course, and successfully masked any curves that might have escaped whatever she used to bind herself.
“And the shoes,” he said, very gently.
She glared at him, but she was wise enough not to argue. She dropped down onto the sand and began to remove the oversize brogues.
Satisfied, Phelan retrieved his sketchbook and pencils and started away from her. “I
“Neither. I am exactly what I seem to be.”
“Of course you are, lad,” he said, enjoying himself. “I never doubted you for a moment.”
He heard her slip half a second before she shrieked. The scatter of pebbles beneath her feet, the quick, panicked intake of breath, and he’d whirled around to catch her as her burden went flying in all directions.
She landed in his arms with a solid thud, and he decided she must have breasts, if she had to take the troubleto bind them. She was soft in his arms, and damn it, she smelled like a woman. Faintly flowery, faintly musky, and just slightly like Dulcie’s best cinnamon rolls. He wondered what she’d taste like.
She was trembling. He didn’t release her, though he knew he ought to. He was never a man who did something simply because it was what he ought to do.
Her waist was damnably small beneath the thick jacket, and her hips flared sweetly beneath his hands. She was well past the seventeen years she claimed—in the bright sunlight he could see too much knowledge in her wary brown eyes, and he had a sudden desire to wash that sad knowledge away.
As if he could. He released her, so abruptly that she stumbled for a moment before righting herself. “I’ll carry the things the rest of the way,” he said in a cool voice, gathering up the fallen parcels.
She tried to protest. “It’s my duty …”
“You are the least dutiful serving lad it has been my misfortune to meet,” Phelan said flatly. “I don’t wish to have my luncheon mixed with sand, or my art supplies crushed, or my—” He picked up the shattered bottle of claret and stared at it mournfully. “Or my wine shattered,” he added heavily.
If he expected her to be cowed, he was in for a disappointment. “You could always beat me,” she suggested, her coolness matching his own.
He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed in the sunlight, giving her a look that had intimidated many a grown man. She didn’t even flinch. “Don’t tempt me,” he growled.
Dead Man’s Cove was a deceptively peaceful half-moon of a beach, with the still, gray water masking dangerousshoals. One might think it a perfect little harbor, until one saw the ghostly hulk of a ship listing on its side, its broken masts eerie against the bright blue sky. Once Phelan reached the sand, he dumped his burden down and began to strip off his jacket. He glanced back at the girl, but she was standing a few feet away from him, staring at the wreck with troubled eyes.
“How long ago did that ship founder?” she asked.
“I’m not certain. She’s still fairly solid—I would guess no more than fifty years ago. The salt water tends to preserve the wood for a bit. She probably won’t fall apart for at least another fifty years.” He dropped his coat onto the sand, sat on it, and proceeded to pull off his boots. “You might consider stripping down yourself, lad,” he said in a silken voice. “It’s damnably hot today, and those shoes are too big for you. You’d do better barefoot.”
She looked torn, as well she might. “I prefer to keep my jacket on,” she said.
He rose, moving toward her, his bare feet reveling in the feel of the sand. “And I prefer you remove it,” he said. “Since you’re my servant, it would behoove you to do as I say.”
He could see by the expression in her eyes that it took all her self-control not to retreat in the face of his steady advance. “And if I refuse?”
He smiled. She was not reassured. “Then I’ll remove it for you.”
She stripped off the coat, hurriedly. The cambric shirt beneath was too big for her, of course, and successfully masked any curves that might have escaped whatever she used to bind herself.
“And the shoes,” he said, very gently.
She glared at him, but she was wise enough not to argue. She dropped down onto the sand and began to remove the oversize brogues.
Satisfied, Phelan retrieved his sketchbook and pencils and started away from her. “I
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