Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women #3)(3)

“I had not meant to touch it,” she said primly.

A faintly ironic expression passed over his face. It failed to soften the hard set of his mouth. “And with whom do I have the pleasure, Mrs …. ?”

“Miss. My name is Miss Jones.” It came out in an unnatural pitch.

His eyes flashed as he registered the lie. “What’s the purpose of your visit, Miss Jones?”

He was a Scotsman. His r’s were emerging as softly rolling growls. It explained the fair skin and Celtic-dark locks …. More interestingly, the heat emanating from his body was warmer than the embers on the grate. She knew because he stood too close. His right hand was still braced on the mantelshelf near her shoulder, his arm cutting off any escape route to the left.

She licked her lips nervously. The purpose of her visit? “The full tour?”

A subtle tension tightened his shoulders. “And are you certain of that?”

“Of course, and I would be much obliged if you could—”

He raised a hand to her face and his fingertip lightly touched her cheekbone.

The man was touching her. A man was touching her.

The world slowed to a halt. She should scream. Slap him. Her body did not obey; it stood immobile while the air between them crackled with a premonition that she was on the cusp of something vast.

The gray of his eyes was as soft and menacing as smoke. “Aye,” he murmured. “Then I’ll give you the tour, Miss Jones.”

His fingers curved around her nape, and then his mouth was on hers.





Chapter 2





His lips are soft. The alien pressure of a soft, warm mouth against her own was all she registered in her frozen stupor. Bristle abrading her chin. The slick touch of a … tongue against her lips, demanding entry …. Her head jerked back as her hand flew up, and the crack of her bare palm hitting his cheek was sharp like a gunshot. She screamed, belatedly, because she had just slapped a man forcefully enough to turn his head to the side.

He gave a little shake, his expression incredulous for a beat, then his gaze narrowed at her. “Madam isn’t here for that type of tour, I gather,” he said darkly.

She scurried backward out of his reach, her heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”

Her skirt met an obstacle; something scraped across parquet and something crashed. Her left heel slipped, and bright, hot pain seared through her ankle as it turned, making her cry out.

The man muttered a profanity and came after her.

“Stay away from me!”

He approached, his brawny shoulders looming. A hasty glance said she was halfway to the door. Help—would there be anyone to help her in this vast, empty house?

Another crash.

“Miss—”

She blindly grabbed something off a table and pointed it like a foil.

“Stay where you are, or I shall stick you with this.”

Now he heard her. His eyes fixing upon her makeshift weapon, he came to a halt and slowly raised his hands, palms forward as if attempting to soothe a spooked horse—as though she were the unhinged person in the room!

“Very well,” he said. “But put that down.”

She realized she was holding the tiptoed dancer she had nearly toppled earlier.

“It’s a unique piece,” the man added.

“I’m aware,” she snapped. “Meissen, and a limited edition from 1714.”

Surprise sparked in his eyes, there and gone in the split of a second.

“So you agree it shouldn’t be destroyed in the wake of needless theatrics,” he said.

“Theatrics?” Outrage made her squeak. “You, sir, just forced yourself on me.”

“A regrettable misunderstanding,” he said, not sounding particularly regretful.

She shook the dancer at him. “Mr. Blackstone will hear about your wicked behavior.”

His lips quirked. “Without doubt. Miss Jones, why don’t you take a seat”—he gestured at her skirt hem—“you appear to have done yourself some damage.”

He had no business thinking of or alluding to any one part of her anatomy, but of course, he had to add insult to injury by mentioning her twisted ankle. He was also watching her with deepening annoyance, like a predator wondering why he was being ordered around by his prey.

Pain throbbed in her left foot as she inched toward the door, sideways like a crab, because she was not letting him out of her sight. Her heart thumped with relief when she burst into the corridor: the disgruntled painter and a slim young gentleman with a respectable blond mustache were hovering just a few paces away in the hallway, their expressions alert.

“Thank goodness.” She hobbled toward them. “I require your assistance. There is a man”—she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb—“and I’m afraid he is not acting like a gentleman.”

The men exchanged a wary glance. It occurred to her then that they must have heard her scream—why else were they here in front of the door? And yet neither had come to investigate. Her stomach fell, and she felt dizzy, as if taking ill. Of course. She looked a fright. She was here without a guardian. Her incognito cloak was a theater prop from the old trunk in the nursery playroom. Right now, she was not Hattie Greenfield; she was not even a properly chaperoned young woman. The absence of her father’s name slapped with cold force, as though an invisible shield had been taken from her, as though she had suddenly been stripped bare in front of a crowd. Right now, she was … no one.