Chapter Two #3
She gave him such a look that he nearly burst out laughing. “My father needs me.”
“One has nothing to do with the other.”
“You will forgive me, but I do not see how that is any of your affair.”
“It is not. It was simply a question.”
“Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?”
Tate scratched his chin; the more agitated she became, the more humorous he found it. “Not really, but now you have piqued my interest. You are a beautiful woman and your father is wealthy. I cannot imagine that you have not had men falling over themselves to vie for your hand.”
She sighed harshly. “I suspect you will not stop asking these questions until you have had a satisfactory answer.”
“That is possibly correct.”
“Then I will tell you, succinctly. I have not married because there is not a man in England who would want to marry me.”
“That is an extremely broad reason. Why would you say that?”
She lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “Do you find me agreeable? Compliant? Following you about like a stupid sheep?”
“Hardly.”
“Nor shall you. Men do not like a woman who knows her own mind.”
He couldn’t help the smile on the corner of his lips. She saw it and it inflamed her.
“If you are done laughing at me, I shall bid you a good evening and go about my business.”
She bolted up, but Tate was quicker and grasped her arms before she could get away. He yanked her harder than he had intended and nearly pulled her across the table. As it was, she ended up inches from his face.
“You are not leaving until I am finished,” he found his face strangely warm to have her so near. “And I was not laughing at you, not in the least. I simply find your manner intriguing and your answer honest.”
If Tate was warm, Toby was on fire. Her breath was coming in strange little gasps. “You find my manner horrid,” she breathed. “You have said so.”
“I never said horrid. I believe what I said is that you have an appalling lack of manners.”
“Then you have answered your own question as to why I have never married.”
“You realize that you have condemned yourself.”
“I would rather be myself than pretend to be someone I am not. Woe to any man who cannot accept me as I am.”
He stared into her eyes with that strange hypnotic sensation that Toby had experienced once before. She could feel his warm breath on her face. Just as quickly as he grabbed her, he released her. Toby caught herself before she fell, like a fool, on the table. Shaken, she resumed her seat.
Tate collected his own seat. He took a long drink of wine because he needed it. There were too many strange thoughts floating about in his mind regarding the woman across the table. Angry with himself, he focused on his reason for speaking with her.
“I will expect you to show us the herd at dawn,” he said. “I have much to do tomorrow and do not want to be held up at Cartingdon.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Can you give me an estimate of the worth of the sheep?”
Her brow furrowed as she struggled to focus on his question, not the heat from his stare.
“The top of the market would be six silver florens a head. The wool will sell for twice that for a bale. In all, I would estimate you could gain a thousand gold marks for the entire herd when everything is sold. Leeds would be the best market. They have a huge export industry.”
It was a pleasing number. Tate gazed at her a few moments longer before nodding his head. “I thank you, mistress. I know you are anxious to get about your duties so that you may retire.”
“I will make sure a meal is prepared and sent with you on your journey tomorrow.”
“That is kind of you.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Contrary to what you apparently believe of me, I do have moments of kindness and obedience, my lord.”
He gave her no indication of what he thought of her comment. Toby begged his leave and stood up, feeling his eyes on her, wondering why it disturbed her so. She was to the door when she heard his voice again, soft yet commanding.
“Hold, mistress.”
She stopped. By the time she turned, he was already standing behind her.
His steps had been so silent and swift that she had never heard him approach.
Toby’s breath caught in her throat as he reached for her neck; for a moment, she thought he was going to throttle her and put an end to her atrocious behavior.
Given their first meeting, she probably deserved it.
But his hands forewent her throat and grasped her shoulders instead, turning her so that she was once again facing away from him.
She felt a warm finger brush the upper part of her shoulder, as gently as a butterfly’s wing.
It was more than an improper touch and she should have scolded him.
Instead, she couldn’t stop the shudder that ran down her spine.
“What is this?” he asked quietly.
She was still trying to catch her breath, but she craned her neck around and was barely able to see the angry red welt left by her mother’s bowl. Two choices raced through her head; either the truth or a plausible lie. She settled for both.
“I was in my mother’s room and accidentally bumped my shoulder,” she said.
Tate’s face was expressionless. “You should be more cautious.”
“I know. I am clumsy at times.”
He didn’t reply, but there was something in his gaze that suggested he did not believe her. Later, when she climbed into bed beside the sleeping Ailsa, visions of Tate Crewys de Lara danced in her head.