Chapter Three #2
“The hell you say.” Curious though cautious, James took the piece from her. When he turned it over, and read the engraving of his name and title, he blew out a breath. “Damn, I lost that years ago.”
“Somehow, my fiancé came across it when he was shot in the street like a dog.” Her glared intensified. “Why do you think that is? Did he snag the chain when he fell after you dispatched him?”
He frowned. “I can’t imagine why this was in his possession, but I didn’t kill him.”
“You are quite a skilled liar, Your Grace.” The high emotion coming from her—a mix of anger and irritation—was like the heat from a furnace.
Yet there was something else there that he couldn’t put a finger on.
“I distinctly remember a man of your description arriving in that village with a few other men.”
“But that doesn’t mean I killed your fiancé.” Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her mouth. Those lips, with the bottom one slightly fuller than the top one, were a strawberry pink as if she’d been caught eating said fruit. “I don’t even fucking know him.”
“No!” Miss March vehemently shook her head. “You killed him!”
“I refuse to argue the point with you, madam.” In this he would remain firm, but instead of returning the watch to her, he slipped it into a pocket of his greatcoat.
A huff escaped her. “That’s mine.”
“Actually, it’s not.” Why the devil did he suddenly have the urge to know what her lips tasted like? She wasn’t worth his notice.
“It is, as it’s the last thing that connects me to Jean-Claude.” Miss March narrowed her eyes just as they retained a bit of moisture. Then she waved a hand in dismissal. “Were you in that French village during that time?” Anger threaded through her inquiry.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “I was there.” And that time was fuzzy in his memory, along with everything else.
“Ah.” She moved her gaze up and down his person, lingering on his cane and then the scar on his cheek before slamming it to his and holding it.
A darkness lurked beneath the surface, a secret or two she probably never spoke out loud, a yearning as well.
For what? “No doubt you deserved every injury received during the horrid war that took so much from so many.”
That was wildly uncalled for. A wave of hot annoyance pushed through his chest, and damn it all if awareness of her shivered over his person and pushed its way through his shaft. “Perhaps we should walk while you tell me what the devil you want from me.”
“Fine, but don’t think to dismiss this subject.” Miss March fell into step beside him.
Since she was several inches shorter than him, he peered down at her but could only see the top of her bonnet, with its clusters of pink rosebuds and the white and pink silk ribbons amidst silk greenery.
A whiff of a floral scent wafted to his nose, something light but elusive like violets and tulips.
It was a different sort of perfume than he usually smelled on other women. Older women.
Christ, how old was she? Certainly, nowhere near his forty years.
“Do not think to woolgather right now, Your Grace. Our conversation is not over.”
“You don’t have the right to determine that. If I end this meeting, it’s over.” Another glance at the immediate area showed empty pathways. A closed carriage rested on one of the roads in the distance, but it was stationary. “Come with me.”
Going off the graveled path, he veered toward the cluster of willow trees that formed a half-moon around the stagnant fountain with its marble basin.
The leaves on the trees had come in, but whether they would remain in this odd weather was anyone’s guess.
Some of the shrubberies had green leaves, while other trees in the vicinity had only buds.
A sprinkling of hearty spring flowers like daffodils and hyacinths provided pops of color, but if the rain turned to snow as was its wont, they would die off too.
“Why are we going over here?”
“It is a bit more private.” When he ducked beneath the branches of a willow, he held them back so she could join him. “And the foliage provides a bit of a cover from the rain, light though it might be.”
“I suppose that’s true.” She folded her umbrella then rested it against the trunk of one of the trees. “These are quite large; they must be very old,” she said as she glanced at the willows.
“I’d imagine they are. Been here since the acreage was set aside for the park.” James folded his umbrella then rested it beside hers. “Why the hell do you assume it was me who killed your fiancé?” Best to have it out in the open.
“You were there. He was there. On the same night.”
“So were at least two other men.”
“No!” Miss March flew at him, and one of her fists connected with his chest. “Officers of a French regiment came through the village a month before. It was only when they decided to leave that the English arrived.” Thump, thump went her fist against his chest. “The French were horrid, to their own people, demanding food and liquor, demanding housing, treating us all like servants to do their bidding.” She shook her head.
“Once the English came, everyone had had enough. Jean-Claude came out to confront you—them.”
From the far reaches of his haunted mind came wisps of memories: riding into the small village, inquiring after the French officers he’d been in pursuit of, being confronted with a man in the street, hearing a woman scream…
“It was you who screamed when he fell.”
Her eyes rounded. “You remember because you killed him.”
“I…” He couldn’t recall if he did or not. It wouldn’t coalesce from the shadows. “I was there, but I don’t remember what happened… I saw the man in question fall…” Shame and horror and anger filled his chest. Now was not the time to get lost in his failings, even if they were valid.
Did I pull the trigger?
“I knew it!” She gripped the lapels of his greatcoat, tried to shove him, but he had more weight to him and stood his ground. “You are a murderer, Your Grace!” The sound of her accusation was quite shrill in that quiet refuge they occupied.
God, will she ever stop talking?
Confusion took hold of his mind. It wouldn’t take much to put him right back in that damned French village, and he refused to let the weakness of tumbling into a day terror show in front of this woman who was very much a stranger.
“For Christ’s sake.” On the edge of sanity and horror, James just needed quiet, so he forced Miss March to retreat until her back connected with the wide trunk of the nearest willow tree.
“What are you doing?” To her credit, she struggled against him, but the brush of her body against his was all too alluring.
“Giving your tart mouth something to do beside make noise.” Since he was still in a beastly mood and the coffee hadn’t helped with the ache in his head, and he hadn’t had a woman in any capacity in a while, James captured her wrists and pinned them to the tree with one large hand.
Then, he claimed her lips with his, and damn they were just as sweet as he’d thought.
Yet she wrenched away, pushed at him, at his chest, her eyes wide with terror reflected in those deep brown depths. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Perhaps he really was the beast gossip likened him to. Forgetting where he was and who he was, James yanked down her bodice. The sound of tearing fabric cut through the haze in his mind.
“Don’t do this.” She squirmed against the hand holding her wrists, but he didn’t release her.
“Oh, you think I’m going to fuck you? Here?” A snort escaped him. “Hardly. You are not in my usual style. I prefer blondes.” When one of her breasts was exposed from his savage handling, he lost no time in kneading it, teasing the nipple.
A stifled moan left her throat, then she surged forward against him, tried to bite the side of his neck.
He released her wrists. Seconds later, she pushed at his chest, kicked at his shin, but his boots protected him from the force of that.
“I shall scream for help.” Fear was all too evident in her expression.
Why? Curiosity raged. Unfortunately, that aroused him further, and it overrode everything else.
He wrenched her into an embrace. “I don’t believe you will, for that will mean your reputation.
” Pinning her to the tree and trapping her against his body, he wedged a knee between her legs.
Went in for another kiss, but she reared backward as much as she could, avoiding him.
“Most people don’t defy me. Hell, they don’t speak with me at all. ”
Again, she planted her palms to his chest and shoved. “It’s no wonder. You are a monster.”
A growl escaped him. He lost all control of himself, temporarily forgot where he was or what timeline he happened to be in.
“Then if everyone already thinks the worst of me, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.
” Fumbling at his frontfalls while holding her to the tree, the moment he freed his prick, someone yanked him away from Miss March and threw him to the ground.
“Leave the woman alone.”
Startled and even more confused, James stumbled backward. “What is the meaning of this?” As best he could, he stuffed himself back into his breeches and manipulated the buttons. “Do you know who I am?” Looking about, he located his cane and took it quickly in hand.
The older man shrugged. “It doesn’t matter who you are. This is a public space, and I distinctly heard your companion tell you no.”
“It should and it will.” White-hot rage rose inside his chest. He cast a glance to Miss March who tried to rebutton her pelisse to cover the tear of her dress’ bodice. “I am the Duke of Blackhawke.” Rarely did he pull rank on anyone these days, but it was necessary now.
The other man stood his ground. Behind him was a closed carriage with at least three female heads poking out the windows, visible through the drooping branches of the willow tree.