Falling For the Librarian – by Sorcha Mowbray #3
“Indeed, I am, Mrs. Pennyworth.” He was amused by her outrage, though a small part of him regretted upsetting her. But he was not, in fact, looking for a wife.
In a most unexpected move, she slapped him across the face.
Crack.
The sound of flesh connecting with flesh echoed loudly in the cavernous silence of the library. Heat flared over his cheek as his temper flared within. “One time, Mrs. Pennyworth. Should you think to slap me again, I will quickly disabuse you of that notion. There will be repercussions.”
She eyed him warily. “Good night, sir.” She stepped to the side and started for the door. But then she stopped and looked at him. “I believe this will be the last we see of each other.”
And then she stormed off, her bustle swaying gently behind her as her skirts whipped about violently with her angry stride.
Richard groaned. What the hell had he done?
Bridget rubbed her eyes and leaned closer to the ledger book, trying to make out what she'd written.
She'd barely slept a wink last night after her encounter with the very tempting but dangerous Mr. Sheffield.
Mary walked into the main shop area carrying two small boxes.
“This is the last of the boxes Mrs. Pennyworth.”
“Very good thank you for unpacking those.” Bridget looked back down at the page, but the letters still looked blurry.
“I'm going to take inventory in the back if you need me.” Mary returned to the rear of the store as the bell of the door tinkled, announcing a customer. Almost grateful for the reprieve, Bridget turned to greet the customer. “Good morning, sir. How may I assist you today?”
A man stood there looking as disheveled and unkempt as she'd ever seen.
His blond hair hung in long greasy locks to his shoulders, his teeth were brown with tobacco stains, and his clothes appeared to be tattered, though it was a bit hard to tell from the crust of mud that covered them. “I'm looking for some new duds.”
The fine hairs on the back of Bridget's neck rose, but she refused to be rude to a potential customer.
She stepped out from behind the protective barrier of the service counter.
“Do you happen to know your shirt size?” The man's hard gray eyes took her in as she approached.
Despite her high-necked blouse and gray serge skirt, she felt naked.
“I can't say as I do, ma'am.” He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
“Very well then. We shall sort it out together.” She walked over to the display of shirts and, after looking at him for a moment, she reached into a pile and pulled out what she thought might be his size.
She turned around to take the shirt over to him, but her would-be customer had followed her without a sound.
She sucked in a breath as she discovered this by nearly colliding with the man.
But she quickly recovered and took a step back, putting a bit of distance between them. “Turn around, if you don't mind.”
The man turned around obediently, and she held the shirt up to his shoulders—though she was careful not to actually touch him for fear of dirtying the clean shirt. “No, I don't think this is quite the right size. Let me pull another.”
She folded the shirt and placed it back in the pile before selecting a slightly larger size.
When she turned back around, the man had again moved closer and turned around to face her.
She had the shirt held up between them, but it was no barrier.
He reached out with his filthy hands and grabbed her, hauling her into his arms. “You can add a wife to my list of things I need. You look like you'll do just fine.”
The fetid stench of his breath smacked her in the face and, on top of the lack of sleep, nearly had her fainting.
Despite the odorous assault, she refused to be manhandled.
Sacrificing the shirt in her hands, she slapped her palms to the man's chest and pressed him back as best she could.
She realized quickly that despite his ragged appearance; the man was not malnourished.
Which gave her little chance of overpowering him.
She glanced desperately at the doorway to the back of the store, half hoping that Mary might hear the scuffle and come to her aid.
And half hoping the young woman would stay safely tucked away.
The man leaned closer, clearly closing in to kiss her in some fashion, when she suddenly found herself in a weightless state as she collapsed to the floor.
From where she sat, she watched, shocked as the quietly stern Mr. Sheffield slammed his fist into her attacker's face multiple times until the man crumpled in a heap on the floor close to where she sat.
“Get up, you sodding piece of trash.” Mr. Sheffield said as he bent over and bodily picked the man up.
“Didn't your mother teach you any manners?” Then he half dragged, half walked her attacker to the front door of the shop that still stood open and tossed the ruffian out—literally into the dirt lined street.
He then closed the door, turned the sign indicating the store was closed, and locked it.
“Mr. Sheffield—” she started, but was cut off.
“Were you hurt, Mrs. Pennyworth?” he asked as he strode toward her before kneeling down.
She looked at him, shock thrumming through her as she tried to consider this question. “No, Mr. Sheffield. I'm fine. A bit shaken up but otherwise uninjured. Thank you.”
“Perhaps after last night and this morning, we should dispense with formal address, Bridget. Please, call me Richard.” His lips tipped up wryly at one corner.
Her heart stopped for a moment, but this man was taking liberties she had not granted.
Pressing a hand to his chest, she gently nudged him back and shifted to her knees.
“I don't believe that would be appropriate, Mr. Sheffield,” she said as she climbed to her feet and dusted her skirts off.
The man stiffened at her words, but she barreled ahead.
“However, I do appreciate your timely intervention with that man. Thank you for rescuing me.” Spying the shirt she'd been holding lying in a heap on the floor, she bent over and picked it up, only to find that it was filthy now.
He barked a sardonic laugh. “You don't believe using our first names would be appropriate after I had my tongue down your throat last night?” He looked absolutely stunned by her statement.
Really, the man had no sense of propriety. “Mr. Sheffield, do I need to remind you that you are a gentleman, and I am a lady?”
His dark brown eyes sharpened, hinting at something a little dangerous in their depths. “Do I need to remind you, Bridget, that I am not a gentleman?”
She gasped. “Very well. Considering your position, I expect you to comport yourself as such, Mr. Sheffield. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go collect myself and get back to the business of selling dry goods.”
She moved to sweep around him and had taken all of three steps when his voice boomed into the space. “Stop right there, Bridget.”
To her chagrin, she did exactly as he commanded and stopped, her skirts swishing about her ankles.
He walked over to where she stood, rooted to the wood planks as her heart resumed the thundering cadence from earlier, but for an entirely different reason.
Her eyes slid closed as she tried to moisten her lips.
“Please, Mr. Sheffield …” her whispered plea trailed off as he stood before her again.
He looked down at her, his face back to the mask he often wore at the library—that of the stern disciplinarian. “It is unsafe for you to be alone in this store.”
His brown eyes gleamed with an intensity that gave her pause.
She tried to swallow past the lump forming in her throat.
If she were a young woman, the burning look he gave her might have scared her.
Instead, she recognized the very flames of desire that were licking at her own soul.
Despite the need raging through her body, her fury at his presumption that he had any say in the matter took over.
“My apologies, Mr. Sheffield, but the last I was aware, you are neither my father nor my husband. So, I fail to see what concern it is of yours.”
“I find it impossible to see such foolishness and not speak up. Besides, I find I enjoy your visits to the library and would be loath to see them end because you were hurt or worse by some ruffian that came into your store.” He stepped closer to her, forcing her to tilt her head back in order to look him in the eyes.
His nearness, the scent of sandalwood and cedar that enveloped the man, and the memory of his arms wrapped around her in the library all conspired against her.
“I appreciate that: however, I have a business to run, and I will not be told by anyone how to do that.
Now if you don't mind showing yourself out?”
“I'm not finished, Bridget.” He grinned ruefully and then hauled her into his arms, much as he had done the previous night in the library.
Richard—no, Mr. Sheffield—then proceeded to ravage her mouth.
His lips captured hers as his tongue probed deep inside to tangle with hers.
She could taste the earthiness of the tobacco he'd smoked recently as well as a sweetness she couldn't quite place.
Her knees melted like candle wax as she leaned into his body.
The rush of blood thrummed in her ears, cocooning them in their own little world, or so it seemed.
He was firm, possessive, but not rough. He supported her, teased her, and reminded her she was a desirable woman.
The thud of a box hitting the floor in the back reminded Bridget they were not truly alone. Sliding her hand to his chest, she eased him back. “Mary is in the back.”
Richard closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to gather himself. “Have dinner with me tonight.”