4
Iris had never had cause to use the defense skills Laney had taught the Widows except in practice.
Nor had she believed she would ever truly need them.
She was not typically in the thick of their missions, after all, considering her depressing lack of stagecraft skills.
No, she usually took on roles of support, ones out of the spotlight—and out of danger.
Yet as she looked down at the giant beast of a man lying prone at her feet with the most interesting expression of surprise in his gray eyes, she was suddenly incredibly glad that Sylvia had insisted she learn to defend herself.
This right here had to be one of the most rewarding, satisfying moments of her life.
Until, that was, she realized he was not moving and, in fact, did not appear to be breathing.
Dropping to her knees, she peered closely at him, more than a little panicked.
Had she killed him? No, she hadn’t. His eyes moved ever so slightly, meeting hers, the shock in them palpable.
Even so, there did not seem to be any breath escaping his lips.
Good God, was he going to expire right in front of her?
Leaning closer, she cradled his face in her hands.
His reaction was immediate. He blinked, his chest expanding almost violently, drawing breath into his starved lungs with an audible gasp. Which, unfortunately, was when the coughing started.
“Goodness,” she muttered as his body shook with the force of the coughs?.
.? .? and his face turned an alarming shade of red.
At this rate the poor man would never be able to draw a proper breath.
Not knowing what else to do, she turned him on his side—no easy feat considering his size, which made her wonder how in the world she had managed to incapacitate him—and pounded energetically at his back.
She had not gotten two hits in, however, before the man twisted, back arching away from her touch. His hands came up in the well-known symbol of surrender, his eyes wild and watering as he turned to look at her.
“That’s enough,” he croaked. “No more, please.”
Feeling chastened though not certain why, Iris fell onto her behind and scooted backward away from him.
She told herself it was so he might have the room he obviously needed to finish recuperating.
But just as she was practically incapable of lying to others, she could not lie to herself.
She knew this was just as much for her as it was for him.
Now that he was gaining control of himself, she became intensely aware of how close they were here on the ground, with bushes on one side and the soaring glasshouse on the other.
The space suddenly felt much too intimate for her peace of mind, especially with a stranger who had grabbed her arm and been about to do who knew what to her.
She bit her lip. He had accosted her, hadn’t he?
As the memory came back to her in vivid detail, the man chose to stand, rising above her like some Titan from the deep, making her all too aware of just how large he was.
A squeak of alarm escaped her lips, and she scrambled to her feet, taking several healthy steps away.
“Now that you have recovered,” she stammered, her thumbnail digging into the sensitive skin of her wrist in her agitation, “I’ll be going now.” She turned, intending to make a hasty retreat.
Until the man spoke, his voice gruff with warning.
“You will not leave until I have ascertained why you are on Lord Durand’s property,” he said from close behind her, “and more specifically why it appeared you were attempting to gain access to his glasshouse. And don’t think to run.
You may have brought me down once. But I’m prepared for it now, and you shall not succeed again. ”
She had her doubts about that. Laney had taught them all well, after all, something she had not fully realized until about two minutes ago. But she had no desire to test it out further, especially not with such a large, obviously fit specimen of a man. Swallowing hard, she turned back to face him.
And immediately regretted it. He had looked imposing enough on the ground, struggling for breath.
Now, however, he seemed almost dangerous.
But, to her bafflement, the shiver that traveled through her was not one of apprehension.
Rather, it felt something like?.? .? .? excitement? She frowned, trying to understand it.
He, however, interpreted her frown as something else. “You have no right to be upset,” he growled. “You were the one trespassing. And not only trespassing but searching for a way to get to Lord Durand’s private collection.”
Which was true, in every aspect. But from the increasingly thunderous way he was glaring at her, there was no way she could admit such to him.
Blast it, she should not have come. But she had been unbearably anxious waiting for the other Widows to awaken and had not been able to hold herself back a moment longer.
Which was silly, really. It was not as if they would be lacking in proximity to the earl or time to put their plan in motion over the next fortnight.
The Widows as a whole had quickly decided that letting a house near Durand Manor, posing as a group of well-bred women on holiday, would be just the thing to gain them entrée into Lord Durand’s world.
The man was so taken with status and wealth, he could not fail to welcome Sylvia into his inner sanctum once she set out the bait.
She was a respectable, affluent member of the ton, after all.
And so, she had called in a favor of an old friend, who owned a lovely house, Rose House, that happened to abut Lord Durand’s estate.
The Widows had arrived late last night, ready to put their plan in motion.
Iris, however, had been unable to sleep.
After so many years, so much heartache, despair, grief, and anger, how could she even hope to calm her mind when they were so close to reclaiming her mother’s legacy?
With each second that had ticked by on the mantel clock her patience had worn thinner and thinner until, with the barest tint of the sun kissing the horizon, she had dressed and hurried out of doors.
Surely it couldn’t hurt to have a small look around.
A bit of irony she did not miss, as this beast of a man glowered down at her.
And he had a fair way down to glower. He was incredibly tall, wasn’t he?
For a moment she was distracted as she compared him to her late husband.
Timothy had been tall, yes, nearly a full head above her—not that it was a hard thing to be, seeing as she barely topped five feet herself.
But he had been slender, with a wiry, weak frame that had told of too much focus on indulgence and not enough on sustenance.
This man, however, was not only taller than Timothy had been, but he filled his clothes out in the most fascinating way.
She took in the breadth of his shoulders under the simple lawn shirt, the way his chest filled out the plain brown vest, how thick his thighs were beneath the cover of dark trousers.
Was it all muscle then? Judging by the diameter of his neck beneath his neckcloth, it was muscle indeed. And such a lot of muscle it was.
“Madam”—his stern voice suddenly intruded upon her musings—“just what are you gawking at?”
“You fill out your clothing exceptionally well,” she said automatically.
When his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, she realized that probably hadn’t been the proper thing to say.
Which was a much-too-common occurrence, her unfiltered thoughts and unruly tongue utterly incapable of holding things back. Blast it.
The best she could hope for was to distract him enough that he would forget what she had said. But what had they been talking about before she had gotten redirected by his impressive form? Ah, yes, trespassing.
Raising her chin, she attempted to look down her nose at him, an expression she had seen on occasion on Sylvia’s face when she dealt with someone unpleasant. Though she realized belatedly it was not an easy thing to do when the object of such a look was a good foot taller than yourself.
“I was not attempting to gain access to the glasshouse,” she declared.
He crossed his arms over his chest, making them appear even more muscular than before. For a split second she was nearly distracted by the sight of them again.
But she somehow managed to regain her focus. Enough, at least, for her to hear him say, “Then would you care to explain your presence here when the sun is not fully up?”
To which she didn’t have an answer. At least not one she could share. She silently cursed at herself for her complete lack of plan and forethought. She really had to do better going forward.
If, that was, she could extricate herself from this particular scenario first.
Heloise’s voice sounded in her mind: When you are caught with your back against a wall, your best bet is deflection. Stick to the truth, but only so much that you will not give away your true purpose.
She looked to the glasshouse wall. Well, her back was not necessarily against it, but close enough.
Looking back to the man before her, she squared her shoulders and said, “My name is Mrs. Iris Rumford. And you are?”
There was a flicker of something like confusion in his eyes, that and something else she could not name. “Mrs.?” he finally asked after several long seconds of silence.
Had he not heard her properly? Frowning, she nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Mrs. Iris Rumford,” she repeated for good measure.
There was another pause. Then: “You are married?”
Ah, was that what he wished to know? She smiled, finally understanding. “I was. I’m not any longer. He’s dead.”
He blinked, his mouth falling open ever so slightly. “I?.? .? .? see,” he finally managed.