Wild Conquest. Hannah Howell

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      Tearlach O’Duine was still chuckling over his friend Corbin Matthias’s jest as he strode into his room. That lingering amusement faded as he moved to light a lamp near his bed. Cautiously he sniffed the air, then frowned. There was the scent of a recently snuffed candle in the room, yet he had only just lit his lamp and that used oil. There was another scent as well—faint and far more pleasant. His frown deepening, he sniffed again, and grew angry as he recognized the delicate, enticing scent of lavender. He remembered all too well where he had smelled it last. In truth, his memory of it was a great deal more vivid than he might wish.

      Acting as if he was still unaware of anything odd, he warily checked for two specific items. He took a quick peek inside the stationery box on the writing table and then into his carpetbag. It did not surprise him to find the items they had contained missing. The bird has probably flown already, he concluded, then immediately questioned that assumption. There was a chance his prey might still be present.

      There was only one exit and one window and he felt confident he would have seen someone slip through the door if she had done so in the last few minutes. He moved back to the small wardrobe in the corner and looked inside, but found no one. In hopes of deceiving anyone who might be watching, he took out a shirt and walked back to the bed. As he carefully placed the shirt on the bed, he stared down at the plank floor, then narrowly eyed the space beneath his bed. It was a painfully obvious place for someone to hide, but it was the only place left.

      “Ye will come out now, Mistress Dunstan,” he said.

      Pleasance felt her heart stop. For a moment she forgot to breathe, then fought to do so without making a sound. How could he possibly know someone was there? How could he know it was her? She remained still and silent, the lantern handle slung over her wrist and the tankard clutched tightly in one hand, hoping he had just made a wild guess and would not pursue the matter. That hope was abruptly extinguished when a shaft of light penetrated the shadows under the bed as the hem of the coverlet was lifted and she found herself staring into Tearlach O’Duine’s frighteningly expressionless face. With a soft cry of alarm, Pleasance scrambled out from under the bed, hit Tearlach in the knee with the tankard to knock him off balance, and bolted for the door.

      Tearlach leapt to his feet, bounded to the door, and slammed it shut just as Pleasance started to yank it open. He was startled by her speed. He also noticed with some surprise that, despite her panicked haste, she had made little noise. Miss Dunstan clearly possessed a few unusual skills for a gently bred lady, he mused as he grabbed her around her tiny waist and tossed her over his shoulder. Ignoring her struggles and the way she kept hitting him with the lantern and tankard, he carried her back to the bed and threw her on top of it. In the brief instant when she was too winded to move, he used his body to pin her to the bed. He yanked the lantern from her hand and studied it.

      “A custom runner’s lantern, if I am not mistaken,” he murmured. “’Tis a strange implement for a lass to possess.” He looked down at her and saw that her fear had either been replaced, or was at least well disguised, by anger. Her wide eyes glowed with fury. “’Tis a useful tool for a thief though,” he added.

      “I am no thief,” she replied, but the hard look on his dark face offered Pleasance little hope for mercy.

      “Nay? Ye but crept in here to admire my tankard, did ye?” He looked at the tankard still clutched in her hand, which he held pinned to the bed.

      “’Tis not yours, and well you know it, sir.”

      “’Twas a gift to me.”

      She wondered crossly how the man could be so many things at once—terrifying, irritating, and intriguing. “One that the giver requested you return.”

      “Ah, but I have grown verra attached to it.” Easily keeping her slender form beneath him, he searched her cloak and was not surprised to find the letters Letitia had written to him. “These are mine as well,” he said.

      Since she could not deny that, Pleasance just glared at him. She had no defense so she struggled to maintain an air of righteous indignation, prepared even to attack him if it proved necessary. She sincerely doubted that the big dark man pressing her into the coverlet would give her the time to come up with something truly clever, however.

      “You were also asked to return those letters to their rightful owner,” she snapped. “I but came here to retrieve them.”

      There was such mockery and sneering in his smoky gray eyes that she wanted to scream. “Did ye.” He almost smiled at her. “Weel, I dinnae wish them to be retrieved. They are mine.”

      “Nay, they belong to Letitia.”

      “Ah me, it seems we will ne’er agree.” He stood up, but with one large calloused hand wrapped around her delicate wrists he kept a firm grip upon her as he tugged her to her feet. “I think a neutral third party is required.” He began dragging her out of the room. “Dinnae let my tankard slip from your wee fingers,” he drawled. “I should hate to see it dented.”

      Pleasance was sorely tempted to dent it on his head, but the way he held her prevented her from fulfilling that wish. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

      “To see Corbin Matthias. Ye are in luck, Miss Dunstan. He awaits me in the taproom.”

      The very last person she wished to face was the magistrate. Did Tearlach O’Duine plan to openly cry her a thief?

      She tried to pull free, but his hold was firm. When she dug in her heels, he just yanked her along the hall. At the top of the narrow stairs leading down to the taproom, she hooked her arm around the stair post. Tearlach gave her a scowl of disgust, pried her arm free, and continued on. To keep from falling she was forced to stop struggling. The moment СКАЧАТЬ