Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(7)

Oh, she felt it.

She swallowed hard. No man had stirred her interest for quite some time. In fact, there was only one man who’d ever made her feel like this—and that man was half a world away.

Or was he?

Violet’s pulse drummed. She dragged her gaze over every strand of his thick, dark hair and every facet of his exquisitely cut cheekbones. She recalled the warm, spice-brown hue of his eyes and the instant affinity she’d felt when they’d locked gazes in the ballroom.

If she looked beyond the injuries and dark scruff of his unshaven jaw, imagined him dressed in finely tailored wool rather than coarse homespun… Dear Lord, the resemblance would be uncanny.

It’s him, her heart whispered.

But what did her heart know? It was a stupid thing, easily fooled.

Violet shook herself. She was imagining things, that was all. Yes, the two men shared dark hair, brown eyes, and fine cheekbones. But the similarities ended there. The differences were legion. One was Breton; the other, English. One was muscled and built for labor; the other, aristocratic and lean. One was sprawled unconscious on this divan, and the other was gallivanting about the West Indies, sparing nary a thought for her.

This man was not The Disappointment.

He was a mystery. And Violet had one night to solve him.

She cocked her head. Was that a scar, just under his jaw? Blade-thin and straight. As if someone had pressed a knife to his throat.

With a glance toward Finn and Fosbury, she moved her chair closer to the divan. Then she leaned in, angling her head for a better look.

“Where did you come from?” she whispered, mostly to herself. “What are you wanting here?”

One hand shot out, catching her by the hair. Violet gasped at the sharp yank on a thousand nerve endings.

His eyes flew open, clear and intense. She read his answer in them.

You. I’m wanting you.

Chapter Three

They flew at him in moments, the two guards. Shouting, tugging. Almost before he understood what was happening.

He was horizontal. He was half-dressed. Her sweet face hovered above him, and he had one hand firmly tangled in the golden silk of her hair. If not for the pair of red-coated dullards raging at him, this could have been just another dream.

Let her go, they gestured.

Let her go, he told himself.

And yet, somehow he couldn’t. His fingers wouldn’t obey. They were heeding instinct, not reason. And his body’s every instinct was to hold her fast and tight.

“Tranquillez-vous,” she pleaded. “Calmez-vous.”

Be still? Be calm? God above, he could not be calm. Not with her voice flowing over him like raw honey, her orange-blossom scent everywhere. His heart raced beneath the borrowed shirt he’d been given. Some few feet lower, his c**k stirred under the woolen blanket.

Well. Good to know the thing hadn’t frozen off.

God’s truth, man. You are an undeserving beast.

Let her go.

At last, his fingers went slack in her hair.

In a heartbeat, she’d jumped back. Then the two redcoats jumped on him. They dealt him a few blows—nothing he didn’t deserve. When they wrestled him to the floor, he made only feeble resistance. If he fought them, he would have to leave them dead, and he didn’t want to do that.

The big one held him down, pressing a knee into his kidneys and wrenching his arms behind his back. The young one lashed his wrists together with cord. Then, after a bit of conferring, they picked him up and slammed him into a heavy, straight-backed chair. They wound a rope around his chest four times, binding him to it.

He remained that way for several moments, struggling to master his breathing. Each time he gulped for air, the ropes took a sharper bite of his flesh.

He was aware of conversation on the other side of the room. They were debating what to do with him.

Eventually, his angel returned.

“They’d like to beat you,” she said in French, dropping into a chair some few feet distant. “But I’ve convinced them to let me try conversation first.”

He stared at her, carefully keeping his expression blank. Revealing no hint of comprehension.

“It’s safe,” she continued, anticipating his concerns. “It’s safe to speak this way. You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul. My Breton is poor, but my French is quite good.”

Her French was impeccable. He could have closed his eyes and imagined her to be a native speaker. But damned if he’d close his eyes when she was so near. At last, he could openly gaze upon every feature of her sweet, lovely face. Whimsical rose-petal lips and china-blue eyes, balanced by a sensible nose and intelligent brow.

She slid a glance toward their guards. “They won’t understand us,” she said. “They don’t have any French.”

Still he hesitated. Perhaps the guards didn’t speak French, but they might recognize the language when they heard it spoken. And if they knew he spoke French, they would inform Rycliff. He would be subjected to interrogation. He did not fear interrogation itself, but he could not afford further delays.

She met his gaze. “I know you can understand me. I see it in your eyes. I would like to understand you too.”

God. She spoke to the fondest wish of his heart.

“Et bien,” he said softly. “We will understand each other.”

She pulled her chair a bit closer, partially blocking the militiamen’s view of their conversation. Nevertheless, the guards remained too near. He would need to play this carefully. So long as they were being watched, he couldn’t say anything—in any language—that might be overheard, remembered and deciphered later.