Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(11)

Heath gave his head a violent shake. She wasn’t his responsibility. And a proper lady like her damn well never would be.

He spun around and entered the blacksmith’s, resisting the invisible string that seemed to connect him to the inn—to her. A few words with the blacksmith and he had a mount. Swinging atop the horse, he stared at the inn again, still feeling the infernal pull to go back inside. She hadn’t wanted him to go. She hadn’t said the words, but he had seen them in her eyes. He could return. Could see just how strong the walls of her reserve were built. If he were different, perhaps he would.

The old, gnawing bleakness skated through him with the slow insidiousness of a stalking predator. A bleakness he hadn’t felt in years. Not since he had learned acceptance. Not since he had trained himself in forbearance. Not since he had ceased wishing for what could never be.

Della. Like a life raft in a tossing sea, her face emerged in his mind. Della would help him forget.

Forget the girl that brought forth aching reminders of what could never be his. She would banish the bleakness gripping him. He would make use of her body, sink into her familiar heat and tell himself it was enough.

He urged his mount into a gallop, splashing through the village without a care for his own safety.

A man like him had given up concern for his well-being long ago.

Some days he contemplated an abrupt end to it all. Not to mistake that he considered suicide. His mother chose the coward’s route and he would not do the same. Yet a random accident, the result of one of his foolhardy risks, would be far kinder than the fate that awaited him.



He pushed his mount harder, determined to get far, far from the inn. And the wisp of girl inside who made him wish things were different, that he was different—not a man bound by duty, responsibility, and a curse that he could never outrun.

Portia entered the dingy taproom the following morning, her brow knitted angrily from her exchange with the innkeeper. Horrid man. Not an ounce of kindness.

“At least we can afford breakfast,” Nettie said with far too much cheer, pressing a hand to her stomach as if to stave off hunger. “I’m starved. Can’t believe you didn’t allow us to eat last night.”

Portia briefly closed her eyes and stretched her neck, trying to ease the painful crick, no doubt the result of sharing a too small bed with Nettie in the drafty attic room, the cheapest accommodations to be had.

Heath had been correct. No one could be lured out into the storm last night. Especially since she did not possess coin with which to lure. As a result, Portia and Nettie had spent the night clinging to each other for warmth beneath a scratchy, threadbare blanket. After such a night, Nettie’s complaints did not meet with Portia’s usual tolerance.

“I explained last night—”

“Yes, yes,” Nettie interrupted with a wave of her hand. Her narrowed gaze shot to Portia’s wrist.

“Too bad you didn’t think to offer your bracelet up before. We might not have gone to bed hungry.”

Portia clutched her reticule, the weight of coins a painful reminder of what she sacrificed. The idea to barter the bracelet had come to her last night as she stared blindly into the dark, sick with worry over how she would pay the innkeeper come morning.

She rubbed her now bare wrist. Her mother had sent the bauble from Italy three years ago. Portia rarely received correspondence from her mother, let alone gifts. The bracelet had been special. It had been—

Sucking in a breath, she gave her head a small shake, blinking back the sting of tears. She would not cry over something as inconsequential as a bracelet. Mere silver and stones. Not her mother.

Portia gave the dingy taproom, meager and unwelcoming in the light of day, a sweeping glance, refusing to admit that she searched for someone in particular, hoping beyond hope that she would see him again. For some reason Heath had occupied her thoughts long after he left last night.

Even when she had managed to fall asleep he had invaded her dreams, his wicked hands and mouth doing to her body all that his hot gaze had promised.



A foolish, disappointed sigh escaped her. No sight of him anywhere. Instead, her gaze landed on a familiar figure. She stiffened.

There, at a corner table, sat her driver, hunkered over a pint of ale.

She stormed across the room, ignoring her sore ankle, paying no heed to the dizziness that swept her from the sudden movement. “John! Where have you been?”

Blinking bleary eyes, he lifted his tankard in mock salute. “Hullo there, my lady. What you doing here?”

“Me? Me?” Portia gave no thought to her raised voice or the pain that lanced her temples, only that John sat before her sipping his ale without a care for the women in his charge—the women he had abandoned. “I ought to horse whip you. You were supposed to fetch help and return for us yesterday!”

“Aye, you bloody louse. Where the hell have you been?” Nettie added as she arrived at Portia’s side, at last showing some displeasure over their abandonment.

John lumbered to his feet, jerking his rumpled blue livery into some order. “No need to get your feathers up, my lady. I was on my way to collect you.”

“This morning?” Nettie propped both hands on her generous hips. “Right nice of you.”

John puffed out his barrel chest, his furry caterpillar eyebrows dipping together as he glared at Nettie. “Now see here, I’ll not let a bit of baggage like—”