Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(3)

Miss Mud Pie?

Her hands fisted into the mud surrounding her, sinking deeper, indifferent to the slime infiltrating the worn cambric of her gloves and sliding thickly beneath her fingernails.

First he nearly killed her.

Now he mocked her.

It was not to be borne. Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth in a determined hiss, she launched a fistful of mud directly at his face, praying her aim proved true.





Chapter 2


The mud slapped the stranger in the cheek, splattering across his nose and mouth with a resounding smack. A lovelier sight she had never seen.

Her satisfaction, however, was short-lived. The look he leveled on her turned her blood to ice.

Panicked, certain he meant to turn the riding crop on her, she struggled to her feet. Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed her gloves, which would never again resemble their former pristine white, over drenched skirts and attempted to strike a dignified pose. To resemble a lady. Even covered head to foot in mud.

Prepared to look him dead in the eye and show him she was no cringing female, she lifted her chin. And blinked. Twice.

Her head barely topped his chin. Unease skated down her spine. She usually looked men in the eye. A definite advantage when intimidating prospective suitors. However, something told her this man did not bow to intimidation.

Wiping a broad hand over the mud obscuring the sharp planes of his face, he snarled, “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Evening the score,” she replied, stumbling back as he advanced one step. Then another. The mudclogged road posed no difficultly for him. He moved like a panther, closing the distance between them with ease.

“Blinding me with mud accomplishes that?” He reached for her arm. Portia lurched back, jerking away from that grasping hand, and lost her balance. She toppled over. Again. An indignant squeak escaped her mouth as her bottom hit the ground with a loud smack.

He laughed. A rich, boisterous sound that rumbled in the air, mingling with the distant thunder.

Scowling, she scooped up a handful of mud, pausing when he wagged a finger. “Don’t.” The single word dropped into the air like a heavy stone, freezing her.

Thick mud dripped from her fingers as she considered him. From the hard, ruthless look of him, she had no doubt he would retaliate if she hurled mud at his face a second time. The man looked like a pirate. Or a brigand. She shrank further into her wet cloak at the possibility.

“An apology,” she demanded. Brigand or not, she refused to back down without the courtesy owed her.



“For what?” he snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re at fault here. The one walking in the middle of the road with your head—”

“Me?” she cut in, pushing to her feet. “Are you mad?”

A change came over him. The barest stiffening. He drew a deep breath that expanded his broad chest. A beat of silence fell, held, stretched as his eyes glittered down at her. Portia waited, breath suspended, staring up at him through the screen of rain.

At last, he replied, his words caustic, a veritable sneer, “If I’m not already, then I’m well on my way.”

Suppressing a tremor of nervousness, she retorted, “Well, no doubt…for how sensible is it to ride hell-bent around a bend with nary a thought for anyone who might be in your path?”

The muscles along his jaw knotted dangerously. Rain rolled down his face, washing away the last remnants of mud, but his hard gaze never blinked. “No more insensible than someone foolish enough to walk in the middle of the road in such inclement weather.”

“Rest assured, it’s not by choice. My carriage is mired in mud down the road.”

The corners of his well-shaped mouth pulled into a frown as he looked beyond her. The wind whipped long strands of hair against his face and neck. The dark, gleaming strands reminded her of a sea lion’s pelt.

“Where’s your driver?” he demanded.

“I haven’t the foggiest notion.” Portia lifted her impossibly heavy skirts and adopted her grandmother’s most officious tone. The one she used when addressing someone beneath her dignity. “Now, if you would be so kind as to step aside, I should like to reach the village before nightfall.”

He made no effort to oblige so Portia stepped around him and began sludging forward again.

“Wait,” he commanded. His large hand clamped down on her arm.

Portia glanced in surprise at the hard fingers encircling her arm. They were surprisingly long and elegant, blunt-tipped. She felt the burn of them through her cloak, into her very skin. Men didn’t touch her. Not voluntarily. None presumed such familiarity. She saw to that. Of course this stranger didn’t know that, didn’t know the rules that governed her.

Looking up into his face, she swallowed a small frission of alarm at how truly alone they were.

How very much at his mercy she was. Swiping at the drooping brim of her bonnet, she said in her firmest voice, “Unhand me, sir.”



The sound of rain hitting earth and rock increased at that moment, a dull roar that filled their lapse in conversation. His image grew blurry—apart from his eyes. They glowed preternaturally, penetrating the gray screen of rain. “You’re a fierce thing, aren’t you, little Miss Mud Pie?” his disembodied voice taunted.

Fierce? Never had anyone described her as fierce. Capricious. Eccentric. Even odd. But never fierce. Portia supposed she might be a little like her old dragon of a grandmother after all—