Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(45)

Heath advanced on the stall, Portia fast on his heels.

“That’s it, love,” a deep voice encouraged. “There you go, that’s it.”

Portia closed her eyes, afraid to know what Mina did to elicit such ardent approval. Opening her eyes, her stomach dropped to her feet as Heath stopped before the last stall door, his dark head cocked at a dangerous angle.

Feminine laughter floated over the door, so incongruous to the dismay hammering in Portia’s heart.

“Mina?” he murmured, apparently recognizing the laughter. Laying a hand flat on the door, he gave it a push. It swung inward with a slight creak of iron hinges.

Wincing, Portia forgot to breathe as her gaze landed on Mina—with her hand in the groom’s trousers.

Heath charged into the stall, blocking her from seeing more. A relief, to be certain. Portia would likely be haunted by the unwanted image for years.

Heath yanked the groom to his feet. Mina bounced to her feet, pulling her bodice over jiggling breasts as she babbled incoherent explanations.

The groom managed a few warbled words before Heath’s fist made contact with his face in a sickening smack of bone against bone. Portia jerked, startled at the unrestrained violence of the blow. The groom careened backward into the hay, limbs flailing, blood spurting from his nose like a fountain.

“Pack your things,” Heath snarled, fists flexing as he stood over the hapless young man. He kicked violently at one of his jutting boots. “I want you off my property. Never show yourself in the area again. If word should ever leak of you and my sister—”

The groom nodded his head vigorously. Blood, thick and crimson, seeped between the fingers of the hand he clutched over his nose. With eyes averted, he staggered to his feet again and fled the stall.

Mina, eyes round as saucers, looked from her fleeing would-be lover to Heath before uttering with quiet intensity, “I hate you.”



Portia grimaced, her hand fluttering to her heart, the stab of Mina’s words burying themselves there as effectively as a well-aimed arrow. Her gaze flew to Heath. A flash of raw emotion flickered in his eyes. A deep vulnerability that revealed itself for a mere instant before the familiar gray fog rolled back in, obscuring his exact thoughts.

Before he could respond, Mina tore out of the stall.

Heath bellowed like an outraged bull behind her. “Mina, get back here. I’m not finished with you!”

His sister ignored him, dashing for the house like a hare in flight.

Portia moistened her lips and inched her way out of the stall, not about to be left alone with Heath in his present state of ire. Her eyes fixed longingly at the leaves scuttling across the ground outside the stables.

“You.”

Portia froze.

“Yes?” she asked in a small voice. Turning, she faced the full blast of Heath’s glare, as bitter cold as a glacier wind.

He advanced on her, face stark and jagged as the wind-carved countryside. “You knew she was in here.”

Nodding, she backed up until she collided with a stall door. Hard wood at her back, she trembled as if she stood outside the shelter of the stables.

“You knew and attempted to distract me,” he accused, closing in like a deadly jungle cat. “You tried to get me to go inside with you.”

She held up a hand as if she could ward off his blistering accusations. “I merely wanted to save her from getting into trouble with you. I would have come back for her and put a stop to it.”

“And in the time it took to get rid of me, my sister could very well have been ruined.”

Portia flinched. She was not responsible for Mina’s tryst, nor would she permit Heath to place the blame at her feet. Not when a good portion of the blame could be attributed to him. If he had allowed Mina some freedom, she wouldn’t have gone to such extremes.

“So your sister wants a little adventure.” She flicked her hand in a gesture of impatience. “Not so surprising. You’ve prohibited her from meeting and courting gentlemen of her station, prohibited her from marrying. How else is she to satisfy her desires?”



Heath shook his head. “You think her behavior acceptable then? Do you satisfy your desires with servants?” he pressed, stepping closer, his eyes intense, feral as a predator.

“Of course not,” Portia snapped, discomfited by his nearness, his encroaching heat, the way her skin warmed as if too near the hearth. “But I understand you do.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, wondering what had possessed her to say such a thing, true or not.

His jaw thrust forward. “That is neither here nor there. Gentlemen are held to different standards.”

She dropped her hand from her mouth. “Which is absolute nonsense. If gentlemen are free to sew their wild oats, then why not women?”

“Gently bred ladies do not have wild oats.”

“Posh.”

He blinked. “Posh?”

“Posh!” she repeated, voice firm.

Heath frowned and cocked his head, a challenging glint entering his eyes. His gaze raked her as if seeing her for the first time, as if she were some strange creature, a species never before sighted by man. “I’m not so certain I should permit you to associate with Mina. Your notions are nothing short of scandalous.” His voice dipped dangerously low. “Have you sewn your wild oats yet, Portia?”