Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(7)

She gave herself a hard mental shake, reminding herself that those were legends, stories her mother had read to her as a girl. Real knights in shining armor existed only in fairy tales.

A relieved breath escaped her chest when the village came into sight—an assortment of several thatch-roofed cottages, a small stone church, a blacksmith’s barn and a large two-story inn that leaned ever so slightly to the left. The cottages, hunkered shapes that seemed to tremble in the biting wind, lured her like a first edition copy of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication on the Rights of Woman.



The prospect of the warm fires burning behind those meager walls brought home her misery.

She’d give anything to be sitting warm and snug in front of a fire, a book in her lap, a steaming cup of tea and plate of honeyed scones within reach.

A clanging carried over the storm, coming from the blacksmith’s barn at the edge of the village.

They followed the noise, turning full force into the wind. The sharp air lashed at her, stabbing her face and throat. She couldn’t imagine how he must feel. He had carried her the distance without complaint, never breaking stride.

Her eyes smarted, tears seeping from the corners and streaming her cheeks, blending with the rain coating her face. She tucked her chin to her chest and averted her face, burying her nose against his chest, seeking his heat, the shelter of his body. Shivering, she burrowed deeper against his chest, pretending not to notice the hard body holding her so securely even as she sank against him, hungering for his warmth.

He carried her beneath a jutting portico. Still holding her in his arms, he stood still for a long moment as if he doubted whether she could stand and support herself.

“I can stand,” she murmured, moving her face away from his chest.

Nodding, he released her legs. Her body slid the length of his in agonizing slow degrees. The sensation of her breasts crushed to his hard chest sent a lick of heat curling low in her belly.

Flustered at such an unfamiliar sensation she flushed and quickly stepped back.

Though sheltered from the worst of the wind and rain, she felt cold without his nearness, bereft.

He kept one hand on her arm, their only remaining contact. From beneath her lashes, she studied the hard, shadowed line of his jaw and accepted what she had tried so hard to ignore. He was magnificent. Even covered in filth. The most attractive man she had seen outside of a ballroom.

He reeked raw, masculine power. From the unfashionably long hair clinging to his face and throat, to the intimidating breadth of his shoulders. If my family ever thrust a man like him at me, I might think twice before chasing him off. Following that unbidden thought came the desperate need for distance. No man was worth the shackles of matrimony. No matter how he made her body tingle.

Even yearning for the warmth of his hand, for the burning imprint of those long fingers, she pulled free, severing all contact. He glanced down at her, lifting a dark brow.

Lips compressed, she crossed her arms and forced her attention on the stocky, flat-nosed man stepping out of the building’s glowing core. He wiped grimy hands on a leather apron and nodded in greeting.

“Tom, the lady here is looking for her driver.”



The blacksmith shook his head, frowning. “Haven’t seen a soul since the storm blew in.

Everyone’s got better sense than to be out in this.” His gaze raked them, his expression seeming to say, everyone except you two fools.

“My carriage is stuck in a ditch north of here—my maid’s still inside.” Probably snoring soundly, Portia thought as she lifted her reticule. “I need someone to retrieve both here.

Naturally, I’ll pay you for your ser vices—”

“‘Course, Miss.” The blacksmith turned and called to someone inside the barn. A young man garbed in a matching leather apron joined them. “My son and I will ride out and fetch them for you.”

Portia sighed, feeling some of the tension ease out of her shoulders and neck. “Thank you.”

The blacksmith gestured across the yard. “I’ll find you at the inn, then?”

“Yes,” she answered, already visualizing the dry taproom where she could wait and warm herself.

With a nod for the blacksmith, the man at her side took her arm and led her—cautiously, with care for her ankle—to the inn.

Once inside the nearly empty taproom, he settled her at one of the tables, the one nearest the large, crackling fireplace. Her belly rumbled at the tantalizing smells drifting from the kitchen.

She mentally counted the coins in her reticule and debated whether she could afford a hot meal.

Grandmother had given her only what she deemed necessary for a journey to Yorkshire and back. Recovery and repair of a carriage had not been part of the calculation.

A few figures sat huddled over their tankards, waiting out the storm. One man lifted his head to shout in greeting, “Heath!”

Heath? Well, she had a name now. Whether she wished to or not, she would forever remember her darkly handsome rescuer by name.

“Clive,” Heath greeted.

Clive snatched a knife from the scarred wood tabletop. His thick fist waved it at Heath encouragingly. “Give us a show, eh?”

Heath shook his head. “Another time.”

She looked at Heath, a frown pulling her lips. He must have felt her stare. His gaze slid to hers and he shrugged. “It’s just a game I played as a lad.”