“I find you, and that order, utterly…” She leaned forward until their bodies pressed together, and studiously ignored the hum of need the contact ignited. “…completely…” she smiled a slow, secret smile. “Resistible.”
As a final insult, she lifted a hand to pat at his cheek for the second time in as many days. He quite literally growled—which she found immensely satisfying—and grabbed her before she could step away—which she would have found unnerving if she’d been given the time to think on it. But the next thing she knew, she was spun about, backed up, and crushed against the wall. His hands pinned her wrists against the wood, his breath panted on her cheek as he lowered his head.
She closed her eyes, waiting, wanting.
And, eventually, severely disappointed when it was a hand rather than his lips that clasped over her mouth.
Her eyes flew open. “Mfflg.”
“Shh.”
She heard it then, the steady fall of footsteps coming down the hall. No, not steady, she realized, uneven.
She slapped his hand away. “It’s only Christian,” she hissed. “Let me go.”
“Christian,” Whit’s brow furrowed for a moment. “The stable boy?”
“The stable hand,” she corrected. “He’s a man grown.”
He shot her a curious look. “Friends, are you?”
“Yes.”
“How friendly?”
She felt the slap of that insult as if it had been his hand. Was that how he saw her now, after the humiliation at dinner? She gave him a mighty shove, which didn’t dislodge him much, but tipped his balance just enough for her to slip out of his arms and away. “You’re determined to be a complete ass to night, aren’t you?”
He blinked and took a step towards her. “No, Mirabelle, I hadn’t meant—”
“I don’t bloody care what you meant,” she lied. She did care, and his shocked and regretful expression soothed the hurt and temper, but not quite enough to tempt her to continue the conversation.
“Good night, Whit.”
She had enough sense to glance into the hall first before darting out and up to her room.
Nineteen
Occasionally, the guests at her uncle’s parties grew a bit too rambunctious, and Mirabelle had found it expedient during those times to remove herself from the house. She’d had the same room at the back of the building since the first day she’d arrived, and every man who frequented the parties knew where to find it. Most never cared to, but once in a great while, one of them would get randy and drunk enough to imagine himself capable of shouldering down her bolted door, or—worse, as the locks she’d paid a great deal of money to have secretly installed w ere incredibly sturdy—attempt to talk his way through.
Rather than bother with the fuss of them, she sometimes slipped out her window, down a rain pipe and into the stable. With the help of Christian, she’d made a nice little nest for herself in the hayloft where she could sleep in peace, complete with blankets and pillows. She doubted anyone had ever noticed her absence during the night, and if they had…well, they likely wouldn’t remember it by the morning.
Perhaps it was cowardly of her to hide from Whit, but she wasn’t ready yet to face his questions or his reactions to her answers. Avoidance was no nobler a tactic than denial, but her options, she knew, were limited and dwindling.
Christian was filling water buckets in the stalls when she entered, a task she thought must be difficult for him given his limp, weak arm, and the fact that he went without help. She wanted to offer assistance, but knew it would scratch at his pride.
He set the last bucket down and walked to her slowly. A stooped man with clothes gone to rags, he would have been a sight to frighten if it wasn’t for his quick smile and bright green eyes. The layer of dirt that seemed a permanent feature on his face and bared arms made it impossible to determine his age, but she’d guessed it to be somewhere near five-and-forty.
He’d come to work for her uncle only a few years ago. She’d avoided him at first—as she did all the men of the house, servant or not—until one day he’d found her in the hayloft, hiding, while her uncle ranted and raved over a broken vase in the house. He’d brought her a blanket, sat down next to her, and told her stories of growing up in Ireland. She’d felt safe with him since.
“Wild to night, are they?” Christian asked as she came in.
“Why do you ask?” she inquired as he came to a stop in front of her. “You were just in the house.”
“Aye. And you were in the study. Are you wanting to discuss both, or should we let them be?”
“Let them be,” she decided. “I’m too tired for anything else.”
“Had a round with Lord Thurston?”
“I’d rather not speak of it…He can be such a tremendous ass.”
“You’ve a whole house of arses just now,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but I expected it of them.”
“Ah, he’s disappointed you, then,” he guessed.
“Yes. No.” She threw up her arms. “I don’t know.”
“Might want to figure that one through, lass.”
She sighed and walked toward a rope ladder hanging from the loft. “I’d rather just ignore it for to night.”