Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)

“’Course you is. All the comely ones are.” The gleaming pate jerked. “Gray’s in the back.”


She followed the direction indicated, moving through the crowd on tiptoe in an effort to keep her hem off the floor. The sticky floorboards sucked at her half boots. Toward the back of the room, she spied a boisterous knot of men and women near the bar. One man stood taller than the others, his auburn hair looking cleaner than that of his company. A brushed felt beaver rested on the bar nearby, an oddly refined ornament for this seedy den.

As Sophia angled for a better view, a chair slid out from a nearby table, clipping her in the knee. She bob-bled on tiptoe for a moment before tripping forward. The hem of her cloak caught on her boot, and the cloak wrenched open, exposing her chest and throat to the sour, wintry air. In her desperate attempt to right herself, she clutched wildly for the wall—

And grasped a handful of rough linen shirt instead.

The shirt’s owner turned to her. “Hullo there, chicken,” he slurred, his breath rancid with decay. His liquor-glazed eyes slid over her body and settled on the swell of her br**sts. “Fancy bit of goods you are. By looks, I would have priced you beyond my pocket, but if you’s offerin’ …”

Had he mistaken her for some dockside trollop? Sophia’s tongue curled with disgust. Perhaps she was disguised in simple garments, but certainly she did not lookcheap .

“I am not offering,” she said firmly. She tried to wriggle away, but with a quick move, he had her pinned against the bar.

“Hold there, lovely. Jes’ a little tickle, then.”

His grimy fingers dove into the valley of her bosom, and Sophia yelped. “Unhand me, you … you revolting brute!”

The brute released one of her arms to further his lascivious exploration, and Sophia used her newly-freed hand to beat him about the head. No use. His fingers squirmed between her br**sts like fat, greedy worms burrowing in the dark.

“Stop this,” she cried, making her hand a fist and clouting his ear, to no avail. Her efforts at defense only amused her drunken attacker.

“S’all right,” he said, chuckling. “I likes my girls with plenty o’pluck.”

Desperation clawed at her insides. It wasn’t simply the insult of this lout’s hands on her br**sts that had her panicking. She’d forfeited her genteel reputation the moment she left home. But his fingers groped closer and closer to the one thing she dared not surrender. If he found it, Sophia doubted she would escape this tavern with her life intact, much less her virtue.

Her attacker turned his head, angling for a better look down her dress. His grimy ear was just inches from her mouth. Within snapping distance. If she bit it hard enough, she might startle him into letting her go. She had all but made up her mind to do it, when she inhaled another mouthful of his rank sweat and paused. If her choices were putting her mouth on this repulsive beast or dying, she just might rather die.

In the end, she didn’t do either.

The repulsive beast gave a yawp of surprise as a pair of massive hands bodily hauled him away. Lifted him, actually, as though the brute weighed nothing, until he writhed in the air above her like a fish on a hook.

“Come now, Bains,” said a smooth, confident baritone, “You know better than that.”

With an easy motion, her rescuer tossed Bains aside. The brute landed some feet away, with the crunch of splintering wood.

Sagging against the bar with relief, Sophia peered up at her savior. It was the tall, auburn-haired gentleman she’d spied earlier. At least, she assumed him to be a gentleman. His accent bespoke education, and with his dark-green topcoat, fawn-colored trousers, and tasseled Hessians, he cut a fashionable silhouette. But as his arms flexed, the finely tailored clothing delineated raw, muscled power beneath.

And there was nothing refined about his face. His features were rough-hewn, his skin bronzed by the sun. It was impossible not to stare at the golden, weathered hue and wonder—did it fade at his cravat? At his waist? Not at all?

The more she peered up the man, the less she knew what to make of him. He had a gentleman’s attire, a laborer’s body … and the wide, sensuous mouth of a scoundrel.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Bains? That’s no way to touch a woman.” His words were addressed to the lout on the floor, but his roguish gaze was fixed on her. Then he smiled, and the lazy quirk of his lips tugged a thin scar slanting from his jaw to his mouth.

Oh yes, that mouth was dangerous indeed.

At that moment, Sophia could have kissed it.