Fortunately, her brothers had often climbed the tree when they’d been younger, and they’d nailed small pieces of wood to the trunk to give them a better foothold. The makeshift steps hadn’t been used in years, but Lorrie had surreptitiously tested the strength of the bottommost one this afternoon. It had been as sturdy as ever.
She scooted along the branch, moving closer to the trunk and avoiding looking down. Her only regret was she did not possess a pair of trousers. The skirts tended to tangle in her legs and about her ankles. She’d elected to go without petticoats in order to lessen the material that might entrap her, but the dress was still cumbersome.
Not to mention it was a cold night, and she was already shivering. She still had to make it halfway across London in order to reach Francis’s lodging and speak to him. She had coin and planned to hire a hackney to transport her—she was not so foolish as to attempt to walk across London by herself in the dark of night—but she had no hopes that the hackney would be any warmer than she was right now. If only she had thought to drop a cloak at the bottom of the tree…
Lorrie finally reached the trunk. With wobbly legs, she stood and carefully placed her feet. Now she would have to step down, backward, and find the foothold. She had spotted it in the day. It was a good three feet down. She could not see it at all in the dark of night.
Gripping the trunk until the bark dug into her flesh, she eased one foot down, feeling blindly for the piece of wood. She didn’t find it. She lowered herself more and moved her foot all around the trunk. Finally, she touched the foothold, and just as she did, her hands slipped. For a moment, her world went dark as she panicked, but then she caught hold of the trunk again and hugged the tree fiercely.
Lorrie laid her forehead on the trunk, momentarily debating whether Francis—whether any man—was worth this. Unfortunately, she’d come too far now to go back. It would be easier to go down than back across.
Still holding the tree trunk, Lorrie placed her right foot beside her left on the little piece of wood. Then she began the arduous task of finding the next rung. And so it went. Little by little, she climbed down the tree until she had gone far enough that she felt safe in glancing down.
Immediately, she wished she hadn’t.
Standing below the tree, arms crossed and brows creased into a V, was the Viking. With a little squeal, Lorrie began climbing back up the tree, but the dratted giant reached up and grasped her about the waist, hauling her down into the garden beside him.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice so low it was more of a growl.
She pushed against him until he set her on her feet, but he didn’t release her arm.
“You really shouldn’t use such language in the presence of a lady.”
“Ladies do not climb trees.”
“Quite right,” she said. “I will just return to bed then—” She tried to walk away, but he yanked her back. None too gently either.
He’d lit a lamp in the house, and the light spilled from the French doors of the parlor on the first floor and into the garden. She wished she didn’t have such a clear view of his expression. The throbbing vein in his neck seemed to indicate he was furious.
“You want an explanation,” she said with a sigh.
He nodded.
“Would you believe I was sleepwalking?”
“No.”
“How about midnight gardening?”
He didn’t even bother to respond.
“You won’t mention this to my father, will you?”
“Yes.”
“Traitor,” she muttered, knowing he’d heard. “How did you know?” she asked. “Welly’s barking?”
His careful expression revealed nothing. He would have made a good spy. If captured, he would have revealed none of his secrets.
“It’s all your fault, you know,” she said, finally.
His brow arched upward.
“If you would have allowed me to speak to Francis at the garden party—”
“Out of the question,” he interrupted.
“You see!” She pointed a finger at him. “You left me no other choice. I had to see him.”
“Not on my watch.”
Lorrie could have argued further. It was in her nature to argue, but she could not see the point of it. “Fine. If you would release me, I will go to bed.”
“Not yet,” he said.
Lorrie’s heart jumped with anticipation. Perhaps he would want to kiss her first.
But, no! She could not allow that. Even though she really, really wanted to kiss him again. Strange that she could hate him so and still want him to press his lips to hers.
“I want your assurance this will not happen again.”
“I’m sorry. I cannot give it. I will marry Francis, and I will find a way to see him again. You will have to find another way to torture him.”
The look that crossed the Viking’s face actually made Lorrie cringe. His light eyes darkened with anger, and his cheeks reddened. The grip on her arm did not tighten, though, and she could only imagine the amount of control it took to leash that sort of fury.
“That is what you believe of me?” he asked. “That I tortured Francis when we were children.”
Lorrie didn’t particularly want to answer the question—not with him glaring at her so. “What else am I to believe? Francis told me all about it,” she whispered.
“I see.”
“What do you see?” she asked.
He shook his head as though he would not waste the effort it took to answer.
“Are you saying—or rather not saying—that you did not bully and torment Francis when you were children?”
“I did not.” The simple way he said it, the ring of truth in his voice, confused her. He gave her no particulars, offered no protests. He humbly denied the charge. He made it hard to argue and, she had to admit, difficult not to believe him.
“Then why did he say you did?”
“Ask him.”
Lorrie saw her chance and jumped. “Very well, I will. Release me, and I will go and ask him at once.”
The Viking shook his head and pulled her back toward him. Lorrie was growing colder by the moment, and she rather wished she might step a tiny bit closer to the Viking to share his warmth. She still remembered how warm he’d been in the prince’s garden. Tonight he wore only breeches and shirtsleeves, but he did not appear cold in the least.
She supposed she could demand to return inside now, and he would probably allow it, but she wasn’t quite ready to part from him. “Putting aside the matter of whether or not you bullied Francis, why do you hate him? And do not say you don’t. I can tell that you do. Anyone who saw the way you looked at him would know you want to kill him.”
“Why do you love him?” the Viking asked.
Lorrie wasn’t prepared for the question. “I…” But why did she love Francis? He was handsome and charming, but were those reasons to love him? “You cannot do that,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You cannot answer a question with a question.”
“Apparently, you cannot answer the question at all.”
Lorrie had the urge to stomp her foot. Instead, she glared at the Viking. “I do love him. He is kind and considerate and respectful. He has never tried to take advantage of me. He loves me.”
And how pathetic did that sound? She loved him because he loved her? Was she so starved for love and affection?