we wish to finish the job by sundown."
"Arrgh." Prestwick sat up with a groan. On flexing his fingers, he felt as if he had aged ten score in the space of ten minutes. "Surely it makes no difference whether we finish today or tomorrow?" he asked irritably. While he was not at all keen on the idea of passing more than one night in the moldering dampness of the stone barn, neither was he anxious to renew his battle with the damn spade.
"But it does! We have lost too much time as it is. I fear—" The young lady bit at her lip.
Fear? He would not have thought the Admiral of the Amazons would admit to being afraid of anything. Yet the uncertainty that now pooled in her eyes suddenly made her look less like a mythic warrior queen and more like a vulnerable young lady.
"Oh, very well." Ignoring the creaking protests of his sore limbs, Prestwick levered to his feet. "However, if I am to slave on your behalf, I should prefer not be jeered at or insulted every step of the way."
"Fair enough," she agreed.
He reached for the spade, but she snatched it away. "I shall take my turn."
His eyes narrowed and he wondered whether despite her agreement she was making a subtle mockery of his efforts.
The answer was evident in the tilt of her chin. "That is only equitable," she explained. "I made the deal, and fair is fair. I don't expect you to do more than your share of the hard work."
So it was a prickly pride, and not some baser emotion, that had prompted her demand. That presented a ticklish problem. It was, of course, out of the question to allow a female to engage in such backbreaking work, yet further remonstrance would likely do naught but spark another heated quarrel.
Drawing in a deep breath, Prestwick held out his hand. "As the King of Spades, I demand the return of my subject."
A twitch of humor tugged at her lips. "Surely you don't wish a closer acquaintance with—"
"On the contrary. And the Monarch of the Marshes will tolerate no dissent. Hand it over."
A real smile, the first he had seen from her, suddenly appeared as she returned the tool. "Very well, Your Majesty. If you insist."
The change in her face was mesmerizing. The taut wariness disappeared, softening her features and lightening the smudge of shadows beneath her eyes. They were, he noted, quite bewitching—long lashed and luminous, their hard-edged emerald hue having melted into a liquid green, quixotic as the sea. He couldn't help wondering what mysteries lay swirling beneath the surface.
Then her fingers grazed his, sending a strange wave of heat tingling through his arm. Good Lord, what had come over him? It was absolutely impossible that he should feel a spark of attraction for Miss Greeley. She was all steel, while he preferred silk. Her manners were like a blaze of bold color, while he preferred muted pastels, her tone a martial crescendo, while he preferred a dulcet legato.
It was fatigue and the lack of proper nourishment that was having such an odd effect on his senses, he assured himself. That was the only possible explanation for such momentary madness.
His hand jerked away, its grip so tight upon the pitted iron handle that he thought his knuckles might crack. "Let's get to work."
All the sharpness returned to her features. Without a word, she ducked her head and took hold of the barrow.
As he jabbed the blade into the turf, Prestwick felt the prick of his valet's grizzled gaze. Why the Devil was the old fellow cutting up at him with such a censorious expression? He refused to look up, and yet much to his annoyance, he felt the color rise to his cheeks, as if he were some naughty schoolboy.
Hell and damnation! No matter which way he turned, it seemed he ended being a sad disappointment to everyone he encountered.
The wave that washed over him now was not one of sizzling passion but maudlin self-pity. There was not an adventurous bone in his body. He didn't want his hands dirtied or his boots scuffed. In fact, he was sorry he had ever
"Arrgh." Prestwick sat up with a groan. On flexing his fingers, he felt as if he had aged ten score in the space of ten minutes. "Surely it makes no difference whether we finish today or tomorrow?" he asked irritably. While he was not at all keen on the idea of passing more than one night in the moldering dampness of the stone barn, neither was he anxious to renew his battle with the damn spade.
"But it does! We have lost too much time as it is. I fear—" The young lady bit at her lip.
Fear? He would not have thought the Admiral of the Amazons would admit to being afraid of anything. Yet the uncertainty that now pooled in her eyes suddenly made her look less like a mythic warrior queen and more like a vulnerable young lady.
"Oh, very well." Ignoring the creaking protests of his sore limbs, Prestwick levered to his feet. "However, if I am to slave on your behalf, I should prefer not be jeered at or insulted every step of the way."
"Fair enough," she agreed.
He reached for the spade, but she snatched it away. "I shall take my turn."
His eyes narrowed and he wondered whether despite her agreement she was making a subtle mockery of his efforts.
The answer was evident in the tilt of her chin. "That is only equitable," she explained. "I made the deal, and fair is fair. I don't expect you to do more than your share of the hard work."
So it was a prickly pride, and not some baser emotion, that had prompted her demand. That presented a ticklish problem. It was, of course, out of the question to allow a female to engage in such backbreaking work, yet further remonstrance would likely do naught but spark another heated quarrel.
Drawing in a deep breath, Prestwick held out his hand. "As the King of Spades, I demand the return of my subject."
A twitch of humor tugged at her lips. "Surely you don't wish a closer acquaintance with—"
"On the contrary. And the Monarch of the Marshes will tolerate no dissent. Hand it over."
A real smile, the first he had seen from her, suddenly appeared as she returned the tool. "Very well, Your Majesty. If you insist."
The change in her face was mesmerizing. The taut wariness disappeared, softening her features and lightening the smudge of shadows beneath her eyes. They were, he noted, quite bewitching—long lashed and luminous, their hard-edged emerald hue having melted into a liquid green, quixotic as the sea. He couldn't help wondering what mysteries lay swirling beneath the surface.
Then her fingers grazed his, sending a strange wave of heat tingling through his arm. Good Lord, what had come over him? It was absolutely impossible that he should feel a spark of attraction for Miss Greeley. She was all steel, while he preferred silk. Her manners were like a blaze of bold color, while he preferred muted pastels, her tone a martial crescendo, while he preferred a dulcet legato.
It was fatigue and the lack of proper nourishment that was having such an odd effect on his senses, he assured himself. That was the only possible explanation for such momentary madness.
His hand jerked away, its grip so tight upon the pitted iron handle that he thought his knuckles might crack. "Let's get to work."
All the sharpness returned to her features. Without a word, she ducked her head and took hold of the barrow.
As he jabbed the blade into the turf, Prestwick felt the prick of his valet's grizzled gaze. Why the Devil was the old fellow cutting up at him with such a censorious expression? He refused to look up, and yet much to his annoyance, he felt the color rise to his cheeks, as if he were some naughty schoolboy.
Hell and damnation! No matter which way he turned, it seemed he ended being a sad disappointment to everyone he encountered.
The wave that washed over him now was not one of sizzling passion but maudlin self-pity. There was not an adventurous bone in his body. He didn't want his hands dirtied or his boots scuffed. In fact, he was sorry he had ever
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