appeal to Geoff for help, and he nobly rose to the occasion.
“We, that is, Em, needs to get married.”
The amiable gentleman was instantly replaced with a snarling beast, his hands at his brother’s throat, lilting him clear off the ground. “Why, you—”
“Not me, Ev!” Geoff croaked, and was dropped.
The earl turned to Emilyann in disgust. “What was he, some good-looking stablehand, or some smooth-talking basket-scrambler? Or maybe he’s already married. Is that it?” He sneered. “And what do you think I can do about it? I’m not exactly in prime fiddle to force a duel on some dirty dish so he’ll marry you.”
Now Emilyann found her voice. No one, not even Smoky, was going to talk to her like that. “Why you ... you miserable mawworm, how dare you think the worst of me like that. As if I would ... And here I came to you for help. Some help, a jug-bitten old soldier”—she emphasized the old— “back from a night of hellraking, giving orders and suspecting everyone else of behavior as bad as yours!”
She stood there, arms on her hips, blue eyes flashing, and he laughed, partly in relief that she hadn’t been led down the garden path, and partly in memory of a tiny scrap of a girl giving Thornton what-for over some slight. He held his arms open. “Hallo, Sparrow,” he said, and she walked into them, rags, aroma, and all.
“Hi, Smoky.”
Rigg almost dropped the tray, coming back to the room to find his master holding the raggedy urchin. “That will be all, Private.”
Rigg shut his mouth enough to say “yessir.” He set the tray down with a thump and about-faced to march to his own room, shaking his head and vowing to burn that shirt the captain had on.
There, she was safe now, protected in Smoky’s arms. She could tell her story, ending with “I really had no choice. I just couldn’t stay there, not after he hit me.”
He held her away from him and gently cupped her chin, turning her face to the light. His eyes narrowed to steel-gray slits when he saw the bruise there, under the grime. “What did you do then?”
“I ... I kicked him.”
“Where I taught you?”
She just nodded, looking down.
“Good girl.”
Geoffrey cheered. “I hope you put paid to his getting the heir, Emmy,” he said, which earned him such a scowl from his brother that he decided a nap might be in order. Yawning mightily, he sprawled across Stokely’s bed, his back to the other two.
“Such subtlety,” complimented the captain, indicating that Emilyann take Geoff’s vacated seat. She poured him out coffee first, and then, deciding a slightly fuddled Smoky might be easier to deal with after all, poured some brandy into his cup, too, while he was busy finding his slippers.
Smoky finally settled, the cup on his knee. “All right, my girl, let’s hear what feat of derring-do you expect from me. I’m sure you’ve some feather-headed scheme in mind.” He took a sip of coffee, only raising one eyebrow at the taste.
Then she said, “I want you to marry me,” and he spilled the hot liquid down his shirt.
“Damn, Sparrow, you shouldn’t say such things to a fellow.”
“But I am serious, Smoky. I need you to marry me. You are old enough, and have a title and property and you’re even a hero! There is no way Uncle Morgan could withhold his permission, not when my own father once approved.”
His lordship stopped dabbing with his napkin at the brown stain to look at her again: a bedraggled, undernourished elf in ragpicker’s hand-me-downs pouring coffee like a duchess.
He shouldn’t have laughed. He knew it the moment her spine stiffened and a very determined nose, slightly tilted, lifted in the air. Maybe it was the alcohol clouding his mind, but damn if he didn’t laugh again.
Lord Stokely may have been in his altitudes, but Lady Emilyann Arcott was very much on her dignity.
“Laugh now, my lord,” she announced in a frigid tone, unfolding one of her documents, the special license.
“We, that is, Em, needs to get married.”
The amiable gentleman was instantly replaced with a snarling beast, his hands at his brother’s throat, lilting him clear off the ground. “Why, you—”
“Not me, Ev!” Geoff croaked, and was dropped.
The earl turned to Emilyann in disgust. “What was he, some good-looking stablehand, or some smooth-talking basket-scrambler? Or maybe he’s already married. Is that it?” He sneered. “And what do you think I can do about it? I’m not exactly in prime fiddle to force a duel on some dirty dish so he’ll marry you.”
Now Emilyann found her voice. No one, not even Smoky, was going to talk to her like that. “Why you ... you miserable mawworm, how dare you think the worst of me like that. As if I would ... And here I came to you for help. Some help, a jug-bitten old soldier”—she emphasized the old— “back from a night of hellraking, giving orders and suspecting everyone else of behavior as bad as yours!”
She stood there, arms on her hips, blue eyes flashing, and he laughed, partly in relief that she hadn’t been led down the garden path, and partly in memory of a tiny scrap of a girl giving Thornton what-for over some slight. He held his arms open. “Hallo, Sparrow,” he said, and she walked into them, rags, aroma, and all.
“Hi, Smoky.”
Rigg almost dropped the tray, coming back to the room to find his master holding the raggedy urchin. “That will be all, Private.”
Rigg shut his mouth enough to say “yessir.” He set the tray down with a thump and about-faced to march to his own room, shaking his head and vowing to burn that shirt the captain had on.
There, she was safe now, protected in Smoky’s arms. She could tell her story, ending with “I really had no choice. I just couldn’t stay there, not after he hit me.”
He held her away from him and gently cupped her chin, turning her face to the light. His eyes narrowed to steel-gray slits when he saw the bruise there, under the grime. “What did you do then?”
“I ... I kicked him.”
“Where I taught you?”
She just nodded, looking down.
“Good girl.”
Geoffrey cheered. “I hope you put paid to his getting the heir, Emmy,” he said, which earned him such a scowl from his brother that he decided a nap might be in order. Yawning mightily, he sprawled across Stokely’s bed, his back to the other two.
“Such subtlety,” complimented the captain, indicating that Emilyann take Geoff’s vacated seat. She poured him out coffee first, and then, deciding a slightly fuddled Smoky might be easier to deal with after all, poured some brandy into his cup, too, while he was busy finding his slippers.
Smoky finally settled, the cup on his knee. “All right, my girl, let’s hear what feat of derring-do you expect from me. I’m sure you’ve some feather-headed scheme in mind.” He took a sip of coffee, only raising one eyebrow at the taste.
Then she said, “I want you to marry me,” and he spilled the hot liquid down his shirt.
“Damn, Sparrow, you shouldn’t say such things to a fellow.”
“But I am serious, Smoky. I need you to marry me. You are old enough, and have a title and property and you’re even a hero! There is no way Uncle Morgan could withhold his permission, not when my own father once approved.”
His lordship stopped dabbing with his napkin at the brown stain to look at her again: a bedraggled, undernourished elf in ragpicker’s hand-me-downs pouring coffee like a duchess.
He shouldn’t have laughed. He knew it the moment her spine stiffened and a very determined nose, slightly tilted, lifted in the air. Maybe it was the alcohol clouding his mind, but damn if he didn’t laugh again.
Lord Stokely may have been in his altitudes, but Lady Emilyann Arcott was very much on her dignity.
“Laugh now, my lord,” she announced in a frigid tone, unfolding one of her documents, the special license.
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