music and amore . One, she still hadn’t taken the slightest hint about the true nature of his invitation; and two, her answer was no anyway because, it presently dawned on him, she was in love with that fiery young hothead he had just arrested.
Flat, unequivocal no.
The realization acted as a bucket of ice water dousing the gathering heat of his enthusiasm. He could scarcely believe it.
“Well, this is rich,” he said, staring at her, one fist cocked on his hip.
He recalled that the eldest of the rebellious young highwaymen whom he had sent to jail over an hour ago had been a tall, strapping farm boy of perhaps four and twenty, whose name the men had logged as Mateo Gabbiano. Clad in sturdy work clothes with a brown vest and a red bandanna knotted around his neck, Mateo Gabbiano had been the handsome sort of rustic youth, with curly dark hair and the kind of big brown eyes that melted tenderhearted women.
Aha. Now Lady Daniela’s indifference to him from the start made sense.
Having been worshiped and adored by women from the day he was born, Rafe had had too little experience with rejection to take it well.
His opinion of her plunged.
A scowl settled over his face. How could the foolish wench give her heart and perhaps her favors to a skulking criminal? he thought with an inward, aristocratic snort of disdain. Maybe she was lonely in this isolated place, but had the woman no feeling for her rank? How the devil could she choose that peasant over…him?
“Well, my lady,” he said with cold hauteur, “I’ll see what I can do for the boy. Fare you well.”
He pivoted and stalked down the few front steps of the villa, marching stiffly toward the white horse. His better sense pointed out that the highwaymen had made a dash for her property, and she might well be mixed up in their crimes. But if she was involved, he did not want to know it.
A few steps away, Rafe stopped and abruptly turned.
She was still standing there, her slim body silhouetted in the light from the lantern.
“Why did you pretend not to know who I am?” he demanded.
“To lower you a peg,” she replied. “Why did you spend an hour with a senile old man when you were so determined to catch an outlaw?”
“Because, my lady,” he said crisply, “there are times when an act of kindness outweighs one of justice.”
She was silent for a moment, holding his gaze. “I am obliged that you wanted to help me,” she called. “But instead, I shall help you.”
“Help me?” he replied in worldly sarcasm. “I doubt that.”
“Look into the books of this county’s tax collector, Your Highness, and you may find the real criminal at large.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying, madam?”
“You’ll see.”
He tapped his riding crop across his palm. “Graft does not flourish under my father’s rule. Not so much as a bee drinks from the wrong flower without the say-so of King Lazar di Fiore.”
“Tell that to Count Bulbati.”
“Who is that?”
“The man who raises my taxes each time I refuse to marry him.”
His attention came to a point like a saber. He made a mental note to look into it, then pushed the accusation of embezzlement aside, concentrating on her. “Why do you refuse him? Wouldn’t a prudent marriage relieve your situation here?”
“Perhaps. But firstly, Count Bulbati is a corrupt and greedy swine, and secondly, I shall never marry. Not anyone. Ever.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” he demanded in shock, as though he had not said those very words countless times himself.
She lifted her chin, starlight on her hair. “Because I’m free.” She gestured toward the villa. “Our house may need repair, but at least it’s my house, and all these lands…” With a sweep of her hand, she showed him the landscape. “Though they thirst with drought and the crops are low, they are my lands. All of it is entailed on me until my death. How many women can count themselves so fortunate?”
He glanced
Flat, unequivocal no.
The realization acted as a bucket of ice water dousing the gathering heat of his enthusiasm. He could scarcely believe it.
“Well, this is rich,” he said, staring at her, one fist cocked on his hip.
He recalled that the eldest of the rebellious young highwaymen whom he had sent to jail over an hour ago had been a tall, strapping farm boy of perhaps four and twenty, whose name the men had logged as Mateo Gabbiano. Clad in sturdy work clothes with a brown vest and a red bandanna knotted around his neck, Mateo Gabbiano had been the handsome sort of rustic youth, with curly dark hair and the kind of big brown eyes that melted tenderhearted women.
Aha. Now Lady Daniela’s indifference to him from the start made sense.
Having been worshiped and adored by women from the day he was born, Rafe had had too little experience with rejection to take it well.
His opinion of her plunged.
A scowl settled over his face. How could the foolish wench give her heart and perhaps her favors to a skulking criminal? he thought with an inward, aristocratic snort of disdain. Maybe she was lonely in this isolated place, but had the woman no feeling for her rank? How the devil could she choose that peasant over…him?
“Well, my lady,” he said with cold hauteur, “I’ll see what I can do for the boy. Fare you well.”
He pivoted and stalked down the few front steps of the villa, marching stiffly toward the white horse. His better sense pointed out that the highwaymen had made a dash for her property, and she might well be mixed up in their crimes. But if she was involved, he did not want to know it.
A few steps away, Rafe stopped and abruptly turned.
She was still standing there, her slim body silhouetted in the light from the lantern.
“Why did you pretend not to know who I am?” he demanded.
“To lower you a peg,” she replied. “Why did you spend an hour with a senile old man when you were so determined to catch an outlaw?”
“Because, my lady,” he said crisply, “there are times when an act of kindness outweighs one of justice.”
She was silent for a moment, holding his gaze. “I am obliged that you wanted to help me,” she called. “But instead, I shall help you.”
“Help me?” he replied in worldly sarcasm. “I doubt that.”
“Look into the books of this county’s tax collector, Your Highness, and you may find the real criminal at large.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying, madam?”
“You’ll see.”
He tapped his riding crop across his palm. “Graft does not flourish under my father’s rule. Not so much as a bee drinks from the wrong flower without the say-so of King Lazar di Fiore.”
“Tell that to Count Bulbati.”
“Who is that?”
“The man who raises my taxes each time I refuse to marry him.”
His attention came to a point like a saber. He made a mental note to look into it, then pushed the accusation of embezzlement aside, concentrating on her. “Why do you refuse him? Wouldn’t a prudent marriage relieve your situation here?”
“Perhaps. But firstly, Count Bulbati is a corrupt and greedy swine, and secondly, I shall never marry. Not anyone. Ever.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” he demanded in shock, as though he had not said those very words countless times himself.
She lifted her chin, starlight on her hair. “Because I’m free.” She gestured toward the villa. “Our house may need repair, but at least it’s my house, and all these lands…” With a sweep of her hand, she showed him the landscape. “Though they thirst with drought and the crops are low, they are my lands. All of it is entailed on me until my death. How many women can count themselves so fortunate?”
He glanced
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