Smuggler's Lady by Jane Feather Page B

said, dropping them in her lap.
    Meredith blinked, as if to dispel this dreamlike sensation of being quite out of control of the situation. “Lord Rutherford, I do not think you can have heard me correctly—unless your wits are quite addled—by Sir Algernon’s brandy, perhaps?” Mobile eyebrows lifted, all thoughts of caution dissipated under an anger that was as much defensive as aggressive.
    â€œBoth my wits and my hearing are perfectly sharp,” he assured her. “Yours, on the other hand, appear to be a trifle slow this evening.” Dropping on one knee in front of her, he took a stocking out of her lap. Even as she sat, transfixed on the bank, he possessed himself of one foot and then, with a skill that bespoke practice, slipped the stocking over the foot, smoothing out the wrinkles as he eased it over both ankle and calf, calmly pushing up her skirt to facilitate his progress. Meredith, after a moment’s frozen horror when she watched his fingers sliding up her bare leg, feeling the stroking warmth smoothing over her skin, lashed out. Her flat palm, powered with the full force of her arm, cracked against his cheek.
    The gray eyes closed for an instant, his head falling back under the blow, but the hands remained on her leg. “You would do well to remember, Merrie Trelawney, that that is the one and only time you will do such a thing without my permission.” The voice was level, his face, seared with the scarlet mark of her hand, quite expressionless. And the top of her stocking reached her thigh.
    She wanted to hit him again more than she had ever wanted to do anything in her life but, to her utter fury, found that she did not dare. The note of chill certainty in his voice was one she had never heard before although it would have been familiar enough to any man under the command of Colonel, Lord Rutherford. Desperately, she tugged at her imprisoned leg, bracing herself with her hands on the bank beside her. The maneuver achieved nothing, and her garter slipped over the top of her stocking before her unlikely maid turned his attention to her other leg.
    â€œI could kill you,” she declared in a choked whisper. “How dare you do this to me?”
    â€œYou gave me little option,” he said coolly, “having refused to do it for yourself. There now.” Her slippers slid over her feet, her skirt and petticoat were pulled down to her ankles, and Lord Rutherford stood up, extending his hand. “On your feet, Lady Blake.” His fingers snapped imperatively.
    Quivering with temper, Merrie turned her head away from him in mute defiance. “Dear me,” he said, shaking his head in mild exasperation. “You do not appear to be an apt pupil at all.” He bent and, before she had time to realize his intention, scooped her up into his arms. Forgetting his unspoken warning, Merrie slapped him again. There was an instant of dreadful silence during which she fancied she could still hear the resounding crack of her flat palm. Then he spoke very softly. “I repeat, Merrie Trelawney, you are not an apt pupil. You will not, I trust, deny my right to retaliate.” Meredith was speechless, shaking now with fright rather than rage as he set her down, standing her against the trunk of an oak tree. Both of her wrists were seized in one large hand, and she stood sandwiched between the tree and what suddenly seemed to be an alarmingly broad, sinewy body, radiating strength and determination.
    Merrie forced herself to meet his eyes. She could not begin to imagine what form the retaliation would take, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. A long-fingered hand encircled the slender column of her neck, the thumb feeling the wildly beating pulse at the base of her throat. “Mmmm,” he murmured, smiling slightly. Meredith did not, however, find the smile reassuring. “What exactly are you, Merrie Trelawney?” It was clearly a