Nathan Grant paused at a junction in the path. He had the choice of three directions, including the one he had just come by. He looked back in brief contemplation but did not want to return that way; he had been wandering in this godforsaken maze of shrubbery and trees for the last hour and still had not found the path leading out.
He frowned, examining his two alternatives, as if the force of his glare would cut down the bloody trees and simply show him how to get the hell out of here. He never would have found himself in this sort of situation in London or at Cloverfields, his maternal grandmother’s estate. But foolishly, he had wanted a new place where no one knew him, so he could indulge his recently acquired misanthropy.
Bloody hell, he thought. I don’t have time for this.
Nathan chose a direction and strode down it, ignoring the pain in his left thigh.
I can be honest with you, sister, Sara was reading, her entire body tense. I was shaking in fear. The Barbary pirate was advancing on me, a sword in one hand and a cruel knife in the other. Around me I could hear the yells of my shipmates, fighting their own battles. I knew I was on my own. My sword was drawn, my pistol spent, and I dared not look away from my opponent. Without warning, he let out ferocious yell and—
The clearing of a throat interrupted her reading. Blinking, Sara looked up. Still caught up in her brother’s adventure, it took a moment to realize that it was Mr. Grant looking down at her.
Sara felt the blood drain from her face and the ants materialized in her throat. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring his offered hand. She stood several feet away from him, the letter clutched in her hand, her eyes focused on his perfectly tied cravat.
He was still as unsettlingly handsome as he had been the day before. His face was clean-shaven, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline. His stance obviously favored his left leg, yet he did not have his cane with him. His glacial blue eyes were piercing.
“Miss Collins,” Mr. Grant greeted with a bow. Sara automatically responded with a curtsey. They both straightened and she noticed he was more than a head taller than her, the top of her head only reaching his chest. Heavens, but he made her feel small, something she was not accustomed to feeling.
When she did not speak, Mr. Grant continued. “A lovely day to be reading letters outside.” He gestured to her brother’s letter in her hand.
Sara could still not respond, the ants running rampant in her throat. Her breathing was unaffected, but speech was beyond her. Anxiety rushed through her veins, tightening her appendages; she could feel the parchment of her brother’s letter crumpling in her hand and she silently prayed the words would not be destroyed beyond reading.
Mr. Grant cleared his throat again and looked down the path. “Is this the way out?”
Sara swallowed, trying to rid her throat of the ants.
He pursed his lips and cocked a brow at her. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
Sara blinked at him.
He let out a breath and spoke impatiently. “Right. I was beyond rude when you visited Windent Hall. Accept my apology.”
She stared at him, unsure whether she should be shocked or offended by his blatant insincerity.
“Please.”
Uncertain, Sara nodded.
“Excellent. Now tell me how to get out of here.”
She shook her head. The ants were lessening, but she still could not speak.
His brows lowered and his jaw tightened. “I see. So much for the welcoming nature of the community. Good day to you, Miss Collins.” He tipped his hat and made to move past her.
Oh dear. He thought she was deliberately being unhelpful. Sara rushed forward and stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. The steely muscles beneath his coat bunched and flexed under her fingers. An unexpected thought appeared—this man was capable of protecting her.
Sara stared at where her hand cupped his bicep, her small digits barely able to span it. Glancing up, she saw he too was staring at where she touched him. A heat flared in his eyes, shocking and unexpected. She had the absurd desire to move her hand to his chest to see if those muscles were just as strong, just as hard, just as inspiring.
She dropped her hand as if she were scalded and took a step back.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice low.