Heavens, the man was foxed and it wasn’t even tea time. Her resolve wavered momentarily, but Sara narrowed her eyes and walked over to his chair, her skirts swishing with the force of her stride. She stopped at his side, her arms folded her chest, her frown disapproving.
Mr. Grant rolled his head and looked at her with bleary eyes. Staring for a moment, he chuckled. “Of course,” he muttered. “Why wouldn’t you be here.”
Sara opened her mouth to reply, but he continued to speak. “You’re everywhere, aren’t you? Well, may as well make yourself useful then. There’s whiskey over there. Just bring the bottle.” He gestured loosely toward a cabinet by the stairs. The remains of the glass disappeared down his throat.
Sniffing, Sara followed his gesture to the cabinet and opened it. It took her several minutes to locate the one labeled “whiskey,” and she noted all the empty space in the cabinet. Had he not filled it completely or had he drunk it all away? She did not want to contemplate the answer.
She turned back. Her earlier righteous indignation had kept her from registering him exactly, but from this position, what she saw rooted her to the spot.
A loosened shirt and trousers were all he wore; even his shoes and stockings were off, revealing long, narrow feet and toes. His open shirt revealed the bronzed skin of his chest, covered with golden hair. Oddly, Sara felt the urge to press her cheek to his exposed chest and feel that hair against her skin. His left leg was stretched out in front of him and he was rubbing his thigh, almost absently, his head leaning back against the chair with his eyes closed, his blond hair in tousled disarray. The golden wolf’s head of his cane glinted in the sun where it rested against the nearby sofa.
The glass in his hand rose again. “I’m waiting,” he said in a singsong voice. The glass plunked down on the side table, nearly falling off. The table itself teetered for a moment.
She blinked, the brief spell broken. Reminded of her purpose, she thinned her lips into the disapproving frown and once more approached him. Reaching the chair, she placed the bottle on the table beside his glass. Before she could straighten, however, his hand clamped around her wrist and pulled her toward him.
With a truncated shriek, Sara landed across his lap, her bottom hitting his left leg. He winced and his other arm formed a steel band around her waist, shifting her to his right one.
“Mr. Grant!” she gasped.
“Hmm,” he grunted. “I don’t like your bonnet.” He began plucking at the ribbons, ignoring her hands trying to stop him. He scowled when the ribbons knotted, so he wrapped his fingers around them and jerked them off, breaking both from the bonnet itself. Smiling in triumph, he tossed the destroyed ribbons on the floor and the bonnet sailed to the sofa.
Mr. Grant then tightened his arm around her waist and captured her two hands with one of his own, effectively halting her struggles. “Stop,” he commanded in a soft, deep voice.
Sara stilled, her eyes locked on his. The pale blue orbs seemed to be having difficulty focusing, but remained steady, connecting with her startled gaze. She could see pain in them, but it was being pushed aside by a rising heat. She was acutely aware of the hard muscle pressing along her waist, holding her to his solid chest. She could feel his torso rise and fall with each breath he took; hers sped up in response.
He slowly released her hands and one naturally settled on his chest for support, her fingertips resting on his exposed skin. It was hot beneath her touch and the dusty hair tickled and twined around her fingers. Coarse, her mind registered, but pleasant. His eyes closed and he inhaled deeply; Sara felt the air expand his rib cage. Her spine prickled with awareness and the knowledge she had never been so close to a man before.
His eyes opened and met hers again. “Miss Collins,” he said, his voice husky. “You are everywhere.” He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers along her cheekbone, moving back to thread into her hair. “What is your name?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Sara.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “How do I know that is the truth? I do not know your name and you are not actually here.”