She didn’t even think of refusing to answer. “Elizabeth. But everyone calls me Bess.”
She caught a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “I like it.”
Standing up and away from him did wonders for her confidence. Her usual spirit revived. “I can’t imagine an occasion where you’ll use it.”
When his lids lowered, he once more became all sensual threat. “I certainly can.”
“Lord Channing—”
“Why did you come here, my charming Miss E. Farrar?”
“Not to be mocked,” she retorted. “I came here for the Christmas donkey.”
Chapter 2
Rory studied the bonnie lass standing in front of him, the woman who strangely seemed to imagine she could push him around. Damn her, she had more effrontery than any arrogant officer ordering a humble midshipman to jump to his duties.
By rights, her presumption should be annoying. Instead he was charmed. And intrigued. And attracted in a way he couldn’t remember feeling before.
Through his turbulent life, he’d seen more beautiful women than he deserved. He’d desired and conquered, and called himself a lucky dog for the privilege. But he’d never felt so lucky as when he’d barged in on Ned struggling to bring this headstrong female into line.
Poor Ned. Bess Farrar was too heady a brew for his palate. But for a captain who’d sailed the seven seas and lived to tell the tale, she was the perfect fit. That demure gray dress with its high neck and narrow lace collar would fool the rest of the world, but never him. She might see herself as a tame household cat, but he’d immediately read her tiger soul.
“Are you calling me an ass, Miss Farrar?” he asked, and relished the shock in her deep blue eyes.
It was fun to keep her off balance. Every time he set her reeling, she lost that daunting air of determination and looked younger and sweeter. He hadn’t missed how flustered she’d been when he’d called her pretty.
Good God above. His compliment shouldn’t have surprised her. Every man in Penton Wyck must be in dire need of spectacles.
Because she was pretty. Hell, she was beautiful, with her strong-boned face and haughty nose and stubborn chin. On the ocean, circumstances changed in a second and peril arose from nothing. Dry land, apparently, offered the same challenges.
He immediately recognized that his destiny lay with those pure features under that severely restrained luxuriance of wheat-blond hair. His future had marched into the great hall, bamboozled Ned, then turned her magic on Rory himself.
This woman was meant for him. He wasn’t sure yet what he felt about it, but the conclusion was inescapable.
“Pardon?”
If he hadn’t been so bedazzled himself, he’d almost pity the confusion in her spectacular eyes. “You said you’re looking for the Christmas donkey.”
His nonsense at last cracked her solemnity, and she laughed, a low musical sound that he could listen to for the rest of his life. Miss Farrar delivered an impact mightier than any Atlantic storm. All a sailor could do was batten down the hatches, hold the helm steady, and pray that he reached safe harbor.
“Oh, I really have convinced you I’m the rudest creature in the world,” she said. “No, I mean a real donkey. Her name’s Daisy, and she’s the centerpiece of the nativity play.”
“And I own this fabulous beast?”
“Yes. Your late brother let us use her at will. But I didn’t want to take your permission for granted.”
He spread his arms across the back of the sofa and stretched out his legs. “Hence cornering me in person on this issue, instead of bombarding me with letters as you have about everything else.”
She made a helpless gesture. “You probably think I’m exceeding my authority.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Probably?”
She blushed most delightfully. “Very well, then, definitely exceeded my authority. But time grows short, and my intentions are good.”
His lips took on a wry twist. “Many a fine ship has foundered because of the captain’s good intentions. Good intentions never saved a man from drowning.”
“Unless that well-intentioned onlooker plucked that drowning sailor from the waves.”