“Do you imagine I’m so sophisticated that I’ll ignore discovering you in the arms of another man? My dear, you do me too much credit.” She stifled the urge to consign Kinvarra to perdition. Just as she
stifled the poignant memory that once he’d called her his dear and his love and he’d meant it. Once, briefly, long ago. “If you’ll set aside your bruised vanity for the moment, you’ll understand that we merely
require you to ride to the nearest habitation and request help. Then you and I can return to acting like mere acquaintances, my lord.”
He laughed and she struggled to suppress the sensual awareness that rippled down her spine at that soft, deep sound. “Some things haven’t changed, I see. You’re still dishing out orders. And I’m still damned if I’ll play your lapdog.”
“Can you see another solution?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes,” he said with a snap of his straight white teeth. “I can leave you to freeze. Not that you’d notice. Your blood has always been colder than Satan’s icehouse.”
Her pride insisted that she send him on his way with a flea in his ear. The weather—and what common sense remained under the urge to wound that always flared in Kinvarra’s vicinity—prompted her to sound more conciliatory.
It was late. She and Harold hadn’t passed anyone on this country road. Bleak, snowy moors extended for miles around them. The grim truth was that if Kinvarra didn’t help, they were stranded until morning. And while she was dressed in good thick wool, she wasn’t prepared
to endure a night in the open. The chill of the ground seeped through her fur-lined boots and she shifted again, trying to revive feeling in her frozen feet.
“My lord…” During the year they’d lived together, she’d called him Sebastian. During their few meetings since, she’d clung to formality to keep him at a distance. “My lord, there’s no point in quarreling. Basic charity compels your assistance. I would consider myself in your debt
if you fetch aid as quickly as possible.”
He arched one black eyebrow in an imperious fashion that made her want to clout him. Not a new sensation. “Now that’s something I’d like to see.”
“What?” “Gratitude.”
He knew he had her at a disadvantage and he wasn’t likely to rise above that fact. She ground her teeth and battled to retain her manners. “It’s all I can offer.”
The smile that curved his lips was pure devilry. A shiver with no connection to the cold ran through her.
“Your imagination fails you, my dear countess.”
Her throat closed with nerves—and that reluctant physical reaction
she couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t shifted, yet suddenly she felt threatened. Which was ludicrous. During all their years apart, he’d given no indication he wanted anything from her except her absence. One chance meeting wasn’t likely to turn him into a robber baron ready to spirit her away to his lonely tower where he could have his way with her.
Having his way with her was the last thing Kinvarra wanted, as she was humiliatingly aware.
Nonetheless, she had to fight the urge to retreat. She knew from dispiriting experience that her only chance of handling Kinvarra was to feign control. “What do you want?”
This time he did lean closer, until his great height overshadowed her. Close enough for her to think that if she stretched out one hand, she’d touch that powerful chest, those wide shoulders. “I want—”
There was a piercing whinny and a sudden pounding of hooves on the snow. Appalled, disbelieving, Alicia turned to see Harold galloping off on one of the carriage horses, legs flailing as he struggled for purchase without stirrups.
“Harold?”
Her voice faded to nothing in the night. Her beau didn’t slow down. In fact, he kicked his mount’s sides to encourage greater speed. She’d been so engrossed in her battle with Kinvarra, she hadn’t even noticed that Harold had caught one of the stray horses.
Kinvarra’s low laugh mocked her. “Oh, my dear. Commiserations. Your swain proves a sad disappointment. I wonder if he’s fleeing my temper or yours. You really have no luck in love, have you?”
She was too astonished to be upset at Harold’s departure. Instead she focused on Kinvarra. Her voice turned hard. “No luck in husbands, at any rate.”
***
Kinvarra suffered Alicia’s hate-filled regard and wondered what the hell he was going to do with his troublesome wife out in this frigid wilderness. The insolent baggage deserved to be left where she stood, but even he, who owed her repayment for countless slights over the years, wouldn’t do that to her.
It seemed he had no choice but to help.
Not that she’d thank him. He had no illusions that after she’d got what she wanted—a warm bed, a roof over her head and a decent meal—she’d forget any promises of gratitude.