“You accused me of being involved with this Lord Norrington.”
“I did not mean to suggest you are a woman of loose morals. He is a man of wealth and social standing, and a fine catch of a husband, I am sure.”
“So I am a scheming girl, set on a wealthy husband. That isworsethan calling me a tart. My indignation comes from you presuming I have aligned myself with a villain. I came about the information innocently—”
“And I acknowledged that possibility.”
“Perfunctorily.”
His lips twitch. “Perfunctorily?”
“If you tell me I am a clever girl for knowing such big words, I swear I will run you through.”
“With that apple?”
Before he can blink, I have the knife he used to carve the apple.
He looks from me to the blade. “I would applaud that graceful move if I did not think you might take it as condescension.”
“A wise choice.” I cut a slice from the apple. “Now you may leave.”
“May I?”
“Yes.” I eat the slice. “I presume you will deal with the man who betrayed you? So I will not need to rescue you again?”
He shakes his head. “Lord Norrington’s men must have followed my associate to the meeting place. Seeing them, my associate fled. As I was late, my associate presumed I had warning of the ambush.”
I open my mouth to argue. Then I shut it. Could history be wrong? I cannot be certain enough to pursue the matter, not when he is so set on his answer.
“All right,” I say. “I will only ask you to be careful, sir. Now, I shall take my leave.”
He puts out a hand to help me up. “Your cart awaits.”
I accept the hand but shake my head. “I do not need that.” My leg shakes, threatening to brand me a liar, but I find my balance before he sees the falter. “You have business to attend to.”
“You are not walking five miles after being shot in the leg.”
“Then I shall crawl.” Catching his look, I sigh. “That is a joke, Dr. Dupuis.”
“It is Nico, and your joke will become a reality if you attempt it. Stop being stubborn.” He walks into the dimly lit barn. “Enough of this, or we will argue until nightfall. I am a man of honor who feels a debt is owed, and so you must allow me to repay it.”
“Then you may repay it by gifting me your sword.”
His laugh drifts out from the darkness. “That is a fine effort, crécerelle. But my sword is my own, and I will not gift it to any woman. Or man.”
“That seems a pity,” I murmur.
Silence, and then a sharp laugh as he reappears, one hand pulling a cart, the other waggling a finger at me. “I heard your riposte. Yes, I walked into that one, I suppose. The sword I carry at my side is not for gifting.”
I start to ask whether any of his swords are for gifting. He was not shocked by my innuendo, and so I want to enjoy a few moments of risqué repartee with such an attractive man. Any of my heroines would. But the words dry up, and I can only sigh and say, “You are no fun at all, sir.”
His mouth opens, and a rejoinder flashes in his eyes. Perhaps something about how he can be quite fun? But he stops, and I swear I see him mentally divert course, as I did.
“You shall not have my sword on so short an acquaintance,” he says finally. “But you shall have my cart. Now, alight, fair maiden, so that I may carry you from this wretched place.”
“I’m walking.”
He slumps dramatically against the cart and sighs deeply enough to startle a dove overheard. The bird wings off into the barn rafters. Another follows. Then another.