“Appropriateness seems not to have got you very far.”
She stilled, and he knew immediately that he had struck a nerve. Something unpleasant flared deep within him. He resisted it.
He might be planning to marry her, but he was not planning to care for her.
“I’m afraid I’ve plans for you, Penelope, and you’re not going anywhere tonight.” He extended the bottle of whiskey toward her and spoke, all seriousness. “Have a drink. It will take the edge off until tomorrow.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we marry.”
Chapter Four
Penelope reached out and took hold of the whiskey, snatching it from Michael’s hand and considering, for a fleeting moment, drinking deep, for surely there was no better time than this to begin a life of drink.
“I will not marry you!”
“I’m afraid it’s done.”
Indignation flared. “It is most certainly not done!” She clutched the bottle to her chest and began to push past him toward the door. When he did not move, she stopped, a hairsbreadth away, her cloak brushing against him. She stared directly into his serious, hazel gaze, refusing to bend to his ridiculous will. “Step aside, Lord Bourne. I am returning home. You are a madman.”
One irritating dark brow rose. “Such tone,” he mocked. “I find I am not in a mood to move. You shall have to find another way.”
“Do not make me do something I shall regret.”
“Why regret it?” He lifted one hand, a single, warm finger tilting her chin up. “Poor Penelope,” he said, “so afraid of risk.”
Poor Penelope.
Her gaze narrowed at the hated name. “I am not afraid of risk. Nor am I afraid of you.”
One dark brow arched. “No?”
“No.”
He leaned in, close. Too close. Close enough to wrap her in bergamot and cedar. Close enough for her to notice that his eyes had turned a lovely shade of brown. “Prove it.”
His voice had gone low and gravelly, sending a thrum of excitement down her spine.
He stepped closer, close enough to touch—close enough for the heat of him to warm her in the freezing room—and the fingers of his hand slid into the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still as he hovered above her, threatening. Promising.
As though he wanted her.
As though he’d come for her.
Which, of course, he hadn’t.
If it weren’t for Falconwell, he wouldn’t be here.
And she would do well to remember that.
He didn’t want her any more than any of the other men in her life did. He was just like all the others.
And it wasn’t fair.
But she’d be damned if he took the only choice she had in the matter away from her. She lifted her hands, the bottle of whiskey firmly clasped in the left, and shoved him with all her might—not enough to move a man of his size usually, but she had the element of surprise on her side.
He stumbled back, and she rushed past him, almost reaching the door to the kitchens before he regained his footing and came after her, catching her with an “Oh, no you don’t!” and spinning her to face him.
Frustration flared. “Let me go!”
“I can’t,” he said simply. “I need you.”
“For Falconwell.” He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. She took a deep breath. He was compromising her. As though it were the Dark Ages. As though she were nothing more than chattel. As though she were worth nothing but the land attached to her hand in marriage.
She paused at the thought, disappointment coursing through her.
He was worse than the others.
“Well, that is unfortunate for you,” she said, “as I am already spoken for.”
“Not after tonight you’re not,” he said. “No one will marry you after you’ve spent the night alone with me.”
They were words that should have held a hint of menace in them. Of danger. But instead, they were stated as simple fact. He was the worst kind of rogue; her reputation would be in tatters tomorrow.
He’d taken the choice from her.
As her father had earlier.
As the Duke of Leighton had all those years ago.
She was trapped by a man once again.
“Do you love him?”
The question interrupted her rising ire. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your fiancé. Do you fancy yourself very much in love?” The words were mocking, as though love and Penelope were a laughable combination. “Are you starry-eyed with happiness?”
“Does it matter?”
She surprised him. She could see it in his eyes before he crossed his arms and raised a brow. “Not in the slightest.”
A gust of cold wind ripped through the kitchen, and Penelope wrapped her cloak tightly around her. Michael noticed and muttered harshly beneath his breath—Penny imagined that the words he used were not for polite company. He removed his greatcoat, then frock coat, carefully folding them and placing them on the edge of the large sink before confronting the large oak table that sat at the center of the kitchens. It was missing a leg, and there was an axe half-buried in its scarred top. She should be surprised by the mangled piece of furniture, but there was very little about the evening that was at all normal.
Before she could think of what to say, he grasped the axe and turned toward her, his face a mass of angles in the lanternlight. “Step back.”
This was a man who expected to be heeded. He did not wait to see if she followed his direction before he lifted the axe high above his head. She pressed herself into the corner of the dark room as he attacked the furniture with a vengeance, her surprise making her unable to resist watching him.
He was built beautifully.
Like a glorious Roman statue, all strong, lean muscles outlined by the crisp linen of his shirtsleeves when he lifted the tool overhead, his hands sliding purposefully along the haft, fingers grasping tightly as he brought the steel blade down into the age-old oak with a mighty thwack, sending a splinter of oak flying across the kitchen, landing atop the long-unused stove.
He splayed one long-fingered hand flat on the table, gripping the axe once more to work the blade out of the wood. He turned his head as he stood back, making sure she was out of the way of any potential projectiles—a movement she could not help but find comforting—before confronting the furniture and taking his next swing with a mighty heave.
The blade sliced into the oak, but the table held.
He shook his head and yanked the axe out once more, this time aiming for one of the remaining table legs.
Thwack!
Penelope’s eyes went wide as the lanternlight caught the way his wool trousers wrapped tightly around his massive thighs. She should not notice . . . should not be paying attention to such obvious . . . maleness.
But she’d never seen legs like his.
Thwack!
Never imagined they could be so . . . compelling.
Thwack!
Could not help it.
Thwack!
The final blow ended with the splintering of wood, the leg twisting under the force as the massive tabletop tilted, one end dropping to the floor as Michael tossed the axe aside to grasp the leg with his bare hands and wrench it free from its seat.
He turned back to her, tapping one end of the leg against the empty palm of his left hand.