Megan Frampton Read Online Free

and pulled his body over to the edge of the bed.
    Her pale face shone like a beacon below him, her hair tangled about her shoulders.
    He held his hand out to her and after a moment she took it.
    She accepted his hand gingerly, as though she were far from sure he wouldn’t toss her down on the floor again. She’d probably choose to stay down there if she knew what he really wanted. What he’d been thinking of doing to her when they were lying here together before.
    ***
    His grip was surprisingly strong as he pulled her up, and Mary rose in one swift motion to sit back on the bed. He settled down beside her and stretched his long legs in front of him. He ran his hands across his face, then turned to look at her.
    His eyes were two black pools in the darkness. “I—I had a nightmare.” He held her gaze. He didn’t apologize.
    “Do the nightmares happen often?” A black lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead, and Mary’s fingers itched to stroke it back. But he wasn’t one of her pupils.
    She saw one corner of his mouth lift up in what might have been a rueful smile. “More than they should.” He propped his pillow behind his head and raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you slept here all night?”
    She nodded. “It’s not like I had anywhere else to go, Mr.—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t even know your name!”
    He extended his hand. “Alasdair Thornham, Marquess of Datchworth. And your name is—Mary something, am I right?”
    Mary knew her mouth had dropped open stupidly, but honestly, what did he expect? Noblemen didn’t trot around the countryside purchasing women in squalid taverns. At least none that she’d ever heard of.
    Of course, his being a lord could explain why he was so strange. She’d never met a member of the peerage before; maybe they all acted like this.
    “It’s Mary Smith,” she said, taking his hand in hers. She held it for a second, still dumbfounded, until his other eyebrow rose up to meet the first. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said hastily, just as if they were meeting at Mrs. Flitchett’s house for tea, rather than after spending the night sharing a bed. His hand was clammy, and she dropped it, trying to wipe it on the sheet without his noticing. As if polite niceties mattered anymore, she chided herself.
    “Well, Mary Smith,” he said, “what are we to do?”
    “Do?” she repeated stupidly.
    “Yes, do.” His tone was impatient. Right, he was a nobleman, probably nobody ever questioned him. “About this.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture. “You haven’t run away yet, so you must have no choice but to be here with me. So what are we to do?” he repeated, even more impatiently.
    “As I said, my lord, I can go away, if that is your preference. Perhaps you could see your way to lending me …?”
    She was amazed at her own audacity. Her father had frequently preached about courage, but she’d never had occasion before to summon it so completely.
    “No.” His voice was just as emphatic as it had been the previous evening.
    “But …” She dropped her hands to her lap in exasperation.
    Another few pounds on top of the five he’d spent, and she would be no more than a bothersome memory. She knew enough about the aristocracy to know that even if he were poor, that was relatively little—he could find money somewhere to give her. Why wouldn’t he? “I could leave at first light,” she added.
    “You are growing tiresome, Miss Smith. I said no.”
    Mary straightened herself and glared at him. The moon threw enough light that he had to be able to see her expression. So be it. He should understand that even though he’d bought her, he didn’t own her. “Tiresome is when the squire’s wife has told the same story at every social gathering, and expects you to marvel at her cleverness each time. Tiresome is realizing your father has misplaced his sermon notes again. Tiresome is not, my lord, when a woman has been bought by a