The Spinster and the Earl Read Online Free Page B

rescue a strange Englishman. Aye, if she’d had an inkling of what would occur to her this morning, she’d have stayed securely at home in her warm bed with Druscilla attending upon her with hot cups of fortifying tea.
    She stood beside the fallen stranger and visibly swallowed. She found herself staring down at the lower half of his face. A red, puckered scar ran jaggedly down what would’ve undoubtedly been one of the handsomest faces she’d ever seen, if it hadn’t been so badly marred.
    Guessing him to be in his late twenties, the English lord had sharp, broad lines for cheekbones and a fine high brow full of intelligence, which rose above startling, sapphire, blue eyes. But the puckering, white line running down one side of his face ruined the effect. An evident reminder of what, no doubt, had been a violent and most dangerous encounter. Unconsciously, half-afraid, she lowered her eyes protectively away.
    “I see you’ve halted once more,” he drawled, his voice tinged with cool amusement. “Undoubtedly upon espying that little souvenir, which I’ve been branded with, you hesitate.” He gave a half-pained laugh, wincing as he did.
    “’Tis really nothing to concern yourself, ma’am. A mere memento I picked up hastily on the Peninsula. A gift, one of his majesty’s own, a green-horned lieutenant gave me in the heat of battle. The swashbuckling jackanapes didn’t know how to wield his sword and struck me instead.”
    “But . . . you’re English,” she said, protesting at the idea that he’d been harmed by one of his own countrymen. Only the enemy, she’d been taught, was capable of such wanton recklessness. For everyone knew that the French were a cold-hearted, bloodthirsty bunch of butchers. Not worthy to be called part of the brotherhood of men.
    “Just so . . . you’d think he’d have taken greater care around his own kind, wouldn’t you? But alas, no. And as you can see being English made me just as vulnerable as any other man around a sharp swinging weapon,” he replied, dismissing the subject as of no further consequence.
    “Now, if you’ll kindly give me your arm, I’d like to get out of this mud bath before it becomes the next Brighton fashion.”
    Obediently, she stepped forward, leaning down with the support of the walking stick. She managed to pull him up into a half-standing position.
    He towered a full hand above her. This astonished Beatrice. She was considered to be quite tall for a woman. Most of the men in the village were the same height or shorter than she. It was an enjoyable asset she took advantage of when bargaining and trading with them. She winced a little and looked up at him as he tightly gripped her shoulders.
    He leaned heavily into her for support. She straightened her back, feeling his hard male body brush-up against her. She tried to put a little distance between them, but he clung tenaciously to her like a drowning man to a floating piece of buoyant driftwood. His scarred eye looked down at her with what she thought to be a glint of humor, as if he knew how the intimate contact of their two bodies meeting made her feel. However, when he took his first tentative step forward, he grimaced in genuine pain, hissing air between clenched teeth.
    “Agggh. . . .” He breathed, cursing vehemently under his breath.
    Raising her eyes heavenward, Beatrice chose to ignore the roasting language. She assisted him to a sitting position upon a clover bank and walked purposefully to her game bag. Removing a leather wine sack, she poured strong spirits over a sharp hunting knife. She moved towards him, a grim look of purpose tightening her mouth.
    “Are you preparing to polish me off?” he asked sardonically, eyeing the sharp weapon in her hand. “You’re not some sort of Irish druid looking for a blood sacrifice, are you? I think I’ve already spilled enough today to satisfy even the most demanding of goddesses, don’t you agree, ma’am?”
    She ignored his jibe. Dreading