The Heir - Catherine Coulter [8]
The man’s heavily fringed black lashes parted slowly, and she found herself gazing into her own upward-tilted gray eyes. His were just a bit darker than hers, as were her father’s. Dear God, but he was beautiful, more so than her father.
“My word,” the man said slowly, his voice as smooth as a stone at the bottom of a creek. He did not move, but narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun to take in the flushed and furious face above him.
“I declare, it is a lady I see. Look at those white hands, never done a day’s work in her life. Yes, doubtless it is a lady. But where, I wonder, is the tavern wench who spoke such foul curses at me? She wants to shoot me? She wants to whip me? Certainly, this is a dramatic situation better suited for Drury Lane.”
He spoke well, like a gentleman. No matter. She continued to search his face, unmoved. There was a deep cleft in his chin that she did not have, and he was tanned, with a pirate’s dark face. She had always hated pirates. No, she wouldn’t let this man anger her. She asked, her voice as arrogant as her father’s had ever been, “Just who the devil are you?”
Still he did not shift his position, just lay there, stretched out at her feet, as indolent as a lizard on a sunny rock. But he was grinning at her now, showing strong white teeth. She saw then that his gray eyes were flecked with pale gold lights. It was an odd distraction. Neither she nor her father had that. She was glad. She decided it looked common, those pale gold lights.
“Do you always talk like a slut off the back streets?” he asked in a calm easy voice, bringing himself up to rest on his elbows. Those eyes of his were deep and clear, and there was an intelligence in them that she recognized and hated.
“The way I choose to talk to an insolent ruffian lazing about on Deverill land cannot be questioned by the likes of you.” She brought her riding crop up from her side and slapped the leather thongs lightly against her black-gloved hand.
“Ah, am I now to be whipped?”
“It is very possible. I asked you a question, but your reason for not answering now occurs to me.” She stared at him thoughtfully and felt a sickening tightness in her chest. But she’d been taught to face even the most unpleasant things straight on, with no shying away. “You are obviously a bastard—my father’s bastard. You cannot be so blind as not to notice the great similarity between our features, and I am the very image of my father.” She averted her face, unwilling to let him see her pain. Tears burned her eyes. Yes, she was the image of her father, but not the right sex. Poor father, he had not the good fortune to beget a son in wedlock. But he’d gotten a bastard son. She turned wintry eyes back to his face and said bleakly, “I wonder if there are others like you. If there are, I only pray that they do not all resemble him as closely as you do. I always wished for a brother, for now, you see, my father’s line will die out. I am only a female and thus not acceptable. I have never believed it fair.”
“Perhaps it isn’t fair, but it is the way things are. As for a bastard of your father’s so closely resembling him, it would seem unlikely to me. But you appear to be in a better position to know of such matters than I. What, however, does seem likely is that if the earl sired children out of wedlock, they would have the good sense not to show their faces here.” He spoke with calm matter-of-factness, sensing her hurt. He rose unhurriedly to his feet to face her. He didn’t want to frighten her. He didn’t want her to feel threatened by him. That would happen soon enough.
“But you are here.” She was forced