Suzanne Robinson (41 page)

Rider and horse thundered directly toward her down the curved gravel drive. Pebbles shot out in all directions as each hoof slammed into the ground. Suddenly, at the last moment, the horse swerved. The rider swung one leg over the saddle, clinging to the still-cantering beast, then leaped off as he approached Georgiana. He landed at a run that brought him to a standstill a yard from her. The horse continued past her at a trot. Its owner whistled. The animal stopped sharp, whirled on its hind legs, and walked slowly back toward them.

Georgiana raised her chin a bit higher and narrowed her eyes as the stranger approached. He was almost as tall as his giant of a horse, lean, as if he’d worked hard and eaten little. He swept off his wide-brimmed hat to reveal long, shaggy chestnut hair streaked with sun-bleached amber. He swept back his long coat behind a gun belt slung low on his hip.
High-heeled boots crunched gravel, and he stuck a thumb into his gun belt as he reached her. She felt a twinge of recognition, not for the man, but because of Jocelin’s description of American frontier garb.

She opened her mouth to inquire if the man had come from her brother, but he was too quick for her. A dark-blue gaze inspected her as if she were a succulent desert. Then he appeared to recognize her. His eyes crinkled, not in amusement, but in irritation.

“Well, if it ain’t old George. I been looking all over creation for you. Your danged pa wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone. Well, come on, girl. Time to pack up and swim.”

Georgiana drew her brows together, straightened her shoulders, and said, “I beg your pardon?”

“I reckon you should.”

His lips curled in a grin that was at once contemptuous and appreciative. Georgiana wasn’t the daughter of a duke for nothing. Giving this barbarian a chilly nod, she turned on her heel and spoke to the Threshfield butler, who had come out of the house upon the arrival of the stranger.

“Randall, send this person on his way.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Hold on a minute.”

Georgiana paused in her progress around the wagon. “You appear to be looking for someone named George, sir. There is no one by that name at Threshfield.”

A gloved hand settled on the revolver at the stranger’s, hip. Georgiana kept her features fixed in an expressionless mask that hid her uneasiness. This man spoke in a slow drawl like the one Jocelin had returned with from America, only the stranger’s voice
was as rough as his speech—low, throaty, and tinged with a knowing familiarity that bordered on an intrusive liberty.

“Look here, George, Jocelin sent me to fetch you, and I’m going to fetch you, so pack your duds and let’s ride.”

She had been certain she didn’t know him. He was sun-brown, sweaty, and stubbled with two days’ worth of beard. His shirt was open, and she could see his chest. His chest! No gentleman revealed his chest to a lady. But he’d called her George again, and that twinge of recognition returned. Once, years ago, a man had called her George. It had been that elegantly savage protégé of her brother’s, the one whose presence turned her father’s complexion vermilion.

Georgiana studied the blue eyes tinged with sapphire, the wide shoulders. Through the chestnut stubble she could discern the shallow indentation in the middle of his chin. She let out her breath on a gasp. “Dear me, it’s Mr. Ross!”

“Course it’s me.”

“Mr. Ross,” Georgiana repeated witlessly. Then she regained her composure. He was forcing her to discuss her private affairs before servants, but she wasn’t going to let him into the house or talk to him alone. “I knew my brother would be concerned. I’ve written him a letter he’s no doubt received by now, so you’ve come all this way for nothing. I’m sorry for it, but Jocelin does tend to be high-handed. I’m not going anywhere, especially with a mere acquaintance. Good day to you, Mr. Ross.”

She turned her back to him. There was an unfamiliar sound of metal against leather, then a click. Georgiana stopped. One of the laborers swore. Darting
a glance over her shoulder, she looked at the barrel of a long-nosed revolver. Her gaze lifted to the man’s casual one. A snake’s stare had more feeling in it.

“Now, don’t get your petticoats in a twist Jos said you’d be stubborn, and that I was to be patient, but I been clear across a continent and an ocean, and I got no use for spoiled, blue-blooded misses. Jos is laid up, and it’s plain infernal meanness to worry him like you done. So I reckon I’ll just have to take you back to Texas and let Jos see for himself that you ain’t hitched yourself to old Threshfield.”

“Why, you barbaric—”

“Don’t give me no mouth.” Nick’s gun swerved as the freight-wagon driver and Randall moved toward him. “You fellas stay put.”

There was another ominous metallic click. Everyone turned to see a woman coming toward them holding a shotgun. Georgiana smiled, and Nick’s jaw dropped. The woman had silver hair, a face devoid of all but the finest age lines, and she wore breeches, riding coat, and boots.

“Aunt Livy,” Georgiana said.

Lavinia nodded, keeping her gaze and her gun trained on Nick. “Good afternoon, my dear.”

Nick slowly holstered his gun and lifted his hands away from his body. The shotgun lowered until it pointed at the ground. Lavinia gave him a slow, appreciative examination that evoked a grin from its subject. She noticed the grin and met his gaze with intrigued curiosity.

“Who are you, young man?”

“Nicholas Ross, ma’am. I been in Texas with Jocelin for quite a spell.”

“You must have been for you to have turned gun-fighter,” Lavinia replied.

“Jos sent me to fetch old George here before she up and ruined her life. He would have come himself, but he’s laid up with a busted leg. Got shot up by a drunk ranch hand. He’s riled himself up to a fever about his sister, and I aim to quiet him down.”

“How interesting,” Lavinia said. She turned to Georgiana and gave her an inquiring glance.

Georgiana hadn’t realized how furious she was until Nick Ross referred to her as George in front of her aunt. Irritation rapidly boiled over into wrath. “What presumption! I have no intention of listening to this drivel, much less complying with it. ” Through her gold-rimmed spectacles she directed her most regal stare at her tormentor. “You have no position or claim in reference to me, sir. I have no intention of being ill-used by you further. Please give my fondest regards to my brother when you return to—Texas, was it?”

“Whoa, there,” Nick snapped as she walked toward the front of the wagon. He started toward her, then stopped as Lavinia lifted her shotgun.

“Mr Ross,” Georgiana said, fighting hard not to show her embarrassment or her anger before servants again. “You seem to have mistaken me for your horse.”

“Well, you’re a mite more stubborn, but you got a point there.”

She heard a stifled snicker from the workmen. A snicker! Color drained from Georgiana’s face. Her back stiffened. Whirling in a flurry of twenty yards of skirt, Georgiana offered her hand to the wagon driver and climbed onto the seat. The driver got up beside
her. Looking down, she inspected this uninvited barbarian as though he were a rat she’d found in her sewing box.

“Your indelicacy puts you beyond polite society, sir. You’ll leave Threshfield immediately. if not, I’ll have the earl throw you out.”

Nick Ross replaced his hat, shoving it back onto his head, and grinned up at her. “I heard tell you’d grown all high-and-mighty.” He glanced at Lavinia’s shotgun. “Looks like it’ll take me a sight longer than I thought to fix this mess. So I reckon I’ll just have to stay till I can get you to leave.”

To her consternation he strolled to the wagon, leaned over, and reached out. She jumped and collided with the driver, which caused Mr Ross to grin at her in that infuriating manner that made her feel like smacking his face. He grasped a handful of her skirt and tucked it inside the wagon away from the front wheel.

At no time did he touch her. He was wearing gloves. But the feel of his hand on her skirt created hot confusion, as if a blistering current passed from his body, through her skirt, to hers. She grew even more flustered because as he came closer, she was afforded a glimpse of that bare throat and that sun-darkened chest.

“ ’Course, you could get rid of me now,” he said softly. “Just promise me you’ll pack up and go back to your pa.”

“Go away, sir. I shall speak to the earl.”

Nick Ross backed up and rested his hands on his hips, leering up at her with intolerable insolence. “Won’t do you no good. I got myself invited to stay.
Me and Threshfield are old friends. I reckon you might as well give up now.”

Lips tight, cheeks crimson, Georgiana nodded at the driver, who set the wagon in motion. She tried to ignore the chuckle that sent pinpricks of irritation down her spine.

“See you later, George. Maybe by then you’ll have put on some more clothes.” His voice grew louder as the wagon retreated. “I think you forgot your petticoats.”

Her composure broke at this last humiliation. Twisting around in the seat, she glared back at the tall, dusty savage and for the first time in her life shouted before servants. “Drat your evil soul, Nicholas Ross. You’re nothing but vermin, and I’ll take great satisfaction in watching you get thrown out on your—your ear!”