The Reluctant Guardian by Susanne Dietze

Author:Susanne Dietze
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2016-09-08T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Tavin tugged at his ear as if the act could clear his hearing. “You did not just say, ‘catch the Sovereign.’”

“I did.” Gemma folded her hands before her.

Was the woman mad? “You are not a piece of cheese to trap a rat.”

“Hunting a rat leads to bites. But setting a trap in the middle of the room lures him out.”

His speech faltered again. “You are bound for Bedlam if you think I shall let you—as if you are capable—”

“Your face is purpling. Would you care to be seated?”

“I am not apoplectic. I am furious.” He forced his fisted fingers to open. “You will not invite the Sovereign’s attentions as bait, do you understand?”

“I do not need to invite his attentions. He follows me with a coin in one hand and a blade in the other, and I wish to stop him.”

His boots crunched the gravel of the oval garden path, but the rhythmic pacing failed to soothe him. The space was too small to take him more than a few feet from her in this wee garden. Or cage, more like it, with its high walls and limited view. How could people choose this life, this confinement? He reached down to a lavender bush and snapped off a tender sea green stem.

“Pray do not attack the plants, Tavin.”

“Better a bloom than someone’s neck.”

“I assume you refer to the Sovereign’s, not to mine.”

He glared. “Is this part of your thirst for so-called adventure? Playing at spy?”

“Of course not.” She flushed crimson. “I want to help.”

“Trained in combat, are you?” He tossed the lavender into the scraggly rosebushes. “Practiced boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s? Or perhaps you think my work is simple. Guess how many knives I carry on my person at this moment.”

“What a forward suggestion.”

“Two. One at my back and one in my boot. But sometimes I carry three.”

The pink receded from her cheeks and she laughed, the sound like her nephews’ cackles. In any other circumstance, he might think her becoming, with her eyes alight. A charming image. But not today, with his vision swimming red.

“Think you this is amusing? Ach, lass, ye’re more trouble than ye know.”

Shame, hot and quick, flooded to his toes. Had he said lass? Ye? He chomped down on his tongue. How long had it been since he’d spoken like that? Like a Scot?

That is what you are.

No. It is what I was. That was how he had spoken when he was a bairn. And how he’d tried not to speak when he was a youth, his fingers swollen from lashings under Her Grace’s instructions to replace his brogue with a refined English accent. He had been so careful, until that time at Eton school, when he got his nose broken by an older student for slipping and speaking like a Scot.

He was nothing now, not Scot, not English. Because he could not be both.

Had Gemma caught the words? He dared not peek to find out.

The crisp fabric of her gown swished, and the scent of lavender swirled in the air.

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