Free Soul of Fire by Sarah A. Hoyt Page B

it to Meerut. She would be aware of the dangers on the way.
    Well, perhaps not all the dangers, Peter thought, observing how her narrow waist gently flared to well-contoured hips. At least, he hoped she couldn’t imagine what some—if not all—of the men she’d meet on the way would want from her. But then, he doubted she was as innocent as all that. They never were. Girls might never have met depravity in real life before, but they’d have read enough about it in lurid novels. And the smart ones understood easily enough what hid beneath the veiled descriptions. So she knew what she faced. And yet, she would go into India on her own, rather than face her parents back at home. She would brave almost certain death—or worse—rather than marry the native they’d chosen for her.
    He frowned. His instinctive feeling was to dismiss it all. She was young. She was sheltered. She was deluded. He knew better than to imagine her parents would marry her to someone against her will.
    And yet . . .
    That small figure with squared shoulders was ready to face untold dangers, but not the danger that waited back at her parents’ home.
    He stared at Miss Warington’s retreating form. She was leaving everything behind just as he must do. He felt bile sting the back of his throat at the thought of giving up Summercourt. His destiny had always been to end up alone and in exile, but that didn’t mean that he should let the decent people in this world go to their horrible fate without trying to stop them.
    A shadow detached itself from a wall and surged toward Miss Warington. And Peter leapt forward. The native—whatever he was, probably no more than a beggar—took one look at Peter and fled.
    Miss Warington, on the other hand, continued walking as though she hadn’t seen him loom large in her peripheral vision, as though she hadn’t heard him fall in step beside her.
    Not knowing whether to be amused or scared, Peter cleared his throat. When no response came, he sighed. “Miss Warington, I am a fool. But not such a fool that I would let you walk to Meerut, or whatever other scheme you might have in mind.”
    She shook her head, not looking at him. “There is hardly any question of your allowing me. Or not allowing me, for that matter. I am neither your ward nor your child.”
    Peter thought about it. He’d talked to many women in his life. While his entire amorous experience could be written on the head of a very small pin, his travels around the world had brought him into contact with women of many classes and nationalities. But he would swear that he’d never met a creature as prickly as Miss Warington. Choosing his words carefully, feeling as though the wrong one at the wrong time might be his undoing, he said, “I beg your pardon for my rude words and for having insisted you should return to your parents’ house. It should have been obvious to me from your horror of returning, since you don’t seem at all to be disordered in wits—” He floundered as it occurred to him that taking a were-dragon in stride might well be considered insane by most people. But he charged ahead, thinking that, after all, the dragon had saved her.
    “You must have reason for it. I will not force you to go. But I must beg you—indeed, I do beg you—to allow me to escort you on this travel to meet your . . .” Again he floundered, but decided to go with her view of things. “Your fiancé.”
    For a moment, he thought his gambit had failed. She continued to walk, as though she hadn’t heard his voice or refused to acknowledge his words. But slowly her steps seemed to lose impetus, and finally she stopped and turned to face him. “Mr. . . . Oh, this is abominable! I don’t even know your name.”
    He smiled. He could not help it. She had seen him naked, but she did not know his name. They’d both be disgraced before any polite society imaginable. To his surprise, he saw his smile echoed in her expression. He quickly bowed, lest he should