Free Some Like It Wild by Teresa Medeiros Page A

herself, his crop of stubble was already blossoming into full-blown whiskers. “Then they’ll expect me to be nice and hairy.”
    “Based on your fine temperament, I may tell them you were raised by badgers. Rabid badgers,” she added sweetly as his scowl deepened.
    She dipped a shaving brush into the cracked ceramic mug sitting on the crude wooden table and whipped the soap within into a milky froth. Perhaps his face would be less forbidding when covered with a mask of shaving soap.
    Swallowing her trepidation, she approached him with the cup and brush in one hand and the razor in the other. Unfortunately, she was so focused on keeping her hands steady that she failed to mind her feet. The toe of her boot clipped the edge of a broken flagstone and she went stumbling toward him, helpless to slow her momentum.
    One minute she was on her feet; the next she wasin his lap. His hand shot out to close around hers, stilling the razor’s blade a mere hairsbreadth from his Adam’s apple.
    Eyeing her warily, he gingerly extracted the razor from her quaking hand. “I do believe I’ll shave myself, thank you very much. I’d hate to be decapitated before breakfast. It might spoil my appetite.”
    His lap was entirely too warm. Entirely too inviting. Pamela was beset by an absurd desire to press herself against his chest like a baby cat eager for the stroke of her master’s hand. Judging by the possessive way his arm had curled around her hip, she was afraid he would be only too willing to oblige her. He had a way of looking at her with those piercing gray eyes of his that made her feel as if she was the lead actress on the stage of her life. After surrendering that role to both Sophie and her mother for as long as she could remember, it was both a seductive and dangerous sensation.
    Scrambling awkwardly to her feet, she peered into the cup. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. I didn’t spill a single drop of the shaving soap.”
    He confiscated the cup from her hand before scooting his chair around to face the jagged spar of mirror propped against the wall. “I don’t know why the Brits bother sendin’ the redcoats to drive us off our lands.” He rested the cup between his thighs and brushed shaving soap along the curve of his jaw. “If they armed you with a razor and your sister with a parasol, they could conquer us without firin’ a single shot.”
    Pamela leaned against the edge of the table, observing his reflection in the mirror. “Why do you hate the English so much?”
    “Does a Scotsman need a reason to hate the English?”
    “No. But I believe you do.”
    He flicked her the briefest of glances, his eyes flashing silver in the sunlight. The razor looked far more menacing in his grip than it had in hers. Dismissing her question, he frowned at his reflection. “What if I don’t look anythin’ like this Warrick fellow?”
    “That’s the beauty of my plan. No one knows what he would look like. He was only a few weeks old when he disappeared. He was as bald as an onion and his eyes were still that muddy blue all babies are born with. Besides, it’s all in the art of illusion. If growing up in the theater taught me anything, it was that people will see what they want to believe and believe what they want to see.”
    Connor drew the blade down his cheek, clearing away a patch of bristling whiskers to reveal a swath of smooth, sun-bronzed skin. “So what will my new name be?”
    Pamela straightened. “You shall henceforth be known as Percy Ambrose Bartholomew Reginald Cecil Smythe, Marquess of Eddywhistle and future Duke of Warrick.”
    Pamela had expected him to be intimidated by such an impressive list of monikers and titles. She did not expect his striking face to curdle in an expression of horror. “ Percy? The duke named thepoor lad Percy ? Why, you were right about the rotter! His wife should have shot him. If anyone calls me Percy, I’ll shoot them myself!”
    She sighed. “I don’t think that