Free Tempting the Wolf by Lois Greiman Page B

the sound for an instant, a hardened warrior out of place, caught fast by a child’s charms. “Ye are na here to see the prince?”
    A silent negative answer.
    “But ye are alone?”
    She shook her head. Her grin peeked forth. She curled her fingers near her mouth as if to hide it away.
    “Then where be yer servants, me lady? Surely they should be aboot, making certain ye are safe.”
    She bit her berry-bright lip and flicked her gaze toward a nearby store.
    “Ahhh, so they be off buying ye a grand new costume. Well then, if ye’ll excuse me, lass, I shall reprimand them sternly for leaving ye astray.” The mare turned to nuzzle the girl’s bare leg. “And ye in such dire danger,” he said, and giving her a stately bow, turned toward the stone facade.
    She watched him go as silently as she had watched him stay, a tiny slice of Utopia amidst a contrary world.
    The door creaked quietly when he stepped inside. He felt foolishly breathless as he skimmed the interior, but the countess was not there. Not that he had hoped to see her of course. He only wished to learn answers to the questions that plagued him, but the store’s only customer was a skittish young maid who was even now hoisting a large, wooden box from the counter.
    Still, chivalry was a hard master to shift. “Might I help ye with yer burden?” O’Banyon asked.
    The girl jerked her eyes toward him and away. “No!” she said, not glancing up.
    “It looks a mite heavy for a wee lass like yerself,” he countered, but she didn’t address him again. Instead, she hefted the box and scurried away, out the door and down the walkway.
    He watched her go. From across the street, a bent and twisted Whitford hurried from a harness shop toward her. O’Banyon tensed, ready to fly to her rescue, but when she raised her sky-wide gaze to the gnarled hostler’s, there was no fear in her eyes. Not fear. Certainly no revulsion. Not even when his hand brushed hers with tender shyness.
    Indeed, it almost seemed that she smiled.
    O’Banyon scowled. These London women were an odd lot. It wasn’t as if he himself had been about to poke her in the eye with a sharpened quill. But she had fled him much as her mistress had done—
    “Never mind her,” said a voice.
    Turning, O’Banyon spotted a woman behind the counter. She had a long face, much-stained teeth, and bright, fire-quick eyes.
    “She’s like that with everyone,” said the matron. “Even devilishly ‘andsome gents what offer assist.”
    Flattery. More welcome than a spring-fed oasis in the deserts of the infidels. He turned toward the merchant. “Is she now?”
    “Indeed.”
    He approached the counter. “And what is she like with sharp-minded maids with pleasing eyes?” he asked.
    She laughed. “Ahh. Just as I thought—a charmer, not to be trusted, but oft to be admired,” she said.
    “Astute and outspoken.” He grinned. “Might I have the pleasure of yer name, lass?”
    “I am Mrs. Fritz,” she said, coming around the corner of her counter.
    “And I am honored,” he responded and reaching for her hand, kissed her knuckles.
    She eyed him narrowly as he straightened. “Mr. Fritz is in the back room even now.”
    He tilted his head. “I be fair warned then.”
    ” ‘Twas not a warning,” she said. “I was hoping you was a man what likes a challenge.”
    O’Banyon laughed out loud. Her eyes gleamed in return.
    “What can I help ya with, gov’nor?”
    He glanced about the shop. Bottles and bags crowded boxes and barrels, covering every possible surface. Searching for an excuse for his presence there, he spotted a sign that boasted miracle results. “I’ve had a bit of a cough of late,” he lied. “I was hoping ye might have somemat to soothe it.”
    “A cough ya say.”
    “Aye.”
    “Rasping or soggy-like?”
    Soggy-like didn’t sound very manly. “Rasping.”
    “I’ve just the thing,” she said and striding toward the back of the store, picked up an amber bottle with a brown