Free The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis

little idiot.”
    “But why? Why do you follow me like a hound dog chasing a bitch in heat? And I’m certainly not in heat.” Her narrow shoulders struck back at him in her tailored riding habit jacket.
    “Such foul words, my lady.” He reined in the beast. The horse snorted and slapped his tail. Why was he following her, instead of on his way home to Merther Manor? He had no explanation for his actions, except she had bewitched him. He couldn’t possibly care about this bratty baggage. “No prospective groom would be enchanted.”
    “You do want to marry me, don’t you?” She said it as an accusation. “But I still don’t want to marry anyone, least of all a rapacious ruffian such as you.”
    “So you keep telling me. I don’t relish a wildcat in my bed either.” He tamped down the stirrings inside him at her wriggling in his lap. He’d never minded a lusty bedmate, but this young lady was treacherous. “But I think you’ll be safer back home in Cornwall. Promise me you’ll return to your father as soon as possible.”
    “I will return when I’m ready and not before.” She jerked at his fingers again. “You have no authority over me, and never will.”
    “If you’d let me finish.” The scent of her hair intoxicated him, much more than any brandy. He resisted dipping his nose into her silken locks. “Return home, and we’ll discuss this very inconvenient betrothal, with your father present.”
    “You must assure me that you will refuse me in writing, to soothe my father’s sensibilities.” Her words sounded hopeful—and he was strangely disappointed. “I can keep my dowry and sail to Italy the day I turn one and twenty.”
    The idea of her in Italy, with all those swarthy Italian Lotharios galled him. “Whether you retain your dowry is up to your father. In Italy you will fall in with shady types and certainly be taken advantage of. You’ll be used, abused, and left with nothing, ending up in rags and begging in the streets of Naples.” The idea of anyone else kissing her pouty lips infuriated him. “What do you know of archeology? Aren’t you some rich girl playing at being a great explorer?”
    “I am quite serious about this endeavor. I’ve even bought chipping hammers.” She turned about as best she could to glare into his face. “I’ve studied in depth the work of Johann Joachim Winckelmann. He was the founder of scientific archaeology. He first applied empirical categories of style on a systematic basis to the classical history of art and architecture.” She tossed her fair head. “If I were a man you would encourage me in my dreams not discourage me.”
    “You are a literate creature, and I admit I’m slightly impressed. Nevertheless, I’m only concerned for you.” He couldn’t stop himself from touching her bottom lip, though should have removed his glove first. “And if you were a man I wouldn’t want to do this.” He framed her face and kissed her, hard, until she gasped for breath and mewled into his mouth. His yearning rose to fever-pitch.
    She finally jerked her lips from his. “You overstep yourself, sir. And my neck is twisted in this position. Undoubtedly, you are a perfidious scalawag for ‘kidnapping’ me for no apparent reason, except you must be mad.”
    “Mad, perhaps; a scalawag, I’ve been accused of such before.” He chuckled, but wished he could go on kissing her, and much more. He resisted running his fingers through her honey-blonde hair, the sun glinting off the strands. By God, he was besotted, and barmy, and regretted it. He must ride swiftly to Merther Cove to receive his smuggled goods, and let the wind whip this sorceress from his brain. He wanted to shout that he’d release her, to cleanse her from his blood, but refused to give her that satisfaction. He needed time to think. To rally his forces, to keep the upper hand, to stop ranting these trite platitudes to himself.
    He gripped her around the waist and lowered her to the ground,