Free Courting an Angel by Patricia; Grasso Page A

satisfaction she wasn’t about to give him.
    “That good, huh? Why do ye have dark smudges of fatigue beneath yer eyes?”
    “Decoration.”
    “I see . . . Ye know, there’s many a fine shop in London,” Gordon remarked. “Perhaps I’ll buy ye that doll after all.”
    Rob snapped her head around to fix a frigid look upon him. “Yer ten years too late.”
    “Better late than never,” he said, his voice coaxing, his smile as sunny as the day.
    “Forget it, my lord.” Rob gave her attention to the road ahead as if it were the most interesting sight in the world.
    “I’ll make amends somehow.”
    “’Tisna necessary.”
    “’Tis, I say.”
    Without bothering to look at him, Rob inclined her head in deference to his wishes. Seeming to acquiesce was easier than arguing with a stone wall.
    Suddenly, Rob remembered her ruby. After giving him a surreptitious glance to verify he wasn’t watching, she peeked inside her cloak. Much to her surprise, the ruby appeared as placid as when she’d donned it. There had to be some mistake. She was riding to London with a man bent on ruining her life. She peeked at the ruby again, just to be sure.
    “What are ye doin’?” Gordon asked, startling her. “Checkin’ yer titties?”
    Rob refused to rise to his outrageous bait. Every instinct she possessed demanded she fling back whatever he threw at her.
    “Everyone in the Highlands knows the Campbells are born reivers,” Rob said, arching one ebony brow at him. “I wanted to be certain ye hadna lifted them off my chest.”
    Gordon cast her a wry smile and countered, “I dinna need to steal what I already own, angel.”
    “Ye dinna own me,” she snapped.
    “A man is his wife’s lord and master,” Gordon told her. “The sooner ye learn that fact, the happier our married life will be.”
    “We are na’ havin’ a married life together,” Rob informed him. “Remember, ye swore ye’d admit only to bein’ my childhood betrothed.”
    “And ye promised to refrain from sullenness,” he shot back.
    “I wasna sullen.”
    “What do ye call yer attitude, then?”
    The marquess was correct, Rob thought. And she couldn’t expect him to honor his promise if she failed to honor hers.
    Rob quirked her lips into a sheepish smile. “Childishly insultin’?” she suggested.
    Gordon grinned at the unexpected change for the better in her attitude. “I stand corrected, my lady. Childishly insultin’ isna anythin’ like bein’ sullen.”
    “Great Bruce’s ghost, do my ears deceive me?” she teased. “I thought I heard ye admit to bein’ wrong.”
    “Ye bring out the verra best in me, angel.” Gordon winked at her. “I believe I’ll keep ye around forever.”
    Rob ignored his loaded comment, and as they rode down the length of the Strand, she pointed to its more interesting landmarks. On the left stood Leicester House, separated from Arundel House by the Milford Stairs. On their right sat Durham House where Edward VI had once lived. Up ahead rose Westminster Abbey where Henry Tudor and his beloved Jane Seymour lay together for all of eternity.
    “’Tis Lennox House,” Rob said, pointing at one of the mansions they passed.
    “Jamie’s late grandfather’s house?”
    “Humph! I’m verra surprised Darnley even managed to sire one heir.”
    “What ever can ye mean by that, lass?” Gordon asked.
    “I’m no innocent,” Rob informed the marquess, making him smile. “I’ve heard the tales aboot Darnley’s preference for boys.”
    “King James is partial to his father’s memory,” Gordon told her. “Ye willna be repeatin’ those tales if ye accompany me to court.”
    “Jamie’s an unnatural brat,” she muttered.
    “That royal brat is two years older than ye,” he reminded her, his voice stern.
    Rob halted her mount unexpectedly. When the marquess reined in beside her, she lowered her voice and said, as if revealing a secret, “I met her last summer, ye know.”
    “Who?”
    “The