Free Scoundrel of Dunborough by Margaret Moore Page A

charged. “Now I
can’t
open it.”
    “Then stand back,” he ordered, clearly not a whit sorry for the damage he had caused.
    In another moment, the door burst open and Gerrard stumbled over the threshold.
    “It would serve you right if you landed on your head,” she muttered as she began to gather up the veils and other items from the broken chest, putting them on the dressing table. She rose and faced him. “Look what you did.”
    His face red, his mouth a thin line, Gerrard glared at her before his eyes widened. “Well, well, well,” he murmured. His lips curved up and his expression became admiring. “Not quite what I was expecting to see.”
    She’d forgotten she was wearing Audrey’s gown and silken veil. She rushed to the bed and snatched up her heavy black tunic, holding it against her as if she were naked underneath. “There was no need for you to barge in like a...like a barbarian!”
    His grin disappeared into gravity. “What would you have done if I were?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning his weight on one leg.
    What could she reply to that? That she would have hit him with a stool? “I managed to travel all the way from Saint Agatha’s without incident.”
    “By some miracle.”
    “I made the entire journey without any trouble at all.”
    Or any sign of pursuit, likely because the mother superior was more relieved by her absence than concerned about her well-being. “Not
every
man is a lustful scoundrel.”
    “And not every nun a saint,” he replied. “You’re lucky you didn’t walk right into the hands of thieves. Or been robbed here already. You hadn’t even locked the door.”
    “I will remember after this, of that you may be sure. I have no wish to have half-drunk miscreants breaking down doors and ruining latches.”
    “I am not half-drunk. I haven’t been drunk since Roland was attacked. Unfortunately,
you’ve
apparently lost what sense you were born with. If I had been an outlaw, you would be as dead as...” He paused, frowning.
    She could guess what he’d been about to say. She would be as dead as Audrey. Although the comparison had been made in the heat of the moment, it pained her nonetheless.
    He must have realized the effect of those harsh words, for when he spoke again, his voice was calmer and more compassionate. “Come, Celeste... Sister, we’re going back to the castle.”
    His compassion was welcome. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to return with him. “I thank you for your concern. However, I’m sure I’ll be safe here, so I see no need to leave.”
    He frowned, grim as Roland. Then he smiled in a way that made her even more aware that he was a young and handsome man. “I have other, more enjoyable methods of persuading women, if you would prefer me to use them.”
    God help her! He was temptation made flesh and she must keep away from him. “I think not.”
    His smile dissolved. “If you won’t come willingly, you’ll leave me no alternative except to take you by force.”
    She took a step back. “That would be the act of a savage.”
    “Perhaps you’d prefer that the very civilized Roland was here instead of me.”
    “Perhaps—yes, I would. He would never make such a threat.”
    Gerrard ignored her criticism. “You said ‘perhaps.’ That means you still like me best.”
    “I’ve never said I liked you best. Ever,” she replied, although her throat was suddenly dry and that was another lie. She had liked him better than anyone in Dunborough, except for Audrey.
    He took a step closer. “You did once. I was certain of it then and I’m certain of it now. You still like me, I think.”
    She moved farther back. “I don’t recall that you were ever
quite
so vain.”
    “Granted, it’s been a long time and much has changed,” he said, his voice deep and low and soft as butter, “but I like
you
, Celeste, even when you’re angry with me.”
    Warmth flooded through her. The heat of desire. Lust. Sin.
    She didn’t want that. She