Free Jo Beverley by A Most Unsuitable Man Page B

amusement.”
    She looked at him, trying to see through his smooth facade. “How did you and Ashart come to save me?”
    “Omniscience. Rothgar knew you’d been summoned and asked Ashart to intervene.”
    “Thank heavens the dowager will soon leave.”
    He opened the door and she walked into the magnificent room, not surprised to find it deserted. Despite its gilded carving and painted ceiling, the Rothgar Abbey library was a sober, even demanding room. It could certainly never be described as cozy.
    No upholstered chairs sat by the crackling fire for the comfort of people wanting to read a newspaper or catch a nap. On the contrary, each window bay held a stern, medieval desk, and plain chairs were drawn up to the three tables running down the middle of the room, ready for those who wanted to consult a weighty tome.
    Would the scholars and philosophers painted on the ceiling cry out in horror to see people enter with mere conversation in mind?
    “Well?” Damaris asked, strolling toward one of the medieval desks as if fascinated by it, but really to put one of the long tables between herself and Fitzroger. He still had that stirring effect on her.
    “I, too, had an interview with Lord Rothgar.”
    She turned to face him. “Was he very angry?”
    “For bringing you back? Quite the opposite.”
    “I’m glad then. Perhaps he’ll become your patron.”
    A strange expression flickered over his face. “Perhaps he will, but that requires that I oblige him.”
    “What does he want you to do?”
    “Go to Cheynings with Ashart and Genova. Ashart wishes to escort his grandmother home, and of course his betrothed must go with him.”
    Damaris gave a short laugh. “Poor her. I visited in October and it was damp and frigid then.” But then she realized. “You’re abandoning me!”
    “I regret the necessity, but I suffer from a conflict of obligations—”
    “Is Ashart a child needing a nurse?”
    “Are you?”
    She jerked as if slapped and headed straight for the door. He intercepted her between two tables, blocking her way. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have said that.”
    “Please don’t distress yourself, sir. I release you from any obligation. Now that I have Lord Rothgar as my guardian, I don’t need—”
    A kiss stopped her words. She was too shocked to react, and it was brief, but still left her lips tingling.
    “Of course you don’t need me.” His eyes seemed stormy, as if he felt as staggered as she. “That doesn’t mean you have to be alone here.”
    “Then you won’t go?”
    “Alas, I must.”
    “Why?”
    “Once Ashart leaves, I have no place in this Malloren nest. How and why could I stay?”
    “To court me,” she snapped. “Who’d be surprised if a penniless adventurer overstayed his welcome in order to pursue an heiress?”
    “Damn you for a sharp-tongued virago.”
    She raised her chin. “Thank you. I’ve always wanted to be a virago.”
    “A shrew? A termagant?”
    “A woman who behaves like a man. A woman who speaks her mind, challenges errors, makes her own decisions, and pursues what she wants with all reasonable force. As I will do!”
    “You terrify me.”
    She pounced. “Good. Then you’ll have to stay to guard me, won’t you?”
    “I can’t.”
    She laughed with disgust and turned to escape around the table.
    He caught her wrist. “Don’t run away again.”
    Damaris froze, sparks shooting up her arm from that contact. “Leaving your pestilential presence, sir, is not running away.”
    “I suppose it isn’t.” He stepped closer and kissed the nape of her neck, nuzzled it, even. Shivers shot through her at this new sensation. “Of your kindness, sweet lady,” he murmured there, “stay.”
    She tried to cling to her invigorating rage, but when he turned her to face him, both hands on her shoulders, she couldn’t resist. His thumbs pressed through layers of cloth, circling in a way that sent her mind circling, too.
    “I have to accompany Ashart to Cheynings,