hand, the night was not yet overâ¦
Sheâd expected an explosion of pain in her jaw, but he hadnât hit her. She looked left then right, and noted heâd trapped her between his arms. Perhaps he was a bit more violent than sheâd thought. âListen, you littleââ
She waited. âHatchet-face?â
He frowned at her.
âBundle-tail?â She was short enough that sheâd been called that a time or two. âHarridan? Romp?â
âAre you helping me insult you?â Suddenly his face lost that dark, angry look, and the expression that replaced it made her far more nervous. She pushed back against the door.
âYou seemed to need help.â
The hands that had been beside her head, pressed against the door, moved to her cheeks. She jumped at the unexpected warmth of his flesh and the gentleness that was completely foreign to her. âWho would call you all of those names?â
She couldnât explain why, but tears stung the backs of her eyes. She didnât know the last time she had cried, and it was certainly not over anything so low as being called a harridan. She blinked the tears away and pulled his hands off her cheeks. âDonât touch me,â she hissed, though she would have let him touch her more if heâd wanted. No one had ever touched her the way he did. âItâs not your business who called me what, but I promise you, heâll do far worse to you if you donât allow me to go.â
âAnd back to this.â He sighed. âMarlowe, listenââ
âNo, Maxwell . You listen.â
His face went dark and grim again, and she felt the strange tightness in her chest dissipate. Anger she could understand. That soft, pitying expression was to be avoided. And his touch. She could not allow him to touch her ever again.
âDo not call me that,â he ordered.
She frowned at him. He acted as though sheâd insulted him. âThatâs your name, isnât it?â
âYou call me Dane or my lord .â
âI can think of a few other names for you.â
âIâm sure you can, and you may use them at your own risk. But do not call me by my Christian name. Ever.â
âWhy? You call me by mine.â
âBecause itâs my right as your better.â
She snorted.
âYou and I are not on intimate terms, and we never will be.â He said the last with his face so close to hers she could see the dark ring around the brown of his eyes. So that was why they looked so beautiful. The tightness in her chest was back again, and she pushed at him, increasing the distance between them.
âThat suits me, cove. But if I have to call you my lord , you better call me Miss Marlowe.â
He gave her a long look. He stared at her for such a length of time that she thought perhaps heâd had some sort of apoplectic fit and could not move again. âYou really have no idea who it is youâre dealing with, do you?â
âIââ
He held up a hand, cutting her off. Ha! And the swells were supposed to be well-mannered. He turned away from her and rubbed a hand over his face. âI will murder Brook for this. It is the middle of the night, and I want to sleep.â He looked back at her. âWhat do I need to do to be able to sleep?â
She opened her mouth, and he held up a hand. âDo not say allow you to go. We will discuss it after we break our fast.â
This was probably the best offer she would receive. She knew it, and she was clever enough not to argue further. âFine.â
âFine.â He scrubbed his face again. âNow she says fine. Would that weâd saved that hour and a modicum of my sanity. Then letâs go to sleep.â
âI want the bed,â she said. She hadnât even known she would say it. She certainly hadnât expected to say it, but the words seemed to rush forward without her permission. He lowered his hands
Landon Dixon, Giselle Renarde, Beverly Langland