Free Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) by Sabrina York Page B

la. What a fool she had been to yearn to break free from her constrained existence. It was by far more exciting to be wild and free, but it was more dangerous, as well.
    She knew, with blazing clarity, how close they’d come to… Well, to ruining everything. She would never have forgiven herself if she had. Peter expected the best of her and he deserved it, too. It would be selfish and weak to allow herself to surrender to her passion.
    It was imperative that she keep her distance from Charles from now on. There was a good week or so of the journey left. Hopefully it would not be too difficult. During the day, he would ride outside, and at night, of course, they would have to have separate rooms. She would insist upon it.
    But tomorrow, first thing, she and her traveling companion would need to have a serious talk. She would remind him of her mission, her dedication, and insist that they maintain a cordial distance.
    Yes. That was a lovely plan. It eased a bit of the guilt she felt by losing her mind in his arms.
    But, oh, it had been magnificent, hadn’t it?
    As the memories rushed back, swamping her with a delirious warmth, she grimaced and pushed them away.
    She had to be strong. She had to resist whatever this was. She had to be faithful to Peter because, no matter where he was, no matter who he was, she knew Peter was being faithful to her.
    It was only right that she offer him the same honor.
    No matter how much she wanted to kiss the Very Vexing Earl of Wick.
     
    She must have slept because when she opened her eyes, a muted sunlight was streaming through the room and a very tantalizing smell teased her nostrils.
    She realized at once that it was bacon and shot up in the bed and scanned the room. Her mood dipped unaccountably when she realized she was alone. Apparently, Charles had risen early, brought her breakfast and left again. She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed.
    She decided on neither and quickly took care of her personal needs, and washed her hands and face in the basin. It was amazing how much time it saved to sleep in one’s clothes. She sat down at the table and lifted the dome from the plate. Her mouth watered at the sight of a lovely breakfast. Certainly more than she could eat. But she tried.
    Just as she finished and pushed the plate away, there was a soft knock at the door.
    “Come in,” she said, ignoring the shiver at the thought of seeing Charles again. It was a ridiculous shiver. She reminded herself of her resolution of the night before and steeled her spine.
    She had no idea, therefore, why the sight of him, freshly washed and shaved and splendidly dressed, made her lower body ache and melt. She forced a casual and remote smile. “Good morning, milord.”
    He frowned as he entered and closed the door. “Must you call me that?” Why he seemed put out was a mystery.
    “You are a lord,” she said with a shrug.
    “My name is Charles.”
    “I know that.” She toyed with her fork, to have something to look at other than him. “But there is no appropriate scenario where I would call you that.” Not as Lady Britannia Halsey and, most certainly, not as his valet.
    “Is there not?” he growled. And when she dared a peep at him, he said in a low and gravelly voice, “You called me Charles last night. When you were in my arms.”
    The words caught in her throat, but she finally managed to croak, “As I said. No appropriate scenario.” Her aloof mask threatened to melt in the heat of his gaze.
    He grabbed a chair and pulled it toward the table and sat. Far too close. “But you do not deny you cried my name in the throes of passion.”
    What on earth was he doing? Had they not agreed—without words, of course—to ignore what had happened last night? And more to the point, why did he seem angry about it?
    She threw back her shoulders. “My good sir. I’ve never been in the throes of anything.” She was fairly certain she had not been. Last night