Jo Ann - Family In The Making

She doted on the adorable urchins. When she was with them, she could forget why she had run away to West Cornwall in the first place. She had found a haven in Porthlowen, and the children had found a way into her heart.

A perfect solution...at least for now.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the box she sought. It rocked.

“C’mon,” she murmured. “An inch more.”

Could she stand higher on her toes? She tried and managed to push aside the box beside the one she wanted. It bumped into others, and one toppled onto another. She held her breath, but nothing fell to the floor.

One more try.

Extending her arm and hand as far as she could, she hooked one finger over the side of the box. She drew it back carefully. It moved an inch, then stopped.

“Bother!”

She was not going to give up. She gave another tug, then a harder one.

Too hard. Her finger popped off the side of the box. The motion propelled her backward. She windmilled her arms before grasping the edge of the shelf. The stool stopped rocking beneath her. She let out her breath in a soft sigh. That had been close.

Suddenly, an arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her off her feet. A shriek burst from her throat. The moment her toes touched the stone floor, she was shoved against the lower shelves. As she was held there by a firm chest, terror took control of her. No! She would not let this happen. Not again! She tried to pull away, but broad hands tightened on her.

Exactly as hands had at her dear friend’s house that evening when Lord Litchfield refused to let her escape him as he squeezed her to the shelves behind her. The brash, flirtatious young lord had proved he was no gentlemen when he had chanced upon her in the book room. The echo of her own screams burst from her memories, his breath hot against her face, the screech of ripping fabric...the laughter of his friends.

Not again! She would not let it happen again.

She drew back her arm and drove her fist into her captor’s gut. Air whooshed out of him, but he did not release her. She aimed her fist at him again. She froze when boxes cascaded down beyond her captor. They struck the stone floor and broke apart. Wood splinters flew in every direction. He pushed her head to his chest. His face hid in her hair. Glass shattered, and metal clanged.

Silence except for her uneven breathing...and her captor’s. No, not her captor. Her rescuer!

Voices rang through the room. She started to raise her head, but the man pushed it against him again. She opened her mouth to protest. Anything she might have said vanished as another storm of boxes fell from overhead, crashing and splintering.

The man holding her recoiled toward her. Had he been struck? She did not move until he lifted his head off hers as silence returned.

“Are you hurt?” called Mrs. Ford from the direction of the kitchen.

Maris opened her eyes and closed them as a cloud of dust and debris swirled around her. How many boxes had fallen? There had been more than a score on the topmost shelf and many others on the lower ones.

Mrs. Ford’s voice grew more frantic. “Are you hurt? Miss Oliver? Lord Trelawney?”

Lord Trelawney?

In horror mixed with dismay, she looked up at the man who still held her close to the shelves. She was accustomed to looking down when she spent time with the children, so it felt strange to raise her eyes to his. Arthur Trelawney, the earl’s heir, was strikingly handsome with his ebony hair that curled across his forehead. She had seen him on occasion in Cothaire’s hallways, but never this close. His face was tanned, for he often rode across the estate on the family’s business. Because his features were sharply drawn, when he moved changes of light and shadow played along them intriguingly. His dark navy coat, which accented his broad shoulders, was cut to his specifications by a skilled tailor. His crystal blue eyes were bright as his gaze moved up and down her.

She tensed, too conscious of how close they stood, for she was aware of each breath he drew in. She must look a complete rump. Her apron was stained with food from the children’s luncheon, and her hair was escaping from its sedate chignon to wisp around her face as if she were a hoyden racing across the garden.

“Are you hurt?” the viscount asked.

“No.” She hastily looked away. Why was she gawking like a foolish chit when she should be apologizing? “My lord...”

He waved her to silence, stirring the cloud of dust, then called, “Mrs. Ford, we are unharmed.”

“I will send Baricoat for footmen to clean up the mess,” the cook said, then ordered one of her kitchen maids to take her message to the butler. “I am relieved to hear you are not injured, Lord Trelawney.”

His name was an awful reminder that Maris had struck the earl’s heir when he was trying to keep her from being hurt. She must hope that he would not give her the bag for such outrageous behavior. Where could she find another safe place to hide?

Again she began, “My lord, I am sorry—”

“One moment.” He vanished into the brown cloud, and she heard china crack under his boots.

A burst of damp autumn air swept into the room, and the dust was flushed out through the stillroom’s garden door. Blinking, Maris coughed as she breathed in fresh air to cleanse her lungs.

When a handkerchief was held out to her, she took it with a whispered, “Thank you.” She dabbed her watery eyes, then faltered. Blowing her nose on Lord Trelawney’s handkerchief did not seem right, especially if he expected her to return it to him.

As if she had spoken her uncertainty aloud, he said, “You may leave it in the laundry, Miss Oliver.”

“I shall.” She took a steadying breath, then looked at him again. There was something about his cool blue eyes that sent a pulse of warmth through her, even though his terse answers suggested he wished to put an end to this conversation immediately. So did she before she said the wrong thing and jeopardized her position at Cothaire. “Thank you, my lord, for saving me. Please forgive me for striking you.”

“I...I shall survive.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, but was gone so quickly that she was unsure she had seen it. Again his pale eyes examined her without hesitation. “You?”

“I am fine, my lord.” Her voice was unsteady, and she was shocked how a wisp of a smile could send another beat of a sweet sensation through her.

“Good.”

She waited for him to say more, but he was silent. Was he waiting for her to speak or move away? Uncertain, she blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. “Next time I need something on a high shelf, I will ask for help.”

“Good.”

She wished she could be as calm as he was. Her knees trembled with the residue of her fear. The memories that usually only haunted her in her nightmares had surged forward the moment he had touched her.

Or was it something other than serenity that kept his answers short? The household maids had warned her that the viscount seldom spoke to anyone other than his family or the upper servants. Some believed he was arrogant; others more graciously suggested he might be so busy with his many tasks that he was lost in his thoughts and did not notice anyone around him. A few whispered that he simply was shy.

When Lord Trelawney strode over broken crates and crockery toward the kitchen door, Maris remained where she was. She was not sure which opinion was correct. He had spoken to her. However, he said only as much as necessary. He had come to her rescue, but Lord Litchfield had acted caring, too, before he had forced himself on her. She once had prided herself on being a good judge of character. She had been a fool when she let herself trust Lord Litchfield instead of making sure she was never alone with him. She was no longer that naive girl, and she would not be want-witted with another man, whether he be a gentleman of the ton or a lowly laborer. Before coming to Cornwall, she had chosen the most unflattering clothes and hairstyle. No man in Porthlowen had given her a second look, just as she wished.