Shannon Drake - Reckless

Wherever she came from, she was probably pure temper, and some poor father, brother or lover might well be glad of a holiday from her tongue!

She continued to stare at him, her expression becoming perplexed.

“Well? Who are you?” he demanded.

Her lashes fell. “I…”

“Good God, answer me!”

“I don’t know!” she snapped.

And so saying, she pushed from his hold, righting herself most regally—until she realized that she’d lost her blankets. She flushed, cast him a furious glance, and dragged the blankets back up to sit in noble silence.

HUNTER EYED HER LONG AND carefully, then a slow smile crept onto his lips.

“You’re a liar,” he told her quietly.

“How dare you!” she accused.

He shook his head. “I simply do not believe you struck your head that hard.”

She turned to gaze out the carriage window as the busy streets of London passed by. Then she lowered her eyes, the wealth of lashes concealing her thoughts. Her hands, which showed small signs of hard work, were resting on the fine upholstery of the carriage seat and he could see that she was enjoying the soft feel of the fabric.

“My head pains me a great deal!” she snapped, and her gaze returned to his.

Again, he had to smile. “But you are alive,” he said.

“I was doing quite well without you.”

He didn’t bother to respond.

Her frown deepened and she eyed him warily, drawing the blankets more tightly to her throat. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“Hunter MacDonald.” He inclined his head in an ironic gesture. “At your service.”

He thought that he saw her eyes widen just a bit; she was quick to hide any sign that she might have recognized his name, if indeed, she had done so. Had she? His exploits were frequently in the papers, he knew, something about which he seldom gave a thought. He was equally referenced in the society pages, usually with a gleeful note—readers loved a touch of scandal.

Frankly, and certainly as of late, he did not deserve most of the more scandalous items of gossip, but he had long ago determined that no matter what one did, it was impossible to live up to the high standards set for a man such as he. He was able to be quite entertained, fortunately, by what fabrications might come along.

His passenger didn’t appear at all frightened to be in the company of such an ill-reputed fellow. Indeed, she seemed to be scheming within her own mind.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“Why, my town house, of course,” he told her.

At that, he was pleased to witness the slightest bit of alarm pass briefly over her countenance.

“I may not know who I am,” she said, “but I’m quite certain that I…” Her voice trailed off as if the right words failed her. “That you what?” he offered helpfully.

She lowered her head. “If you would just return me to the sea, I believe I might recognize something…someone.”

“The sea?”

She flushed. “The area by the river.”

He appraised her with both his mind and his libido, ever more fascinated. She spoke well, extremely well, as if she had been decently educated. But he suspected that, nevertheless, she belonged to the poor area of the river.

And a class of Victorian society from which she might never hope to encounter her precious David except under unusual circumstances.

He found himself looking away, feeling the oddest little ache, as if he wished that he were the object of that deep affection she most obviously felt for the youngest son of the Baron Turnberry. It didn’t matter that David would not inherit his father’s title—there wasn’t just one or two male siblings above him in line, but five!—he was surely something of a shining, glittering star to this girl.

And if she felt such an affection for himself?

Ah, well. Some of his reputation was deserved. But never had he tarried with a member of the fairer sex who was truly young and innocent, and tender of heart, as well.

Then, again, what made him believe that she was truly innocent? She had plunged into the Thames nearly naked. For a man.

“I believe that he’s about to become engaged,” Hunter said harshly.

She was good at her charade.

“Who?”

“David Turnberry, my dear.”

“And why should that concern me?”

“I beg your pardon, I forgot. You do not know yourself, so how would you know of Mr. Turnberry?”

She looked at him, red tendrils of hair, drier now, falling softly across her face. “How would you happen to know about the relationships of…this man to whom you refer?” she asked.

“We run in the same circles,” he responded. “In fact, the man you saved—I’m sure you must remember dragging a man out of the water?—is due to leave shortly for a season working the excavations in ancient Egypt. When he returns, I believe he will be married.”

“Is he officially engaged?”

“No,” Hunter admitted. “But he has been a contender in the quest for the hand of Lady Margaret for some time, and I believe that today, after such high drama and fear for his life, she may have decided that he’s the one she’ll choose to marry.”

She turned away quickly, as if she felt distressed and would prefer he not see it. Then she lowered her head and murmured, “Please…if you would take me back to the river, I would be most grateful. I’m sure I shall find out who I am and where I belong.”

He leaned forward, absently setting a hand on her knee as he spoke. “But, dear girl, Mr. Turnberry is anxious to thank you for his life. We must allow him to do so.”

She visibly winced. “As I am? I would deeply appreciate a return to the sea.”

“River.”

“River!” she snapped.

She moved. He realized that his hand touched her still—and that it was far more disturbing to him than to her. He withdrew.

“We are nearly at my town house. My sister often spends time there—I’m quite sure we will find something appropriate for you to wear.”

“Sir! I cannot go with you to your town house alone.”

“Fear not,” he said, smiling. “I have the most proper housekeeper one might ever hope to have. You’ll be in the best of hands.”

They came at last to the town house with its elegant wrought-iron gates and handsomely manicured lawn. He wondered if she had not caught his attention before because, in a very strange way, she reminded him of himself. In his younger years, he’d seen what he was and what he was not. And he’d realized he must improve his own lot, which he had managed to do quite nicely, first in the military, then by charming the queen, and then with his very real fascination for all things Egyptian. He had written a number of books on his experiences, and therefore earned a fair penny from his publishers, and if his own efforts had not seen him to financial success, the death of his beloved and landed godmother had increased his position most pleasantly. The boon had not been expected, because the old girl, who had been a true adventurer herself and had always engaged him in tart conversation, had always pretended poverty and gratefully accepted his many gifts.

The carriage passed through the gates to the porte cochere at the side door. It opened as Hunter jumped down from the carriage, reaching back to assist his unwilling guest. She hesitated, but at last accepted his hand, apparently deciding that it would be churlish to refuse it.

“Dear me, dear me!” This from Mrs. Emma Johnson, his housekeeper. She gave Hunter a scathing look, as if he had committed a crime. “Sir Hunter! What in heaven’s name? Dear child, do come in and I will see to you! Do your parents know where you are? Hunter, did you take this young lady sailing on such a day and lose her in the river? Oh, child, thank the Lord you’re all right. I shall see to you immediately.” She slipped an arm around his red-haired sea vixen, staring him down. “Now, Hunter, it’s none of my business, but—”