Tucking the spoon under my belt, I rushed from the room. The noise of my heels on marble clattered against the walls as I raced frantically down the hallway. My footing almost skidded out as my slippery soles lost purchase on the polished floor. I slid to a halt in front of the utility closet. Yanking the door open, I barged into the small, dark room. Grabbing hold of a dustpan and bucket from the shelf, I sprinted back to the living room, my chest on fire and nerves beginning to fray even further. I had to get rid of the evidence, fast, then later confess what had happened to Mr. Volkov. Right then there wasn't even the headspace to think about how that conversation was going to go. He'd already torn into me for not wearing my formal uniform. I'd quickly changed into my crisp black jacket, skirt, and low-heeled court shoes after greeting the Wychthorns. Shoes that were killing me. The balls of my feet ached after spending the rest of the afternoon and evening non-stop rushing to and fro, dealing with Mr. Volkov's endless demands. And it seemed if anyone had a problem I was the person they asked for. My name had been called from one end of the house to the other.
I burst into the living room and stumbled to a standstill beside a velvet chaise, breathing hard. I stared in confusion. I couldn't believe what I was looking at.
Anger bit hard with jagged teeth. Fury blustering beneath my skin, roaring through my blood. This man, this servant, was standing in the middle of the room rotating a shoulder, only to raise an arm over his head and stretch, before yawning and scrubbing a huge palm across his hairy cheeks.
He hadn't even attempted to pick up the broken pieces of glass!
He'd done nothing!
"What is wrong with you?!" I barked.
Startled, he twisted around to face me. Thick, inky black eyebrows drew upward.
I stormed up to him, craning my head back because he was so gigantically tall. "I don't know which House you belong to, or what you do." He opened his mouth, and I swept my hand holding the dustpan in a wide arc, shutting him down. "I don't care." I glared, my anger reaching Defcon levels. "You're on the Deniauds' estate, and I will not have this evening go awry for them. I need your help, so start moving. Pick up that chair and take the pedestal outside. Now!"
Stomping back to the debris, I bent over and started feverishly sweeping the glass into the pan, dumping it into the metal bucket. The chinking noise of it sounded like rain upon a rusty tin roof.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw, to my shock, that he still hadn't moved. A strangled noise escaped my lips. I was going to burst out of my skin with pure fury.
"Do I have to repeat myself?" I asked slowly, in a low, clear voice that all my staff knew meant they were going to bear the brunt of my wrath if they didn't comply with my order.
I couldn't really tell, with the whole wild beard thing going on, exactly what expression was playing on his features. But I could tell by the fire suddenly lighting up his dark-eyed gaze that he was considering taking me on. I straightened, dropped the bucket with a nasty clank that resounded within the room, and propped a hand on my hip as I swiveled to fully face him. Then I gave it to him—the look.
The one that had full-grown men and women running in the other direction or hastening to do as I 'asked.'
He squared his shoulders, his menacing glower intensifying.
I slowly arched a brow—I dare you!
A long, tense moment later, he broke. His full lips pinched and then curled inward as he hissed in exasperation between gritted teeth. He lumbered forward, bent down, and righted the armchair with a confrontational thunk. Keeping his stormy gaze on mine, he picked up the stone pedestal in his arms as if it weighed nothing, turned around on the heel of his shiny leather shoes, and headed toward the French doors.
Good choice.
Excellent choice.
I dumped the dustpan inside the bucket and hurried after him. Rounding his broad figure, I shoved open the French doors and stepped outside. Wisps of clouds were smeared across the moon and the nippy night air wrapped itself around me, cooling my flushed cheeks. The pungent, heady scent of lavender perfumed the air as the soft sigh of wind ruffled its leaves.
I just needed glossy, green foliage and roses.
Easy.
Hopefully.
Freaking hells, it better be easy!
My fingers latched around the pruning shears propped up beside the door that my friend Oswin had clearly left there and forgotten, or perhaps he'd asked someone else to do for him and they hadn't. Again, something else I'd deal with later.
Mrs. Deniaud wanted foliage and sprays of flowers, late-blooming roses—white to fit the theme in the room.
My companion, cohort, the man who made a mess of everything—placed the pedestal exactly where I pointed within the bushy lavender that grew as a wild border around the patio. Shadows and light darkened and brightened the colorful bursts of purple and sage. Thankfully, the pedestal looked as if it were part of the landscaped design.
"Come with me," I ordered, about to turn around and run, then stilled when he cocked his head. Thick, wavy locks of hair dipped past a shoulder as he glared at me.
I glared back.
Oh my gods, what was wrong with this man? Clearly, he was either a soldier or a hunter. For some obtuse reason, they considered themselves superior, as if they were a different class of servant. I took a step closer, and my fingers gripped the handle of the pruning shears tighter. "Did I not make any sense? Do I have to spell those tiny little words out for you...slowly?"
I didn't bother waiting for him to reply, not when his mouth opened and started to form a word and straight white teeth gleamed in the gloom of shadows. "Shut it," I barked, infuriated. "Whatever it is you want to say, don't bother. Follow me and make it snappy. You broke the vase. You made a mess of the room. All that in there is on you." The part I was telling him to fix wasn't technically his problem. He didn't actually forget to put flowers into vases, but I was past caring. I wasn't going to be able to fix the missing flower problem without his help, even if there was a twinge of guilt at slightly twisting the facts to force him into doing it. "So you're going to follow me, fast."
The soles of my shoes clapped against stone as I trotted off to the opening in the hedge and out onto the pathway that skirted the mansion. My heels sank into the pebbles, scuffing stones as I jogged toward the heart of the back garden that surrounded the mansion. I got no more than ten paces when I realized it was just me making the sound of chinking pebbles.
My skirt swung wide as I spun around.
He hadn't shifted from inside the patio. "Move!" I roared, jabbing the pruning shears into the air above my head. My voice sliced through the quiet night, startling roosting birds from weeping willows. They burst from their perch in a flurry of wing snaps, darting across the velvet sky in a panicked swirl.
The stranger pushed into motion, stalking toward me, clearly angry, but at least he was heeding my order. Thank Zrenyth. I twirled around and headed straight for the cluster of white roses, ferns, and hosta, where I figured if I hacked at the shrubs, my destruction wouldn't be noticed.
Gripping the pruning shears, I cut anything within reach. I was manic with my pruning. Anxiety swelled in my chest. Strands of hair flopped in front of my eyes. I could feel time slipping away. I was so flustered and panicked that I wasn't thinking straight, realizing too late that I'd completely decimated one fern bush, cutting it back to the root.
How much longer did I have?
Five minutes, three...two?
Holy freaking hellsgate!
I scooped up the foliage from the ground, just as the stranger sidled up. "Hold your arms out." He did, slowly, reluctantly, and I plonked the mass of greenery in his arms, bending down to collect more, building a tower of long, waxy leaves, higher and higher. Picking up the shears, I went straight for the white roses. I attacked the bush like I hated it. Snip-snip. Stems fell from the shrub, scattering at the base of the trunk. White roses were my favorite, especially climbing roses that were left to ramble along fences or up walls, twining around trees. I should have taken more care and treated them with the reverence they deserved, but I was swiftly running out of time. Rose thorns pricked my hands and scratched my inner wrists, drawing blood, but I barely felt the sting as I wrestled the rose stems from where they'd fallen and shoved them into his arms.
"What are you? Soldier or hunter?" He cut me a weird glance, and then I realized that I didn't even have time for this ridiculous chit-chat. "Actually I don't care what you do, or whose House you serve. You never, ever, sleep on the job. Shame on you."
Leaving the pruning shears where I'd dropped them, I rushed off. My shoes sank through the pebbled pathway, slowing my progress. I was halfway back when I realized my companion wasn't behind me. Sure, he was on his way, but he was walking so slowly, so godsdamned slowly.
I frantically glanced over my shoulder at the living room and the honeyed light shining through the windows edged by silver brocade curtains. All I could imagine was running in there and coming face to face with a disappointed Mrs. Deniaud. And it would be all my fault.
I ran back to him, bouncing up and down on the balls of my aching feet, a bundle of agitated, frazzled nerves."Hurry up!" I wasn't going to fail at my task because some great hulk of a man with attitude couldn't move faster than a snail. I shoved my shoulder into his back, digging my shoes into shifting pebbles, trying to gain traction and push him into moving faster. "They're going to be here any moment!" I gave up and instead whipped my spoon out from my belt—prodded him in the back with it; smacked him on the arm; rapped his shoulder blade with a volley of strikes.
He was moving like a sloth. "Oh my,"—gods—"what is this? A swagger?" I whacked his backside with my spoon. I was delirious, obviously. I was well past any kind of rational thought.
He jolted, spun around, and boomed, "What the hells?!"
"Move, you lumbering oaf! Move!"
"Alright," he roared, fending off my blows and picking up his pace. "For fucks sake just stop hitting me!"
I didn't even care that he'd cursed. I scurried ahead, opening the French door, and shutting it behind me after we'd both entered. A light sheen of sweat coated my forehead and the back of my neck, locks of hair had come undone from my bun, and I could feel my cheeks flushed with heat. My blood pressure levels were sky-high at that point and I was in a blind panic. I jittered on the spot, my gaze whipping around the room, for one moment unsure of what to do, how to get this done in time.
"Shove them in the vases." Okay, I knew that there was some art to flower arrangements. I loved gardening, and when given the chance I loved fussing over bouquets of flowers. But we had no time. No time! Mrs. Deniaud would be here any moment.
My tall, hairy cohort glared down at me, spread his arms wide, and dumped the flowers onto the coffee table. "You do it!"
My mouth fell open and my eyes flared wide. How dare he!
The stranger's eyes were slitted so narrowly I couldn't even tell what color they were. He held my gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward, pinched the tip of my spoon and tugged it from my frozen hand. He held it before me, and he broke it. Snapped my wooden spoon right in half and tossed it over his shoulder. The pieces clattered upon the marble and skidded beneath the velvet chaise.
My.
Favorite.
Spoon.
My finger stabbed his way. "You did not just do that!" I roared.
"You shouldn't have been hitting me with it, servant!"
Cold, vicious anger poured through my body. He was just another entitled bodyguard or soldier or hunter, or whatever. One of those servants who didn't recognize themselves as a servant; who looked down on those of us who served families on estates, making beds, cleaning toilets, cooking and cleaning and gardening. As if we were so much lower than them, even though both of us were bound to those high-ranking families and served their needs.
"Oh, you think you're so much better than me, right?" I braced both hands on my hips, stamping my feet apart. "Mr. Soldier... Mr. Hunter, or whatever you are, whatever House you serve. Let me tell you something, and maybe you should lift all that froufrou hair out the way of your ears."
His thick eyebrows shot up. "Froufrou?"
"You'll be able to hear me more clearly then."
His mouth fell open.
"You're a servant just like me, so get over yourself and help me out." I picked up a handful of roses and shrubbery and threw it right back at him. He fumbled with the prickly stems and bushy foliage. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. "Over there, Mr. Whiskers—"
"Mr. Whiskers?" he snarled in outrage.
"Start shoving them into vases!"
I grabbed hold of a bunch of roses and hostas and started jamming them into a vase. To my relief, he was too, even if he was muttering beneath his breath and shooting dark looks my way as he did it. And then I heard a noise.
I froze, listening, and my heart erupted into such a demented pace I was surprised it didn't burst through my chest. There were voices and footsteps coming from outside the room.
"The Deniauds,"—oh my gods—"they're here!" I bounced up and down. "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" I whisper-yelled. He picked up his pace. I did too. Both of us raced across the room, poking, shoving, and jamming roses and foliage into Venetian glass.
The voices, laughter, and footsteps down the hallway were growing louder, nearer.
I snatched up the metal bucket and dustpan and scrambled around picking up my wooden spoon, loose leaves, and broken stems, dropping them into the bucket, and clearing the floor of evidence. I ran to the French doors, waving for him to hurry up. He ambled over, shooting me a strange look as I pushed him outside just as the door to the living room opened and Mrs. Deniaud stepped inside.
I dragged the mammoth man with me into the shadows of the patio's garden, out the gap in the hedge, and onto the pebbled path.
Tilting my head, I cocked an ear, listening, but there were no cries of dismay from Mrs. Deniaud.
The adrenaline burning through my veins fizzled out, replaced by elation and relief. I sagged against him. "I-I can't believe we did that," I puffed out, trying to catch my breath. One of my hands held the bucket's handle, the other pressed upon the lapels of his jacket. "Thank you," I said, patting his chest.
My laugh at the absurdity of the last ten minutes, how I'd acted, bossing the stranger around, came out a little strangled as it slowly filtered in just what I was touching, how it felt. Hells he was a mass of hard muscle.
Suddenly, stupidly, I was reminded that he was a man. A man that was right inside my personal space. I was pressed against him, could smell him, a masculine scent and something else undefinable that suffused every pore. He smelled delicious. He felt delicious. I swallowed. My mouth went as dry as barren, cracked earth, desperate for rainfall.
Warmth from his body spread to mine and it started to muddle my thoughts. I'd never touched anyone quite like this before. And I kept patting his chest. I couldn't stop myself, my fingers spreading wider to curve around the contour of his pecs, patting them, imagining what was hidden beneath the jacket and dress shirt, if it might look similar to the brawny, bare-chested men on the covers of the romance books I sneakily read late at night.
"Are you done feeling me up?" he rumbled.
I looked up, having to tip my head back to see him better.
Awareness arced from him to me, a crackling, sizzling, living thing that sparked every place on my body that touched his. Heat—hot, suffocating heat—swirled in my chest and burned the breath in my throat.
His eyelashes, thick and long, shadowed the color of his eyes as he studied me intently. I still didn't know the color of his irises. His face and neck were covered by a scruffy beard and locks of unruly black hair. He looked brutal and wild, yet startling in his good looks.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, "I'm not usually like that." I didn't know if I was apologizing for my earlier behavior or the fact I was pretty much feeling him up like he said.
I felt his voice first. The words were a rich vibration in his chest that traveled through my fingers spread across his chest and reverberated deep inside mine. I heard the words rolling from his mouth, spoken in a voice like sliding rockfall, rough and deep and menacing, that only intensified the beat of my heart, faster, faster...before I realized what he'd said.
"Like what? A little deranged? A whole lot of crazy? Uptight?"
Uptight.
I stiffened.
All the heat he inspired inside of me was doused like I'd stepped into a sudden fall of sleet.
Exactly. That's exactly what I was. Uptight. Untouchable. Unwanted. Undesired.
And frankly, I needed that reminder.
Even looking savage, I knew this kind of man would never be interested in someone like me. That he'd have his pick of women, all of them desirable, seductive, not uptight.
Besides, I had no time for anything but me...and my aunt. There was still much to do before I could crawl into bed.
And there was only one response to a jerk reply like that. I dropped the metal bucket right on his foot.
"Fucking hells!" he howled, jumping back, hopping up and down on one foot. "Fuck!"
I took a step back, rose up on my toes, and lifted a shoulder, agreeing with him. "If it means getting things right, getting things done, then I'm okay with that, being uptight, like you say."
I didn't bother waiting for him to reply. The guy had already proven he was a jerk, and I refused to allow myself to be hurt any further. I spun around and ran, my tight shoes crunching through the pebbles, my skirt slapping against my legs.
My aunt needed me. I needed to settle her in for the night and ease her aches and pains.
And that was all that mattered.